Sterling knew Strahan was right. The Bureau had a way of handling their internal problems in a much more permanent and less civil way than they did the crimes of ordinary citizens. Big politics were always at work, especially when there was the potential that the Bureau's image could be compromised. Fairness in these matters was merely an afterthought.
“I gotta take my chances, Stray. All I need you to do is check some phone records. Nothing more, nothing less.”
Sterling heard that same infamous low groan that Strahan had let out countless times on the golf course when negotiating a difficult shot. More often than not when the shot was completed, the groan turned into a string of expletives.
“I wouldn't do this for anyone else but you, Doc,” Strahan relented. “What's the number?”
Sterling gave him Wilson's home number. “I need to know all the incoming and outgoing calls on March twenty-third.”
“Just that day?”
“That's it. The numbers and the times of the calls.”
“Give me a few hours. I have to finish writing this open report. Records is climbing up my ass. Where are you right now? Aw, forget it. That was a stupid question. Call my cell in a few hours.”
“I owe you one, partner.”
“Yeah. Just dig yourself out of this hole so I can take out my long irons when you get back and kick your ass on the course.”
“Too bad your swing isn't as good as your imagination.”
S
terling pored over the Mortimer articles. He wasn't sure what he was looking for, but he felt that if he just looked long enough, he'd find it staring right at him. The cramped, moldy room was exactly what you'd expect for $79.99 a night with a bottle of White Mountains water included. The back rooms were the quietest, mostly because they didn't have windows. So Sterling occasionally opened the door to get some fresh air circulating. Darkness had started to fall, which meant soon he could move around the small town with less chance of being noticed. The Lexus was still there, hidden underneath a large pine. It wasn't a bad little ride, definitely a woman's sports car. It must've set Reverend back a little, which made Sterling laugh. As tough as Reverend Briggs tried to be, he was a pussycat when it came to his children. Sterling closed the door and went back to the bed where he had laid everything out, including a replica of the time line they had constructed in the pit.
He reviewed his notes from Windsor McGovern. Something Mack had said was bothering him, but he couldn't put a finger on it. He looked over the Mortimer papers a third time.
Then he stopped.
He picked up the article from
Forbes
and focused on the third paragraph. It was only one sentence, but a sentence that wrapped a smile around Sterling's face.
President Wallace Mortimer has made lasting friends with his college roommates, Cooper who went on to build a computer software empire, and Allistor Guyton, Secretary of the Department of Agriculture.
———
S
terling flipped through the pages of his black book so quickly that he almost ripped out an entire section. He stopped at the first conversation with McGovern. He had written several questions, but it was the last one that jumped off the page. Why was APHIS so dead set on poisoning the blackbirds when it had no hard proof it would save crops? Now the pieces fit together perfectly. APHIS was largely funded by the National Sunflower Association but was also part of the USDA from which it ultimately took its orders. McGovern had mentioned that the head of the USDA was Allistor Guyton, who turns out to be a close friend of Wallace A. Mortimer III, the managerial beneficiary of the Mortimer Family Trust, which not so coincidentally owned the largest sunflower company in the country. Sterling shook his head. Just as he had suspected all along, the answer had been there right in front of him, scattered in bits and pieces.
Sterling dialed the Dartmouth College operator.
“Carlos Sandoza,” he said, wondering why all operators had that nasal voice.
“One moment, please.”
It wasn't Carlos who answered. “He's not here right now,” the man said. Sterling assumed he was a roommate. He had a similar Bronx accent.
“Do you know where he is?”
“Grubbin' at Shabazz. Who's this?”
“I'm calling about a job he applied for. It's pretty important I speak with him as soon as possible. Does he have a cell phone?”
Sterling wrote down the number. “Thanks a lot.” He dialed Sandoza's cell. It rang four times, then kicked into voice mail. Sterling tried again. This time it stopped on the second ring.
“What up?” It was Sandoza, still full of attitude.
“Carlos, it's Sterling Bledsoe.”
“Professor's brother?”
“Yeah. I need to ask you a couple of questions.”
“We already talked.”
“I know, but I thought of one thing I forgot to ask you.”
“Shoot.”
“Did President Mortimer walk Professor Bledsoe to his car?”
“Not to his car, just to the porch.”
“Did Mortimer go back inside once Wilson had pulled off?”
