Amanda Church wanted to skip work. With Rusty Mullins in the field and out of communication, she needed to be able to react at a moment’s notice to any new development.
But the security department at the Federal Reserve stood on high alert. The previous day Amanda sat through a review of all protection measures being taken to safeguard the governors of the Federal Reserve Board as well as key officers. Although no evidence surfaced suggesting Paul Luguire’s death was anything but a suicide, the tragedy generated anxious assessments of the vulnerability of the central bank’s leaders.
Now the Tuesday morning session bogged down into details of budget and the practicality of twenty-four-hour surveillance. No one mentioned a murder in Roanoke, Virginia. That wouldn’t happen till someone connected a Russell Mullins who saw Craig Archer with the Russell Mullins who was the last person to see Paul Luguire alive.
Every time someone entered the conference room, Amanda expected the announcement that Russell Mullins was tied to the homicide of a bank president.
When they finally took a break at eleven, she called her husband Curtis Jordan in Paris. After Mullins went underground the night before, she’d told Curtis everything. Too much was at stake to keep developments just between Mullins and her. Curtis’ skills as a thriller writer meant he had the knack for determining patterns of action and how they might play out. She needed reassurance as Mullins’ silence heightened her anxiety.
“Amanda, Mullins’ name may come out.” The sound of traffic rumbled underneath his voice. “That’s a distinct possibility.”
“But we’re not ready to have our suspicions out in public.” She whispered her concern over the secure line at her desk. “Mullins is making progress.”
“You’ve got a reasonable explanation and the evidence to back it up. You told Mullins his name had surfaced on an unusual transaction and he went to check it out. Keep it personal for him. He’ll have to provide his own alibi, and I’m sure he’ll have one—either gas or hotel receipts.”
Her husband’s comforting words eased her fear. “Okay. I’m good with that. But I don’t like being out of touch with him.”
“Mullins is a smart guy. He’ll get to you sooner rather than later. Remember, you’re the only link he has to the Federal Reserve. Remind him you need each other to connect the dots and form a more complete picture.”
She took a deep breath. “All right, Curtis. I’m just edgy. I’ll feel better when you’re back.”
“Me too. But I need to stay in Paris till I finish this story.”
“I know. You can’t disappoint your fans.”
He laughed. “You mean I can’t disappoint the people who’ll give me the big advance. That’s why they call it a deadline.”
“I’ll call tonight,” she promised.
“Okay. But don’t assume your cell and the home line are secure. Anything critical you have to share needs to be communicated another way.”
“Curtis. Hello. You’re talking to an ex-Secret Service agent.”
“And you’re doing a great job. The right people will know it even if the public never does. That, my dear, is the secret part of Secret Service.” With another laugh, he hung up.
Amanda laid the receiver back on the cradle. She checked her watch. The security meeting would begin in ten minutes. Her conversation with her husband uncovered some pitfalls in her planning. She and Mullins should have anticipated that he might have to go off the grid and ditch his cellphone. There was a good chance she’d have to follow suit, especially if Mullins got tied into the murder of Craig Archer.
The phone on her desk rang. She snatched the receiver, thinking that her husband had forgotten to give her some instruction.
“Yeah.”
“It’s me.”
She recognized Mullins’ voice.
“I’m on a pre-paid. Can we talk?”
“Yes.”
“I tried your line a few minutes ago and it was busy. I figured you were in your office.”
“The place has been nuts since Luguire died. But I’ve got eight minutes before the next meeting.”
“Good. Here’s what’s happened and here’s what I need you to do.”
***
Sidney Levine slipped the keys to the Audi under the driver’s floor mat and closed the door. He found his keys under the seat of his Escort where Colleen left them. She was still stuck in edit hell and claimed to have no time to exchange keys in person. Just as well, Sidney thought. Less chance for her to question where he’d been. He’d filled her gas tank and run the Audi through a car wash. That would be enough to keep him in her good graces.
Thirty minutes later, he drove his car past Mullins’ apartment building. The Prius still wasn’t in the lot and Sidney had no clue as to where Mullins could be. He knew only one man who might have the answer. Detective Robert Sullivan.
