JK's Code (Brooks/Lotello Thriller Book 4)

by Ronald S. Barak

  He loved homicide. Almost as much as he loved Beth. He hated the thought of possibly having to give it up. But—as a single father of two young kids, eleven-year-old Charlie and nine-year-old Maddie, who had just lost their mother—he wondered if he could balance the 24/7 on demand protocols of a large urban city homicide department with the always on demand requirements of single parenthood.

  Of course, his first priority would have to be the kids.

  People were always telling Lotello that his kids looked just like they had been lifted out of Mark Twain’s novels, Charlie, the spitting image of brown-eyed, red-haired Tom Sawyer, and Maddie, the perfect clone of blue-eyed, blond, freckle-faced Becky Thatcher. But whenever Lotello looked at them, all he saw was Beth.

  It was just the three of them now. It was up to him. Lotello was painfully aware his priorities needed to change. I have to get past this all-consuming funk, feeling sorry for myself. Thinking about myself. I need to concentrate on Charlie and Maddie, not on myself.

  Nevertheless, he had told the department he wanted to give remaining in homicide a try. He explained that he had suitable primary and secondary parenting backup from his housekeeper and the next-door neighbor. The housekeeper was primary. The next-door neighbor was secondary. Both the housekeeper and the neighbor loved Charlie and Maddie and would do anything for them. They could be trusted. Completely.

  Even with these arrangements theoretically in place, Lotello wondered if he was truly ready for a “big leagues” real case.

  ALMOST AS IF ON cue, the telephone rang. “Lotello.”

  “Hey, Frank, it’s me, Jeremy.”

  Jeremy Barnet was Lotello’s younger homicide partner. “No shit, J. Who else would be calling at 5:30 in the morning? While the kids were still asleep. What’s up?”

  “You know Jane Wells? Senator Jane Wells?”

  “Sure, make it a point to have lunch with Jane at least once every other week. How many senators do you know?”

  “Funny. Don’t really need your sarcasm right now. It’s just as early for me. Do you know who Wells is?”

  “I see her on the news now and then. So?”

  “Dead, murdered in her townhouse. We drew next on the wheel. The case is ours. I’m on the way to her townhouse now. Just texted you the address. How soon can you get there?”

  “Not supposed to text and drive, J. To early for the housekeeper. Gotta get the kids up and out and over to the neighbor’s. Make sure she’ll get the kids to school. I’ll call when I’m on the way.”

  “Drive’ll take you about 30 minutes at this hour. See ya there.”

  Lotello’s question about how much longer they were going to shelter him had been answered. In spades. It was not lost on Lotello—or his pride—that the first case back he’d caught was this high profile. No way that was on his young partner. “Wait up, J. When did all this supposedly happen?”

  “I’m not sure. I got the call a few minutes ago. I was anxious to reach you and get going.”

  “What’s the rush? Where’d you think I’d be at this hour? Find out who called this in, and when. I’ll meet you at Wells’s place as fast as I can.”

  Barnet hung up. Lotello knew Barnet was not happy with his answer; that he probably was tearing out to Wells’s townhouse on a Code 3 emergency response, lights and siren, and wanted assurance that Lotello would be doing likewise. Barnet is such a fuss budget. Not necessary. Maybe a Code 3 for the patrol cars, but not for homicide. Not like it’s going to bring Wells back to life.

  Lotello dragged himself out of bed, pulled the covers up over the pillows, threw on some sweats, and bent down to stroke Beau, the youngest member of their family, a German shepherd rescue pup, one of Beth’s many thoughtful acts. Lotello went out front, grabbed the newspaper, glanced at the headlines while waiting for Beau to piddle, and then went back inside and into the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator and took a few sips from the carton of orange juice as he quickly skimmed the remainder of the newspaper to see if there was anything about Wells. If there was, he didn’t see it. He did notice that the Lakers had pummeled the Wizards the night before.

  Lotello put some food and water down for Beau, who needed little coaxing. He also put out some dry cereal, milk, and fruit for the kids, and confirmed their lunch pails were in the refrigerator ready to go from last night.

