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

by Ronald S. Barak

  “I have to run out and check to see if there’s a fire that actually set off the system.”

  “How long does that take you?”

  “About ten minutes.”

  “And it happened twice last night?”

  “Yep. I was back less than five minutes after verifying a false positive and resetting the system when we had a second false positive. First time that happened twice in a row like that.”

  “And when that happens, you’re away from your desk here?”

  “Yes, like I said, for at least five or ten minutes.”

  “And while you’re away, an intruder could just walk through the security door here?”

  “No, not really, because it still requires a permanent or temporary identity card passcode.”

  “If someone somehow bypassed your passcode system, would we have anyway to know?”

  “We should still be able to spot the person on our surveillance cameras, including the ones directed at the entrances.”

  “Smitty, I have to go visit with Mr. Grant for a few minutes. He’s been waiting patiently while you and I talked. Could you check your surveillance system for last night to see if it was working properly? And, if it was, whether there were any people wandering around on the grounds last night who were not unit owners or tenants or other guests or workers you recognize?”

  “Sure, it’ll take me a few minutes.”

  “That’s perfect. It’ll give me time to talk with Mr. Grant. When I’m done I’ll come back over here to see what you’ve found.”

  LOTELLO WALKED BACK ACROSS the lobby where Grant seemed to be a bit anxious. “Sorry Mr. Grant, that took a little longer than I expected. I’ll be quick. What brought you out here so early this morning?”

  “I’m Senator Wells’ driver. I was here this morning to pick her up, like I always do when she’s in town.”

  “What time did you arrive?”

  “Around 8:45, maybe a few minutes earlier.”

  “How long have you been driving the Senator?”

  “About four months.”

  “And before that?”

  “I drove for a local limo service.”

  “For how long?”

  “About eight years or so.”

  “How did you become the Senator’s driver?”

  “I got a call one day from our dispatcher to pick her up. I gave her a ride. She asked me if I could drive her again the next day. I did. After that, she said she’d lost her prior driver and wondered if I would be interested in driving for her on a regular basis. It sounded good to me, I said sure, and that was that.”

  “What will you do now?”

  “I’m not sure, I’ll probably go home. I don’t mind telling you that I’m more than a little upset.”

  “No, no, not today. I mean now that you won’t be driving the Senator any longer.”

  “Oh, sorry. Don’t really know. Probably go back to driving for a limo service.”

  “What was the name of the limo service you worked for before?”

  “Tri-Star Limousine Service.”

  “Can you go back there?”

  “Don’t know why not.”

  “By the way, did you drive the Senator home last night?”

  “Yes, around 7:45.”

  “Do you know what plans she had for the evening?”

  “Nope. She didn’t mention any to me.”

  Lotello sensed some discomfort on Grant’s part with that last question. His denial seemed a little too quick. “Would you have driven her last night if she was going out for the evening?”

  “Sometimes, but I didn’t last night.”

  Again, Lotello thought Grant was holding back, but it could just be the shock of Wells’ unexpected and grisly death. In the meanwhile, he caught Smythe’s return to his desk out of the corner of his eye.

  “Okay, Mr. Grant. I may have some follow-up questions for you, but that’s it for now. Do you have a number where I can reach you?”

  Grant gave Lotello his cell phone number. “Can I go now?”

  Lotello made a mental note not to forget Grant’s visible agitation when Lotello had asked about Wells’s plans last night. If Wells had any strange goings on, there was a good chance that Grant would know about some of them. “Sure. See you.”

  LOTELLO WALKED BACK OVER to Smythe. “Any luck, Smitty?”

  “Yes and no. The first false positive fire alarm last night was at 7:50. Our camera system went down as well last night at 7:51.”

  “When did it come back up?”

  “It didn’t. It’s still down.”

  Lotello thought about that. “How about the passcode lock on the interior lobby security door? Anything unusual with it last night?”

  “I thought you might ask. So I checked. It was turned off at 7:52 last night.”