But contacting Sullivan posed a risk. Sidney didn’t want to admit he trailed Mullins or suspected the ex-Secret Service agent used a false name while meeting a man who was murdered the same day.
He needed a plausible story. When in doubt, tell the truth—selectively. He whipped the Ford Escort in a U-turn and headed for the Arlington Police Department.
***
The fax was on Sullivan’s desk when he arrived Tuesday afternoon. Per his request, the M. E. took a second look at the shaving nick under Luguire’s jaw. He noted that the aluminum sulfate consistent with the ingredients in a styptic pencil had closed the wound but not masked its depth. The new analysis revealed a shallow puncture from a pin or needle.
An odd place for an injection, Sullivan thought. He wondered if Luguire had worn a new shirt the day he died. Once, Sullivan had forgotten to remove all the pins from the packaging and jabbed himself in the neck.
In light of the discovery, the M. E. re-ran the blood work with more exhaustive tests. Nothing unusual appeared other than a slightly elevated reading for norketamine, a chemical not particularly dangerous in itself, except it’s the breakdown product of ketamine, a pain killer that works by creating the sensation of separating the mind from the body—a kind of euphoria accompanied by physical numbness and loss of mobility.
An electric shaver in the bathroom, a shaving nick that wasn’t a shaving nick, and trace levels of a chemical that could have been the byproduct of a potentially mood-altering and physically debilitating drug. Sullivan mulled the new facts and then phoned the M. E.
Five minutes later all he had were the words “inconclusive” and “suspicious” and an understanding that ketamine breaks down almost immediately, which makes it difficult to detect. He clipped the updated autopsy report together with the preliminary findings and closed the case file folder.
Another examination of Luguire’s apartment would be needed. This time he’d look for anything that could explain the skin puncture, and he wanted to know if Luguire had the habit of keeping new shirts at his office. The cleaning crew had emptied the wastebaskets the night Luguire died. Now it would be like looking for a needle in a haystack after the haystack had been moved.
Sullivan hadn’t asked Russell Mullins whether he noticed a dab of styptic on Luguire’s face. Secret Service agents, especially those who served on presidential protection, were trained to study faces. Mullins should be an ideal observer.
The detective flipped open the case folder and found Mullins’ cell number. Immediately the call went to voicemail. Sullivan left his name.
The intercom buzzed before he could take the receiver from his ear.
He punched the line. “What?”
“Your boyfriend’s back.” The desk officer laughed. “You got your own groupie now?”
“What are you talking about?” Sullivan snapped.
The officer dropped the comedy. “That reporter who came in a few days ago. He’s here asking for you.”
“Levine?”
“Yeah, that’s the guy.”
Sullivan dropped the case folder in his desk drawer. The M. E.’s
update would stay confidential at this point. But if Mullins had helped Levine develop his own theory, then Sullivan wanted to hear it.
“Clear him through.”
Sidney entered the interview room as Sullivan held open the door.
“You want some coffee?” Sullivan asked. “It tastes like crap but it’s hot.”
“No thanks.” Sidney slipped into a chair and pulled out his notepad.
Sullivan sat across the table. “What’s on your mind?”
“Just checking in. Any info that raises questions about the cause of death being suicide?”
“You could have asked me that over the phone.”
Sidney shrugged. “But then I couldn’t look you in the eye when you dodge my questions.”
Sullivan leaned across the table, his eyes locked on the reporter’s. “I have nothing to add other than I’ve asked for additional blood work.”
“Why?”
“Did you talk to Mullins?”
“Yes. He told me about Luguire’s cash withdrawal and plans to meet at the ballgame.”
“Then you have your answer. Mr. Mullins is a credible witness with extensive law enforcement experience.”
“And the new blood tests?”
“I expect to see them soon.” Sullivan didn’t consider his statement a lie. He would take a look at them again.
“Then they must be more complex. Any specific drug at the top of your list?”
“I’m not a damn pharmacologist. Maybe something that had an unexpected side effect. You hear them listed on TV commercials for miracle prescriptions that, by the way, might create severe depression and thoughts of suicide.”
Sidney jotted down possible drug reaction. “Was he under medication?”
“Not that we know. Mr. Luguire was a private man and lived alone. We are making inquiries, but nothing has come to light, and it would be irresponsible for me or you to say otherwise.”
