Peter Savage Novels Boxed Set

by Dave Edlund

  Mitch lived on the dark web. He had complete confidence in his hacking skills to keep his actions untraceable. Now he was searching a popular bulletin board for the next opportunity.

  The project he had just finished on the USS Liberty was sufficiently interesting to compensate for the poor payout. He’d added those files to his growing library, all stored on a server in the corner of his office. He was too paranoid to store information in the cloud—one never knew when the software and search-engine giants would be forced to grant back-door access to Big Brother.

  Hell, maybe they already had for all he knew.

  It was midafternoon, and he wasn’t expecting any visitors, so when the doorbell rang he ignored it. Then it rang again. Annoyed, Mitch left his study, ready to tell whoever it was to go away.

  Through the peep glass in the front door, he recognized a mail carrier’s uniform, complete with a satchel hanging from her shoulder by a wide leather strap. The woman was holding a white box with red and blue markings indicating it was Priority Mail. The annoyance subsided, and he opened the door.

  She said, “Mitch Kemmel?”

  “Yes, that’s me.”

  “Priority package,” she said as she extended the box forward.

  Mitch grasped it with both hands, surprised at how light it was—as if the box were empty. “Thank you,” he said as he looked at the mail carrier.

  Rather than a pleasant face, he was looking directly into the barrel of a gun. The carrier pulled the trigger and with a whisper of a metallic clang, Mitch Kemmel was dead.

  The shooter glanced around quickly while pulling on latex gloves. Not seeing any passersby, she dragged Mitch inside and closed the door. Moving quickly from room to room, she tossed drawers in the bedroom and then found the study. She stashed a half-dozen memory sticks and about twenty CDs inside the satchel. Then she used a set of screwdrivers to expertly remove the solid-state hard drives from the tower as well as the server, placing everything into the satchel.

  In less than fifteen minutes, she picked up the empty Priority Mail box and was out the door, driving away in a white minivan with red and blue tape striping and a U.S. Postal Service magnetic placard on the door.

  Chapter 4

  Bend, Oregon

  April 16

  Detective Colson had done everything she could; now it was time to wait and hope for a break. In the week following the murder of Emma Jones, the forensic evidence had been cataloged and secured, lab reports had been completed and reviewed, and witnesses interviewed. Kate Simpson, Emma’s roommate, had been very cooperative over hours of questioning. She still insisted that nothing of value was missing, other than Emma’s laptop.

  Although the crime appeared to be a standard home invasion burglary turned violent, Ruth resisted that theory. Too much of the evidence didn’t fit. Especially bothersome was the unique nature of the bullet that killed Emma Jones.

  The autopsy revealed it to be magnetic, not made of copper or lead as are the overwhelming majority of bullets. The projectile also lacked the linear striations indicative of rifling. Ruth had never encountered anything like this type of projectile, and she was pinning new hope on this unique evidence.

  She emailed photos of the bullet and other ballistic evidence to the Oregon State Crime Lab as well as those of neighboring Washington, California, and Idaho. She even sent the package to the FBI—hoping that another lab would have helpful information; anything to shed light on this puzzle.

  “Bingo!” Ruth nearly jumped from her chair as she read an email from the Washington State Police.

  Niki looked up expectantly, waiting for the explanation she knew was forthcoming.

  “Just got a lengthy reply from the State Patrol Crime Lab in Seattle. That magnetic projectile the ME removed from our victim’s head—well, they have one, too.”

  “Wow, that’s a lucky break. What do they have to say about it? Anything on the type of gun that fires it?”

  Niki walked around the desk so she could read the message over Ruth’s shoulder. “No, nothing on the gun.” Ruth sat down. “I don’t believe it.” She touched the monitor with her index finger. “Their case file was opened a week ago, just like ours.”

  Niki read further. “The victim—Mitch Kemmel—was shot at his home in Friday Harbor on the same day that Emma Jones was murdered. In both cases the time of death was early afternoon.”

