Death Angel (18 page)

“And Nordquist lives at nineteen Colony Court.”

“That’s one block north of here!”

“Meaning that Nordquist or Carlson is a spy?” Hickman asked, his tone silky, sardonic.

“Not necessarily. But they are practically neighbors. A spy living around here could keep tabs on both of them. Pick up a lot of useful information about their comings and goings,” Jack said.

Hickman’s eyes narrowed, glinting. “At least it narrows the focus. I’d like to search both houses for the transmitter.”

“Don’t rush into things. According to the diary, the last transmission was about ten days ago. Since then, silence.”

“Right about the time you showed up, Bauer.”

Jack nodded. “And the investigation began to heat up. That’s when Ironwood learned that CTU was on the case. Since then, the spy has had time to move his equipment. If it’s a burst transmitter, it’s not very large. It could be hand-carried out in a suitcase or backpack.”

“I’d like to search both places anyway, just for the hell of it.”

Ross pushed back his hat, wiping a sweaty forehead with the back of his hand. “Why don’t you strap Carlson and Nordquist both up to a lie detector and grill ’em?”

Hickman laughed sourly. “Innocent soul! Since the Sayeed affair it’s been virtually impossible to polygraph so much as a junior research assistant, even if you caught him stuffing secret documents down his pants. It’d take an
Act of Congress to lie-test those two mandarins. Especially without a smoking gun—which we don’t have.”

Ross stroked his chin. “Seems with all the homicides going on around here lately, whoever you’re after ain’t too particular about playing it safe. Better a few lie tests than a bullet in the head!”

“At least we got to the hardware in time,” Jack said. “That’s why Kling wanted to meet me here. He knew the other side was closing in on him. He and the Parkhursts were the last ones left alive who knew about the surveillance. Chino and Burke must have been hired to make a clean sweep of everybody in the house. And the machine, too.”

Hickman started. “I just thought of something—Chino and Burke didn’t walk here.”

“No one walks here. Pedestrians, particularly if they’re outsiders, ain’t exactly encouraged in Shady Grove,” Ross said.

“That’s my point. The killers had to ride. But the only vehicles parked outside belong to the Parkhursts and Kling. Meaning Chino and Burke must have had a third man: a driver.”

“Unless they parked their car a block away and walked.”

“Pro killers want to do their job fast and get out. They don’t want to have to go chasing after their ride after a kill. So there was a third man, a driver. He must’ve been spooked by the slaughter and fled.”

“Can’t say as I blame him, I’m a mite spooked myself.”

“Whoever he was, he’s long gone. Never mind about him. We’ve got bigger fish to fry.”

“True,” Ross agreed. “Like, where’s Carlson and Nordquist now? Seems like a good time to check up on ’em, check their alibis.”

“They’re at Ironwood. They’re running a series of tests that are scheduled to go on late into the night,” Hickman
said. He looked at his watch. “They should still be there; the tests won’t be done for several hours.”

“What about their families?” Jack asked. “With this onslaught, the violence could be moving into its final phase. The families might not be safe, either.”

Hickman’s face creased with lines of determination. “We can check up on that right now and in person. Their houses are nearby.”

“Let’s put these in a safe place for now,” Jack said. He gathered up the manila file folder and op diary notebook and put them back into the secret cabinet drawer. He pushed it into place, the drawer closing with a click. It was so cunningly carpentered that once it was shut there was no telling it was there. Not so much as a hairline crack to betray its presence. “They’ll keep while we look around the neighborhood,” he said.

He, Hickman, and Ross went into the house, to the front hall. “The scene will have to be secured. The bodies aren’t going anywhere but the detector and documents have to be protected,” Jack said.

“I’ll do it. That way I won’t go stumbling into any more top secret information and you won’t have to have me killed,” Ross said good-humoredly.

“Thanks. Much appreciated.”

Ross’s gesture encompassed the whole scene. “Want me to phone this mess in? Not to the Sheriff,” he added quickly. “To my specials. I got me a squad of hand-picked deputies that take orders only from me. Good tough boys who don’t go telling tales out of school. Hicky here knows all about them.”

“We’ll need them later but maybe you’d better hold off for a while yet until we get the lay of the land,” Hickman said.

