Aftershock: A Donovan Nash Novel (A Donovan Nash Thriller) (16 page)

Scrolling backward, Lauren found the interrogation and the affidavit that Romero had died from natural causes. She glanced down at the page numbers—there was an eleven-page gap. The entire interrogation report was missing. She noted the name of the FBI agent in charge: Special Agent Gordon Butterfield.

“Why is the interrogation missing from Meredith’s file?”

“That’s always been a big question mark. It’s assumed that someone inside the Costa Rican police destroyed the report when Romero died. There’s speculation that the interrogation methods were too severe and the transcript subsequently destroyed. The cause of death was listed as natural causes by a local medical examiner and the body promptly cremated at the request of the family. One of the highest profile kidnappings since the Lindbergh baby, and the FBI walked away with very little solid information. I heard that heads rolled afterwards.”

“Was Butterfield implicated?” Lauren asked.

“His career took a hit, but he dodged the worst of it,” Montero replied. “You’ve been going over that for a while—any insights?”

“It’s not easy reading. I didn’t expect the photographs,” Lauren answered. “You’re right though, there’s a great deal of leeway in how this report was prepared and what it really says. The investigation was botched by either the FBI, or the Costa Rican authorities, or even by this unnamed group. It looks to me that someone took the path of least resistance and placed the blame on Robert Huntington, an easy task once he was already declared dead.”

“When I discovered he was still alive, and then spent some time with him, I could easily see why he did what he did,”
Montero said. “Based on everything I know, I’d have done the same thing.”

“It was a horrible time for him,” Lauren replied. “William told me some things that broke my heart. How lost Robert was, the serious death threats, pills and alcohol. He hid in his Monterey house he’d shared with Meredith and nearly unraveled completely. If William hadn’t stepped in and orchestrated what he did, I don’t know if Robert would have survived.”

“Hearing you speak about William the way you do, makes it all the more impossible to believe that he could have a hand in any of the manipulations the FBI is pursuing.”

Lauren was about to reply when the chartered jet began to slow and make a descending turn. She peered out the window, and in the distance, spotted the Tri-Cities Airport tucked into the picturesque hills of Eastern Tennessee.

“That was a quick trip,” Montero remarked as she collected her work and put everything into her briefcase. “I reserved us a rental car. Once we land, there should be an e-mail from Deputy Director Graham as to Butterfield’s exact whereabouts.”

“What if Butterfield doesn’t want to talk?”

“Oh, he’ll talk.” Montero smiled knowingly as the jet’s landing gear was lowered and the seat belt sign came on.

Lauren had no doubt that Montero could be a formidable interrogator, though neither one of them possessed any official capacity. Butterfield was a retired FBI agent, and Lauren doubted that Montero would scare him all that much. The wheels touched down and they taxied to the executive terminal. Montero’s e-mail was waiting and she quickly typed their destination into her phone’s GPS. As they deplaned, Lauren issued instructions to the crew to remain on standby. She assured them she’d call when they were on their way back to the airport.

Once in the car, Montero sped toward Deer Creek Country Club.

“What do we do if he’s somewhere out on the course?” Lauren asked.

“We go find him,” Montero said. “He’s pushing seventy, how hard can he be to catch?”

“I’m not sure
catch
is the right word,” Lauren said.

“Here we are.” Montero braked and turned into the tree-lined lane that led to the parking lot. She double-checked her Glock and turned toward Lauren. “Ready?”

They hurried through the doors into the air-conditioned building and made their way down a hallway filled with framed pictures of famous golfers. Lauren heard people talking, and Montero continued toward the rear of the building and ultimately found the pro shop.

“Excuse me?” Montero said to a young man behind a counter. “I’m looking for Gordon Butterfield.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied politely as he glanced at a large clock on the wall. “Go out those doors, down the stairs. He’s not scheduled to tee off for another fifteen minutes so he’ll be on the putting green. You can’t miss the orange slacks.”

