The admiral took so long to respond that Castillo glanced at her phone to make sure she hadn’t dropped the call.
“Colonel, we are too close to let this information hit the public. Finding and silencing this person is your top priority.”
“Indeed, sir. We’re on it.”
“Find out what they know, find out who they told. You’re the only one who can.”
Castillo came to attention. “Yes, sir. Eyes of the eagle.”
But the admiral had already hung up.
Four
CHILLED BY THE air conditioning and the adrenaline wearing off, Dash shivered in a diner near Irvine. He’d stopped by a 24-hour drug store and bought a pair of T-shirts and shitty, bedazzled jeans, a first aid kit, and some antibiotic cream. In his Jeep, he’d dressed the wound, which stung like hell, but was superficial. No need to visit a hospital, which suited him just fine. He suspected the killing crew from the hotel would be checking hospitals for any males with gunshot wounds.
Plus, hospitals were compelled to report certain injuries to the police. A gunshot, even a graze, would get flagged.
First aid and anonymity would have to suffice. He’d have a nasty scar when it healed, but it would heal. That’s all that mattered.
“More coffee, hun?” A slim waitress with sun-blasted skin and salt and pepper hair held up a pot.
“Please.”
His hand shook as he gulped down the rest of his cup, then set it at the end of the table. Dash pulled Rasul’s envelope from his bag. As the waitress moved on to the next booth, Dash reached inside and pulled out a memory card. He peered inside, but the envelope was empty.
Dash opened his laptop and attached a card reader to it, cursing the designers who continued to trade functionality for aesthetics. Stored on the card, however, was a trio of image files and a PDF.
He opened the PDF and saw a news story, saved from six weeks earlier. A chartered airliner had crashed while flying over the Democratic Republic of the Congo. All two hundred and six passengers perished, as had the entire flight crew, eight in total. The cause of the crash wasn’t clear. The article offered mechanical failure or a shoulder-fired surface-to-air missile as possible crash causes. A second page showed a similar story—a passenger jet crashed in Brazil two hours after takeoff.
Two hundred and six passengers died. So had eight crew members.
Dash sat up and leaned closer.
“What the hell?”
Dash didn’t know all that much about how airlines functioned, but the odds that two crashes, on two different continents, had the same number of fatalities seemed improbable. It could be coincidence, of course. Airliners had different configurations, so it wasn’t impossible that they had the same capacity, but the exact same number of passengers and crew?
Dash didn’t believe in coincidence.
But what was the connection to Rasul?
Dash scratched down a couple of notes about the crashes, so he could research them himself, then turned his attention to the images on the card.
The first photo showed some sort of giant factory or shipyard. Dash couldn’t be certain, but assumed it was Newport News, where his brother worked. Judging from the quality of the image, it was taken from a cell phone camera at some distance and at night. Despite the grainy photo, he could make out dozens of welders at work on the outside of something massive. Presumably the next Ford class aircraft carrier.
The second picture showed armed soldiers standing around a large stack of crates. Dash peered closer at the uniforms. Not soldiers—Marines. It looked like two dozen men and women and some sort of armored vehicle with a gun on top were guarding the boxes. The same ship appeared to be in the background. Someone had used MS Paint to draw circles around a radiation symbol, which appeared on every crate, and the NASA logo.
“That makes no sense,” Dash murmured. NASA used radiological materials, of course, but they didn’t use Marines or tanks to protect them.
Or put them on aircraft carriers for that matter.
Image three looked like a picture of a pile of papers on a desk. Rasul’s shaky camerawork made it difficult to read most of the images, but he’d focused on a specific letterhead. Dash zoomed in until the pixels blurred, but he couldn’t quite make out the writing below the graphic.
The date, however, was three weeks ago.
Dash leaned back in his booth and hugged himself to ward off more chills.
Rasul was an engineer who worked on aircraft carriers. No big secret there. If the Navy had a secret weapon to test, that might be important, but not enough to hunt Rasul down and execute him.