“It’s your call. Sing out when you want ’em and they’ll come a-running.”

“Will do,” Hickman said. He set down his M–4, standing it butt-down in a corner. “I’ll park this here for now. Might be controversial to go tramping around the neighborhood with it.”

“I’ll take good care of it,” Ross promised.

“If you’re a good boy maybe you’ll get one of these for Christmas.”

“I’ll hold you to that, Hicky.”

Jack Bauer opened the front door and stepped outside. The hot night sky was black with orange undertones. The neighborhood seemed quiet, peaceful.

“Looks like nobody’s called in to complain about the gunplay,” Jack said.

Hickman nodded, looked around. “Not so surprising. The houses are far apart and everybody’s got their windows closed and their air conditioners running full blast.”

“It’s a break, anyway.”

“The Parkhursts are number ninety-seven. The house on the left is ninety-nine. One-oh-two—Carlson’s house—will be across the street.”

Hickman pointed to a house across the street. A white wooden frame Cape Cod–style model with stone facing and a pair of bay windows flanking the front door.

We’re a long way off from Cape Cod
, Jack thought.

Lights were on on the first floor; it was all lit up. The front door was wide open, light streaming through the doorway on to the lawn.

“That can’t be good,” Jack said.

Hickman swore. He and Jack hustled across the street. The house looked normal, undisturbed, except for that gaping front door.

“The Carlsons live alone? I mean, no kids, if I remember the dossier.”

“That’s right, Bauer. He’s got a couple of grown kids from his first marriage but they live out of state. This is her first marriage. No kids.”

They went to the entrance, standing on a stone stoop. The front door hung wide open on its hinges; the screen door was closed. No one could be seen inside, the house was quiet, no TV or music sounds.

Jack and Hickman exchanged glances. “Now what?” Hickman asked.

“Ring the doorbell,” Jack said. Hickman pressed the button, chimes ding-donging inside. No answer.

“Mrs. Carlson?” Jack called inside several times.

No reply.

Jack glanced back across the street. Ross stood outlined in the Parkhursts’ doorway, watching them.

Jack tried the screen door. It was unlocked. He drew his gun and went inside.

Hickman filled his hand with a gun drawn from his shoulder holster and followed.

“If Mrs. Carlson is home she might shoot us,” Hickman said, low-voiced.

“And she’d be within her legal rights to do so.”

“That’d be a hell of a note, eh, Bauer? Well—after you.”

“Thanks,” Jack said sourly.

Just inside the front door in a narrow vestibule stood a shiny black plastic cylindrical container about three feet high and a foot in diameter. It was open at the top.

It looked like an umbrella stand, but in arid New Mexico there was little call for umbrellas. It held three wooden canes, all of the curved-handle variety.

Jack wondered who used the canes. Not Dr. Carlson. From what little he’d seen and all he’d heard about Carrie Carlson, she was a young, active woman. Something about the canes nagged at his mind but he couldn’t recall what it was, couldn’t summon the thought to consciousness. He put the thought from his mind and moved deeper into the house. “I’ll check this floor,” he said.

Hickman nodded. “I’ll take the upstairs.”

Jack prowled the ground floor, gun in hand, moving from room to room. Beyond the living room lay a room that Dr. Carlson used as his study. The walls were lined from floor to ceiling with bookshelves. There was a computer workstation.

Jack went through the dining room into the kitchen. A woman’s handbag lay on top of the kitchen counter. Jack opened it and looked inside. A red wallet held various credit cards and a driver’s license. The license was made out to Carrie Voss Carlson. Voss was her maiden name, he knew, and she’d kept it, adding it to her married name.

It had a postage stamp–sized photo of her in a corner. A full frontal facial view of the woman he’d seen earlier today riding in the passenger seat of Sylvia Nordquist’s car.

The license gave her age as forty but she could have passed for ten years younger. She had wholesome, all-American good looks, expressive and full of character.

A heart-shaped face, hazel eyes, sculpted features, good bones, a wide, expressive mouth that was naturally turned up at the corners, a firm chin and strong jawline. A piquant expression, animated, alert.

Her hair was cut in bangs across her forehead and reached down to her shoulders, curling pageboy style. In the thumbnail-sized photo her hair looked brown and was described as such on the license; the photo had failed to capture the reddish-gold highlights that turned her hair auburn and that Jack had seen in person that afternoon in the INL parking lot.