  “Who has the ability to turn the passcode system off?’ Besides me, no one that I know could have done that last night.”

  “And is it still off?”

  “Nope. It was turned back on at 8:10.”

  “And let me guess: You don’t know of anyone who could have done that last night other than you and you didn’t do it.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Okay, Smitty, you’ve really been helpful. If you think of anything further, please do call me. In the meanwhile, please let Joel know I’ll be in touch with him.”

  “Will do, on both scores.”

  LOTELLO WALKED OUT THROUGH the lobby to the rotunda, looking for Ayres. Before Lotello could figure out who was who, a man in an obviously expensive dark pinstripe business suit came bustling up to him. “Are you in charge here?”

  Opening his wallet, Lotello responded, “Detective Frank Lotello, Metropolitan DC Police. Can I help you, Mr….?”

  “Ayres, James Ayres, Senator Wells’s Chief of Staff. What happened here?”

  “Sorry for your loss, Mr. Ayres, but I understand you’ve been here longer this morning than I have. Not much information I can share with you yet. Are you usually at the Senator’s townhouse this time of day?”

  Ayres seemed taken aback, exactly the effect Lotello had intended. “No, of course not.” Pausing, he added, “The Senator’s driver arrived to pick her up earlier this morning. She didn’t show. He and the security guard went to her unit and found her body. He called me and I came as quickly as I could. Isn’t there something you can tell me?”

  “Aside from the fact that Senator Wells is dead, no, I’m afraid not. Why don’t you tell me where the Senator was supposed to be this morning? And where she was supposed to be last night?”

  “She left her office last night a little after seven. Her driver brought her home. Then went home himself. No idea what plans she had for the evening. She was supposed to be at the WSOC hearings this morning. That’s the Senate Wall Street Oversight Committee.”

  “Her driver? That’s Robert Grant?”

  “Right.”

  “How long did Grant work for the Senator? How well do you know him?”

  “About three months. I met him when he started working for her. Seems like a nice enough guy. He cleared the government security check okay.”

  “How is it you know Grant went home last night after he dropped the Senator off?”

  Ayres thought about that for a moment. “Guess I don’t. I just assumed it.”

  “Assumptions aren’t very helpful, Mr. Ayres, especially ones you keep to yourself. Do you know anyone who might have wanted Senator Wells out of the way?”

  “No, but she is on the Senate WSOC. They deal with lots of contentious and inflammatory issues concerning the economy. No shortage of kooks out there, but I don’t recall any out-of-the-ordinary threats against her.”

  “Okay, Mr. Ayres. Thanks. You can be on your way. I’ll speak to Mr. Grant. We may release a statement later this morning. I’ll be in touch.”

  Lotello watched Ayres turn around and leave. Ayres didn’t seem to like being told what to do.

  LOTELLO WALKED BACK TO the townhous
e and found Barnet. “Finish up here as we discussed. I’ll see you back at the station.”

  LOTELLO WALKED OUTSIDE THE townhouse complex, stretched, looked around the exterior of the complex once more, and headed back to his car. He was surprised to see one of the local beat reporters, Rachel Santana, already at the scene. Santana wasn’t a bad looker, Lotello thought, if you liked the flamboyant, ostentatious, over the top look, heels too high, skirt too short, top too tight, too much make up. “Hey, Rachel, what brings you out here so early?”

  “Missing your pretty face, Frank. You know, when the boys and I have nothing better to do, we just start following you around. Figure sooner or later something interesting will pop.”

  “Yeah, right. Suppose it wouldn’t do me any good to ask you for a more serious answer?”

  “Probably not. Any chance you might have something for me?”

  “Probably not.”

  “C’mon, Frank, give me something. I will tell you I got an anonymous voicemail message earlier this morning saying Wells was caught without her panties one too many times, that it would be worth my while to stop by her place. Couldn’t pass that up. So what gives, Frank?”

  “Nothing yet. Hey, Rachel?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You still have that voicemail message?”

  “Not sure, Frank. Guess I could check.”

