Cody Walker's Woman (22 page)

There had been a much longer article this morning that attempted to tie the two deaths together—some smart reporter had tracked the high-profile cases the two federal prosecutors had worked on, and had questioned the FBI about whether there was a connection between their deaths and the sensational trial of David Pennington eight years ago. The FBI’s “No comment at this time” response didn’t mean anything, but he wasn’t worried. Not yet.

One and two—failure. Those failures hurt. DeSantini and Brockway were secondary targets, as were D’Arcy and McKinnon—five and six. Callahan and Walker were the primary targets. They had murdered his father in cold blood six years ago. Not to mention both men had betrayed his father’s organization, the New World Militia, through their undercover activities, and by Callahan’s testimony at his father’s trial.

Not that Michael Vishenko cared about the New World Militia and the cause it espoused. The militia was just a tool. He knew there was little chance of a successful military overthrow of the United States government. But there
was
a way to power. The way he was pursuing through NOANC.

He smiled coldly and let himself be distracted for a moment. NOANC had been a brilliant idea. Super PACs were the way to go, he’d realized, even before his father had been murdered. Power—real power—only came through controlling the political process.

Even his uncle Alexei acknowledged that money and ruthlessness alone weren’t enough. The Russian Bratva couldn’t survive in this country without the payoffs to various government officials that allowed it to operate with impunity.

So Michael Vishenko had used his father’s fortune to resurrect the New World Militia for one purpose and one purpose only—as a means of obtaining legal donations to NOANC. NOANC “owned” the politicians it had helped get elected. And he—through the Praetor Corporation—controlled NOANC.

He was only thirty-four, but already his power was spreading. Congressmen, senators, judges. And...soon...if he played his cards right, perhaps even a president would owe NOANC—and Michael Vishenko—the election.
No, not Michael Vishenko,
he corrected himself with a grim smile.
Michael
Pennington.
Because by then I will have reclaimed my rightful name.
He would be the power behind the throne, his dream ever since he’d been old enough to recognize his physical deformity would limit his own political aspirations.

His smile faded. But first, he needed to avenge his father. Failure was unacceptable. If he couldn’t even manage to kill Callahan, Walker and the other two, he didn’t deserve to succeed elsewhere.

With a halting step he walked to the library window and stared out into the garden, but he wasn’t seeing the imposing statuary his father had acquired years ago; he was wondering how his primary targets had evaded elimination. He needed data from the men on the ground, data that couldn’t be transmitted through code phrases. And then he needed to modify his plan.

His targets were smart—he didn’t underestimate them. That was one of the reasons he’d waited this long, to lull them into a false sense of security. All the deaths had been timed to occur within twelve hours of each other. But now he had to assume the deaths of DeSantini and Brockway would put the other targets on the alert. His new plan would have to take that into consideration.

* * *

Five people sat around the conference table in D’Arcy’s office. Keira had watched D’Arcy’s greeting of Callahan with a tinge of surprise. They hadn’t just shaken hands; the two men had embraced before sitting down at the table next to each other. Not only that, they’d addressed each other by their first names. Knowing Callahan, as she was beginning to, and knowing D’Arcy, as she’d known him by his reputation since she joined the agency, she realized the two men had to be closer than they’d let on before. Was that related to the time Callahan had spent in the witness security program, when D’Arcy had been responsible for him? Or was there something else?

D’Arcy turned to Keira and Cody. “Bring them up to speed.”

Cody glanced at Keira. “Go ahead,” she said.

“Tressler told you there were six names on the elimination list,” he said, facing Callahan, “but he only recognized yours. We had already surmised my name was on the list, and the attempt on me last night seems to confirm it. We think the other four names were Darrel Brockway, Al DeSan—”

“DeSantini,” Callahan broke in. “I remember them. They were the lead prosecutors when I testified against Pennington. Smart guys.”

“Yeah, well,” Cody said flatly, “they were murdered last night. Same M.O. as the attempt on me,” he said, meaning
modus operandi,
or method of operation. “And from what you told me on the phone, it sounds like the same M.O. as the attempt on you, too. We won’t know for sure until the FBI deconstructs your SUV, but we’ll assume it is unless we hear otherwise.”