Lauren fell in behind Montero and easily spotted Butterfield. From Montero, Lauren knew that Butterfield was in his late sixties and severely overweight. He wasn’t an inch over five-foot seven, wearing a beat-up floppy hat and dark glasses. He was all upper body, a white shirt stretched over an enormous stomach and large rounded shoulders. He was leaning over a putt, and Lauren wondered briefly how he could even see the ball, let alone stroke the tiny putter that looked like a toothpick compared to his massive arms. She walked closer and watched as the golf ball traveled across ten feet of green, curved toward the cup, and dropped into the hole. He turned around as if sensing their arrival, then returned to practicing.

“You both have FBI written all over you.” His gruff voice came out as almost a bellow. He slapped another ball into position and took aim. “What do you want?”

“For starters, how about your undivided attention?” Montero said.

Lauren hadn’t expected this to be easy. From everything she’d read, and from what Montero had explained, Butterfield could be a difficult man.

“Are you the good cop or the bad cop?” Butterfield asked without looking up.

“Actually,” Montero said, stepping closer, “we’re both bad, and unless you want your ass kicked by a girl here in front of all of your golf buddies, I suggest you listen to us.”

Butterfield looked up and removed his glasses, sizing them both up. He fixed on Montero then slipped his glasses back on his face. “I know who you are. The dark hair is a bit deceptive, but you’re Special Agent Veronica Montero, the FBI’s poster girl for freedom and patriotism. To what do I owe the pleasure of such an esteemed visitor?”

“We’re looking into an old case,” Montero said. “One that involved you.”

“I read that you’re not FBI anymore, you’re in charge of some women’s shelters in Florida,” Butterfield said to Montero, then shifted his gaze to Lauren. “What’s your story?”

“This case involves a friend of mine,” Lauren said.

“I’m retired,” Butterfield said. “Go back to DC and leave me alone.”

“I’m not afraid of much, Mr. Butterfield,” Lauren chose her words carefully. “Not even you. But one of the few things that
does
scare me are the people who killed Meredith Barnes.”

“I’ll be damned,” Butterfield said, this time far quieter than before. “Is someone finally going after that bastard William VanGelder?”

Lauren felt her knees start to buckle. She stood motionless, keeping her composure. Her expression remained steady as he stared at her. She tried to remain passive, not to give away the fact that she felt like he’d just punched her in the stomach.

“Let’s go talk.” Butterfield tossed his putter against his golf bag lying next to the green. “This way.”

Lauren and Montero didn’t say a word as they moved
toward a bench situated well away from the other golfers. Lauren was still reeling by what Butterfield had just said.

Butterfield sat directly in the middle of the bench, forcing Lauren and Montero to stand as if he were holding court. “Before I tell you a thing, what’s in it for me?”

Lauren watched Montero, who never flinched. Butterfield was a bully and used to getting his way. He was also highly intelligent. “Romero’s missing interrogation report as a witness in the Barnes case. You got your ass handed to you over that, right? It’s the one cloud on a solid career. Help us connect some dots, and I’ll personally tell the director you were a critical part of our investigation.”

“That works for me,” Butterfield nodded. “It was always my theory that VanGelder had the pages destroyed,” Butterfield said without emotion.

“Romero told you about VanGelder?” Lauren’s stomach felt empty as she said the name of the man who was Donovan’s closest friend, and a man she herself had grown to love.

Butterfield shook his head. “Romero was several steps removed from whoever had orchestrated the plan to assassinate Meredith Barnes. He’d heard some names, and, frankly, he wasn’t afraid of the Americans, but he was terrified of someone in Central America. He died before we could find out who this person was—all we had was a nickname, or a code name:
la Serpiente
. Hell, I don’t know if there’s any truth to what Romero told us, everything could be a lie, or a misdirection. I do, however, believe Meredith Barnes, as well as others, were assassinated, not kidnapped, by a group that reached far into the boardrooms of corporate America. I heard whispers once that they called themselves the conclave. I think Meredith Barnes was killed to keep her from strengthening an already growing public resolve to keep them from drilling oil wherever and whenever they wanted. This collection of oilmen placed the blame squarely at Robert Huntington’s feet and let him take the fall. To be honest, I wouldn’t be surprised if they killed him to tie up loose
ends. VanGelder is the one constant in this entire process. He could have easily killed Huntington.”

“So, you don’t think Robert Huntington killed Meredith Barnes?” Montero asked. “This unidentified group did?”

