Ground Zero Page 18

  Eileen had to swallow twice before she spoke.

  “Nelson?”

  “No contact. We have verified with Roberto Espinoza's church group that he was attending a Catholic Youth Organization meeting until nine-thirty. He teaches eighth-graders. He was there since six o'clock this evening. He said he went straight home, fixed a microwave dinner, and went to bed. We have verified with Lowell Guzman's neighbors that he was in his family room watching television. They could see him through their living room windows.”

  “After you contact Atkins, when you do, I want you to visit each Gamer's house. You shouldn't need a search warrant, they are all willing to cooperate. Or at least, they're supposed to cooperate. I want you to look for one thing. Look in the trash, on the floors, in the back yard.”

  “What do you want me to look for?”

  “Metal shavings. He -- or she -- had to sharpen that screwdriver somewhere.”

  “I understand.”

  “Watch yourself, Dave,” Eileen said, and looked over at Art's body. “Whoever this is, he's getting very desperate. And he's getting very good at killing people.”

  “Understood. Out.”

  Eileen hung up the phone and turned again to Art Bailey's body. There were two stab wounds, one in the back and one in the neck. The neck was the fatal injury. Eileen could see how the murderer struck once, pulled the screwdriver free, and slashed at Art as he struggled to rise from his chair. The slashing, second strike was the one that tore open Art's neck and finished him. Art saw the murderer before he died. The wound was in the front.

  Eileen felt tired. Had Art seen a friend? His surprise was his undoing. He didn't expect the second blow. There were no marks on his hands from warding off strikes. There were no other signs of a struggle. Art stood in amazement, and let himself be killed. Eileen remembered Tanner mentioning Art's gentle nature, and for a moment she had to struggle with a choking feeling of rage and frustration. Art was dead. Eileen Reed hadn't been able to stop it from happening. She felt sick.

  “There's nothing else here.”

  “Any clothing? The blood would have spattered, this time.”

  “No clothing.”

  “Anyone see someone leave this room?” Eileen knew the answer before Blaine shook his head no.

  “Damn it!” Eileen said explosively. “How about the base? You keep a record in those scan things?”

  “No record, and no guards. We could ask the guard at the gate if he saw any particular car that was driving too fast.”

  “Call him. Not that phone,” Eileen added, as Blaine headed towards the television room. “I'm in contact with my assisting officer on that line.”

  “Someone else?” Blaine said.

  “Detective Rosen. He’s tracking down each of the Gamers to see if they have alibis.”

  “I was thinking,” Blaine said slowly. “The murder was done at change of shift. Eleven is when the night shift arrives and the swing shift leaves. That's why he killed Art at eleven. He drove out of here with a hundred other cars. He went through those scanners with hundreds of people.”

  “Clever,” Eileen said grimly. “He or she.”

  “Yes,” Blaine said. “I'll call the guard anyway, just to check. Do you want coffee or a pop?”

  “Coffee.” Eileen said.

  “Yes, I'm going to get some. I get a cup for you too.” As Blaine left, the phone rang again.

  “Reed speaking.”

  “This is Rosen. I'm mobile. No contact with Nelson Atkins. I'll be trying his house first to see if he's home.”

  “You got assistance?”

  “I'm with Officer Hetrick.”

  “Would Shelly turn me in if I said 'Be very careful'?”

  “You mean because I’m a girl, girl?” Shelly Hetrick came over the line, her voice bright and sarcastic.

  “Well, yes.”

  “I'm turning you in,” Hetrick said.

  “Look for fresh blood. I think the perp got splashed. OK?”

  “Clear. I'll carry my parasol, dear.”

  “Thanks. Out.”

  Eileen hung up the phone, smiling. Shelly Hetrick was deadly. Eileen would worry less about Shelly than she would about Rookie Rosen. The door beeped and Eileen heard the familiar voice of Dr. Rowland.

  “At least this time I knew it would take forever to get here,” he grumbled as he entered the room. Rowland was dressed in his uniform but his hair was flattened on one side and hastily combed. The SID unit followed. The fingerprint people were different but the photographer was the same. The photographer looked fresh and alert with the bright energy of the night owl. Eileen envied him.