  He knew he had to get out to Wells’s townhouse. But he needed to take a couple minutes on the treadmill in his combination home office and exercise room to get the kinks out and to get his juices flowing. It was going to be a long day. He spent two minutes in the shower—one of his favorite thinking spots—and drying off. He thought it odd that someone reported the Wells body around 4 or 5 in the morning. What do you think, Beth? If Wells had already been missing for any period of time, wouldn’t that have made the morning newspapers? You know I read the papers every morning. There were no such reports. If the murder happened last night or early this morning, who—other than the killer—would have known about the body, and called it in so early this morning? This means the killer probably made the call. Why would he do that, especially at that hour?

  Beth didn’t answer.

  NO MORE STALLING, THEY had to get going, but he needed to ease in the next-door neighbor. Just this first time.

  “Dad,” said Maddie, as he gently woke her, “what are you doing? It’s still way too early.”

  “Morning, Pussycat,” Lotello said, kissing both of her sleepy eyes. “It’s not still way too early. Breakfast’s out and your lunches are in the ’fridge. I’ve already fed Beau. You and Charlie need to get up, brush your teeth, get dressed, eat breakfast, and take Beau with you next door to stay with Mrs. Schwartz ‘til Elena gets here. Mrs. Schwartz will get you and Charlie to school. C’mon, get a move on it! And remind Charlie that Elena’ll pick you up after school. I gotta go. See you tonight, Princess. Love you.”

  “Love you too, Dad,” Maddie parroted back.

  Beth had been right about Beau. It was good for Charlie and Maddie to have some responsibility, and a friend who would watch out for them. Maddie seemed to be adjusting to Beth’s death okay, at least as near as Lotello could tell, but Lotello wasn’t so sure about Charlie, who was a lot quieter than he used to be, and a lot more moody. He needed to keep a closer watch on both of them, especially Charlie.

  AS LOTELLO DROVE OFF in the “family-safe” Volvo, he inconsistently snuck an unsafe peek at his text messages to see exactly where Wells lived—where she used to live. Not supposed to text and drive, but, hey, I’m just reading. And I may have broken protocol by about seven minutes. So I’ll break a few speeding rules and make up half of that on the way. Not gonna matter.

  CHAPTER 3

  Friday, February 6, 7:35 a.m.

  HE SAT THERE IN the dark, all alone. Things weren’t like they used to be. He had lost so much, but he was going to get even. They would be sorry.

  So far, so good, it had all gone much easier than he had imagined. The first call was a little dicey, but he was off the phone in a flash, well before the cops could have thought to trace it. If he had called 911 instead, the call would have been recorded, if not traced, before he could have hung up.

  The timing of the second call, to the reporter, also went pretty easy. The story would soon make the media outlets and begin drawing attention. He wondered what she would say to explain how she got her information.

  He knew the next murder would also be easy, but they would then start becoming more difficult to pull off. He didn’t care. I have to shake things up, bring about some real change.

  He liked the dark. It was quiet, peaceful. No one bothered him. Not anymore. It allowed him to think, and to plan.

  CHAPTER 4

  Friday, February 6, 8:47 a.m.

  GRANT ARRIVED AND PARKED in the rotunda of the Townhouse complex at 8:45 a.m., fifteen minutes before Wells was to meet him there at nine o’clock. When she still hadn’t shown at 9:10 a.m., he tried to raise her on her cell phone. There was no answer.


  He entered the lobby and told the security guard sitting at the desk what was going on. Or more precisely what was not. The two of them hurried to Wells’s unit. The front door was closed, but looked as if it had suffered some recent assault. Grant grimaced and absently pulled at his throat. The guard knocked on the door. Nothing. He knocked again. Louder this time. Still nothing.

  Grant called out, “Senator?” No response.

  The security guard tried the door. It wasn’t locked. He opened it and entered. Grant was right behind him. Grant called out again. Nothing. It was only two seconds later until the guard entered the bedroom, Grant right on his heels. Beads of sweat appearing on his brow.