Rasul thought this picture was important. He’d gone to a great deal of effort to hide it and try to get it to Dash. He’d been prepared to kill for these photos, but what made this one so special?
Intrigued, Dash slipped his augmented reality glasses on. Expensive as hell, this model looked like an ordinary pair of glasses. He tapped the logo on the side of the stem and powered it up. A pretty girl, drawn in anime style, appeared in his vision and waved.”
“Iris ready,” the girl said, the words projected into his field of vision like a cartoon dialog bubble.
“Image search,” Dash said and leaned close to his laptop screen.
Iris captured the logo and popped it into her mouth. She crossed her arms as she chewed on her thoughts.
“Here you go, hun. Fish for breakfast.” The waitress returned with a basket of fish and chips. “Can I get you anything else?”
Dash shook his head. “No, thanks.”
“Look what I found!” Iris announced.
The digital overlay made it difficult for the human eye to resolve detailed images, but the logo wasn’t that complicated. Iris was pretty good at Googling things. He’d found the logo on the fourth try.
“What the hell is the Olympus Initiative?” Dash asked.
He needed answers, so he searched on his laptop for the Olympus Initiative, then started on his breakfast. The fries were dry and crispy, which disappointed him, but the fish had a nice, crispy batter on it. He found himself shoveling the food down his throat. He couldn’t savor the meal but eating settled his nerves somewhat. His hands no longer trembled, and the diner felt less like an icebox.
“Iris?”
The anime girl snapped to attention. “Iris ready.”
“Search news for Crowne Plaza, Los Angeles. All results from today.”
Iris crossed her arms and thought about it, then threw up her arms. “I didn’t find anything.” She pouted.
Dash scowled. “Two dead bodies, a fire alarm, and a couple of unconscious guards? No way.”
In truth, he expected his competitors to swarm all over the story. A gruesome murder in a nice hotel? That warranted some ink.
“Search for all shootings in Los Angeles, past twenty-four hours.”
Iris crossed her arms.
Dash looked at the killer’s phone, which was password protected. He glanced at the screen from an angle but couldn’t make out any dominant smudges. That meant it was likely a new phone, disposable and useless to him.
Or the killer was diligent about wiping the screen after using it.
The satellite phone, on the other hand, had no such protection and several numbers in it. Dash copied them down into his notebook, then powered the device down.
“I didn’t find anything.” Iris looked sad.
Dash crossed his arms and stared at the projected assistant. “That can’t be. It’s been two hours.”
Staring at the empty basket on the table, Dash’s mind seemed to churn through a hundred thoughts a second. Should he call his mother and tell her about Rasul? Should he call the police and give them the information he had? What if the killer’s bosses could track the cellular phone? Or even the satellite phone? What made the information about the aircraft carrier worth killing for?
He pulled out his own mobile and called the police, or at least a contact on the force.
“Levinson.” So
meone wheezed.
“You all right? You sound like you’re dying?”
Ari Levinson growled into the phone or tried to. He sounded like an angry bellows. “It’s just my asthma. What do you want, Dash?”
“I’m trying to confirm a story. I heard there was a gunfight at the Crowne Plaza this morning. Someone got away. You know anything about that?”
Ari coughed. “This morning? Let me check.”
“Thanks, Ari.”
Ari Levinson worked in the LAPD’s cybercrime division. He’d interviewed him as part of a story on human trafficking and the dark web. He had a crush on him and Dash occasionally exploited that to get leads.
He heard the hiss of an inhaler and Ari didn’t speak for ten seconds. As the silence dragged on, Dash glanced around the diner, curious if anyone was interested in him.
No one paid him the slightest attention.
“What do you want to know?” Ari asked.
“Anything? Everything?”
“Hmm.” Ari paused. “I don’t see any reports at the Crowne Plaza other than an idiot who slipped at the pool and broke his leg. Got an ambulance ride out of that.”