“Hmm. After a few minutes.”
“Not right away?”
“No. He stood outside and lit a cigar. He smoked a little, then pulled out his cell phone and walked around to the side of the house.”
“Are you certain?”
“Positive. I thought it was strange he'd be making a call when he had all those people partying inside.”
“Did he make the call or did someone call him?”
Sandoza took his time before answering. “I'm not sure. I was too far away to hear the phone ring. If it did ring.”
Sterling paced through the tiny room, trying to keep up with the thoughts speeding through his mind. “How long did he talk?”
“Not too long. Maybe a few minutes, not much more. I was getting into another car when he walked back inside.”
“Thanks, Carlos. You've been a big help.”
“I don't know what I did, but sure.”
Sterling dialed Strahan's cell. It was time for confirmation.
“Got it?” Sterling asked.
“What phone are you on?” Strahan said. “A different number showed up from the last time you called.”
“Let's just call it a borrowed phone.” These burners were a work of genius, Sterling thought. Worth a lot more than the $50 the dealers charged.
“Hold on. I'm in the car. Let me pull over.” The radio fell silent and Sterling could hear the rustling of papers. “You have a pen?”
“Yup.”
“There were four incoming calls that day.” Sterling checked off the numbers in his book as Strahan read them. Two came from Wilson's phone, matching the times Kay had said he called home. Sterling already knew that. The third call came from the Norwich Police Department, while the fourth number matched the Hanover Police Department.
“Are you sure there were only four incoming?” Sterling said. “No cell phones?”
“March twenty-third, right?”
“Yup.”
“Then that's it.”
Sterling exhaled slowly. Not what he wanted to hear. He figured Mortimer had placed a call to Kay. He wasn't sure why he thought that, but now the theory had just been blown to hell.
“What about the outgoing?” Sterling asked.
“Five going out.” Once again Strahan read the numbers and times and Sterling followed along in his book. The second and third were to Wilson's cell phone. The fourth and fifth calls had been placed to the Norwich Police Department and the Hanover Police. But the first call didn't match any numbers in Sterling's book.
“You sure about that first one?” Sterling asked.
“Positive. These logs are straight from the phone company's computers.” Strahan repeated the number to be sure.
Sterling lowered his head and massaged the tangled muscles in the back of his neck. Every time he thought he found an opening, it suddenly closed. “That's it, I guess,” he resigned. “Thanks for your help, Stray.”
“Wherever you are, Doc, be careful. I was talking with someone in the New York office about another case. Dumars is all over your ass. He's out for blood.”
“Yeah, I'm not surprised.” Sterling smiled to himself, thinking how foolish Dumars must be looking. “Don't worry, Stray. When I wrap this baby up, I'll give you a couple of strokes on the golf course for all your efforts.”
“Fuck you, Doc.”
“Ah, the eternal ingrate.”
No sooner had Sterling hung up the phone than he dialed the unmatched number. He wasn't sure what he'd say to whoever answered it, but he'd grown so good at lying lately it didn't matter. Voice mail picked up immediately. Sterling was astonished when he heard the recording. He looked down at the time Strahan said the call went out. It was only seconds after Wilson's first call home. Kay had placed a call to Wallace A. Mortimer III.
49
S
terling had worked out almost everything. Wilson stumbles upon the blackbirds on one of his night scouts. He doesn't grow suspicious until he starts finding groups of carcasses, and that's when he enlists the help of his mentor, Yuri Mandryka. Wilson knows that Mandryka can be trusted to keep things quiet and even to help figure out what killed the birds. Somehow Heidi and Wilson meet and begin a friendship, with her expressing an interest in the environment and wildlife. She accompanies Wilson on some of his scouts and he confides what he has found on the Potter farm.
Heidi and Wilson begin to have an affair, and at some point she decides to take him to meet Kanti, who has also found dead blackbirds on his property.
Mandryka knows that Wilson is writing a case report on the birds, but it's unlikely that Heidi and Kanti are initially aware of his intentions to publish his findings. Kanti does, however, know that Wilson put a call in to an agency in Washington and was waiting for a response.
