“Is Keene on a computer?”
“Affirmative. She and Jared Wynn are huddled together.”
The curse was short and effective. “Can you terminate access?”
Castillo scanned the crowded gate area. “Yes. I have some equipment with me.”
“Do it.” Too many ends were flying loose or unraveling too quickly to be snipped off. He shoved free of his desk, grabbed his briefcase, and jerked open the office door. Downstairs, the darkened subterranean parking structure fit his mood perfectly. He slammed his way into his car and revved the engine. Against his hip, his weapon lay heavy, and his fingers itched for action. Too many mistakes had been made, too much remained undone.
It wasn’t his way.
He drove down the first level, snaking through the labyrinthine design. As he rounded a corner, it was only by luck that he recognized the woman from the file on his desk. At the southwest corner of the garage, Betty Papaleo hurried across the concrete, arms filled with files. Files he’d bet his pension contained information on Hygeia.
The tiny turn of luck pleased him. For once, the operation was running on his schedule. He left the garage first and waited for her to come out of the structure. She merged into the late-afternoon traffic, where cars were already beginning to slow. Closing in two cars behind her, he kept sight of the ancient Volvo easily. Betty, he learned, obeyed all traffic laws, including the caution to slow as she approached yellow. The vehicles between them honked in annoyance as she eased her car into neutral rather than snaking below an amber warning light.
His field kit rested in the trunk of his car. Because his decision was spur-of-the-moment, he’d have to improvise. But the slow pulsing of excitement felt good in his veins. Control was what he needed. It had vanished the instant Jamie Lewis had placed her errant call. Soon, he’d hold the reins again.
Unaware of her tail, Betty plodded through traffic and across the freeway to one of the ubiquitous condo complexes dotting the Arlington/DC boundary. She paused outside a security gate to scan her pass, and Vance continued along the thoroughfare. A row of adjacent storefronts provided handy cover, and he pulled his car into one of the dimly lit spaces between buildings.
Before he left the unremarkable sedan with its government plates, Vance quickly surveyed the walls for video cameras. In the days after 9/11, amateur surveillance proliferated, capturing the unsuspecting in service of the mundane.
However, the owners of the liquor store and the sandwich shop next door had dismissed their merchandise as likely targets for high-end criminals. Vance popped the trunk and removed his field kit. In one motion he shrugged out of his coat and laid it inside the open trunk. Next came his pristine white shirt, tie, and cuff links, leaving him in a white undershirt. He tugged a maroon sweatshirt over his head.
The field kit contained glass bottles and the implements he’d require for completing his task. He removed a couple of items, then stuffed the remaining items into a black backpack, which he settled firmly across his shoulders. After jerking a baseball cap low over his forehead and shoving on wraparound glasses to fully obscure his face, he snapped latex gloves onto his hands. He put a thin piece of wire with metal bars on the ends into one pocket of the sweatshirt and a wad of material into the other. The trunk closed with a quiet click, and Vance eased out of the alley, head down.
He walked at a quick pace toward the garage entrance he’d seen Betty pull into, and he spotted her. A curious woman who could bring down a president, and the man who’d sworn to prevent his downfall. A cautious scan revealed that they were the only two occupants on this level of the structure. She had a corner spot bordered by a massive column used to stabilize the structure.
Oblivious to his advance, Betty leaned into the passenger door of her car, then stood up and set a stack of files on the roof. She rummaged in her oversized purse for her house keys. The clanging gave her some direction, and she dug them out.
As she loaded the copies of the Hygeia files into her arms, keys in hand, Betty mentally rehearsed her explanation to Undersecretary McLean for tomorrow. He would be her first stop after she returned from the Lincoln Memorial.
She turned toward the elevator and used her hip to bump the car door closed. The folders were unstable, and she silently chided herself for not putting them in a box at the office. Readjusting, she shrugged her purse strap higher; one of the folders started to slip.
