The Trigger (19 page)

“Nope.”

Frustrated, McCullen pushed to his feet and handed her a card with his email. “Please send a copy of the video footage to me this afternoon. Thanks for your time.”

Before leaving, he showed the photo to the teller, asked the same questions, and got the same answers. It puzzled him that Charlotte Archer had never been inside the bank. You couldn’t scope out a security system from the parking lot.

Outside, he walked around to the back of the property on the north side of the building, where the witness had said the victim’s car was parked. In one direction, he was staring at the brick wall of the bank. In the other, was the back entrance to The Highland. Had Charlotte been casing the bank or the bar?

Friday, May 10, 1:46 p.m.

Randall bumped along the road, alternately worrying about his son Tate’s fever and his SAIX mission. Even though Rebel had given him an explosive with a timer to leave in the Westin Building, he wanted to put together another device as a backup. He and Spencer had dynamite, blasting caps, and fuse wire in one of the storage lockers, as part of their preparation, in case they ever needed explosive for mining or dam building. They had used dynamite to shatter a huge boulder when they were building the underground bunker years ago, so he had some experience with it. This time, he might use it to shut down a local technology company that was rapidly becoming a go-to browser and cloud-storage center for internet companies. DigiSpace hadn’t been on his original list of targets, but now that he was directly involved, it was a viable communication center to hit.

As Randall neared the cluster of houses, he noticed his brother and Sonja were no longer on the back patio. Where was Spencer? He hoped he hadn’t gone into town. Tate needed antibiotics, and Spencer was the one who knew which kind and how much. Randall parked the cart next to Spencer’s house and hurried to the front door. He pounded once, then turned the knob. Spencer kept his home open so community members could help care for Lisa, only locking a few rooms for privacy.

Randall stepped inside and called out, trying to sound more casual than he felt. He heard voices in Spencer’s study and started across the living room. His brother came up the hallway carrying a semiautomatic handgun. Behind him, Sonja shouldered a Bushmaster rifle.
What the hell?

“I’m going to teach Sonja how to shoot.” Spencer grinned, looking ridiculously happy.

What was he thinking? Randall tried to keep his voice calm. “I need your help with something important.” He turned to Sonja, who looked sexy in her little skirt and weaponry. “Will you please excuse us? Spencer and I have things to attend to.”

His brother’s jaw tightened, and Randall thought he saw a flash of anger in Sonja’s eyes as well. But she gave him a charming look of disappointment.

She touched Spencer’s shoulder. “Should I put this back in the gun safe?”

“I’ll take it.” Randall stepped forward, and she handed over the rifle.

She smiled at him but he ignored it. Sonja headed for the front. “I’ll see you later.”

They both waited until she’d closed the door.

“What is this about?” Spencer still looked annoyed.

“Tate has a fever of a hundred and two. Emma has been giving him Tylenol, but she says it’s not helping.”

“Oh hell. Why now?” Spencer turned toward the hall. “Let’s put these weapons away and round up some amoxicillin.”

Randall followed. “I’m glad you think antibiotics will be enough. Emma wants to take him to the ER.”

Spencer stopped at his bedroom and gave Randall a look. “We can’t exactly do that now, can we?”

Randall felt the blame, as always. A spark tossed carelessly on his tinderbox of stress. “You helped me kidnap her! And if we’re serious about triggering a meltdown, we need to accept that we’re on our own and deal with whatever comes up.”

“You’re right. We can handle this. Babies get fevers all the time.” Spencer grabbed the rifle from him and put it in the gun safe. The handgun he shoved under a pillow. “I’ll get amoxicillin from the medicine closet in Lisa’s room and meet you in a minute.”

With everything happening, Randall had forgotten that Lisa was even in the house. She’d been incapacitated for so long, and with Sonja hanging around, it seemed as if Lisa was already gone. On his way out, he glanced in her room, but she had her eyes closed.

The sunshine had given way to a high layer of clouds, and Randall was relieved. Somehow, the bright glare had made him feel exposed. What he needed to accomplish in the next few days was better served by shadows. Randall waited in the cart on the passenger’s side, and Spencer joined him a few minutes later.