Dash shook his head. “That doesn’t sound very important, Ari.”
“It’s not.”
“That’s all? No shootings? No break-ins?”
“Nope. Sounds like your source is feeding you some bad info.” Ari coughed twice, then wheezed.
“Okay. Thanks, Ari. Sounds like nothing for me.”
“Hey, why don’t we grab lunch today?”
Dash panicked. “Can’t. Gotta run!” He ended the call.
Dash threw his things back into his bag and waved the waitress over to pay the bill. Someone had squashed the shooting story, but Dash hadn’t dreamed the damned thing. If the cops were still investigating, that was fine. They’d still be there, too. It took hours to process crime scenes, so he’d just return to the scene of the crime. Make certain Rasul got the justice he deserved.
Dash held up the killer’s phone as an idea crossed his mind. He powered the device up.
“You’re going to cover for me.”
Dash had tossed the killer’s phone into a car at a busy gas station. If it was tracked, it wouldn’t lead to him for a while and that’s what he needed. He also bought himself a new phone, moved over his contacts, then dumped his old phone in a garbage can. The new device wasn’t as fast as he’d like, but he reasoned that one couldn’t ask for much from a gas station cellular phone.
After pairing it to his AR glasses, he had Iris monitor all reports of shootings or the Crown Plaza on social media streams and websites. Iris crossed her arms and went to work.
Dash untied his hair and ran his fingers through it a few times to straighten it out, donned a new lightweight jacket, and tinted the lenses of his glasses to keep anyone from recognizing him. He’d left his Jeep at the hotel, so he took a taxi this time.
As the hotel loomed in the windscreen, Dash’s stomach fluttered. Just two hours ago, his foster brother was murdered in front of him and he’d nearly been killed. Intellectually, Dash understood that he wasn’t dealing with the trauma, that this flurry of investigative reporting was an attempt to distance himself from the pain and emotional turmoil. When his hands trembled, he recognized it was a fear response, rather than actual danger.
All his rationalization, however, didn’t change the fact that he wanted to run as far and as fast as he could. The memory of Rasul’s shattered skull and the spray of gore behind him churned his stomach but hardened his resolve.
Inside the hotel, he took the elevator first to the fifth floor. He still had both key cards, so accessing the rooms wouldn’t be a problem, but he didn’t think the police would let him in. In fact, he expected to be told the floor was off-limits to guests.
The elevator chimed, and the doors opened. Dash stepped into the hallway and turned down the corridor. No uniformed officers stood guard, no forensic techs gathered evidence.
Eerie silence blanketed the floor.
“No way,” Dash murmured.
With multiple gunshots and victims, the crime scene would take even a competent evidence crew hours to process. The photography alone would need an hour at least. Dash couldn’t see any way for the fifth floor not to have a massive police presence.
He moved down the hall and put his ear to the door of room 520. It might as well have been listening to a tomb.
Dash unlocked the door and slipped inside. Sunlight cut through the gap in the curtains. The bathroom looked untouched, but the rest of the room had been scoured. Somone had stripped the linens from the beds and ripped the carpet out. Rasul’s mattress had been replaced. The shattered mirror was gone, and gray putty filled in the bullet holes in the wall.
He saw no signs of blood or any other damage. If he hadn’t known what happened, he might have assumed the room was being renovated.
Dash went back to the entrance and put the key card, then turned on the lights.
“Iris, record video.”
Over his right eye, Iris beamed and gave him a thumbs-up. “Okay!”
“This is Dash Riordan, reporting from room 520 of the Crowne Plaza hotel. Rasul Bandari was murdered here two hours ago, but you wouldn’t know it to look at this.” He leaned in to frame the patched bullet holes in the wall. “They removed the carpet because of all the blood, as well as the mirror, which was blasted by gunshots.”
He’d been on the far side of the room when the killer had shot him. Dash searched the wall by the window and found another putty patch. “This is where the bullet that hit me went.” He turned back to the beds. “The mattresses were replaced. Mine had blood on it and Rasul’s was shot several times.”