The handbag held everything that one would have expected to find in a woman’s pocketbook and nothing that seemed out of place. No weapons; no drugs, not even prescription pills.

In the rear of the kitchen a door opened onto a screened porch. It was empty, as was the backyard. The garage was not attached to the house. Jack went outside to search it.
He found a plain, ordinary garage. No observation post, no hidden spy equipment.

He eyed the parked car in the driveway. It was locked and he wasn’t about to take the time to pick the lock to open it up so he could check the trunk to see if there was a body stashed inside. That could be done later. Besides, the scene just didn’t have that kind of feel.

He went back into the house. Like many homes in the West and Southwest it had no basement, no cellar. A recreation room/den yielded nothing. He put his hand flat on top of the TV set. It was cool to the touch. His search of the first floor had turned up no bullet holes or bloodstains, no signs of forced entry, violence, or a struggle.

Hickman came downstairs, holstering his gun. “All clear upstairs.”

Jack said that it was all clear where he had looked, inside and out.

Returning to the living room Jack took a closer look at the surroundings to see if they sent him a message. Furniture, decor, lighting, and design—all the elements were in proportion. Harmonious.

Well-appointed. A subtly understated showcase of moderate wealth and taste. The only drawback being that it was perhaps a bit sterile. A living room where not much living was done. A showcase.

One intriguing element was the selection and placement of various objects of art. Textile wall hangings and pieces of statuary, figures made of iron and bronze. Jack recognized them as pieces of African art. Originals, not copies. His casual acquaintance with the genre did not allow him to place what part of Africa they came from.

The fireplace sported a wide white mantel covered with framed photographs. The walls, similarly decorated, were hung with trophies and plaques, too. Most of the photos had been taken at formal dinners and events. They gener
ally featured Carrie Carlson posing with various male and female dignitaries. Sometimes her husband was in the picture with her, sometimes not. The women were attired in formal gowns, men in dinner jackets or tuxedos.

The plaques and trophies had been awarded over the last few years by civic betterment associations, charity fund drives, and such to Carrie Voss Carlson to honor her charitable good deeds and philanthropic works. Literacy campaigns, free clinics for the disadvantaged, drug and alcohol abuse treatment centers, battered women’s shelters, school lunch programs—all had benefitted from her generosity and hard work.

“A real humanitarian,” Jack murmured.

“She’s no idle housewife,” Hickman agreed. “She devotes most of her time to doing good works. It’s no whim but a lifelong pursuit. Before coming to Los Alamos she used to do full-time relief work in Africa, I’m told. Doctors Without Borders, that kind of thing.” Hickman’s tone indicated a certain guardedness about do-gooders and “that kind of thing.”

“That explains the focus on African art.”

“She’s a founder and mainstay of the Good Neighbor Initiative, a central organizing committee that coordinates and raises funds for a dozen or more different local charities. That’s how she met her husband, at one of the Initiative’s fund-raising drives. He’s an organizer of the yearly Community Appeal, raising contributions from lab personnel.”

“A woman of parts,” Jack murmured.

“Yes—let’s hope they’re all in the same place.”

“You’re a sour bastard, Hickman.”

“I wasn’t before today.”

“Yes, you were.”

Hickman’s gesture said,
Let it go
. He looked worried. “God help us if anything’s happened to her.” There was real feeling in his voice.

“God help her,” Jack said.

“The political heat and bad press the Bureau will catch will make that firestorm in the canyon look like a Cub Scout campfire.”

Well, that explained the G-man’s angst. Jack’s mouth turned down at the corners.

“You—and Vince—might want to get your asbestos underwear ready. Carrie Carlson is gone. I doubt that she just got it into her head to go out for a stroll at ten-thirty on a Saturday night. Leaving the door wide open. Her pocketbook is on the kitchen counter. Ever know a woman to go out without her pocketbook?”

“Maybe she’s with Sylvia Nordquist. They’re friends,” Hickman suggested without much enthusiasm.

“I know. I saw them together earlier today, when Mrs. Nordquist drove out to the lab to put the bite on her husband for a credit card that hadn’t been maxed out.”