  Ruth leaned back in her chair, staring at the screen. She had hoped for answers, additional clues. What she got was another conundrum.

  “Friday Harbor is more than 400 miles north of here,” Niki said, “so obviously we are dealing with two killers.”

  “Well, time for some old-fashioned detective work. I hope you’re wearing comfortable shoes.”

  “What do you have in mind?” Niki raised an eyebrow.

  “We have two murders at about the same time—400 miles apart. The lab reports say the ballistics are identical and unlike anything anyone in the department or crime lab has ever encountered. So, let’s talk to the local experts. Maybe someone knows something.”

  s

  On their fourth stop, at Lost Creek Armory, the detectives finally caught a lucky break. The owner of the gun shop, Tom Lewis—a fit man of about 40, clean-shaven and with short dark hair showing below a Boston Red Sox ball cap—provided their first tangible lead. Although Mr. Lewis claimed he had never seen a magnetic projectile, he suggested the detectives talk to Peter Savage. “He owns EJ Enterprises,” Lewis had explained.

  “And the connection is?” Niki prodded Lewis to be more specific.

  “They design and manufacture magnetic impulse guns for the military. Thought you’d know that. His shop is in the Old Mill District—in the old Power House brick building.”

  “You seem to know a lot about EJ Enterprises. Why is that?” Ruth Colson asked.

  “I’ve known Peter for more than ten years. Used to be neighbors back when I was just getting my store going. He’s been a good customer. Still see him at the range now and then.”

  It only took fifteen minutes for Ruth and Niki to cross town. They pulled the white unmarked cruiser into a visitor slot in front of a large, three-story brick building with three enormous chimneys projecting through the roof. An American flag flew from the very top of the center stack. Adjacent to an upscale shopping and dining district, the old Power House building was overlooked by most locals and tourists since it did not house a restaurant, art gallery, or clothing boutique.

  The detectives were dressed casually, looking very much like the passersby strolling past the shops, looking in the windows, some darting in to explore further and maybe make a purchase. There was little signage indicating the location of EJ Enterprises, only black block lettering on a glass door. Ruth and Niki entered the lobby where they were greeted by the receptionist.

  “I’m Detective Colson and this is Detective Nakano. We’d like to speak with Peter Savage.”

  “Just a minute. I’ll see if he’s in.”

  A minute later a man approached the lobby from a hallway that connected to other rooms farther back in the business. Ruth’s trained eye sized him up quickly, a habit she had honed over a career working in law enforcement. He stood about six feet tall, medium build—maybe 170 pounds she thought—brown hair in a conservative cut. When he stopped to introduce himself, she noticed the eyes—steel gray, determined.

  “Hello. I’m Peter Savage.”

  The detectives offered their badges. Peter looked at each carefully, not rushing the inspection. “If you don’t mind, we have a few questions we’d like to ask,” Ruth said.

  “Certainly. We can use my office.” It was at the end of the hallway, and Peter showed the detectives in, directing them to two chairs in front of his desk.

  “How can I help you?” he asked pleasantly.

  Ruth shared the photos of the two magnetic projectiles and the lab analysis proving they were made of metals used in rare earth magnets. She did not mention either homicide. “Tom Lewis sugge
sted you might know something of these projectiles. They are very unusual.”

  Peter read the report. “Neodymium magnets. Twenty-five caliber.” He raised his eyes to the detectives. “These would be fired from a Mk-9 magnetic impulse gun.”

  “I’ve never heard of a magnetic impulse gun,” Niki said.

  Peter smiled. “I’m not surprised. We manufacture the weapon for the military, primarily Special Forces. The technology is classified and sales are restricted—closely regulated by the Department of Defense.”

  “Then it’s safe to say you don’t sell these magnetic impulse guns to the public,” Ruth said, angling for a clear yes-or-no answer.

  “That’s right. We sell only to the U.S. Department of Defense. As I said, the technology is restricted. I can’t even sell to NATO allies, not even the Brits.”