  Rowland looked at Art, looked at Eileen.

  “Didn't catch him quick enough, eh?” he said, then grimaced. “Sorry. Not your fault. No clues. Any motive for this one?”

  “Maybe he found out who it was,” Eileen said. Rowland nodded, and put down his bag.

  “I sent the autopsy report to you this evening,” he said, bending down and examining Art. “I'll try to be quicker on this one.”

  Eileen walked away from the camera flash and the bustle of activity. She followed the blood trail that went back to Art's console. The blood spray on the carpet was consistent with a blow to the throat after Art rose from his chair. The chair was tipped on its back. The console was still logged onto the system. There were windows open and flashing with lights and color. Eileen looked at the big screens. They were dark and empty. The windows on the console looked like the War Game simulation Art showed Eileen that afternoon.

  Eileen stood in front of Art's console. What was Art doing on the computer? He was obviously running some kind of simulation, but there were no graphic displays. The big screens were dark. Art's console was doing something, though.

  “Detective,” Rowland called. Eileen looked over at Rowland, who was squatting by the body and beckoning with one gloved hand.

  Eileen started to walk over and the console beeped shrilly behind her. She turned to see one of the little screens flashing the word “FOUND” over and over in red letters.

  “Found?” Eileen said. “Found what?” She crouched over the console, trying to see if there was a name in any of the windows. Suddenly the whole console flashed and went white. Eileen jerked her hands back and away, but she was sure she hadn't touched anything.

  “Time Limit Exceeded.” The words scrolled across the screen. “No Interaction. Logging out ABAILEY at 0123 hours.”

  The screen went dark, taking whatever Art found with it into blackness.

  Chapter Twenty

  Central Intelligence Agency, Langley Virginia

  “The Medical Examiner's notes are on-line now,” Lucy Giometti said tersely. She'd finished reading Terry Guzman's autopsy earlier that morning, a report that had been typed in half a continent away by the concise Dr. Rowland. The autopsy report had briefly pushed aside her inquiry about Johann Wulff. Lucy intended to get back to Wulff as soon as she could. Wulff had a taste about him that made Lucy feel certain he was the key to Tabor’s death.

  The FBI special agent in Colorado Springs, Fred Nguyen, was on the phone that was socked against her left ear. Nguyen was a second-generation Vietnamese, child of a large family that made it out before the fall of Saigon. He spoke perfect English accented with more than a touch of California. Lucy had called up his picture from the FBI files, and the mental image of the blonde football player that went along with the voice disappeared when she saw the thin Asian face. His eyes in the picture were black and small and expressionless.

  “So hey, I'm not saying these are related to this George Tabor dude,” the cheerful voice sounded in her ear, “but I don't know why they're happening at the same time. It's weird, man.”

  “Fred, my friend, I don't know either. I know we've got nothing on Arthur Bailey. He's salt of the earth. Clear all the way back to grade school. Never even been out of the country.”

  “Yeah, that's what my reports say too. I think maybe Tabor just got spooked and ran, is
all. Damn. He would've been great if we'd been able to grab him alive. We'd been tracking this guy for a long time.”

  “Well if anything more comes up, I'll let you know,” Lucy said. “Thanks.”

  “Thanks, Lucy. I'll get in touch if I find something juicy.”

  Lucy hung up the phone and pulled open her desk drawer for the fortieth time that morning.

  “No, no no,” she said to herself.

  The phone rang. It was Mills.

  “What's up?” Lucy said, her eyes still wandering over the stacked cookies and pastries in the drawer.

  “We've got an appointment at the Pentagon,” Mills said, and the bafflement and fear were plain in his voice.

  “At the Pentagon?” Lucy said.

  “I don't know what's going on. The Deputy Chief called me personally. This is getting pretty damn hot, Lucy. Be in my office at one o’clock.”

  Lucy didn't realize for a moment he'd called her by her first name. Then it struck her. Mills must be really upset. And she still hadn’t nailed Johann Wulff.

  Lucy pulled a fruit pie out of the drawer and picked up the phone. She had a few hours. She’d have to use them well.

