The Third Coincidence (21 page)

Nora propped her elbow on her desk, and cradled her chin in her open hand. “What the fuck happened to his surveillance?”

“Search me. I’m just glad Metro PD didn’t have that job.” Nora snapped her fingers twice to get the attention of the others.

“Run it down for me, Paul.”

“We got a dead young woman in the same unit, a Ms. Jennifer Robinson. It’s her condo. The front desk described the owner as a quiet resident who lived well without any known means of support. The doorman knew Justice Roberts as Mr. Smith, one of a number of gentlemen who regularly visited Ms. Robinson a few hours a month. I’m telling ya, this gal’s a centerfold so you can fill in the blank about what she did for a living. Nobody recalls seeing anyone unfamiliar enter or leave the building. We found signs of a lock having been forcibly picked on the outside door leading into the basement equip- ment room. A work elevator comes up from there to all the floors.”

Suggs went on to describe how the bodies were found.

“You got anything suggesting who left the water running in the tub?” Jack and Rachel were now standing next to Nora’s desk.

“No,” Suggs said. Nora shook her head for the others. “I’m guess- ing LW surprised the babe while she was filling her tub.”

“Is it possible that LW used the tub as a crude timing device to trigger the discovery?” Nora asked.

“I hadn’t considered that, but, sure, it could’ve went down like that. I mean it’s possible. Yeah, it might’ve been.”

“I’ll advise the bureau. They’ll be coming out to take control of the crime scene. If the media gets to you before that, tell ’em to sit tight and wait for the FBI. Okay?”

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“Okay, Nora. Catch this jerkoff, will ya? Our cases are stacking up and we’re short a couple of detectives. I won’t mention any names, but they’re Wade and Burke.”

By the time Nora hung up, Frank and Millet had also come to her desk. She turned the notepad on which she had scribbled and underlined: Justice Michael Roberts and Ms. Jennifer Robinson.

Rachel quickly called FBI Director Hampton. While she was on the phone, the director dispatched a senior agent and an evidence re- sponse team.

Jack knew that the bureau would get things started at the Capi- tol Arms, and he planned to send Frank and Nora over, but before they left he called everyone to the table.

“We often ask victims and witnesses to tell their stories more than once. Let’s do that for the same reason: sometimes something comes out on the retelling. Frank, start us off.”

Jack could see that Frank was clearly antsy to get to the murder scene, but he did what Jack asked.

“The Oregon gardener and local florist, and the two neighbors close to Chip Taylor’s home in Cleveland, as well as the room serv- ice waiter at the Marriott gave us very similar descriptions. Male. Age thirty, thirty-five. Normal length hair. Eye color unknown. Build, medium to light. Height, about five ten. Each time he’s been seen he wore a red baseball cap. No names, other than what may later be suggested by the lists Millet and Rachel are developing. It’s not likely but his initials could be LW. Now, can I get going?”

“When we’re finished, Frank. There are capable people already on their way,” Jack said. “It won’t be long.”

Rachel sat forward with the backs of her hands stacked under her chin. “His psychological profile characterizes him as delusional, someone who thinks he can change the authority structure of Amer- ica. He plans far in advance. Apparently there’s nothing frightening about his physical manner. People are opening their doors to him. His communiqués suggest he’s either a college grad or highly self-

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educated. His latest writing hinted that his father, in some way, con- tributed to perverting him.”

“What do we have that tells us anything about any other mem- ber of his militia?” Jack asked. “Anybody?”

“Nothing,” Frank answered, adding squirming to his fidgeting. “Nothing at any of the crime scenes suggested anyone with a differ- ent description. And the manner in which each of his victims was murdered would not require an accomplice.”

“Nothing we have supports there being more than one killer,” Millet added in support of what Frank had said.

Everyone nodded, except Colin.

“Isn’t it possible,” Frank asked Colin, “that the idea of his having a militia is a red herring? Couldn’t this be the work of one psycho?” “I just can’t see it that way,” Colin answered. “The assassinations

so far have been from coast to coast. Oregon and Cleveland were on two consecutive days.”

“But the Breens in Oregon were dead a couple of days before they were found,” Rachel said, correcting the impression of what Colin had said. “The findings of the bodies, not the killings them- selves, were on consecutive days.”

Jack put down his coffee cup. “Anyone agree with Colin that there must be more than one killer?”

“Consider this,” Nora said, taking off her earrings and massaging her earlobes. “In Oregon and Cleveland we have witnesses who gave almost the same description. Is it reasonable to think the members of this so-called militia all have the same physical basics?”

“That argument relies on the assumption the sightings in Ore- gon and Cleveland were the killers,” Colin said in defense of his po- sition. “It remains possible all we have is an innocent fellow riding a bike and another guy delivering flowers.”

“But the local FBI offices,” Rachel said coming back at Colin, “have been unable to find either an Oregon florist with a delivery to the honeymoon cottage, or someone in the Pepper Pike neighbor-

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hood of Cleveland who owns a red bicycle and rode it near Taylor’s home. When we rely on the presumption these sightings were the killers, the question becomes do we have several killers or is this LW character working overtime?”

“We need to decide whether we believe LW has a militia or is a lone wolf,” Jack told them. “Whatever we decide, that decision will remain open to constant reassessment.”

“Jack!” Frank exclaimed. “Could that be the LW? Lone Wolf! Telling us, he’s operating alone? Is he toying with us? Like he did when he went inside Rachel’s place. Teasing us?”

“Maybe,” Jack said reflectively. “That could certainly fit a guy who thinks he’s smarter than the rest of the country. Colin, your first priority is to develop a rolling timeline. Find out if it’s possible for one man to have committed all these murders. Be sure to include the times and the locations from which the communiqués were FedExed. I want you to prove your argument that one person couldn’t do it, or find out that one could.”

