Point of Impact (27 page)

The announcer came on and garbled something out. Tad didn't have any idea what she'd said, but people started to get up and shoulder their carry-on bags or tow them behind them on little leashes, like Samsonite dogs who didn't want to go for a walk and had to be dragged. Tad didn't have any luggage. If he needed clean clothes, he bought them and threw the old stuff away, shirts, pants, underwear, socks, whatever. It was a trick he'd learned as a street kid in Phoenix a thousand years ago. If you have to travel, better to travel light. If you don't have nothin', nobody can steal nothin' from you. You don't have to remember anything, and if you have to split, you can do so without looking back. He had his e-ticket printout, a wallet, five hundred or so bucks in it, a couple of credit cards, and his ID. That was his luggage, and it was zipped into a back pocket. Unless somebody came up and did a butt slash and rob, he wasn't gonna lose that. And if he did? Fuck it. It didn't really matter, did it? You could get another wallet, more cards, more money. None of that was important.

The goth girl got up and sidled in behind Tad as he moved toward the woman taking tickets. She said, "I got some coke. You wanna do some, head to the bathroom when you see me go there."

Tad lifted his lip in his half-assed grin. "Cool," he said.

But he doubted he'd see her when she went. He was in first class, and he'd bet she was in tourist, unless she was slumming, and he didn't think she was. Besides, he had his own coke, and he knew how pure it was. Street drugs were always risky. Maybe if he felt better in a little while, he'd share that with her. Find out what she could do with that tongue stud.

He planned to crash when he got back to Malibu, and sleep for a week. Maybe by then, he would have recovered enough to pick up the Hammer again. Now that everything was copacetic with Bobby, there was no need to fly to Hawaii or even slow down biz. Life was normal again, such as normal was, and he could get back on the road to Hell as soon as he was able.

Quantico, Virginia

Jay was almost hopping up and down he was so full of whatever it was that he had to say.

Michaels smiled and waved at the seat. Jay headed in that direction, but he didn't sit.

"Okay, tell me. You caught our dope dealer?"

Jay frowned, as if that thought was the last thing on his mind. "What? Oh, no. If we were doing a movie, that would be the A story. What I did is figure out the B story. Well, at least part of it."

"You want to run that past me again?"

"Okay, okay, look, I was all over the DEA guy Lee and the NSA agent George. Nothing, no connection. But I expanded the search, and I came up with Lynn Davis Lee and Jackie McNally George."

"Who are--?"

"The ex-wives. Lee and George met their wives in law school, got hitched, went their separate ways a couple years later. Both are divorced."

"So am I, Jay. So is roughly fifty percent of everybody who got married in the last twenty years."

The younger man grinned. "Yeah, but Lynn Davis and Jackie McNally were roommates in law school."

"Really? That is an odd coincidence"

"It gets better, boss. Lynn Davis--she dropped her married name after the split--is a lawyer and part-time teacher in Atlanta. From what I was able to determine, she ... ah ... prefers the company of women to men."

"How shocking. So?"

"Same deal with Jackie McNally. She is very low-profile about it, but apparently she is also a lesbian."

Michaels thought about that a second. "Hmm."

"Yeah, you see where I'm going here? Doesn't that seem, well,
queer,
that two guys married and then divorced college roommates, both of whom are lesbians?"

"Doesn't speak highly of the boys' lovemaking skills, but it also doesn't prove anything, does it?"

"Nope. But what if Ms. Davis and Ms. McNally had the same sexual preferences
before
they got married? From what I can tell, that was the case."

Michaels chewed on that for a moment. "Ah," he said, beginning to understand.

"It makes sense," Jay said. "There are a lot of places where--laws notwithstanding--being gay is still a problem. Federal agencies aren't allowed to discriminate about such things, but you know how it is. Come out as gay, you put a glass ceiling over your own head."

Michaels nodded. That was true, like it or not, especially in security agencies. The theory was, an openly gay operative wouldn't be a problem, but somebody in the closet might be a candidate for blackmail, if he or she didn't want to be outed. And he had a pretty good idea of where Jay was going with the rest of it, but he didn't say anything, just waved for him to keep rolling.

"So, consider this scenario. Lee and George are ... well, let's say, men's men. They know that being that way is likely to top them out at a low level in a lot of agencies. And lesbians have the same problems."

"So you think we have a case of two gay men marrying two lesbian women to provide each other with solid heterosexual backgrounds?"

"It wouldn't be the first time," Jay said. "Having an ex-wife or husband on paper would forestall some tongue-wagging, especially if you were discreet from then on. Only now, Lee and George, who maybe aren't so close anymore, really don't like each other. Might explain some things."

Michaels nodded again. "That could be. You did good, Jay. Thanks."

After Jay was gone, Michaels thought about it some, then reached for the com. He wanted to talk to John Howard. An ugly idea had just entered his mind, and while he hoped things wouldn't go down that road, he had to check it out.

Howard nodded at Michaels. He'd been figuratively shuffling paper clips when the commander called, and any excuse to get up and move was good.

"No doubt in your mind?" Michaels said.

"No, sir. Lee flat assassinated the man. Zeigler was clearly about to drop his knife. He had started to step back from his hostage, and when Lee fired, he was no more than twenty-five feet away. Plus, my radio mike was still on. Lee heard Zeigler say he was surrendering. No, sir. This guy was a DEA field agent for years, he went on scores of raids, some of which had gunplay on both sides, I checked his record. When he pulled the trigger, he had to know the situation was under control."

"Okay, let's assume for a moment that he didn't panic and do it by accident, he iced the man on purpose. That brings up a big question, doesn't it?"

"Yes, sir. Why would he do that?"

"Any theories you want to share?"