Sidney nodded as if he shared Sullivan’s ethical standards. “So you’re considering he might have been drugged unknowingly.”
“That’s a bit of a stretch. We want to determine if some compound eluded the basic blood screen, and then we’ll focus on the possible source.”
“Would Russell Mullins be a suspect?”
Sullivan didn’t hide his surprise. “Mullins is the one claiming Luguire didn’t commit suicide. Why would he do that if he killed him?”
“You’re the detective, but it strikes me as a damn good way to insure Mullins that he wouldn’t be a suspect, especially if he knew a more comprehensive blood test would reveal a chemical agent.”
Sullivan thought about the code words, “as tough ass nails,” that Mullins interpreted as Luguire’s attempt to alert him. That information would have to stay confidential. “Interesting theory, but Mullins’ concerns are what prompted my request for more tests.”
“Mullins isn’t even a person of interest?”
“Not in any official sense.”
Sidney leaned back in his chair. “Okay. Then you know he left town.”
Sullivan’s bushy eyebrows arched. “When?”
“Sunday.”
“He tell you where?”
“Not directly. I overheard him on his phone. He went to Roanoke.”
“Do you know why?”
“No. I didn’t ask but I assume it has to do with his investigation of Luguire.”
Sullivan eyed Sidney with skepticism. “You didn’t ask him? Don’t tell me you suddenly went respectful.”
Sidney laughed. “Hardly. He got this phone call at the ballgame. The one he was supposed to watch with Luguire. That’s where we met. He had his grandson with him and a friend from the Federal Reserve.”
“Who?”
“I only got a first name. Don. Anyway, Mullins took a call and walked a little distance away for some privacy. The kids were noisy and with the parents shouting he had to raise his voice a few times. During one snatch of the conversation, he said he’d be in Roanoke the next day. I checked his apartment yesterday and today. He hasn’t returned. I thought maybe you knew why Roanoke and where else he might be heading.”
“No.” Sullivan turned his palms face up on the table. “Look, I’d tell you if I knew. Mullins wasn’t under any travel restrictions. Maybe it was something he’d planned for a while. Maybe he just wanted a break.”
“Maybe.” Sidney pushed back his chair. “That’s all I’ve got. When do you think you’ll have the blood report?”
“When I get it.”
“And when will I get it?”
“If and when we decide to make it public.”
Sidney didn’t push him. He got up from the chair and smiled good-naturedly. “I’d appreciate a heads-up when that happens. I don’t have an assignment editor scheduling me for press briefings.”
“All right.” Sullivan stood. “I’ve got your number.” He shook Sidney’s hand and held it an extra second. “Let me know if you hear from Mullins.”
***
Sidney whistled as he walked to his car. Something was brewing. Sullivan had signaled the case had moved beyond his simple due diligence to rule out unlikely alternative explanations. And Sidney managed to whet Sullivan’s curiosity about the Roanoke trip. He felt confident the detective wouldn’t give him up as the source if he spoke with Mullins.
Hell, Sidney could even tip Mullins that Sullivan asked him about Roanoke. Sidney would say he hadn’t told Sullivan he followed Mullins. And he wouldn’t say a word to either man about the murder of Craig Archer. Sidney had one goal: stir the pot and see what boiled to the surface.
***
When Sullivan returned to his desk, he called Mullins’ cell. Again, he went straight to voicemail. No ring meant Mullins’ phone wasn’t on. Was that because he was in a meeting, had a dead battery, or wanted to be off the grid—untraceable?
He logged onto the intrastate law enforcement database and targeted Roanoke. The major crime list prioritized a homicide from the previous night. Craig Archer, president of Laurel Bank, had been found shot to death in his car beside a Roanoke rail yard. No witnesses, no suspects, no motive, no leads. A dead banker in a town visited by a man seeking the killer of a Federal Reserve executive.
Coincidence? Vigilante justice? Or was there more going on?
Wednesday morning, the sixth day after Paul Luguire’s alleged suicide, Rusty Mullins stood behind a pine tree at the edge of a clearing and studied a small farmhouse for signs of life.