He lifted Rasul’s mattress and examined it. The mattress looked spotless, but a dark spot on the bedspring caught his eye. Charring and dark flecks in the cloth.
“Well, I guess they made a mistake, Iris. This is muzzle burn.” He leaned closer as he fished out his phone to use its better camera. “A couple of grains of gunpowder burned into it, too.”
Dash took several pictures, then pocketed his phone.
“Iris, show me all homicides in Los Angeles for today,” he said as he peered under the beds, but saw nothing.
“I didn’t find anything.”
Dash rolled his eyes. “That’s not possible.”
He left Rasul’s room and returned to room 314. The key still worked, but the room was still trashed from his previous search.
“They didn’t connect the dots yet,” Dash mused. He didn’t think the room possessed more secrets to unearth, so he closed the door and went back to the elevator. Two hours earlier, he’d left two men bleeding and stunned on the floor, yet no blood stained the carpet, nothing looked out of place.
Experience with hotel staff had taught him that front desk and concierge staff wouldn’t tell him anything without a substantial payoff. Discretion still counted, at least to some extent, in the hospitality industry. On the other hand, the lowest-paid staff often saw things no one else did and they didn’t usually share the same sense of loyalty to the hotel.
Dash rode the elevators until he found cleaning carts on the eighth floor. Two carts waited on either side of the hall and Dash heard the rapid-fire exchange of gossip in Spanish. Dash peeked his head around one open door and said, “Buenos dias?”
A short woman with dark brown hair tied up into a tight bun appeared. “Si, señor? Can I help?”
Behind Dash, the second maid stepped into the doorway, curious.
“I’m sorry, but I’m looking for my brother. I was supposed to meet him here, but I can’t find him anywhere.”
The maid gave an apologetic shrug. “You should ask the front desk, señor. We don’t know guests.”
Dash nodded. “Sure, of course. He’s supposed to be in room 520. I don’t suppose you cleaned his room?”
Shaking her head, the maid glanced past Dash to the second cleaning woman. “No...”
The other m
aid signaled no as well.
“Please, it’s really important that I find him. Do you know who cleaned it?”
“So sorry. We just started our shift.”
Dash frowned. It was already mid-morning. The day shift at a hotel began much earlier than that. “What do you mean?”
The maid’s gaze dropped as she squirmed. Dash saw that she knew something was up and didn’t want to put herself in jeopardy. He sympathized with her situation, but his brother was dead, and it might as well have not happened for all the world knew.
Dash fished out three hundred dollars from his wallet and held it out to the maid. “Por favor?”
The maid’s eyes widened, and she took the money. “Señor Ramirez called me an hour ago—he’s the day shift manager. He ask me to come in, say the day shift cleaners were sick.” The maid fidgeted. “He pay overtime, so I say si.”
Dash couldn’t blame her. “Okay. Gracias. Thank you for your help.”
“De nada, de nada.” The maid waved away the gratitude.
“One last question, please.”
The maid nodded. “Que?”
Dash put his hands on his hips. “Where’s Mr. Ramirez’s office?”
Alejandro Ramirez sat at his desk, typing away on a slender laptop and talking to someone on his headset. He wore a tailored suit and a beautiful TAG Heuer wristwatch and the office reflected a degree of success and comfort.
When Dash opened the door, his phone held up to record the conversation on video, Ramirez reacted with indignant anger.
“Excuse me? Who are you? You can’t come in here!”
Dash didn’t answer, striding up to him until his face filled the screen on the phone.
“This is outrageous. Please leave at once!”
“Alejandro Ramirez?” Dash demanded.
Ramirez frowned. “Yes?”
“Manager of the Crowne Plaza?”
“The day manager, yes. Who are you?”
“Two men were murdered in room 520 this morning. You neither called the police nor reported the deaths. You scrubbed the room and disposed of the bodies.”
Erebus Page 3