For a minute, they didn’t speak, and Randall worried that his brother was angry. Finally, Spencer said, “Lisa met Sonja this morning. She approves of our relationship.”

“That’s a little odd.” Randall wanted to ask how long Lisa would live, but Spencer had stopped speculating months ago.

“I think Lisa might only have a few days.” Spencer’s voice was careful. “Even though I’m ready to move on, I wish she would hold out until we get through the transition period.”

“That would be best. We’ve got enough going on.” Randall didn’t even want to think about calling the coroner or holding a service for Lisa. “Should you take her to the hospice center?”

“No! I promised Lisa she would die at home.”

“We’ll deal with it.”

The storage lockers were on the right, and Randall decided to get out. “Stop here. I don’t think we should both go to the bunker. Someone might come looking for us. I’ll go into the main storage locker, then head back.”

Spencer chuckled. “You just don’t want to see Emma while she’s still mad.” The golf cart came to a halt.

“Can you blame me?” Randall reached for his backpack. “Thanks for taking care of Tate. Your medical study will pay off for all of us.”

“I’ll be back soon. Even with Raff’s help, there’s still plenty left to do for the financial attack.”

A surge of fear washed over Randall. Could he keep Destiny going after the collapse if something happened to Spencer? Of course he could. He had to stop underestimating himself. Randall hopped out. It was time to start making another explosive.

Friday, May 10, late afternoon, Damascus

Hakim Chehab’s cell phone rang, and he glanced at the ID:
Bentley & Eastman
. A ripple of concern gripped him. Why would the asset management firm call him directly? He gave a traditional Arab greeting, but spoke in English. “Welcome, welcome. This is Hakim Chehab.”

“Praise Allah. May your day be full of light. I am Raja Haddad, assistant director of the London Division of Bentley & Eastman Investments. I’m concerned that I have troubling news.”

He knew it! The tone and greeting had not fooled him. “What has happened?”

A pause, then the man responded in a near whisper. “A hundred million dollars was transferred out of the Syrian Central Authority account.”

A spasm shot through his chest. “What do you mean
transferred
?”

“It was moved to an account in the International Bank of Israel. Did you authorize that transfer?”

Israel! The infidels!
He finally found his voice. “Of course I didn’t! Who made the transfer? And whose account has the money?”

The director cleared his throat. “We’re still trying to track that down. We think your account was hacked.”

No!
They had safeguards! “Get it back.” His voice was a growl.

“The money has been moved several times already, but we’re doing our best.”

“Unacceptable! You will replace it with your own profits.” Hakim hung up and threw his phone against the wall. Thoughts and emotions roiled, churning in a rage that he could barely contain. Outside his office window, traffic flowed and life went on as usual.
A hundred million!
His cousin, the Syrian president, had to be informed. Would Bashar punish him for it?

His assistant tentatively peered through the door. “Can I be of assistance?”

“No!”

His face disappeared. Trembling, Hakim called Bashar al-Assad on his direct line. If the Israeli government was behind the theft, it could not go unchallenged. Israel had been bombing missile shipments inside their borders for months. If they had not been dealing with an internal insurgency, they would have retaliated already. Their ally, Hassan Rohani of Iran, would be informed, and the Arab nations would unite to destroy their enemy.

Assad answered, “Praise Allah. I am blessed by the sound of your voice, Hakim.”

“Thank you, but I do not have good news. On the other hand, this loss might reunite Syrians against a common enemy.”

Friday, May 10, 4:15 p.m.

Back at the bureau, McCullen listened to his voicemail. Two more people had called about Charlotte’s photo. The first was a woman who believed the dead victim was her daughter, Rebecca Roswell, who’d been missing for three years. He returned her call and discovered the daughter would have only been nineteen—but the victim looked at least thirty. He took the information and asked her to bring in something of her daughter’s for a DNA comparison. The grieving mother seemed relieved to have something to do.