He was there because Amanda Church had delivered all he asked and more. With the connection to the CVS pharmacy in Staunton, she told him she used contacts within the FDA and DEA to circumvent prescription privacy and obtain specific information regarding Fares Khoury’s insulin use.
The neighbor, Judy Bernstein, had been correct when she told Mullins that Khoury took shots, but he used an injection device called a pen that provided measured doses without the need for vials and a syringe. Khoury required twenty units a day: ten in the morning and ten in the evening. One pen held three hundred units and there were four pens to a prescription. The pens he picked up the previous Saturday would last approximately two months. If Mullins were to spot the man through a visit to the pharmacy, it wouldn’t be for a while.
Amanda then said she ran a report on all the credit checks conducted by local real estate rental agencies in the previous month, and Khoury’s name popped up as having rented an inexpensive farmhouse five miles to the west of Staunton. Property records and aerial photographs showed the place to be about five hundred yards off a secondary state road and approximately one mile from the nearest neighbor. Nice and isolated.
The rental record listed Khoury as the only resident.
Amanda had given Mullins the detailed information over her secure line to his pre-paid phone the night before, as he neared Christiansburg, a town about thirty miles southwest of Roanoke. He found a mom and pop motel that, unlike Hilton or Marriott, wouldn’t enter his name in a national database. He paid cash, caught a few hours sleep, and left the motel before dawn. He traveled two hours to Staunton and parked the Prius beside a farm road a quarter mile beyond Khoury’s drive. He walked across a fallow field and through a copse of pines to approach the house from the rear.
Gray clouds masked the rising sun. A light mist hovered over the needle-covered ground and clung to Mullins’ skin and clothing.
A silver Ford pickup was parked between the back porch and a shed. Mullins spotted a shiny new padlock securing the latch on the shed’s door. Cheap shades were drawn over the farmhouse windows. No lights shone behind them.
Time crept forward from seven-fifteen to seven-thirty without any sign of life. The morning chill worked its way into Mullins’ bones. He zipped his windbreaker tighter even though it pressed the holstered Glock into his ribs. He considered the possibility that Khoury might not be home. Someone in another vehicle could have picked him up, or another occupant could share the house despite the information on the rental application.
Mullins decided to circle to the front and knock on the door. If no one answered, well, doors had a way of blowing open. As he stepped from the shelter of the pines, a man emerged from the back porch. Mullins retreated behind the nearest tree.
The man stopped at the rear of the truck. He raised his arms high over his head and took a deep breath. He wore only a sleeveless undershirt and a pair of blue warm-up pants loosely cinched at the waist. His frame displayed not an ounce of fat. Even from the distance at the edge of the trees, Mullins thought the man looked gaunt, the face more haggard than the one on the driver’s license. But he had no doubt that the man by the truck was Fares Khoury.
For a few minutes, Khoury let the drizzle coat his body. Mullins wondered if the deep breathing and natural shower were some ritual, a cleansing coupled with morning prayers. But the sky brightened behind Khoury so he wasn’t facing east. Maybe the act was nothing more than an invigorating jumpstart on the day.
Abruptly, Khoury returned to the house, pausing only to wipe his bare feet on a mat.
Mullins decided to confront the man before he had the chance to dress. He crossed the yard and circled to the front. As he neared the door, he spied Khoury through the dining room window. He sat bare-chested at the table with his damp undershirt draped across the back of another chair. Khoury’s attention was focused on four items before him—a cellphone, a foil packet, a pen-shaped object, and a white conical cap about the size of the tip of a tube of glue.
Mullins froze. He watched Khoury pick up the pen and twist off one end. He opened the foil packet and pulled out a paper wipe. He rubbed it over the exposed end of the pen and then used it to clean a spot on his abdomen. Alcohol sterilization, Mullins assumed. The man was preparing an injection.
Khoury opened the base of the conical container and removed a disposable needle. He attached it to the pen, twisted the bottom end one click and then pushed the plunger, the priming step to get his insulin to the tip of the needle. Then he twisted the pen further. Mullins guessed he was dialing in the measured dose of ten units called for in his prescription. Khoury pinched the flesh he’d cleaned on his stomach and pushed the pen’s needle straight in. He pressed the plunger and sat motionless as the insulin flowed into his body.