  “Have any of your weapons been stolen?” Ruth asked. She knew that nothing had been reported to the Bend Police Department about a burglary at EJ Enterprises; she’d verified that on the short drive following their conversation with Tom Lewis.

  “No,” Peter said. “What is this about?”

  “Am I to understand that you manufacture and sell these magnetic impulse guns only to the military, not anyone else? And your shop has not been burglarized?”

  Peter nodded. “Yes, that’s right.”

  Ruth shared a glance with Niki. “Then, would you mind telling me, Mr. Savage, how two of your weapons were used in crimes committed on the same day, 400 miles apart?”

  “That’s impossible. You must be mistaken.”

  “You read the forensics report. Those two projectiles—neodymium magnets—were removed from the skulls of a victim in Friday Harbor and a second victim here, in Bend.”

  Peter stared back blankly.

  “I’m open to suggestions,” Ruth said.

  “I don’t know.”

  “We’ll need to audit your inventory and sales records. Everything—parts and completed weapons—going back a year. Maybe more. Oh, and the ammunition—do you make that, too?”

  “Yes.” Peter was still trying to understand exactly what was happening.

  “Then we need to audit that as well. Maybe someone—one of your employees—has been stealing and selling this stuff on the black market.”

  “I don’t believe that.”

  “We’ll need to check your personnel files, too. I can be back with a warrant if necessary.”

  Peter raised his eyebrows and exhaled deeply. “Of course, I have no doubt. When do you want to start?”

  “Now is good.”

  Chapter 5

  Washington, DC

  April 16

  Cliff Ellison strolled beside the Reflection Pool; his polished black wingtips, pressed gray slacks, light blue oxford shirt, and red tie clearly separated him from the multitude of tourists enjoying this scenic and historic stretch of the Mall in front of the Lincoln Memorial. He snacked on a bag of popcorn while the woman next to him spoke in a low voice. The conversation ceased whenever a stranger passed by.

  “Spare me the suspense, Angela. Just get to the point,” Ellison said. He seemed to wear a perpetual frown.

  Angela Meyers was widely considered a political genius. Several times a year she was offered jobs by members of the Congressional Black Caucus who chided her for working for a middle-aged, white, male, career politician: Abe Schuman. And her decision had paid off, as Schuman was now Speaker of the House and only a few months away from winning the Republican National Convention. Angela was his principle campaign advisor and chief of staff.

  “We ran into a minor issue, but everything is fine now.”

  “That’s good news. I knew I could count on you.”

  Angela Meyers flashed a brief smile. She was tall, equaling Ellison in height. But her slim figure was in stark contrast to his muscular build. “Naturally, we will continue to monitor the situation. If anything develops, we’ll deal with it.”

  “Hmm. Discretion is vital.”

  “No worries, Cliff.” This time Angela held the smile as Ellison studied her demeanor. Her face conveyed confidence. And yet the issue was important enough to warrant an in-person, private meeting.

  They walked on in silence, save for the crunching of popcorn. When Ellison finished, he crumpled the bag and tossed it in a green trash can.

  “You know,” Ellison said, breaking the silence, “I don’t understand why we can’t simply destroy the original records.”

  “Cliff, we’ve been over this. The records include physical papers as well as electronic copies and other files. They are scattered in too many places. And if we did delete electronic files, we’d likely be caught since the file size and time of last update is automatically compared to the backup copy every time the computer systems undergo maintenance. Trust me on this: it’s best to leave this secret buried… deep and forgotten.”

  “Yes, but things have changed. The files were hacked, and we were forced to take drastic actions. It could happen again.”

  “No—” She cut off her reply as a tourist—a young man in plaid Bermuda shorts and a neon T-shirt—walked by at a brisk pace. “No, it won’t happen again. As I told you, that problem has been fixed.”