  Colorado Springs

  “I have witnesses. I was in church.”

  'Berto sat on the couch in his apartment. His thick black hair was uncombed. He was wearing gray sweats and a black tank. He didn't look as if he'd slept much.

  “I know you were in church,” Eileen said. She didn't feel much better than 'Berto looked. The morning sun was just touching through 'Berto's blinds.

  'Berto's apartment was small. Two or three day's worth of dishes were piled in the sink. The carpet was clean, although it was old. There were gym clothes on the floor and a few brightly colored ties hung over some chairs. The overstuffed armchair in front of the television was piled with newspaper. The table next to the chair was loaded with old pop cans and magazines. Eileen could see the corner of the bed at the end of the short hallway. The bed was unmade, but the room looked clean.

  “Pretty small place,”

  “Small is all I need,” 'Berto said. He got to his feet. “Coffee? How about some orange juice?”

  “Coffee would be nice,” Eileen said, and followed 'Berto into the kitchen. Berto pulled out some filters and a grinder and started to make coffee.

  “I haven't been shopping, but I could make you something. You want breakfast? You going to haul me in?” ‘Berto ran the words together and tossed the last line off lightly, but there was nothing light in his dark and miserable eyes.

  “No.”

  The tough line of the shoulders slumped. For a moment 'Berto looked like a relieved, frightened little boy. Then he turned his face away and began rinsing the filter holder.

  “So why are you here?”

  “I want to talk some more. You can afford better than this, can't you?”

  “Maybe,” 'Berto said.

  “You can afford a maid, though?” Eileen asked.

  “I don't have a maid,” 'Berto said, and finished assembling the coffee. He turned the switch to start the brew.

  “Looks like you have a maid.”

  “Okay, my cousin,” 'Berto said. “She comes by once a week. She works as a maid, OK?”

  “I'm not trying to say anything,” Eileen said mildly. “I just thought you had a maid for a place like this, that was funny. A girlfriend would treat a place differently.”

  'Berto leaned back against the counter and folded his arms. He smiled faintly.

  “You notice stuff, I guess. No girlfriend. Estelle, she comes by for a favor.”

  “A favor?” Eileen said, and eyed 'Berto. 'Berto shifted nervously. “'Berto, look. You don't drive a hot car. You live in a dump. You don't have great clothes. But I've seen your salary. Why don't you live better? Are you being blackmailed?”

  “I'm not being blackmailed!” 'Berto's shoulders rose. He seemed unsure whether to laugh or get angry. “I'm -- look. Well, hey. I'll show you.”

  'Berto walked over to his cluttered coffee table. He rummaged around the newspapers and magazines stacked on top. He pulled out a photo album.

  “Ready for the sob story, eh?”

  Eileen glanced at the coffee pot. It was nearly done. She opened the cabinet above the coffee maker and the coffee cups were there, in the most logical place for them to be. She looked inside before she poured, but they were clean.

  “So give me the sob story. You take milk?”

  “Black is fine for me,” 'Berto said. “I couldn't sleep last night. Nelson called me and told me about Art. I was thinking about Art. Terry too.”

  'Berto put his photo album on the kitchen counter. He opened it. Eileen took a sip of his coffee, and looked.

  “This is my brother Luis. College. Tuition. Books. This, my sister Isabelle. OK, no college for her. Two little ones, boy and girl. College for them. Eh?”

  Eileen looked at Luis, a younger thinner version of 'Berto. The slate black eyes were smiling. The UCLA sweatshirt was fresh and white. The sister Isabelle, chunky and plain, had two happy children in the circle of her arms. There were more pictures. Eileen flipped through the album, sipping her coffee, seeing the signs of prosperity appear as the children grew. The bright spots of new lamps, a new carpet, new clothing. There were pictures of another woman, a thin beautiful girl with an angular, Spanish look to her face. She wasn't smiling in any of the pictures. She wore a lovely red dress, and looked almost embarrassed, as though she knew she looked spectacular.

  “Another sister?” Eileen asked. 'Berto smiled.

  “Mi madre,” he said proudly. “My mom. My dad was a cop, got killed a long time ago. She's beautiful?”