Mullins waited until Khoury withdrew the needle, and then he moved quickly. He unzipped his windbreaker, yanked the Glock from his holster, and kicked the door right beside the knob. Without a deadbolt, the latch splintered away from the jamb, and Mullins was inside the house before the door slammed into the wall.
Khoury leapt from his chair, holding the pen like a dagger. His eyes widened as Mullins pointed the Glock at his chest.
“Set the insulin down. I know you’ll need another injection this evening. No sense damaging the pen.”
A tremor ran through Khoury’s body. Mullins didn’t know if it was a reaction to the medication or a shiver of fear.
As the spasm eased, Khoury whispered, “Don’t hurt my family, Mr. Mullins. Please don’t hurt my family.”
The mournful plea sent a shiver through Mullins. The man was terrified. And Khoury knew him by name.
“I won’t. Not if you cooperate.” Mullins had no idea what leverage he held over Khoury, but he meant to play the hand for all it was worth. He waved the gun in a tight circle. “Sit down and push those things away from you.”
Khoury laid the pen on the table and then used his forearm to sweep it, the used needle, the cellphone, and the alcohol wipe away from him. He sat, rested his elbows on his bony knees, and buried his face in his hands.
“What kind of warrior are you?” Mullins asked.
Khoury balled both hands into fists and pressed one into each cheek. His eyes never rose from the floor in front of him. “I never claimed to be a warrior. Just an errand boy. A simple man trying to hold his family together.”
“Come on. You knew what you were getting into. You knew people would be killed.”
Khoury lifted his head. His eyes glistened with tears. “The bombs are for the night. One to four in the morning. No one will be hurt. You know that.”
“And Craig Archer at Laurel Bank?”
Khoury looked confused. “I’m done with the bank. I closed the account like I was told. And I kept receipts for everything. And the journal. Everything was as you requested.”
“Then I’ll take them.”
Khoury ran his tongue over his dry lips. “You don’t have them? Yesterday, the same day I got the letter, I returned from the post office and grocery store to find everything gone. I thought you had come and taken them.”
“Yesterday? Don’t you mean Monday when you were in Roanoke? The day Archer was murdered?”
“Murder?” The blood drained from the Lebanese man’s face. “Who?”
“Don’t act so surprised.” Mullins lowered the gun to the floor. “Craig Archer. The president of Laurel Bank. But it’s okay. So far no one’s connected you to him.”
“I’ve never heard of him. Does he work at the branch where I had the account?” Then Khoury cocked his head and Mullins could almost see the wheels spinning frantically in his brain. “So, this Archer was the thirteenth target? Your target? That’s why you’re forcing me to do your job. To take the blame. You’re on the run.”
Mullins said nothing. The bits of information pouring from the frightened man were too disjointed to knit into a cohesive pattern. Someone had lured Khoury into a conspiracy and then upped the stakes by threatening his family. Someone had given Mullins’ name to Khoury as a major player in that conspiracy. Why? Because of his connection to Luguire? Because of his name being tied to the offshore account? And if there was a thirteenth target, what were the other twelve? Had Luguire been the first?
Mullins took a calculated risk to gain the man’s confidence. He holstered the Glock.
Khoury let out a deep breath and then looked Mullins squarely in the eyes. “What have you done with my wife and daughter?”
“I’ve done nothing with your family. Obviously, we’ve had some communication screw-up. I plan to get things straightened out.” Mullins walked to the other side of the table and sat across from Khoury. “Who gave you the information about me?”
“The Syrian who first met me in Florida. He gave only a first name. Asu.”
Mullins nodded as if the name meant something.
“He promised if I opened the account at Laurel Bank and purchased the supplies he would see that I was made whole. We could stay in our house and I would have money till I could find another job.”
“And no one would be hurt?”
“No one would be hurt.”
Mullins thought Khoury was telling the truth. A desperate man hearing what he wanted to hear even though part of him must have known he was making a pact with the devil. “And then things changed.”
Khoury glanced at the phone on the table. “Messages began coming from a new voice. British maybe. He told me I would have to drive the van. That you had another assignment. The honor of the thirteenth target.”
“And he told you Craig Archer was that target?”