“Robert Huntington,” Butterfield paused. “No way Huntington pulled the trigger, though he was certainly meant to take the fall, to swing the focus from those who did. You won’t find that in any report, hell, none of my questions were ever formally acknowledged. But the mention of
la Serpiente
seemed to scare the crap out of the locals. I think it was part of the mythology created by the conspirators. I do know that to engineer a conspiracy as bold and complex as the murder of Meredith Barnes, doesn’t happen without a great deal of money and influence—VanGelder’s type of clout. William VanGelder is one of the most dangerous men I’ve ever come across. Meredith Barnes never stood a chance.”

It was painful for Lauren to hear someone speak ill of William. She needed to move this conversation along.

“What about a man by the name of Hector Vargas?” Montero asked.

“Vargas is another turd in the punch bowl. He’s a Mexican national who has just enough legitimate dealings to mask all of his criminal enterprises behind the smoke screen. Vargas has been in the background for years, but he’s not the mastermind of anything significant. If the two of you want some answers, you need to start digging as far away from Bureau files as you can. In fact, there are two cases you should look into. They won’t show up on any Bureau database because they were outside our purview, but I always thought they had VanGelder written all over them.”

“What cases?” Montero asked.

“There were the Rochas, a Brazilian family. A mother and daughter were kidnapped in Costa Rica a few days before Meredith Barnes was abducted. I always thought it was a diversion to weaken an already shaky Costa Rican police force. The investigation was between the Costa Rican and Brazilian
authorities. I don’t remember all that transpired, but I think the mother and daughter were killed in a fire despite the ransom being paid. Afterwards, the father committed suicide and the family’s holdings in Brazil were sold to an oil company.”

“What company?” Lauren asked.

“Knight Oil, they were big back in the day, until they were bought out.”

“Bought by Huntington Oil?” Lauren asked.

“That’s right, and there was one other case, technically it wasn’t a kidnapping, just good old-fashioned extortion,” Butterfield said. “In Belize. A guy by the name of Franklin Lange—the CEO of a financial company that dealt in venture capital, and he dealt almost exclusively with the energy sector. His wife was with him in Belize, and she seemingly vanished, but no kidnapping was ever reported, no foul play suspected. According to Lange, she’d gone back to Texas. I could never prove anything, and when we found her at home in Dallas, it was obvious she’d been beaten, and she wouldn’t talk. A day later, Lange packed up and went home as well, deciding at the last minute to cancel the financing of a huge oil exploration deal in Belize. A few weeks after that, the oil and gas rights were sold to Knight Oil. Their chairman and founder, Elijah Knight, was one of the men I suspected was connected to VanGelder.”

“What happened to him?”

“My guess is there was a falling out, or a reorganization of some kind. VanGelder was brutal, he destroy—”

Lauren heard the bullet whiz past her ear and hit Butterfield square in the chest, the gun’s report followed an instant later. Montero slammed into her from the side and pushed her to the ground. As Montero, her gun drawn, searched in the direction the shot had come from, other golfers were shouting, pointing toward what looked like a maintenance shed. Lauren looked at Butterfield. The bullet had hit him center mass, a red stain expanding on his white shirt, his chin rested on his chest, his eyes open and unblinking.

“We need to get out of here,” Montero said. “We’re going to the left and work our way around to the parking lot.”

Lauren was up on her feet and running, knowing she’d never hear the gunshot if a bullet found her. Montero followed. They reached the rental car and moments later Montero squealed the tires as they raced out of the parking lot.

“How many people knew we were looking for Butterfield?” Lauren kept an eye on the road behind them.

“We’ve got big problems,” Montero said, as she too checked to see if they were followed. “I have no idea, but the only people I told work at the Bureau.”

“Do you think the FBI just assassinated a former agent?”

“Someone did. And yeah, it could have been the FBI, or the CIA, or this shadowy group Butterfield just told us about. Hell, it could have been anyone.”

“Is there anyone we do trust?” Lauren asked.

“Why?”

“We have two names,” Lauren said. “Franklin Lange, the guy in Dallas, and Elijah Knight. If either man is still alive, we need to talk to them before they end up like Butterfield. I especially want to know what William did to this Elijah Knight and why.”