  “I can get a search warrant for it. Anonymous calls aren’t protected.”

  “No point, Frank. You know how I am with technology. All thumbs. Voicemail’s probably long gone.”

  “Never learn, do you, Rachel? See you around.”

  “Right, Frank.”

  Frank drove off, mired in thought. Okay, that’s two mysterious telephone calls this morning, one to the station and one to Santana. Who’s making all these damn calls? And why?

  CHAPTER 5

  Friday, February 6, 10:00 a.m.

  FIRST CAME ANGER. THEN anger turned to rage. Then rage led to confusion. He was becoming more and more confused. It was all becoming more and more confusing. He had not always been this way. Things had not always been this way. But I will prevail. I must prevail.

  THERE SHE SAT, ONE week earlier, frightened, miserable, and all alone, in the lobby of the psychiatric ward of that local Washington, D.C., hospital. Paige Rogers Norman wondered how all of this could have happened so quickly, in the blink of an eye one might say.

  Blink once. There was Paige, with husband Cliff and their young son Ryan. It was early 2008. They were on top of the world, happily married for twelve years, the owners of a highly successful local electronics business they had toiled together for more than a decade to build. Paige was now retired from the business and in charge of all family matters, including Ryan and their beautiful Georgetown home. Originally an engineer, Cliff now ran the business and was in the midst of merger negotiations to sell their company to a large national electronics chain. They were both looking forward to more family time together, and hopefully an addition or two to the Norman family.

  Blink again. It was still 2008, but a few months later. The economy had come crashing down around them. Paige first thought the economy was just a problem for others, not for the Normans. But then their business began suffering too. Company accounts began drying up. Cliff was forced to lay off employees that were like family to him, and to Paige as well. If that was not enough, the merger fell through and their business failed altogether. The low teaser rate on their home mortgage expired, and the value of their home fell below the amount of their mortgage, making a sale all but impossible. The bank foreclosed on their home. They were now living in a tiny one-bedroom apartment, depleting what little savings remained while Cliff looked for a job to sustain their family—His success had proved unsuccessful. There were no jobs to be had.

  When it seemed like nothing more could go wrong for them, something else did go wrong. Terribly wrong. Ryan had become ill. They had found a tumor. It was malignant. Ryan’s only chance was a prohibitively expensive new course of treatment. The Normans had a healthcare policy, one of the few remnants left over from their failed company, but the insurer wouldn’t cover the procedure because they said it was “experimental.”

  Cliff had no family to help. Paige had only her parents, retired in Flagstaff, Arizona, barely making ends meet. Frantic, Cliff went to New York and tried to meet with senior executives of the insurance company, but they were in the midst of a weeklong corporate “retreat” at some fancy island golf and polo resort. And unavailable. His messages went unreturned.

  Conventional treatment had proved inadequate. Ryan died barely two months later.

  Blink once more. Cliff had all but died with Ryan. The Normans were hardly functioning, or even speaking. Paige would watch Cliff go off in the morning without a word, not returning until late at night, again completely silent and withdrawn.

  Still grieving the loss of Ryan, Paige worried more and more about Cliff. He wasn’t eating. He wasn’t sleeping. He had nothing to say, except on rare occasion when he barely muttered to himself. Paige begged Cliff to let her take him for medical help. He just quietly stared back at her.

  Then, one night, Cliff didn’t come home. Not that night. Not the next day. Not any time thereafter. Paige went to the authorities. They said there was nothing they could do, which was exactly what they did. Nothing.

  Weeks went by. Nothing changed. Paige finally decided there was nothing more she could do. Heartbroken, she gave the authorities a forwarding address and reluctantly went to live with her parents in Arizona.

  One more blink. Ten days ago, DC authorities contacted Paige. Cliff had finally turned up, on the steps of the Capitol Building. He was physically and emotionally disheveled, ranting at the top of his lungs. “It’s all your fault. You did it. You killed Ryan. Now I’m going to get you.”