D’Arcy handed Callahan and McKinnon copies of the report on Brockway and DeSantini he’d given Cody and Keira that morning. Cody waited until the other men had a chance to read them before continuing. “We brainstormed about this, and we think the hit list doesn’t really come from the New World Militia. We think this is Michael Vishenko’s personal hit list to avenge his father.” He looked at Keira, and she took her cue from him.

She turned to her partner. “Trace, remember when you told me you and D’Arcy had to clean up the mess after Pennington was killed?”

He frowned and glanced at D’Arcy, then at Callahan, obviously regretting the wording he’d used to describe that situation. “Yeah. So?”

“From Vishenko’s perspective, Callahan and Walker murdered his father. And you and D’Arcy covered it up, helped them get away with it. That puts the two of you on the hit list. It’s the only thing that makes sense.” She took a deep breath. “Six names, two of them dead.”

D’Arcy spoke up. “Out of five attempts we know of—they found my car at home rigged the same way. It’s a miracle I’m not dead.” He quickly explained the circumstances to Callahan and McKinnon. Then he added, “I’m placing both of you in protective custody. Neither of you leaves this building without armed protection.”

Callahan shook his head, his voice implacable. “That’s okay for my family, but I have to be able to operate on my own.”

Keira saw D’Arcy’s face change and knew a fight was brewing. She said quickly, “What if the four of us operate as a team?” The men at the table looked at her, then at each other. “You’re all targets,” she explained. “I’m not.” Cody frowned, and she emphasized, “My name isn’t on the list.”

She looked at D’Arcy. “All of us have been working this case already. Trace and I are partners. Walker and Callahan have worked together before, as have Trace and Callahan. Between the four of us, I think we can guard each other and not get in each other’s way in the investigation.”

“It’s a risk,” D’Arcy began, but Callahan spoke up.

“I’d go for that.”

Keira cast him a grateful look before turning her eyes to her partner. “Trace?”

“If you and Callahan think it’s a good idea, I’m fine with it.”

Keira turned to Cody. “What do you think?” She could tell by his expression that he was torn, and her eyes pleaded with him.
Please, don’t,
they said.
Please, don’t object. I love you, but, please, don’t humiliate me. Not again.

Cody glanced down at the notepad in front of him, and when he raised his eyes to hers again she saw pride and respect overcoming his fear for her. “Fine by me,” he said lightly, and only Keira knew what it had cost him to say it.

She turned back to D’Arcy. “Sir?” He gave her a long, considering look, and she remembered her private interview with him just under three weeks ago. “I took your advice, sir,” she said as if they were the only ones in the room. “I’ve moved on.”

He smiled slightly, acknowledging her point. Then he nodded. “Okay.” His eyes encompassed everyone at the table. “You are all responsible for each other. And each of you is answerable to me.”

Keira knew Cody’s eyes were on her, knew he wondered what she meant by her statement to D’Arcy that she’d moved on. But she also knew he wasn’t going to ask. Not when anyone else was around.

She allowed herself a tiny smile, remembering that morning and the questions she’d been burning to ask him but couldn’t because Sabbatino and Moran had been there all through breakfast. And then afterward, Cody had made sure they were never alone, so she hadn’t been able to ask him why D’Arcy had wanted to speak to him privately.
Two can play that game,
she thought.
Now maybe he’ll understand what it’s like.

At least he hadn’t humiliated her just now, the way he’d done this morning when he’d told D’Arcy they could be guarded together. She had wanted to contradict him then, but something had held her back. Maybe it was the way he had refused to look at her before he answered. Maybe it was the way his jaw hardened in profile. Or maybe it was because he’d told her this morning in the car that she seemed to be ashamed of loving him, and she didn’t want him to think that. Whatever the reason, she’d held her tongue, and she was glad now.

Cody was speaking to Callahan. “We’ve had more than two dozen teams working this investigation, and in two weeks we haven’t found
anything
indicating the New World Militia is a threat. Not the way it was when Pennington was running it. No illegal arms. No drugs. Nothing of that nature.”

He held up a hand as Callahan started to speak. “I know, I know. Tressler’s dead. I’m not ignoring that. But what if that was something separate—maybe still connected to the militia—but not directly related to the big picture?”