  They both gasped at the same instant. And at the same sight. Wells lying face up on the bed, naked, looking very still, although certainly not peaceful. And then there was the fake $100 bill stuck to her forehead.

  Grant unsuccessfully attempted to swallow a cry of despair: “Senator. Oh my God.” He reached for his cell phone, dialed James Ayres, Wells’s Chief of Staff, and frantically described to him what he was looking at. The guard, professionally a bit more stoic, but just barely, used his cell phone to call 911. Ayres said he would be there as quickly as traffic would allow. 911 said both a patrol car and ambulance were already on the way.

  Grant walked toward the body. The guard grabbed him. “What are you doing?”

  “I want to cover her up. She’s entitled to that.”

  “I don’t think we should touch anything until the police and the ambulance arrive. They’re on the way. It should just be a few minutes. We need to let them take charge of things.”

  Grant didn’t agree, but he deferred, sat down on a lone ottoman against the wall, put his head in his hands, and softly said, “No, no, no. No.”

  Neither man said another word until the authorities entered the townhouse.

  WHEN LOTELLO ARRIVED, THE multi-residential townhouse complex in which Wells’s townhouse unit was located looked more like Grand Central Station than the upscale multi-residential community that it was. People seemed to be coming and going everywhere. But Lotello knew that was not quite so.

  He first walked from outside the complex to the center of the crime scene, Wells’s townhouse unit. He then reversed his course and slowly walked back to the rotunda outside the interior lobby, taking it all in. He then retraced his steps back to the Senator’s unit.

  In keeping with standard custom and practice, the first patrol car to arrive at a possible crime scene would have first gone inside to verify that no persons were lurking or hiding in wait. Only then would they have “yellow tape” secured the immediate crime scene perimeter to assure no unauthorized entry.

  Given the layout of the overall complex, one of the two patrol officers would have remained at the unit to enforce its integrity while the other patrol officer would have established second and third yellow tape perimeters—one around the grounds just inside the interior lobby and the other around the grounds just outside the interior lobby. Because of the secure perimeter of the complex itself, this was perhaps somewhat of an overkill, but this also was a U.S. senator. Lotello knew that crime scene protocol would have been be strictly enforced.

  While the several perimeters were still being secured, ambulance personnel would have arrived, and been permitted to enter the unit to confirm that the body was dead. They would then have departed. Additional patrol cars would have been assigned to prevent the breach of any of the yellow tape perimeters—inward bound or outward bound.

  One of the first patrol officers to arrive at the scene would also have reported in to dispatch, which would in turn have notified the medical examiner, crime lab officials, the homicide department, and the district attorney’s office. Lotello and Barnett were next up on the wheel and homicide department seniors had obviously decided that Lotello’s bereavement was now in fact over.

  LOTELLO SILENTLY CAUGHT BARNET’S eye, but his arrival didn’t seem to offer Barnet any solace. “Damn, Frank, what took you so frigging long? Place’s a madhouse. This case is gonna be nothin’ but trouble.”

  “Lighten up, J. Wells isn’t going anywhere. What do you have so far?”

  “Already two people here from Wells’ office. First one’s her limo driver, a Robert Grant. Here to drive Wells to some senate committee hearing this morning. Along with the security guard, they found the body when Wells was a no show.”

  “Who put the call into 911?

  “Grant and the security guard. Grant also called Wells’s Chief of Staff, a James Ayres. Grant’s quiet. Not much of a problem. Ayres is an absolute piece of work, a real prima donna. Acts like he’s in charge.”

  “Where are they now?

  “One of the patrol officer’s babysitting Grant and the security guard in the lobby entrance to the complex. Ayres wanted access to the Senator’s townhouse, ostensibly to see the body. Went ballistic when he was told he would not be allowed to enter the crime scene. He’s been threatening to call in everyone he supposedly knows—from the FBI Director to the U.S. Attorney General, even the President—if he’s not afforded the respect to which he thinks he’s entitled.”

  “I trust all that got him was an assignment of his very own patrol officer—outside the outer perimeter.”

