The Kill Order

by Robin Burcell

  “Guess you found out I had.”

  “Which is why I’m calling. There’s a man inside your condo. Saw him go over the back wall.”

  “The back wall? The alarm didn’t go off?”

  “No. But I called the police and I’ll be standing by until they get here.”

  “Son of a bitch. I’m on my way. Be about five.”

  “I’ll wait.”

  “Appreciate it.”

  Tex disconnected, then phoned Griffin next, keeping his eye on Carillo’s front windows. “I take it the three of you made it back to D.C. with no problems?”

  “We did. How’s your, uh, thing going.”

  “Slight problem,” Tex said, then informed him of the break-in.

  “Maybe your garden-variety burglar?”

  “Ever the optimist. What I’d like to know is—assuming whoever is breaking in is part of the affair last night—how’d they make the connection to Carillo so fast?”

  “Clearly someone knew he was involved with Sydney in the case. This isn’t good. You can’t tell Carillo why you’re there.”

  “Not to worry. The cops are en route. I’m just playing the part of the concerned citizen.”

  “You see anything?”

  “A light inside . . . Wait. It just went dark.”

  “How likely is it that Carillo kept a copy of the list?”

  “We’re talking Carillo. If he thought something was up, highly likely.”

  “Let’s hope you’re wrong.”

  To say the least. He turned his attention to the condo. If the suspect came out the front door, Tex had him . . . But he wasn’t coming out the front. And the cops weren’t surrounding the place as fast as he’d hoped. Which meant the suspect had a chance at escaping via the point of entry. Tex turned to exit the courtyard, intending to follow.

  “Police! Show me your hands!”

  White light flooded the area, blinding him.

  “What the hell’s going on, Tex?” Griffin asked.

  Tex squinted, raised his hands, palms out, and two officers approached, both with their guns pointed at his chest. One cop ordered him to turn around slowly, interlace his fingers at the back of his neck, then kneel to the ground. “A slight flaw with my plan, Griff.”

  6

  The police were walking Tex to his car just as Carillo arrived. If Carillo was surprised by the arrest, Tex couldn’t tell, but he took out his credentials, identifying himself to the officers.

  “Congratulations, boys,” Carillo said. “You’ve just arrested the reporting party. He works with me.”

  The female officer had Tex by the elbow. “He’s an FBI agent? He didn’t say so. Even after we found a gun.”

  “His branch of the government is . . . a little more obscure.” Carillo’s smile was more sarcastic than amused. “For some reason, those handcuffs look very appropriate on you.” Then, after a thoughtful glance toward his apartment, he said to the officers, “What we have here is a bit of miscommunication. The condo’s mine. He’s working with me on a local case, and I’m sure if you look in his wallet, you’ll see an identification card from DOJ there.”

  She removed Tex’s wallet from his back pocket, found the identification card as stated. “Sorry about that.” To Carillo, she added, “We saw him running out of the main entrance and he matched the description.”

  Carillo eyed Tex while the other officer removed the handcuffs, then returned his gun. “He does have that shady look. Even so, I appreciate you coming out. Maybe you two can run an area check and see if the guy’s still around? He and I will check the condo. Make sure it’s clear.”

  “Sure thing,” the officer said.

  He and Tex entered the courtyard to the condo. “Point of entry through the back?” Carillo asked Tex.

  “If he left, out the back, too. Can’t imagine he’d stick around once the cops showed up.” Tex put his hand on Carillo’s shoulder as Carillo took out his keys to unlock the door. “Assuming he did get out. I never got past the courtyard.”

  Carillo nodded, and both men drew their pistols, standing one on each side of the door. Carillo turned the key in the lock, then pushed the door open with his foot. He entered, Tex right behind him. They cleared each room, determined that the place was empty. The back slider stood open a few inches. The window in the kitchen that also overlooked the patio was open and the screen nowhere in sight. Smeared gritty dirt, still wet, marred the otherwise clean white tiles on the counter, confirming it was the point of entry. “What’re the chances he left prints?” Carillo asked.

  Tex didn’t answer. He knew there’d be none. Instead, he asked, “Anything missing?”

  “Not that I can see . . . Stereo and TV are still here. Definitely not after big-ticket items . . .” Carillo walked to his bedroom, checked the wooden box on his dresser. “Wedding ring and dress watch still here. I don’t own any other jewelry, so what were they after?”

  “You have a safe or anything?”

  Carillo made a beeline to his office. Tex followed.

  A large gun safe stood against the wall, and Carillo spun the dial, then turned the combination until it opened. “Guns are still here. Deed to the house is still here, which means my won’t-be-soon-enough-ex wasn’t the culprit.”

  “It definitely wasn’t Sheila I saw.”

  “Coulda been one of her low-life friends?”

  “Thought you two had sort of patched things as far as the house custody.”

  “Well, we have. I just can’t figure out what anyone would want in here if not the guns or money.”

  Carillo stood there looking around, and when his gaze lit on Tex, it was filled with suspicion.

  He knew.