“Oh, God!” she gasped, her hand flying to her throat. A man had appeared in the shadowed area of her parking space. On edge, she laughed at her fright. “I didn’t see anyone else down here. My goodness, you scared me.”
“Sorry to startle you, ma’am.” He motioned to her armful of folders as he shifted between the car door and the concrete stanchion. “Can I help?”
The low, raspy voice sounded vaguely familiar, but Betty knew she’d had a crazy day. Jumping at shadows and helpful strangers. She shifted the folders for better control. “Thank you, but that’s not necessary.” Taking a step forward, she frowned as the man didn’t move. “Excuse me.”
Instead of backing up, he took a menacing step forward.
“Sir, please get out of my way.”
“No.” He took another step closer, and Betty scuttled back, her body wedged now between car and concrete, her heart suddenly in her throat. She tried a smile that wobbled as she spoke: “We’ve got excellent security here. Cameras everywhere.”
“Won’t help, Betty.”
At the sound of her name, she recognized the voice. Trapped, she screamed and tried to ram him out of the way. But Major Vance was immovable.
Instead of moving, Vance caught her right arm, cranked it into a figure four behind her back, and shoved her head against the stanchion. Stunned, she stumbled and the folders fell. He kept her upright and quickly caught her other arm and manacled it to the first one. Betty felt blood and pain, and for a moment, she felt his grip relax as he shifted to hold her arms in one hand. She started to scream again, but he shoved her head against the post a second time. When she struggled, kicking back at him, he trapped her legs with his and pushed something inside her mouth with his free hand.
He pushed her deep into the shadows of the corner, his bulk blocking her from view, any screams muffled. A thin wire loop whipped down around her neck, biting into soft, pale flesh.
The garrote crushed her larynx, and within a few minutes she sagged in death. With easy motions, he removed the keys from the still-warm fingers and unlocked the sedan. He lifted her crumpled body and stashed her across the rear seats of her car. Changing his mind, he pushed her body down to the car’s floor.
Vance scooped up her fallen purse and tossed it inside, then picked up the files and placed them on the console next to the driver’s seat. He slid behind the wheel and backed the unmarked car out of the spot.
Vance drove at a normal pace down the ramp and out of the complex, merging into traffic as he headed for his first stop. The abandoned construction site near the airport was perfect. Rebar and dirt crunched beneath the car’s tires as he wove toward an unfinished structure. He parked between mounds of abandoned rubble and reached for the files. Swiftly, he read through her findings, his eyes narrowing.
Perhaps she’d died taking solace in the fact that she alone knew the truth.
Shrouded by looming concrete, he shoved Betty from the rear of the vehicle and onto the ground littered with debris. He tucked the files tightly against her body. With familiar motions, he removed three bottles. Their deadly chemicals were a perk of his time with CBIRF and the scientists who spent their lives creating new ways to deliver death.
The first bottle’s cap unsealed the nearly odorless contents. He doused the body that had once been Betty Papaleo, as well as the files of secrets she’d uncovered. Carefully, he recapped the bottle and stowed it, then added the accelerant and the contents of the third, a desiccant. The chemical combina
tion worked as it always had, shredding through tissue into bone. The open air dispersed the stench of disintegrating flesh. Paper vanished into dust.
No dental records, no fingerprints. DNA might help eventually. For the time after they found her, if they did, there would be only speculation and conjecture.
He returned to the car and headed for the airport. Vance turned into an off-site parking garage that warehoused the cars of travelers. Unlike in the airport parking lot, security here would be lax. He tugged the cap lower and kept his head down as he punched the green button for a ticket. Inside, he drove to a spot in gathered shadows far away from any car that showed recent use.
The car hidden, he emerged from the garage and caught the van carrying passengers to the airport. A quick transfer to a cab, and soon he was mere blocks from his own vehicle. He paid the driver and, after waiting until the car departed, hiked down to the alley. Satisfied, he drove out of the alleyway and merged into traffic.
By voice, he activated the car phone. “Phillips.”
“Yes?”