The second message was from a man who claimed the dead woman was Abby Smith, a girl he’d gone to high school with in Sacramento. That seemed more likely
.
He returned the call, but got no answer, so he did a quick online search for Abby Smith. In minutes, he found one with a Facebook page who lived in Eureka and looked somewhat like Charlotte’s fuzzy driver’s license photo. But she had posted on her page recently, and none of her friends or family seemed concerned she was missing, so he crossed her off too.

Both tipsters were local, and McCullen wondered why no one from Sacramento had called. The photo had supposedly run in the
Bee
that morning as well. He called his contact at the newspaper and discovered Charlotte’s picture hadn’t run yet because of a “glitch.” The sports editor promised to get it on the website ASAP and into the print version in the morning. Irritated by the delay, he opened the criminal database and started comparing Charlotte’s photo to women with a history of financial crimes. He’d already run a comparison to bank robbery convicts and suspects. After an hour, his eyeballs ached and he glanced at the time. It was after six. He would run home and grab some dinner, then stop at The Highland to show Charlotte’s photo around to the evening crew. His earlier stop had been a waste of time because it was midafternoon, so few employees and even fewer customers were present.

The point of going home for dinner was to spend a few minutes with McGoo, who tended to get nervous and start chewing things when he was gone for long periods. While his soup heated, McCullen played tug-of-war with the dog and kept one eye on the news. Even though he wanted a transfer to a bigger FBI office, he worried that a promotion would mean giving up his pet. Important cases would mean longer hours and more travel, neither of which would work out with the dog. The one time he’d taken him to a boarding facility, McGoo had lost weight and chewed off patches of his fur. How did other agents keep from getting lonely? The job was already a marriage killer.

Dusk fell as he drove back into town and parked at The Highland. The lot was full, and the employees wouldn’t appreciate being questioned during their busy time. But it had to be done.

He entered the restaurant side of the building. It was closest to the bank, and the manager would more likely be over there. The bar staff was smaller, and he remembered Emma commenting that it mostly ran itself. From the lobby, he flagged down the manager, introduced himself, and showed her Charlotte’s photo. “She might have come in or been sitting in the parking lot next door about three weeks ago.”

“Sorry, I’ve never seen her.” The manager’s dark hair was pulled back so tight it looked painful.

“Have you had any sign of someone trying to break into the place?”

She blinked. “Not that I’m aware of. Is this woman a criminal?”

“That’s what I’m trying to find out.” McCullen looked around at the busy staff. “I’d like to hang out in the kitchen until I’ve shown this photo to everyone on duty.”

“Your timing is really bad. We’re pretty busy here.”

“Is your full staff on tonight?”

“Almost.”

“Then my timing is great.”

She sighed and walked him through a swinging door into a narrow galley, where the smell of hot grease hung in the air, and employees squeezed by each other in constant motion.

“I really don’t think anyone here would have seen the woman if she sat in the parking lot next door.” The manager checked her watch.

“What about smokers going out back for a break?”

“Maybe. Talk to Jessie, the line cook, and Sabrina, the tall skinny server.”

Someone complained about being out of fried shrimp, and the manager excused herself.

McCullen stepped up to the stainless-steel counter separating the cooks from the servers. “Who’s Jessie?”

A thin-faced man looked up from the grill. “Who wants to know?”

“Agent McCullen, FBI.” He held out Charlotte’s photo. “Have you seen this woman hanging around?”

“I don’t think so. But then, I don’t see customers.”

“She could have been watching from the parking lot next door. You might have seen her when you were out back taking a break.”

“I didn’t see her.” His tone was unconcerned and his eyes impatient.

Over the next forty minutes, McCullen questioned everyone who came into the kitchen, including the dishwasher. No one had seen the woman who called herself Charlotte Archer. When he spotted the manager again, he called her over. “Can we step into your office for a minute?” The noise in the galley was overwhelming, and he didn’t understand how anyone could concentrate.

The office was tiny and crowded, and McCullen didn’t bother to sit. “I need to know if the business keeps cash on the premises.”

“We do, but it’s in a safe. The owners encourage people to pay cash by giving a discount.”

Maybe he should alert the IRS. “When is the cash deposited?”