  “Exactly.”

  LOTELLO CHECKED OUT the body and looked around the townhouse. Nice digs. Nothing surprising about that. Nothing out of the ordinary about the body, except for the chest wounds and that phony hundred-dollar bill glued to Wells’s forehead.

  Barnet followed after Lotello. He started in again. Lotello understood Barnet’s apprehension. This was obviously going to be a high-profile case, lots of attention, lots of pressure. He didn’t want to add to Jeremy’s anxiety. “J …” Lotello paused for effect. “Calm down. I’ll take the security guard and Grant. And then the high and mighty Mr. Ayres. You should stay with the lab guys and photographers. Don’t let anyone else in. Let’s not compromise the crime scene any more than it already has been.”

  LOTELLO WALKED INTO THE free-standing lobby area. He saw two men sitting together off in one corner of the room, both in uniform, one dressed like some kind of a security guard, the other dressed like a limousine driver. He approached the two men. “Would you two be Mr. Robert Grant and Officer Thornton Smythe?” Granted nodded yes but didn’t speak. Officer Smythe said his name was pronounced the same as Smith, but added that most folks call him Smitty.

  Opening his wallet, Lotello handed each of the two men one of his cards. “Detective Frank Lotello, Metropolitan D.C. Police, Homicide. Sorry to be meeting under these circumstances. Mr. Grant would you please sit tight, give me a few minutes to briefly talk to Smitty?”

  “Sure, I guess. Is this going to take long? I’m not feeling too well.”

  “Just a few minutes. I’ll be back as quickly as I can.”

  LOTELLO LED OFFICER SMYTHE over to the desk at the other end of the lobby. He wanted to separate Smythe and Grant.

  “How long have you been in charge of security at this complex, Smitty?” Lotello knew Smythe was not in charge, but it never hurt to gratuitously elevate a witness’s status. Make them feel important.

  “Oh, I’m not in charge of anything, Detective, just one of the security staff. This is my second year on the job.”

  “How many security folks are there?”

  There’s eleven of us, not counting Joel Kirst, who’s kind of the security boss around here. I don’t know who Joel reports to. We provide onsite security 24/7. Always two of us on duty, one here for unit owners, tenants, and guests and another one slightly down the road for employees and trades. That’s also where trucks come in and out.”

  “So, how are people allowed to come and go?”

  “Identification cards are issued to owners and tenants and project employees. Guests and other workers are admitted by the security guard on duty only if an owner, tenant, or employee calls in their names in advance. They have to show a matching photo ID as well.”
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br />   “Sounds like you guys run a pretty tight ship.”

  “We try to.”

  “What about all this fancy equipment?”

  “Not really all that much. We have a video surveillance system that covers the entire complex. We also have a fire alarm system. And then of course we have electronic control of the secured admissions at each entrance. Exits are not controlled, although they are picked up by the surveillance cameras.”

  “Did you know Senator Wells?”

  “Just a little. To say hello, chit-chat for a moment here and there. She was always polite. That was about it.”

  “So, I’m going to need to go into all of this security business in some detail, but I think we should do that down at the station, but probably not today.” Lotello knew that Smythe would have to come when they were ready for him, but there was no reason not to appear as accommodating as possible. “When’s your day off?”

  “Probably best if you talk to Joel about that.” Smitty wrote down Joel’s telephone number and email address on a card and handed it to Lotello. “My day off floats; it would be hard for me to know what day to schedule with you. Besides I don’t know much about the technical side of our equipment. I can use it, but I don’t really understand it very well.”

  I’ll talk to Joel, Smitty. But please keep my card, hold yourself available, and give me a call if you think of anything more to tell me in the interim.”

  “Okay.”

  “By the way, let me ask you one question on the equipment side for now. Did you happen to have any technical difficulties last night?

  “Funny you should ask. For the last week or so, we’ve had several false positives with our fire alarm system, maybe once every couple of days. But last night we had two false positives in about fifteen minutes.”

  “Back up a second, Smitty. What do you do when a fire alarms goes off?”