“You got it,” Colin said, pushing his chair back from the table. “Rachel and Millet, you keep working your lists. Prioritize as you

see fit. You know what we’re looking for. We need some passengers whose flights will fit the timeline Colin’s developing, so you three co- ordinate.”

“Now, Jack?”

“Now, Frank. You and Nora get over to the Capitol Arms. Me, I’m going to play a long shot. I’ll fill you in when I get back.”

Ten minutes later, Jack had FBI Supervisory Agent Rex Smith on the phone, asking him about one house in the report on the can- vassing of the neighborhood in which Chief Justice Thomas Evans lived.

“That house sits directly across from the home of the chief jus- tice,” Agent Smith said. “The neighbors say it’s empty, and the cou- ple next door saw a car there a month or so ago, but not again since.

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And before you ask, no, they never saw anybody, just the car. The man thought it was a dark-colored SUV.”

“I know all that, Rex. That’s what the report said. It’s time to play a hunch. Give me the address. Find out who owns that house, and if there’s been any changes in ownership within the past few years, and so on. Contact the owner to get permission for us to enter the house. When you have it, bring an FBI SWAT team. Be sure they in- clude specialized medical advanced response personnel. And get a chopper in the air as near as possible without being heard. I’ll meet you there.”

Jack poked the end button with his finger, and pressed the ac- celerator with his foot.

chapter 33

Several Federal Reserve governors are reported to be considering resigning.

—A.P. Wire, June 16

“Jack. Rex. I’m in the back of the SWAT van. We’re ten to fifteen minutes out. Where are you?”

“More like fifteen. What have you got on the mystery house?” “It should be coming on the screen in a moment. I’ve got you on

a headset. Here! Here it is. The house is owned by a Mr. and Mrs. Harrelson of New York City. We reached Mrs. Harrelson. They rarely use the home. It’s rented out through a D.C. rental agent. Mrs. Harrelson has authorized us to enter and search the house in whatever manner we deem necessary. We’re still trying to reach the rental agent. I’ll get back to you when more comes through.”

Jack tossed his agency cell phone on the passenger seat and fo- cused on making up the minutes he was behind Rex. A dark sedan in his rearview mirror drew his attention as it moved behind him three cars back. He changed lanes. The sedan changed lanes. When he cut between cars and switched back to the left lane, his tail passed another vehicle using the lane to its right, holding its position three car lengths behind.

Jack grabbed his CIA cell, then put it down and used his per- sonal cell phone to dial the direct line the president had given him to reach FBI Director Hampton. “Director. Jack McCall. I’m on my

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way to meet Agent Smith. Someone’s pinned a tail on me. Tell me it wasn’t you.”

“The president countermanded your refusal of protection.”

When his CIA phone on the seat started ringing, Jack had no choice but to hang up on Hampton.

“We spoke to the rental agent,” Rex said right away. “It’s scroll- ing now. He rented the house sixty days ago to a Barry Jones. The rental was arranged by phone and Jones paid in advance by wire transfer for six months and requested the agent send the key to an Arlington PO box. The wire transfer came from a cash transaction by Barry Jones at the counter in a small bank branch—one with no video. The bank told us wire transfers at the counter from noncus- tomers are rare. So far that’s—wait. Something else is coming. The street address Jones gave the rental agent in a suburb of Chicago is an empty lot.”

“What else?”

“The phone company shows no active number at the Harrelson house. The electric company shows usage at maintenance levels for a vacancy. We’re six minutes out. What’s your ETA?”

“I’m still a minute or so behind you,” Jack said. “Call back if you need to talk.”

He glanced in the rearview mirror. The tail car had not broken

off.

After attaching the velcro straps on an aramid fiber vest, Jack took a position beside Rex Smith at the front door of the Harrelson house. Jack knocked. Four members of an FBI SWAT team were with them. The SWAT agents took up positions near the door, and after Rex checked and found no outside trips or alarms, Jack knocked hard. Again.

“Stop!” Jack shouted when two members of the SWAT team swung back a battering ram to take down the door. “Pick the lock. We want everything here to look as normal as possible in case he returns.”

164 David M. Bishop

Rex picked the lock, drew his 9-mm Sig Sauer from his belt and stepped back, standard procedure dictating that the SWAT team en- ters first. The four in the lead held either a Springfield 1811 semi- automatic handgun or an HK MP 5/10 machine gun. Once inside the squad took line-of-sight positions to cover all interior doorways, fanned out, and went into every room.

“Mr. McCall. Agent Smith,” one of them called, “upstairs, the first bedroom on your right.”

Jack and Rex took the stairs two at a time. An AM-180 machine gun bolted to the floor, loaded with a full magazine, quietly aimed through the window directly at the chief justice’s white colonial across the street. From that position the 180 could rip through a small crowd like a scythe cutting down spring wheat.

Jack let out a low whistle. “Get your top forensic guys in here, Rex. This is the one place we’ve found where LW has been. I want every conceivable test run on this gun, the room, the toilets, show- ers, sinks, faucets, knobs, window sliders, the contents of the drains, everything in the kitchen. And don’t miss the trash.”

“They know what to do,” Rex said.

“Mr. McCall,” another agent called out. “There’s a note taped behind the door. Your name’s on it.”

Jack holstered his Sig Sauer, pulled on latex gloves, and care- fully peeled the note off the door. It had been composed, like the note left at Jack’s house with Rachel’s bra, using words cut from mag- azines and newspapers. Before reading, he turned to Rex.

“LW could be watching us right now. Call in the chopper to search the neighborhood. Assign your squad for ground support.”

Before leaving, Rex told one of the SWAT guys to stay with Jack. Jack read the note twice.

Dear Jack: