The blood drained from Ramirez’s face as his eyes widened. His fingers fumbled with the phone, killing the call.
“Who are you?” He asked again, his voice shaking.
Dash ignored him. “Where are the bodies?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’m Dash Riordan, reporter for LA Eye and you’ve just implicated your hotel in covering up two murders.”
Ramirez’s jaw dropped.
“Tell me what I want to know, or this story goes so wide and far that your next job will be in a prison laundry.”
As he stood there, Iris scanned Ramirez’s face and located his social media channels. Dash didn’t see anything he could squeeze him for but threatening his job should be enough. Ramirez exuded vanity and pride. He wouldn’t jeopardize his success, at least not if Dash kept the pressure up.
“No answer? Okay.” He tapped the stem on the glasses, but not the button to activate the virtual assistant. “Iris, transmit video to editor at LA Eye dot com. Mark urgent.”
Ramirez rocketed out of his seat. “No, wait!”
“Iris, hold.” Dash cocked his head. “Got something to say?”
Despite the air-conditioned office, droplets of sweat appeared on Ramirez’s forehead and neck.
“Fine, cabrón.” Ramirez pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his face. “Would you please turn the camera off?”
Dash snorted and shook his head.
Ramirez sat down with a groan. “Look, they were here before we even knew there was a shooting. I had an angry woman in my office, only she had a badge and gun. She ordered me to give her techs access to our security feeds and her team access to any floor or room they wanted.”
“Who was she?”
“How the hell should I know?”
Dash’s eyebrows shot up. “You didn’t ask?”
“I looked at her badge, sure, but I grew up in the barrios, okay? I know cops when I see them. This lady was a cop of some kind and I wasn’t going to piss this one off.”
Dash had a family history of dangerous cops, so he could relate. “All right, what happened next?”
Ramirez shrugged. “Nothing. Someone opened an emergency exit and set off the fire alarm. I dealt with that. The cop found me and said the room was off-limits and to send any cleaning staff on that floor on a two-week paid vacation.”
“That’s all?”
“Yeah!” Ramirez’s head bobbed. “I found out our security feeds had been erased, but that wasn’t a huge surprise. These cops were obviously covering up something.”
“What was her name, this angry cop?”
“Castillo.” Ramirez’s eyes narrowed as he searched his mind. “She’s not just any cop, either.”
Dash frowned. “How do you know?”
“Her ID said she was a special agent.”
Five
CASTILLO SURVEYED THE reports her team had compiled after the Crowne Plaza shootout. Surrounded by a sea of beige, the reports and crime scene images looked out of place. The rented office space had desks and data connections—and little else. Still, the privacy it afforded her team and the proximity to downtown made up for the lack of comforts.
And the shitty beige.
Her target, Rasul Bandari, had turned out to be a crafty fellow, who had gone to great lengths to not only cover up his own treasonous activities, but to evade detection.
Considering the potent tools at her disposal, that was no mean achievement.
Bandari’s gun wasn’t registered to him. It was originally sold in Texas twelve years earlier but hadn’t been reported stolen. Bandari probably acquired it through a cash transaction. Unless the revolver was used in a crime, it wouldn’t help her much. Still, since she had his corpse on its way to a military morgue, locating him wasn’t a concern.
Recovering the secrets he’d stolen, however, worried Castillo.
“How did you do it?” She asked herself.
Bandari’s records showed he joined Huntington Ingalls straight out of school. He hadn’t been part of ROTC, police explorers, or scouts, or any other activity that might have prepared him for his life as a fugitive. His parents, now divorced, didn’t look like promising leads. The mother was a housewife in Houston, the father owned a minor import company in Los Angeles. Neither parent was deemed a security risk given that Rasul possessed a Top Secret clearance. The family had fostered a child before the divorce. Bandari didn’t have many friends, went to the mosque every Friday, seldom called his mother, and paid his bills on time.