  The police were quickly summoned. Cliff was committed to a local psychiatric facility. The authorities contacted Paige. She returned overnight to D.C., all to no avail. Cliff was completely unresponsive, to the doctors and to Paige. After expiration of the short mandatory confinement procedures under D.C. law, the hospital was forced to release Cliff. He vanished all over again.

  On the same day Cliff was released, a short story appeared in one of the back pages of The Washington Post under the headline:

  LOCAL MAN TRAGICALLY LOSES FAMILY, IS ARRESTED

  Anger turned to rage. Rage turned to confusion. He read the words again. It’s all your fault. You did it. You killed Ryan. Now I’m going to get you. Am I crazy? Who knows? But I will prevail. I must prevail.

  PROLOGUE

  Ten Weeks Before

  I REMEMBER WHEN I first had the urge to kill someone. Not just anyone, mind you. After all, I’m not capricious. Or uncouth. I’m just … me.

  To be sure, my deadly urges were not the first of my social … anomalies, you might say, but they were, no doubt, a natural and foreseeable evolution of my earlier … irregularities.

  But I’m getting ahead of myself, something I often do. Digressing, you might say. Allow me to rewind and start at the beginning, at least as I know it. Hmm, rewind. I like that word because, at the end of the day, that’s what we’re talking about, how I’m … wound. Hah! I am dark and stormy even if the night wasn’t.

  I was probably always the way I am. I just didn’t know it. I’d always thought it was them. Until it finally dawned on me. I was the one who was … different, don’t you see? Who are … them, you ask? That’s easy. Them is everyone. Everyone other than me.

  To make things better, to fix things, I had to change … me. Not them. I had to change the way I was wired. The way I was wound. Don’t you see?

  But how, you ask? It’s okay that you ask, because I asked too.

  And so I did some research. I read some books. Actually, I read a lot of books. What I learned, according to all the shrinks, was that a good way to change, to fix myself, would be by writing things down. About me. Reflecting about myself. Sort of keeping a diary. This made se
nse to me too.

  But if writing would help, why stop at writing about myself? After all, I’m not all that interesting. Writing about me was boring. Instead of dwelling on me, I decided I would dwell on others. I would write about … them. That way, I could become … like them.

  But I didn’t know many others. Actually, I really didn’t know any others. At least not well. So I decided I would simply make them up. In my mind. I would write fiction. I would … become a novelist.

  And so I began writing about others. Others I wanted to be like. Others I wanted to … like me.

  I thought it was going to make a difference. In me. For me. Don’t you see? A huge difference. But it didn’t. Not at all. Why? I don’t know. You have to ask them. But you had better not dally.

  CHAPTER 1

  Eight Weeks Before

  ELOISE BROOKS HAD PLANNED the evening very strategically. Dinner at their favorite restaurant with her husband, Cyrus, and their two closest friends, Frank Lotello and Leah Klein Lotello, ostensibly to celebrate the Brookses’ fifty-fifth anniversary, but actually to spring a surprise on Cyrus in a setting where it would be difficult for him to object. He was the only one at the table who had no idea what was coming.

  Knowing Cyrus as she did, Eloise sensed the timing was right. After a distinguished 35-year career as a U.S. District Court Judge, Cyrus had voluntarily stepped down from the bench and retired about ten years ago. But retired was a weak euphemism for what still drove Cyrus. He remained passionately committed to the law, in one form or another.

  And therein lay the problem, Eloise’s not Cyrus’s. Both on the bench and off, Cyrus was constantly finding himself in life-threatening situations, especially after he and homicide investigator Frank Lotello became so close. Cyrus seemed to relish all the danger, but Eloise did not.

  Fortunately, as only Eloise really knew, Cyrus did have other interests: music, dance, and writing—to name just a few. But he couldn’t sing or dance, and his few attempts at writing a novel ended unsuccessfully. Infinitely patient and disciplined when it came to matters of the law, and the heart, he lacked both when it came to his attempts to become a novelist.