Mortimer's Sunny Fields Company is behind the poisoning of the birds for obvious reasons. The heavily wooded mountains of Vermont are a perfect place to test a new avicide out of sight of the watchful eyes of the Fish and Wildlife Service. Mortimer enlists the help of his old college roommate, Allistor Guyton, at the Department of Agriculture, parent of APHIS. Not surprisingly, APHIS decides to push the Blackbird Project despite protests from environmentalists and wildlife experts.
Then comes the night of the big party and the perfect opportunity to kill Wilson. Kay is home nursing a virus and preparing Wilson's favorite meal. Wilson leaves the president's mansion and starts driving home. Wilson places his first call to Kay at a little after seven and tells her that he's on his way. Kay calls Mortimer, who answers his cell and walks around to the side of the house to take the call. Mortimer calls the two men in the truck, who are already in position on River Road. He informs them that Wilson will be coming over the bridge soon. They pretend to have truck problems when Wilson passes, and once he stops, they chase him into the woods and brutally murder him.
Heidi is next on the list. She knows all the players, but most important, she knows about the birds. Heidi confronts Mortimer, which results in a payoff of half a million dollars. Somehow Serena Mortimer finds out about Heidi and the extortion, which explains the animosity the two women had for each other. Heidi is a liability in every way. The same guys who kill Wilson also kill her, dumping her remains behind the Grand Union once the store has closed.
Now there are still three people alive who know about the blackbirds—Mandryka, Kanti, and Bigfoot. Sterling finally convinces Mandryka to duck out of town for a few days until everything blows over. It's no coincidence that as he's heading up to his cabin, a truck runs him off the road and into a ditch, the driver leaving him for dead. Mandryka describes the same truck that Miles Borwind had seen after he closed the store. The killer, not knowing that Mandryka has survived, assumes two people are left—Kanti and Bigfoot. They haven't been killed already, but they are next on the list. Sterling turned to a fresh page and wrote the questions that still lingered. Why did Kay call Mortimer on his cell after Wilson called her? How did his own face get on that last e-mail that Harry sent? And what did Wilson do with the blackbird papers?
Sterling dialed Sean Kelton's home number. Sean's wife answered the phone.
“Is Sean home?”
“No, he's not. May I ask who's calling?”
“Professor Nelson from the biology department. I wanted to ask him about a grant proposal my lab is working on. Do you know when he might be home?”
“Not for a couple of hours. At least.”
“That long, huh?”
“Yeah, he's over at the medical school library pulling some research papers. But if you want to leave your number, I can have him give you a call when he gets home. He should be back before eleven.”
“That's all right,” Sterling said. “I'm probably turning in early tonight. I'll just try him tomorrow or reach him on blitzmail.”
Sterling disconnected the line, grabbed his keys, and jammed a round in his Glock before slipping it into a belt clip holster in the back waistband of his pants. Just to be sure, he also loaded the Beretta and strapped it in his right ankle holster. With his most recent discoveries he probably had enough to steer the investigation in the right direction, but he needed more than that if he was going to nail Mortimer. He needed some luck and a little help from Wilson.
T
he concrete fortress of the Dana Biomedical Sciences Library stood menacingly at the northern end of the circular entrance to the medical school. Unlike the undergraduate libraries, it saw little traffic. It was a library for the serious medical scientists, mostly graduate students and the occasional premed undergrad who came by to study and rub elbows with their medical idols. Sterling avoided the circular drive, instead pulling the Lexus into a small empty lot around the back. Two students sat on a picnic table bench in the shadows of the library, one playing the guitar, the other accompanying on a tinny harmonica. A golden retriever looked up at both of them with a long expression on his face as if he had a million other things he'd rather be doing.
Sterling entered through the back door and walked down the short hallway of closed offices and laboratories. Whereas the undergraduate libraries had been staffed with security guards and ID checkers, the medical school surprisingly remained open for students or the public to come and go without restrictions. Sterling moved slowly through the first floor, walking down the aisles and peering into the cubicles as if looking for a vacant desk. He had to be careful with Kelton, so a quiet approach would be critical. By now the Dartmouth Security team and Wiley's men had already warned Kelton to stay away from Sterling and to consider him armed and dangerous.