  But instead of saying anything, he closed and locked the safe, left the room, walked to the kitchen. He slid the window shut, used a towel to wipe off the footprints on the counter, closed and locked the slider, then double-checked his alarm to make sure it was working.

  That done, he went to the refrigerator, opened it, and pulled out two bottles of Sierra Nevada Pale Ale, then the opener from the drawer, popped off the tops, and handed one to Tex. “I find that when my constitutional rights are being violated, alcohol helps dull the need to call an attorney.”

  “We would have told you if we could,” Tex said.

  “Yeah. Right. But breaking in seemed the better option?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Did you find what you were looking for?”

  “I didn’t do it.”

  “You mean I just wiped off valuable evidence and you let me?”

  “I doubt these guys would leave any. You’re probably fine.”

  “If not you, then who broke in?”

  “If I had to guess, the guys responsible for the homicides in your town last night.”

  “The kid from the warehouse?”

  “And his friend at another apartment.”

  Carillo took a sip of his beer. Apparently mulling things over. Then, “This over the hard drive from the copy machine from our office?”

  “It is,” Tex said, not too surprised that Carillo knew.

  “Which means those numbers Sydney brought back from Mexico don’t belong to some offshore bank accounts like we thought?”

  “Correct.”

  “Guess I lost that bet. So what do they belong to?” he asked.

  “Can’t say,” Tex replied.

  “What can you tell me?”

  “Not much,” Tex said. “Except that if you have a copy, or know where it is, we need it.”

  “Don’t you already have a copy? Fitzpatrick turned it over right after we made ours.”

  “So she does have a copy?”

  “She does. The only one. Unless you count the hard drive. I gave it to her. So what do you need with hers?”

 
“You saw what happened to the last person to run them. Ergo, we need to recover it and destroy it.”

  “Ergo? Sounds like something in a French restaurant. And I don’t do French. What I do do is make logical deductions. One. Someone knew Sydney’s every move back when she was looking into her father’s murder. Two. She dodged a lot of bullets when that list of numbers hit her hands. Three. The moment she got back here to the office, someone swooped in and grabbed said list from us before we could even look into what it was for, hence the reason we made the copy. Four. You’re here without a search warrant, looking for something you probably wouldn’t even dare to articulate in open court, except someone beat you to the punch. Conclusion? You, or someone from your branch, were the guys shooting at Sydney in Mexico. How close am I?”

  Tex refused to answer.

  Carillo leaned back against the kitchen counter, eyeing him. “You know how many bullets she dodged getting that list? She’s not going to like finding out after the fact that you were involved. Hell. That Griffin was involved. Because if I’m not mistaken, they’re involved.”

  “I’d appreciate it if you let us tell her when the time is right. Him, actually.”

  “And when will that be?”

  “When we recover the list from her, and when we know it will be safe to say something.”

  “The honor,” Carillo said, pointing his beer bottle at Tex, “is all yours. But be aware she knows about this mess here in South San Francisco, because I called her the moment I learned of the murder at the warehouse.”

  “What about you?” Tex asked Carillo.

  “You mean how am I taking the fact you went spy versus spy on me? Keeping secrets? Breaking into my place without a warrant? Or attempting to? I’m pragmatic enough to realize if one plays with a scorpion, expect to get stung. I also know if the roles were reversed, and it was my case, we’d be having this conversation in your kitchen, not mine.” He took another sip of his beer, then set the bottle on the counter, his expression turning dark. “And before you go blaming Fitzpatrick, because she smuggled the numbers from Mexico, I’m the one who made the copy, not her. So I have to bear the guilt of this kid’s death.”

  “It’s not your fault,” Tex said.

  And then Carillo looked right at him. “My conscience tells me otherwise. I also know there’s enough guilt to go around. Which is why I’m cutting you some slack, so drink your goddamned beer. But a word of advice. When Griffin finally gets around to telling her about your and his involvement? I’d highly recommend he wears body armor. I can almost guarantee she’s going to go ballistic.”

  7

  Washington, D.C.

  Trenton Stiles sat back in his seat, listening to the strains of Tchaikovsky’s Sleeping Beauty, while his driver maneuvered the streets of Washington, D.C., then pulled up in front of the offices of Wingman and Wingman, the law firm where he’d worked as a lobbyist ever since he’d left Congress more than twenty years ago.

  Even though the firm was currently being investigated by the Department of Justice, Stiles wasn’t worried. They’d weathered the storm in the past, and they would again. Once he got his hands on the remaining copy of the Devil’s Key that was stolen more than twenty years ago, the entire DOJ investigation would take a new turn—one of his choosing.

  This time, however, it was going to take a little more finesse, especially now that this latest threat had popped up in California, he thought as his phone rang. He looked at the number on the caller ID. Finally. He answered it. “Mr. B. This better be good news.”

  “Depends. The hard drive we recovered from Bo Brewer was erased. But we found out where the information originated. A copy machine taken from the FBI’s office in San Francisco.”

  “How did the FBI get it?”

  “We think from Orozco.”