"I have been thinking about it. Assuming there was no personal hatred of the man, the only thing I can come up with is that he didn't want Zeigler giving up his dealer."

Michaels said, "That doesn't make any sense, because the whole purpose of the raid was to bust the guy hard enough so we could find that out."

"Yes, sir. Thing is, Zeigler was in a panic, and he was about to spill his guts when Lee double-tapped him."

Give the commander credit, he picked up on it right away. "Where somebody other than Lee could hear him. You."

"Yes, sir, me. And the maid."

Michaels shook his head. "I don't like this worth a damn, John. Something stinks here."

"I do believe so myself."

The commander steepled his fingers and leaned back in his chair. "If it had just been Lee there, he could claim he shot Zeigler to save the maid."

"Who speaks about five words of English and was so terrified she didn't know which way was up," Howard added. "Not a great witness either way."

"So come the shooting review or whatever it is DEA does, anything you have to say is going to make Lee look real bad. He had to know what he did was going to cost him big time."

"I'd assume so, yes, sir. If they believe me, it ought to be worth his job. If he was one of mine, I'd kick him out and tell the local DA to burn him, manslaughter at the very least, maybe murder two."

"Which he has to know, and even so, he's willing to horizontal somebody in front of a witness."

"Maybe he thinks he can blow enough smoke to get past it."

"I wouldn't underrate yourself, John. You are the military commander of Net Force, a general. You can shine a lot of light on him."

"Yes, sir. So we're back to the big question. Why'd he do it? What did he have to gain that was so important he'd risk his job?"

"I don't know. But I certainly think we need to find out."

"Yes, sir, I believe that's true."

"There's one other thing we need to think about here, too, John."

"Sir?"

"Maybe Lee loves his job and is willing to do anything to keep it." He raised an eyebrow.

Well, Mama Howard didn't raise any stupid children, either. Howard said, "Bit of a stretch, isn't it?"

"He killed a world-famous movie star in front of a witness who, at the very least, can get him fired and maybe charged with a nasty felony. Maybe if something happened to the witness, he might not be so worried."

Howard nodded. "I take your point. I'll make sure my brakes are working before I go for a drive."

"And make sure nothing is attached to the ignition switch, too, John. I'd hate to have to break in a new military commander."

"Yes, sir, I'd hate to put you to the trouble."

They smiled at each other.

But when Howard left, he considered what Michaels had said. Lee did seem to be something of a loose cannon. He didn't want to be in front of him if he went off.

Chapter
28.

Los Angeles, California

Drayne was not a man to make the same mistake twice, especially on something that, in theory, could cost him his freedom. As soon as he was back on the ground in L.A., still in the car on the way home, he made a call to a real estate agent he'd never met. He got her name out of the phone directory and picked it because he liked the sound of it.

"Silverman Realty," the woman said, "this is Shawanda speaking."

Shawanda Silverman. What kind of intermarriage produced such a great name?
He loved it.

"Yes, ma'am, my name is Lazlo Mead, and I'm going to be living here in the Los Angeles area for about a year or so for a project I'm just starting to work on."

"Yes, Mr. Mead?"

"What I want is to lease a three- or four-bedroom furnished house not too far from things, but in a nice area, you know, maybe out a little ways, in one of the canyons?"

"Certainly I can help you with that. What ... ah ... price range are we talking about?"

"Well, the company is paying for it--I'm in aircraft supply and maintenance--so maybe you could find one where the rent was somewhere around eight to ten thousand dollars a month?"

He could hear the cash register in her voice: "No problem with that," she said too quickly. "I can make a list of a few places, and we can get together and view them."

"Well, here's the thing. I'm kind of in a hurry, but I'm up to my eyeballs in work. Somebody gave me your name as having done this kind of thing for people before, so maybe you could just, you know, pick a place that would work for me and my wife and just go ahead and lease it for us. I'll e-mail you a transfer, you know, first month, last month, cleaning and security fees, whatever--say forty thousand?--and e-sign any paperwork to get the ball rolling. We can get together later. Sooner I get out of the hotel and into a real place, the happier I'll be."

"I understand that, Mr. Mead. I'm sure I can find a house that will work for you. Any preferences as to furniture or schools or such?"

"Well, my wife likes modem stuff, so we want to keep her happy. No early American or like that. No kids, so schools don't matter."

"I'll see what I can do. I'll e-mail you pictures, if you want."

"That would be good." He gave her one of the remailing addresses he used. She probably already had caller-IDed the number of the clean phone he kept for just such transactions, the one made out in the name of Projects, Inc. Now there was a term that could be stretched to fit virtually anything. What did it mean? Nothing. He gave her the number. Soon as she found something, she said, she would call. He got her e-mail address and promised to send a fund transfer first thing in the morning.

After he broke the connection, he felt a lot better. In a day or two, he'd have a hideout, so if he had to leave the Malibu house in a hurry, there would be a place he could run to where he could sort things out. He had a big, fat, five-hundred-pound gun safe bolted to the concrete floor in a U-Store-It place way out Ventura Boulevard; he'd drive over the hill and move most of the cash from the beach house to that tonight, as a matter of fact. Maybe some of the better champagne. The locker, which was eight by ten feet, was air conditioned, he'd made sure of that. With his money safe and a place to hide if it came to that, he would be halfway ready.

Lazlo Mead was about to come into full existence, too. Drayne had a wonderful, illegal software program and card stocks for making phony IDs. A couple of hours and a good color laser printer, a few watermarks and holograms, and presto! Mr. Lazlo Mead would have a driver's license from, oh, say, Iowa; a social security card, maybe a library card, and a couple of credit cards that looked perfect, even if they weren't valid. The program would also print out pictures of a mythical wife and parents, if he wanted.