  “What if you’re wrong and some other hacker suddenly has interest in this obscure bit of naval history? Maybe a historian, or a poli sci student working on his master’s thesis. Then what?”

  “Cliff, come on. You already know the answer to that question. All of the files are flagged. I’m notified the instant anyone accesses them. Their email address and their local server address are immediately sent to me. Relax. There’s nothing to worry about. Trust me on this.”

  Ellison stopped and faced Meyers. He studied her eyes, searching for a sign of uncertainty, of weakness. “Okay… for now,” he finally said.

  She checked her smart phone. She had been away from the Speaker’s Office for almost an hour. Checking the calendar, she said, “I need to get back. Schuman has an important meeting at 2:00.”

  “Busy schedule? How’s Abe holding up?”

  “He’s been on the road almost constantly for the past six months, coming back to D.C. for key votes, but otherwise he’s been on the campaign trail. I have to say, that man can charm just about anyone. He’s been smashing his closest rivals. Cleaned up in nearly every primary so far, but most importantly Texas and Florida. And he’s projected to win landslide victories in both New York and California.”

  “That’s just the first step. The real question is, can he beat Taylor in November?”

  With less than seven months until the Presidential election, and with Abe Schuman very close to being the presumed Republican candidate to challenge President Taylor, the talking heads had plenty of material to keep them going 24/7. Television ads were dominated by attacks on the other candidate, paid for by super PACS, of course. President Taylor and Speaker Schuman continued to elevate themselves above the muck, leaving the mudslinging to their supporters.

  So far, Schuman was ahead in national polls by seven to twelve percentage points. With a huge war chest and a long list of prominent endorsements, the Speaker was well on his way to the Oval Office. He had managed to sell his agenda—domestic growth, stability in the Middle East, a hard line against terrorism, sensible immigration policies—to a broad range of voters.

  “Are you kidding me? He’s going to crush Taylor. Under Schuman’s leadership, the House and Senate overwhelmingly passed a resolution condemning Iran for those bombings in New York two months ago. And with nearly the same margin, he ensured passage of a historic bill affirming our support for Israel in the event she is attacked—by Iran or any other country.”

  “So? President Taylor vetoed that bill.”

  “Exactly, and look what it cost him—the next day he slid another three percentage points in the polls. Just last week, during a speech at a VFW Convention in Minneapolis, Abe drew a standing ovation when he promised a vote to override Taylor’s veto.”

  Ellison gripped her
shoulder firmly. “You’d better be right about this. A lot of important people have invested a fortune in your boss. These people only get a return on their investment if Schuman is elected president. You do understand me?”

  She pulled his hand away and looked him straight in the eyes. “Are you threatening me?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “No, I like you Angela. Consider it a warning. You’re mixing it up with the pros here. And in this league, failure is not acceptable.”

  s

  Peter instructed his entire staff to stop what they were doing and assist the police officers. It turned out to be less disruptive than he had initially thought, as his accounting department was able to direct the detectives—Colson, Nakano, and two others—to all the records they requested. They went through manufacturing records, order and sales records, invoices, payments, and ammunition manufacturing and sales documents.

  By early evening, the detectives had what they wanted, at least for now. But the tone of Detective Colson’s order was clear. “You are not to destroy any records. No one is to delete emails. This is an active investigation into a homicide. Failure to follow this simple order will likely lead to arrest and criminal charges. Am I clear?”

  Peter nodded, as did the accounting staff. “I’ll make sure the rest of my employees understand,” he assured Detective Colson.

  After the detectives left, Peter returned to his office and accessed the electronic archives for the Bend Bulletin newspaper. He went to the edition from the day following the murder of Emma Jones. The account was dry and devoid of many facts about the crime. He learned that Emma attended the local community college, as did her roommate, Kate Simpson. The paper reported that the murder had occurred during a burglary in the middle of the day. Although the specific house address was not printed, the story did give the street and block number which, when combined with the published photo of the house, was enough for Peter to nail it down.