  “Orozco?” he said, stepping out of the car, as the driver opened the door. Robert Orozco had been a former army black ops man, who had brazenly orchestrated the theft of the Devil’s Key from a safe at Wingman and Wingman more than twenty years ago. Their mistake had been hiring Orozco and his men to steal the thing from the government to begin with. Orozco must have guessed that his knowledge of the key’s existence meant his days were numbered, and so after Orozco turned it over to Stiles, he stole it a second time, then simply disappeared off the face of the earth.

  Stiles had been searching for him and the key for the last twenty years with little luck.

  Until now.

  The morning was cold, crisp, with a clear blue sky overhead. He could see his breath as he talked. “How did you find him?”

  “Surprisingly easy, which makes me wonder at the timing. We tapped into the military database. He decided to finally start withdrawing his pension. The only reason we can assume is because, one, he figured statute of limitations. Two, he no longer had the key. Three, maybe he was never aware of the kill order for possession of the thing, or now that he didn’t have it, no one would care.”

  Stiles waved off his driver, but didn’t move from the sidewalk. There was more privacy out here. With the DOJ nosing around all the time, hoping to tie Wingman and Wingman into the theft of the key code, one was never sure if there were any bugs inside, even though Stiles made sure his men continually swept the offices. “And the FBI? Why would they have it?”

  “Remember that FBI agent asking about W2 a few weeks ago?”

  “Of course.” According to several sources, someone named Sydney Fitzpatrick had been making unofficial inquiries about the firm. “What about her?”

  “She’s the daughter of one of Orozco’s partners. We think she might have been in Mexico back in October.”

  “And you think this is how she got the key? How it came to be on their copy machine?”

  “It fits. She worked in San Francisco at the time.”

  “So Orozco gave her the list?”

  “So it would seem.”

  “Why would he do that? He knew how valuable it was.”

  “Only valuable if you knew what to do with it, and he didn’t exactly get that part. Then again, it’s possible he still has the original.”

  Stiles looked up at the door of the building, seeing the Wingman and Wingman sign in gold-leafed lettering. The firm had been on life support when they approached him for help more than twenty years ago. He’d worked hard to ensure its continued success, getting into bed with almost every White House administration since, facilitating those candidates who would best serve his purposes, all while keeping the DOJ wolves from getting past the gates.

  This matter with Orozco didn’t help. If he had his way, he’d kill the man right now. “Find this FBI agent. If she’s got a copy, I want it.”

  “And if she doesn’t have it? Because we know her partner didn’t have it. We already checked.”

  “Someone made a copy or those numbers wouldn’t have ended up on a copier machine hard drive and popped up in the search. We start going down the list of who knew. In fact, since your men are on the West Coast, have them drop by for a chat with Mr. Orozco. Find out what he knows about the code he’s been holding on to for two decades, and what he told this FBI agent. And don’t leave any loose ends.” He took a frustrated breath, not happy that his morning routine had been interrupted. “Anything else?”

  “One of those so-called loose ends might be an issue. A girl was at the scene. She may have seen me.”

  “What the hell were you doing there?”

  “If the Devil’s Key was there, you think I was about to entrust it to anyone else to bring it back?”

  “Where is she?”

  “Not sure. She disappeared right after my men made contact with her friend. They went looking for her, but she had help.”

  “Government help?”

  “Possibly. We have to assume they’ve been monitoring the Internet as well. And it fits, since the girl simply disappear
ed.”

  “Disappeared? We may not have the key yet, but with the database you have access to, people do not just disappear.”

  “Put it this way. She never returned to her apartment.”

  “Find her. Make sure that she never does. When the time comes, we’ll take care of anyone else who had access to the code.”

  Stiles disconnected, then dropped his phone into his pocket. He hadn’t lasted this long by being careless, and when it came to loose ends, his philosophy was to eliminate them. Unfortunately, it was becoming more difficult to eliminate anyone who posed a risk to his plans without drawing undue attention.

  Certain people would have to be killed. The girl, for one. Others . . . ? This would definitely take some creativity on his part to make sure they didn’t get in his way.

  8

  The following morning

  Although Sydney had wanted to begin her investigation of the files Scotty had given her the moment she got home, she didn’t want to open them on a computer that she used to connect to the Internet. Unfortunately, finding her old laptop proved harder than she expected. She spent her time looking through several boxes in her spare bedroom, digging through things she hadn’t yet needed, therefore hadn’t bothered to unpack. In fact, she only ventured into this room on the rare occasion she did need to search for some long-missing item. Thinking that the laptop would be in the one marked “Old Office Equip,” she shuffled the boxes, pulling it out from the bottom. It wasn’t there.

  Her eleven-year-old sister, Angie, had helped her pack when she’d made the move from San Francisco to Washington, D.C. Maybe she’d be able to remember which box it might be in. It was nine-thirty here, six-thirty back home. Angie would be up, getting ready for school, and Sydney called, figuring it would be faster to ask her sister, rather than emptying every single box.

  Her mother answered. “Is everything okay?”

  “It’s fine, Mom. I was just sort of hoping Angie might remember which box she packed something in.”