Bandari’s social media profiles didn’t raise any flags. He posted jokes, pictures of meals, and the occasional Muslim outreach event from his masjid in Virginia. He followed lots of Muslim activists, loved pictures of wild animals, and had a profile on a Muslim matrimonial site. Several email threads with single women, but no signs that any contacts went further than that.
So, Bandari—an unmarried engineer with no law enforcement or military background—possessed the skills to evade detection. He must have known he was in trouble, the gun purchase and disappearance made that much clear. What happened to put him in the same room as her contractor?
Vandeleur walked up, clutching a tablet and wearing a smile.
“Good news, I take it?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Vandeleur’s head bobbed with excitement. “Bandari checked into the hotel early this morning and made two phone calls back to back, both to the same number.”
Castillo held her fingers to her forehead. “Let me guess, his foster brother?”
Vandeleur’s eyes widened. “That’s right!”
Castillo wished he were brighter. Vandeleur’s technical skills often proved useful, but he lacked imagination and creativity. He couldn’t see more than two or three moves ahead. A loyal, useful pawn...
But nothing more.
“So, he calls his foster brother.” Castillo glanced around, searching for the coffee pot. “Is he our surprise ninja?”
Vandeleur turned his tablet to her. Dash’s face as it appeared on the security cameras displayed next to his driver’s license picture. “Sure looks like he is.”
“Agreed. Tell me about him.”
Vandeleur’s triumph fell from his face. “I haven’t dug up much yet. I thought you’d want to know about the connection first.”
Castillo’s mouth craved coffee and her brain thirsted for caffeine. A dark roast sounded divine. “That’s fine, Michael. We’ve got his face. What does DELPHI say?”
“Still locating him.”
“Get teams to his office and wherever he lives. Triangulate his phone the moment it comes on. DELPHI should alert us to any activity on his social media channels but look for new accounts created in the past four hours that have a fifty percent overlap on follows or friend requests.” Castillo’s fingers rubbed against the fabric of her pants and she drummed her toes inside her shoes. “While you’re at it, try to ascertain where he picked up his ninja training. He a big martial arts buff? Date a Green Beret? How’d he take you two down?”
Vandeleur dropped his gaze as his cheeks turned scarlet.
“Also, it’s a long shot, but put someone on his foster father. He’s an importer with an office near Long Beach. Nothing in the record shows that he’d talk to him, but sometimes family is all you can trust. Even foster family.” Castillo let out a deep breath. “Tap his phones, monitor his social media, and get his picture into DELPHI, too. Same for his mom, too.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Vandeleur hurried off.
Castillo stalked off to find some coffee.
Six
DASH HAD RETRIEVED HIS Jeep as he left the Crowne Plaza and cruised around the streets of San Pedro for thirty minutes, wrestling with his emotions. He kept clenching and unclenching his jaw and he ached to put his fist through something. How could Ramirez just let someone flashing a badge walk out with his brother’s body? It wasn’t respectful, to say nothing of legal, and Dash didn’t think anyone would take care of Rasul’s body. No one would wash
him, wrap him in a shroud, and give him a proper burial.
As his previous experience with Islam was forced on him, Dash didn’t really care about his own burial, but Rasul had never wavered in his faith. Even as Dash lost his, Rasul still stood by him. Never gave up on him, even when he told the family he wanted nothing more to do with religion. Rasul was the one person he could depend on in his family, but he was dead now. He needed to look after his brother, to at least bury him properly.
Better still, expose the bastards responsible for his murder.
His arm burned and ached at the same time. He needed to change the dressing. Plus, he had just shown up on numerous security cameras, so Dash went to the closest shopping center and bought a cheap sport coat to give him a more legitimate appearance and a few new shirts. His ID and press credentials would withstand any scrutiny but looking professional always helped open doors.
Plus, the jacket would alter his appearance, throwing off any pursuers who talked to Ramirez or the other Crowne Plaza staff.
Dash needed to regroup and refuel. He parked his Jeep in front of one of LA’s many Starbucks, where cool air and hot coffee restored him somewhat.