“Purchase a ticket to Mexico for Betty Papaleo. Backdate the purchase two weeks ago and add a second passenger: male—husband—Darren Papaleo. Departing tonight. Find Mr. Papaleo, and make sure he doesn’t catch his flight.”
THIRTY-FOUR
Friday, June 23
The next morning, a loud pounding rousted Avery, and she tumbled out of bed, her legs twisted in the sheets. “I’m coming,” she shouted hoarsely. She kicked free of the tangled covers, tugged her T-shirt down over her shorts.
In the living room, Jared stirred, and she motioned him back to sleep. At the door, she raked back disheveled hair and peered through the keyhole. Noah stood on the other side, holding a newspaper, a stern new agent glaring at his back. Avery fumbled the locks free and opened the door.
“Mr. Noah Fox,” the agent said, reading from Noah’s confiscated license. “Agent Lee said no visitors.”
“He’s my attorney,” Avery hastily explained. “He’s safe.” To forestall an argument, she drew him inside. “Agent Lee will approve.”
“I’ll check,” warned the new agent, a stocky, middle-aged woman with a cap of short black curls who introduced herself as Eliza Leighton. When Noah turned and reached for his license, she slipped it into her pocket and patted it once. “I’ll check,” she repeated.
Noah followed Avery into the kitchen and cast a telling look at Jared.
“We had a slumber party,” she explained.
Noah watched as she prepped her coffeemaker, and he laid the folded newspaper on the counter. “Looks like fun.”
The percolating began, and Avery reached into the cupboards for mugs. The clock on the microwave revealed that it was not yet five thirty. “Why do you insist on coming here in the wee hours of the morning?”
He leaned against the counter and shifted to block her view of the newspaper. “I’ve already been to the gym and the office. You’re my third stop of the day.”
“Third? It’s barely past dawn.”
“I’m an early riser,” he explained slowly. “Thought you might want to talk.”
Suspicion had her turning to fully face him. “About?”
“Your phone’s going to start ringing soon.”
“Why?”
“This.” Reaching for the paper, he cautioned, “I know it looks bad, but we just have to figure out our story, okay?”
“Let me see,” she demanded. Without waiting for him to act, she unfolded the newspaper and froze. “Oh, God.”
“What’s wrong?” Jared got to his feet and crossed to the counter. Before Avery or Noah answered, he turned the paper toward him. “Shit. Avery?”
When she refused to respond, Jared circled the counter and stood close to her. “He shouldn’t have pulled you into this.” He watched with growing concern as she stared at the paper, her eyes unmoving. “Avery, say something.”
Ling quickly joined them in the kitchen, where Avery stood. One look at the front page of the newspaper told Ling what had caused the reaction. “God, Avery. Honey, I’m so sorry.”
On the front page of the Washington Gazette, three photos sat cheek by jowl. The grainy image of Avery and Jared snapped outside her apartment building, a second of Avery half dragging her mother at a Metro stop—a different one than the night she’d run into Justice Wynn—and a third one of Rita, a close-up of her semiconscious face while she was propped against what looked like a dumpster.
Below the images, the sky-high headline read: Justice’s Mistress, Son’s Girlfriend, Junkie’s Daughter—Who Is Avery Keene?
“Noah, I can make you some coffee,” Avery said calmly as she pushed away from the counter. “I thought I’d cook omelets for breakfast.”
“Avery, honey, we need to talk about this,” Ling ventured softly.
Jared took the paper and skimmed the story. “Son of a bitch. We’ll call the Gazette. Make them print a retraction.”
“Why? If one paper has the story, it’ll be all over the airwaves by drive time. The druggie and her daughter.” Her fingers curled under the shelf of the bar and scraped along the particleboard. She stretched them long, grappling to steady herself in a world suddenly listing. “The Chief won’t believe me this time.”