“It’s possible,” Callahan admitted.

“The militia
has
been resurrected, no question.” His voice dropped a notch. “But what if it’s a blind? A cover-up hiding the real scheme?”

Keira
saw
the light come into Callahan’s eyes, saw him make the connection Cody was leading up to. She didn’t get it yet, but she knew Cody and Callahan were somehow on the same wavelength already.

Cody was smiling, and his eyes blazed with the same light as Callahan’s. He turned to her. “Didn’t you say that super PAC, NOANC, has received thousands of smaller donations from across the country?” he asked her.

“Yes,” she answered, glancing at her partner, hoping for a sign he knew where this was leading, but he shook his head. “Trace and I saw the donors lists filed with the Federal Election Commission going back to its inception.”

“Grassroots,” Callahan said softly. “Wasn’t that the word you used?”

Then she got it, and her eyes widened. “The militia? Vishenko’s using the militia to fund his super PAC?”

“Not entirely,” Cody said. “The Praetor Corporation still has to kick in big-time. But it fits beautifully. If the super PAC was only funded by one company, that would be a red flag. But with thousands of individual donors across the country...NOANC flies under the radar.”

“And Vishenko’s hit list?” she asked.

“Personal, just as we thought. Nothing to do with the New World Militia.”

Trace spoke up. “What about Tressler’s death?” he asked. “Maybe it’s not related, but can we take that chance? There still could be a connection somehow, something we’re not seeing.”

Callahan nodded and looked at Cody. “He’s right. We can’t completely ignore it. Steve was dying, but he didn’t drive to the hospital. He drove to my house to warn me. To tell me whatever it was and to give me that key. It was important enough to him, that...” He drew a deep breath and let it out slowly, and Keira realized again that he wasn’t as cold and uncaring as he appeared to be.

He couldn’t be,
she thought suddenly.
Or Cody wouldn’t care about him the way he does.
And Cody
did
care about him. It wasn’t just Mandy and her children he’d been worried about, it was Callahan, too. What had Cody said last night? “We probably could have been friends if not for...”
If not for Mandy. That’s what he almost said. But Cody doesn’t love Mandy anymore. He loves me. And Ryan Callahan
is
his friend, whether he realizes it or not.

D’Arcy had been listening quietly this whole time. Now he spoke. “I’ve seen the autopsy on Steve Tressler, same as you. He didn’t die from those gunshot wounds—not directly. None of them hit a vital organ. He died from loss of blood.”

Callahan looked grim. “Other than the fact he was beaten before he died, and that the evidence clearly points to the crime occurring at his cabin, we don’t know a hell of a lot. And I can’t think of anyone who might have had it in for him...other than the New World Militia.”

“They recovered three .357 slugs from Tressler’s body,” D’Arcy told him, “two of which are in good enough shape for a match.
If
you find the gun. And there’s something else. Whoever shot him made two crucial mistakes, which means—”

“He’s not a professional.” Callahan interjected. “Yeah, I’d already thought of that. He should have made sure Steve was dead...
and
he should have searched the body to make sure Steve didn’t have any incriminating evidence on him.” He smiled, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Those mistakes will cost him.”

“Black Rock is a small town,” Keira said. “Has anyone given any indication they know something about his death? What I mean is,” she clarified, “has anyone expressed undue concern about his death who shouldn’t? Or on the other hand, has anyone who
should
be worried about his death
not
shown it?”

Callahan shook his head. “No, and in the past two weeks I’ve interviewed just about every resident of the town in some way. Nothing has seemed out of kilter, and I haven’t gotten even a hint of anybody hiding anything. Everyone knew him, and everyone seems duly shocked. Either his murderer is an incredible actor, or I haven’t talked to him.”

“What about his employer?” Keira asked.

“Steve didn’t have a real job, not the way you mean. He was smart enough, but he didn’t want to be tied down to a regular nine-to-five job. He made just enough to get by doing odd jobs—yard work, handyman kind of stuff in the summer. And in the winter he did snow plowing—he had a snow plow attachment for his truck. He used to plow a lot of the parking lots for the businesses in town on a regular basis, including Mandy’s store, but he also did one-off plowing or shoveling jobs for people when they called him.”