Dash brought up the pictures Rasul had left him. He studied them, trying to glean some new clue but nothing obvious stood out. He knew a shot glass more about aircraft carriers than most people. Whatever was so unique that Rasul had risked his job to photograph it, Dash didn’t see it.
He used the break to do a search on the Olympus Initiative on his laptop, which gave him broader control than Iris possessed. A few news stories appeared, most covering one of several fundraisers the initiative had hosted in Washington D.C., New York, and Pasadena. Another story talked about breeding drought-resistant crops while a different feature talked about utilizing 3D printing to develop inexpensive housing using local materials.
The Olympus Initiative seemed to be pretty new. No stories were older than a year and a half and their website didn’t go into much detail.
Looking at images in the search engine, Dash noticed a lot of images from the fundraisers. The one in Pasadena, in particular, stood out as luminaries such as Elon Musk, Jeff Bezos, and Richard Branson.
“Now, that’s weird.”
Dash’s investigative instincts kicked in and he peered closer. Major sponsors included SpaceX, of course, but also Blue Origin, Boeing, and Lockheed Martin.
“Why are you all helping the downtrodden farmers?” Dash wondered. “This should be more Bill Gates’ crowd.”
The corporate webpage listed the headquarters in Washington, but the largest office was in Pasadena. Nothing about the company’s image or news tied them to nuclear carriers, but Rasul had snapped that image for a reason.
Thankfully, Pasadena wasn’t too long of a drive in midday traffic…
“Ari?”
“You hung up on me earlier.”
Dash could hear the pout in his voice. “Yeah, uh, sorry about that. Had an emergency call from Mother Nature.”
Ari scoffed.
“Look, I need a favor.”
“And I need a date.”
Dash blinked. “So direct, Ari. Did you take your big boy pills today?”
“It’s nothing sketchy. My cousin’s getting married. He’s always been the better looking one in our family and he lords it over me. I figured….”
Dash glanced behind him, then changed lanes. “You figured I’d help you score some points?”
“Yeah!” Ari sounded much happier now.
“When?” Dash managed not to sigh out loud.
“Weekend after this one. It’s in Bel-air.”
Dash hated this part of informant relationships. He had to set a boundary, but still had to give a bit. Ari’s crush had made him a valuable law enforcement asset for two years now. If he wanted to maintain him as a source, being his arm candy at a wedding was a small enough price to pay.
“Strictly platonic,” he said. “No octopus hands or whatever.”
“Deal!” Ari whooped.
“Hey, back to business. I need a favor.”
Ari chuckled. “Anything for you.”
“I’m trying to track down a cop. Might not be LAPD.”
“This for a story?”
“Hell, yes.” Dash’s eye locked onto a silver sedan, two car lengths back. It didn’t look odd in the least, but something about it made him nervous.
“Name?”
“Uh, Castillo. She’s a Federal agent maybe?”
“It’s a girl?”
“A woman, Ari. She’s a woman.” Dash changed lanes again. The sedan didn’t follow, and Dash loosened his grip on the steering wheel.
Just his imagination running wild.
“Well, if she was LAPD, I could help. My personnel directory doesn’t extend to the FBI.” Ari somehow wheezed.
“One more thing, check for any John Does or homicide victims in the past twenty-four hours. Victim would be about five-ten, one hundred and sixty pounds, black hair, short dark beard, and dark olive skin. Gunshot victim.”
Ari tapped on his keyboard. “Gruesome.”
“Just look for him,” Dash said as tears welled up. “It’s important to me.”
“Only one homicide victim in the past day or so. Thirty two year-old Asian woman, wrong place and wrong time during a drive-by shooting.” Ari sighed. “Sorry I couldn’t find him.”
“Thanks, Ari.”
The drive to Pasadena ended without fanfare. Dash cleaned his face, wiped away the tears, and stared out at a small office building, seven stories tall, with dark tinted panes and blue framework. A waist-high sign displayed the Olympus Initiative name and logo. Nothing looked out of place, so Dash headed inside.