“I’m already drafting a libel suit,” Noah announced. “This is out of bounds. It’s a slanderous lie designed to discredit you. I’ll have our private investigators figure out who this woman is, and we’ll—”
Avery’s head came up. The smile she offered was brittle. “The woman in the photo is my mother. She’s a drug addict living on the streets of DC.” She carefully splayed her fingers beneath the counter, her voice as careful. Too loud, and she’d shatter, she was certain. “That center photo is from a Metro camera at Gallery Place, I think. She was crashing, and I was taking her to a motel to sleep it off.”
A nub bumped against her right index finger. Shifting her hand, she flicked the tip against the knot. “Her name is Rita Keene. The secretaries for the Chief will confirm her identity, given that she went to visit the Supreme Court on Tuesday.”
“How did they get a photo of her passed out in an alleyway?” Ling asked of anyone in the room. “How in the world would they know where to find her?”
“It doesn’t matter. They found her.” Avery toyed with the bump beneath the counter, her voice listless. “They’ll offer her money to tell her story, and she’ll take it. A junkie’s dream. News at eleven.”
“Avery.”
She shook her head. “Ling, don’t. You know better.” Beneath the counter, she pushed at the nub, surprised when it gave beneath the pressure. The object fell to the ground, and Avery knelt.
Afraid she’d gotten ill, Jared moved quickly to support her. He came around the counter and saw her kneeling. As he shifted to help her stand, he saw the black, blinking dot in her hand.
“It’ll be fine,” he muttered beneath his breath as recognition narrowed his eyes.
Jared covered her hand with his, palming the device. He stood quickly, dragging Avery up with him. He took the device and deftly slid it beneath the rim of a plate on the counter, out of sight, then pulled Avery several steps back. “We need to make a list of the ways they could have gotten these photos.” Into her ear, he whispered, “Don’t react. Place is bugged. Audio, possibly visual.” He hugged her forehead soothingly, then held her away from him.
She leaned back into him, her arms tight around his waist. “Let them hear,” she instructed.
She shifted away and said, “I’m okay. As for Rita, they might have followed her from here on Monday.” Avery broke off her hold of Jared and hugged Ling. “Place is bugged,” she whispered. “Find a way to tell Noah.”
Disengaging, she tugged at Jared’s hand and led him toward the living room. She motioned them closer to the television. “Let’s see if anything has made it
onto the news.”
Ling put a companionable arm through Noah’s, leaned in, and quickly passed the message. Together, they joined Avery and Jared in front of the TV, where every news channel was plastered with the Gazette headline.
Noah was the first to speak: “Loyalty has its limits.” He pointed to the screen. “This is the tip of a malevolent iceberg, Avery. On Monday, you’ll have to stand in open court and defend yourself and your mother in front of the probate judge, Diana McAdoo.” He smacked the pages of the paper he’d scooped up against the coffee table. “I’m Justice Wynn’s attorney; I don’t think this was ever his intent. He couldn’t have meant to expose you to this.”
“Justice Wynn couldn’t have given a damn about what this would cost me,” Avery corrected him. “He had a goal, and he needed a weapon. That’s me. A blind, stupid, loyal weapon that would stay on course until I hit my target.”
“He asked the impossible of you,” Jared ground out, leaning in close.
“I’m not quitting.” She snatched the paper from Noah. “And I won’t be distracted by this tripe.”
Jared jabbed a finger into the page. “Read it, Avery. Read the story and tell me my father is worth this.”
She focused on the page, the black ink blurring for an instant. The story continued for another column and fell below the fold. Unable to tear her eyes away, Avery continued on to the smaller story tucked into the sparest real estate of the front page.
Jamie Lewis, a Maryland nurse, was found shot to death in her apartment in Tacoma Park, the victim of an apparent home invasion earlier this week. The Tacoma Park police have not released any information on suspects. Her husband, Thomas Lewis, has posted a $15,000 reward for any information that leads to the arrest of the culprits.
The story was wholly inaccurate, but the reminder was more than sufficient. A woman had already lost her life protecting Howard Wynn.
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