“He didn’t say and I knew not to ask. He told me I had the twelfth and you would give me instructions. To make sure I did as I was told he said you had Zaina and Jamila.” A sob caught in his throat as he spoke the names. “Please. I’ll do whatever you ask.”
“And your target and the others. Have they changed?”
“Of course not.” Khoury’s face suddenly became wary. “You don’t have them, do you? You don’t know. You’re not Mullins!”
With a power beyond his small stature, Khoury shoved the table away from him. The edge caught Mullins across the chest, toppling him over in the chair. His head cracked hard against the floor molding. White sparks flashed in his eyes. When his vision cleared, he saw the table above him and heard Khoury running from the house.
Mullins staggered to his feet and drew his pistol. Outside, the truck engine roared to life. Mullins ran through the kitchen and jumped from the back porch just as Khoury threw the pickup in gear. Tires bit into the loose gravel, pelting Mullins with stones as the truck sped down the driveway and disappeared through the pines.
Mullins shook his head in disgust. “Rookie mistake,” he muttered. “Holster your gun to build his trust. I might as well have handed it to him.”
He returned to the dining room. As he suspected, the cellphone was gone. But the insulin pen had rolled off the table and lay on a heating grate in the floor. Mullins picked it up with a handkerchief and slipped it in his windbreaker. The fingerprints could prove valuable.
He made a quick search through the rest of the house. On a nightstand by the bed he found a soft flannel bag. Inside was a copy of the Koran. Beneath it was a single photograph of Khoury standing beside a pretty woman and holding a darling girl of three or four. They were in front of their house in Florida. Zaina and Jamila, Khoury had said. Here was his family. The family someone held hostage. Mullins put the Koran and picture back in the bag.
On the dresser, he discovered an envelope. Without touching it, he read Fred Mack and the P.O. box Khoury had given the bank in Staunton. The letter was postmarked Miami. Mullins pried open the torn end with the back of his fingernail. Black hair spilled out. Using the handkerchief, he pulled the tresses and a folded scrap of paper free. “REMEMBER” had been scrawled in red lipstick across the ripped page.
He moved to the bathroom. The medicine cabinet held three more insulin pens, a box of disposable needles, and the alcohol wipes. Khoury had bolted without his medicine. He would have to find insulin somewhere.
The refrigerator contained a few slices of pizza, orange juice, and sandwich meat. Three-fourths of a loaf of bread was on the counter by the sink. Mullins searched through the drawers. The only other item that caught his eye was a receipt for a delivery of heating oil dated three weeks earlier. Khoury said he kept a journal and receipts but that someone had taken them the day before. Either this one had been overlooked, or, more likely, the rental agency had supplied a full fuel tank for the new renter.
Mullins left the receipt, the insulin supplies, the envelope, and the bag protecting the Koran on the kitchen counter. He walked to the shed and examined the door. The premium Abus padlock appeared new with no signs of weathering or tarnish. Mullins realized that his search through the house and Khoury’s belongings hadn’t turned up a key. Khoury must have kept this one on the ring with the truck and house keys.
But a new lock was only as good as the wood holding the screws of the latch. Three kicks and the door yielded. Inside, Mullins found a bare concrete floor with rakes and other garden tools hanging from hooks in the wall.
Part of the concrete had dark circular stains. Another area showed traces of gray dust. Mullins ran his finger across one of the stains. He sniffed the residue. Oil. Probably heating oil. Then he took a pinch of the dust. The texture was granular and the smell strong. Fertilizer. Oil and fertilizer. A bad combination if these were the supplies Khoury had been buying.
Mullins studied the circle stains again. The diameters were consistent with ten-gallon cans.
He left the shed and went to the heating fuel tank on the far side of the back porch. A rap on the metal generated a hollow boom. The tank was nearly empty, and yet the receipt for a recent delivery was in the kitchen. Mullins suspected Khoury had been buying up limited quantities of ammonia-based fertilizer so as not to raise any alarms. He probably traveled to local feed-and-seed stores scattered throughout the small mountain towns of southwest Virginia. Purchasing the oil wouldn’t have been a problem since the rental company ordered the delivery, but Khoury could also buy empty fuel cans during his shopping spree and siphon the oil out of the tank with a garden hose.