Blandness colored the lobby from wall-to-wall. Beige paint and light gray carpeting. The nondescript furnishings could have come from anywhere. The brightest thing in the entry was the receptionist with brilliant red hair.
“Good morning! Welcome to the Olympus Initiative. May I help you?”
Dash held up his press credentials. “Hi, I’m Dash Riordan. LA Eye is doing a feature on local businesses and your company came up. May I speak to someone from public affairs?”
“Do you have an appointment?” The receptionist looked at the screen while his fingers danced across the keyboard.
Dash looked regretful. “I’m afraid not.”
“That’s all right. It doesn’t look like anyone’s available right now, but if you can wait fifteen minutes, Mr. Rockwell can speak to you.”
“Sounds good. Who’s Mr. Rockwell?”
“He’s our media liaison.” The receptionist smiled. “Would you like to wait?”
“Sure.” Dash wasn’t about to head back to the office without something tangible. Besides, he couldn’t investigate Rasul’s murder if his editor strangled him for missing a deadline.
Dash waited for over thirty minutes before a short, bulky man in a good suit approached him.
“Mr. Riordan?”
Dash smiled and stood up, offering his hand. “Yes.”
“I’m Trevor Rockwell. I understand you’re doing a story on the Olympus Initiative?” His eyes scanned him up and down.
The flack’s gaze lingered a bit too long for comfort. Dash coughed to break the spell. “That’s right.”
Rockwell put on a cheerful mask. “Come with me. I can give you the nickel tour if you’d like, plus answer any questions you have.”
He’d have to be careful. Something about Rockwell made his skin crawl.
“What does the initiative do?” Dash asked.
Rockwell’s manner indicated a practiced response, the casualness of his answers coming . “Well, quite a lot, really. We have three main divisions; construction, agriculture, and medical. Each division’s mission is to do more with less.”
Iris recorded every word, but Dash took notes on his phone, too. People didn’t behave naturally if they knew they were being recorded. Someone taking notes on a phone, however, seemed less threatening.
> Rockwell continued his spiel. “Named after the home of the Greek gods, the Olympus Initiative is committed to bringing down the costs of life itself. Why should homes cost hundreds of thousands of dollars and take months to construct when we can assemble one in a day? The average farmer can feed one hundred and fifty-five people, but what if we could boost that to two hundred people while reducing water costs by thirty percent?”
“That would be something,” Dash allowed.
Rockwell led him around the offices, droning on and on about the good works the Olympus Initiative performed. Bland cubicles and meeting rooms occupied the different floors. To Dash’s surprise, three entire levels of the building were dedicated to laboratories. Rockwell boasted about growing wheat in desert conditions, rice in a fifth of the necessary water, and high-efficiency aquaculture.
“Do you do any military work?” Dash asked as they rounded a corner. “With the Navy or something?”
Rockwell’s bland face expressed amusement. “Nothing at all. The closest the initiative gets to the military is in our employee pool. We have several former military officers on staff, including former Brigadier General Powers.” He nodded to underscore how cool Powers must be.
Dash didn’t recognize the name but smiled appreciatively all the same.
“What sort of projects does the initiative undertake?” Dash asked.
Rockwell pointed toward the end of the hall. “I’m about to show you. Right this way.”
He led him past the elevators and a floor directory on the wall. Several project offices were on the floor, along with a cantina, a conference room, and the NASA-JPL office.
Dash’s pulse quickened.
Rockwell’s tour showed off a community transformation project, where an initiative team of a hundred people rebuilt an entire village in Turkey. After an earthquake devastated the hamlet, the Olympus Initiative flew in the group, along with construction-grade 3D printers and manufactured new housing units, drilled new wells, and improved the local farms, all in a matter of weeks.
Another mission in the Peruvian desert helped diversify local farmers’ harvest by adding in drought-resistant crops and 3D printing greenhouses to help grow fruits and vegetables year-round.
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