  “Wow,” Eileen said. “She sure is.”

  The sun, rising, laid a strip of brightness across the kitchen and picked up the glare of the picture film. Eileen closed the album and refilled her cup.

  “You support them all,” she said. 'Berto shrugged.

  “They know it, they knew it before I got all my clearances through. The government didn't mind that I send my money to my family. I don't think my investigating officer liked it though.”

  “Your investigating officer?”

  “Yeah, they send one out to interview the family, your friends, your professors. People from your last jobs. Sometimes they interview you, too. This one did. When you get this kind of clearance, they do a background check on you. This guy was a young white guy. Didn't like visiting the barrio. Didn't think I should be wasting money. A man with no family.” 'Berto grimaced in disgust. “He doesn't understand.”

  “I know you have an alibi for last night,” Eileen said quietly.

  “I teach classes, sure. My cousin is a priest. My father's sister, she's a nun. The Church is important to us. I'll have my cousin say a prayer for Art.”

  There was a little silence. Eileen looked at the slight steam that rose from her cup, and then looked up at 'Berto. She knew there was more to ‘Berto’s story than he was telling her. Something about ‘Berto’s good looks, the misery in his eyes, urged her on.

  “But no prayers for Terry.”

  'Berto was standing with an elbow on the kitchen counter, his other hand on the cover of the photo album. He stood frozen.

  “Oops,” Eileen said.

  'Berto opened his mouth. Closed it again.

  “'Berto,” Eileen said softly. “Come on.”

  Incredibly, 'Berto's eyes filled with tears. He hung his head, his hand pressed to the album as though it were holding him up. Eileen didn't move. She hardly breathed.

  “Please,” Eileen whispered to herself. She needed just one little break, that’s all. Just one break. 'Berto lifted his head and wiped his eyes. He looked very young.

  “I'll tell you,” he said. “Can we sit down?”

  Central Intelligence Agency, Langley Virginia

  “An efficient job,” Lucy mused, looking at the autopsy photographs of George Tabor. She was on the phone to Charles D’Arnot, a Paris police detective w
ho supplemented his income by helping out the American CIA. D’Arnot spoke perfect English with a slight Scottish accent, which Lucy found hilarious. They were looking at pictures together, half a world apart, on the Internet. Lucy patted her computer monitor affectionately.

  “Go to the next one,” D’Arnot said. A red arrow appeared on Lucy’s screen, showing the ligature marks on the neck. “He was a professional. Only one mark. He never had to shift positions, and the bruising is slight. There is bruising, though.” The arrow disappeared and re-appeared at another place on the screen. “Your Mr. Tabor fought well, Lucy.”

  “He was surprised,” Lucy murmured. “You can tell.”

  “We have another set of pictures for you, cherie,” D’Arnot said cheerfully.

  “Another set?” Lucy asked, sneaking a glance at her watch.

  “Not of Tabor,” D’Arnot said. “I’m uploading now.”

  Lucy watched with amazement as a new set of autopsy pictures appeared. The victim was a female, Arab, and young. She had the same markings on her neck as George Tabor. Even to Lucy’s untrained eye, she thought the marks looked similar.

  “Eh?” D’Arnot said with satisfaction.

  “Who is she?” Lucy breathed.

  “Sufi Ad-Din,” D’Arnot said. “Found in her apartment less than five blocks from Tabor’s rubbish heap.”

  “She’s Arabic?”

  “Jordanian, formerly Palestinian,” D’Arnot said. “She had a lover. She told her neighbor what his name was, and the name he used when he traveled. Her neighbor was a -- how do you say it in English? --”

  “A girlfriend? A chum?” Lucy said.

  “A chum,” D’Arnot said. “Evidently the lover didn’t know about the chum, or doubtless Sara would be as dead as Sufi.”

  “What was his name?” Lucy asked. Her fingers tingled and her heart pounded. She knew what D’Arnot was going to say before he said it.

  “Johann Wulff. But his name was really Fouad Muallah. He is Jordanian as well, according to the chum, but we don’t have any further information. We put a warrant out, but he has probably flown the coop, as you say.”