Sterling finished the sweep of the first floor and went on to the second, walking slowly around the perimeter, trying not to draw attention. The narrow aisles were crammed with students toiling under stacks of texts, taking notes on their laptops or the old-fashioned way, by hand. Sterling knew their pain, having spent the better part of his late twenties stuck in stuffy libraries reading till he couldn't keep his eyes open or writing until the pen had dug a permanent impression into the side of his middle finger. Even now he could hold his finger up to the light and turn it at an angle to remind himself of those late, listless nights when all he wanted was to find a warm bed and sleep for an entire year.
The second floor proved a bust, and as Sterling climbed another set of steps, he grew concerned that Kelton had already left or gone to another library. He had Kelton's cell phone number, but calling it might only scare him off. Right now, the element of surprise was a necessary ally.
Sterling found more of the same on the third floor as he walked along the back wall of classrooms where students were holding group study. In one room, they were taking notes from a video recording of a class lecture. Sterling heard the professor's monotone voice repeat “mesoderm,” “endoderm,” and “ectoderm.” An embryology course, Sterling thought to himself.
At the end of the hall, he looked through the door window of the last classroom, ready to climb one more flight of stairs. The room appeared to be empty. Then he saw the sweatshirt. Big Red. Cornell. For a second Sterling wondered why the Ivies were so damn stuck on colors. Why couldn't they find an animal mascot like the normal colleges? The Crimson, Big Green, Old Blue. Sterling pressed his face to the window. No one there. He backed down the hall and found a seat at an empty desk. He could see the door from where he now sat.
Sterling waited a few minutes, then he heard the elevator door open and the sound of sneakers squeaking in the hallway. Then he saw that mop of burnt-orange hair. Sean Kelton, carrying a small brown bag, opened the door to the classroom and closed it behind him. Sterling got up, paused briefly to make sure no one joined him, then quickly walked to the room and entered.
When Kelton looked up and met Sterling's eyes, his already colorless cheeks went from pale to a ghostly white.
“Take it easy, Sean,” Sterling said. “I'm just here to ask you a couple of questions.”
Kelton nodded slowly, his paralyzed jaws unable to close his mouth. He was grasping his pen so tightly that the skin over his knuckles seemed like it was going to rip.
“I know you've probably heard a lot of bad things about me the last couple of days, but they're all lies,” Sterling said. “I did not kill my brother or Heidi Vorscht or anyone else for that matter. I'm being set up, Sean, and the real killer is out there. Do you understand what I'm saying?”
Kelton nodded his head up and down, seemingly incapable of producing words.
“Now you can still help me catch the killer before anyone else gets hurt.” Kelton gave another trancelike nod. “I need you to tell me how the mail gets delivered to the lab.”
Kelton's face wrinkled into a frown, merging the freckles across his forehead into a straight line. “The mail?”
“That's right. I need to know how mail is delivered to Wilson's lab.”
“It's not,” Kelton said, his voice dry. “We pick it up from the mail room.”
“Every day?”
Kelton nodded. “Twice a day. Once in the morning and once in the afternoon.”
“Where's the mail room?”
“Hinman, over in the Hopkins Center.”
“Is it open this time of night?”
“The student boxes are always open, but the lab doesn't have a box. We have to pick it up from the counter.”
Sterling thought for a minute. It was about ten o'clock. The counter would definitely be closed by now. But there had to be a door somewhere. If he couldn't pick the lock, maybe he could borrow his old friend Otto Winter from the troubleshooter's office. There was probably a smoother plan, but he needed to get into that mail center tonight.
“When's the last time someone went to pick up Wilson's mail?”
Kelton shook his orange mess from side to side. “It's probably been weeks. The lab hasn't been opened since . . .”
“I understand,” Sterling said. Neither one of them wanted to hear the words again. “I'm not sure what you're thinking right now, Sean, but I need you to be rational. If I were the killer, I wouldn't be sitting here talking to you so civilly.”
Sterling pulled out his gun and waved it so Kelton could get the full effect.
“I could've shot you a long time ago and been well on my way out of town. You have to believe that.”
Kelton's eyes were fixed hypnotically on the shiny black gun.
“So I need you to do me a big favor and keep this conversation we've had between us. Don't even tell your wife that you saw me here tonight.” Sterling returned the gun to his holster, breaking Kelton's trance. “There are some big and important people caught up in all of this and you can't trust anyone. Understand?”
“Yeah.”
“Wilson thanks you,” Sterling said. He startled Kelton by taking his hand and shaking it. Then he was out and down the back stairs.