Don't Look Away (Veronica Sloan) (32 page)

This time, she actually had some luck. A page full of images of keys appeared on the small screen. She scrolled down, and finally saw one that looked exactly like the one Daniels had found in the White House tunnel. Clicking the link, she was taken to a page about…

“Boat motors,” she whispered.

The key was apparently very old, hard to find and had been used for watercraft with an Evinrude or Johnson Outboard motor.

Wheels started to turn in her brain, clicking away as she tried to fit the pieces together.

Not just a key, a boat key. Not just a boat key, an old boat key, the kind that might be used on an old, classic yacht.

Her heart was beating fast now. Very fast. Suddenly wondering what had been done with the key, she picked up the phone and called her lieutenant. When he answered, she didn’t even say hello, barking, “What happened to Daniels’s personal belongings? Did the E.M.T.’s take it off him? Are they here at the hospital?”

Her boss didn’t question her sharp tone, he knew her well enough to know when she was on to something important. “His clothes, possessions, everything he had on him was bagged in the emergency room and is now here, in my custody.”

“Was there a key? A small, black key, with the number 76 stamped on it? Daniels would have bagged it.”

“No.”

The doubled heartbeat now went into triple overtime. “You’re sure?”

“I’m positive, Sloan, there was no bagged key. The only unusual thing he had on him was a sheath of papers with printouts about some suicides. Otherwise, just his wallet, badge, keys—his personal ones—the usual.” Someone in the background called for him and he barked an impatient reply. Then he got back to her. “What have you got?”

“Not sure yet,” she said, meaning it. “Right now, it’s just a suspicion, I need a little time.”

“Call me as soon as you have something and don’t do anything without backup,” he ordered.

Agreeing, she ended the call and continued to think.

The key/yacht connection had instantly made her think of Leanne Carr’s boss, Jack Williams. She’d liked the man for the crime from the start, mainly because she’d considered him the perfect person to lure the woman to the White House on Independence Day, and because of how closely he’d stuck to the investigation. The only thing she had no clue about was a motive.

Then she remembered the memory book. And that torn-out photo.

She glanced at the clock, hating to leave when Daniels might get out of surgery at any time. Finally, though, driven by a compulsion to follow this new clue to the end, she left the hospital, getting a cab to take her home.

Once at home, she stripped out of her sticky clothes and got comfortable, knowing she might have a lot of looking to do. Then she went to the table and retrieved the micro-disk with Leanne’s files. She plugged it into her handheld, hooked that up to the huge monitor, and plopped onto the couch. She didn’t go looking at the memories from Leanne’s O.E.P. chip. Instead, she scrolled through those other documents retrieved from her hard drive. To the one called Membook.

Opening it, Ronnie went right to the large, group shot on the beach—the one half missing from the final book. Remembering what Williams had said about how his assistant had gotten some of the pictures, she did the same thing. The new Google face-and-featured search wasn’t perfect, and you could get a lot of false positive results. But the one in the book
had
been Williams—she knew that much—and she had the feeling Leanne had found it online. Because if Williams wanted to keep the picture a secret, he certainly wouldn’t have left it around the house for his wife to find.

Using the software to capture the faces of all the people on the right side of the photo—the side torn from the book—she started a wide search, looking for any matches. Because there were so many at once, she had no problem finding the same photograph, which had been posted on somebody’s Facebook page at least ten years ago.

“The Internet never forgets,” she muttered as she studied the shot. Now came the hard part. “Who here did you not want to be associated with?” she whispered.

She was going to have to single out every face on that side and see what she could find about each one.

Because she had noticed right away that the person closest to Williams on the torn-out side was a pretty young woman, she started with her. Cropping her face, she enlarged it as much as she could, then added it to her search parameters and began again. She bit her fingernail as the program began to load hits on the screen.

There were lots of hits. Her eye was drawn to the very first one, a newspaper photo. Newspaper meant newsworthy.

She clicked on the link and was taken to the source photo, posted with an article from the Miami Herald dated April 13, 1991. The minute she read the first paragraph, everything began to fall into place. The timing, the lure, the violence, the crime.

The memory book.

Going back to the search results and clicking several more links, reading all the follow-up articles, she became even more certain. She understood. At last, she understood.

Though she thought about calling her lieutenant, Ronnie knew he’d want to take time putting together a team to evaluate her findings. She didn’t need a team. She just needed one sharp, brilliant mind. So she picked up the phone and called Sykes. She didn’t tell him anything over the phone, instead asking him to come over.

He was there in under ten minutes.

“It’s Williams,” she said the moment she swung open her front door. “Jack Williams killed Leanne Carr.”

He didn’t ask stupid questions or question her certainty. He merely stalked in and said, “Explain.”

She did, telling him about the key, about the memory book, the photo and the search. She pulled up the images as she spoke, proving her case clearly and concisely.

“That girl’s face shows up in dozens of newspaper articles because she was brutally murdered in April of 1991. She was a college student from Wisconsin, visiting Florida for spring break. She was cut to pieces, her body dumped on the beach. It was one of the most violent murders Miami ever saw.”

He seeing it exactly the way she did. “M.O. sure sounds similar.”

“Doesn’t it? One of the articles said that somebody close to the case hinted that police were suspicious of someone, but they couldn’t find any definite proof of a connection between him and the victim. It also implied this person had powerful connections and they couldn’t act without more evidence.”

“Williams.”

“Right. His father was a senator, remember? They would have lawyered him up so fast and threatened so many lawsuits, the cops would never have moved on him without a rock-solid case and sure wouldn’t have released his name to the press.”

“Think this beach photo would have given them the proof they needed?”

“Absolutely. It would have at least shown a connection between Williams and the victim.”

“Jesus. Can you imagine what he thought when he opened that birthday gift and saw that picture staring up at him?”

“He must have panicked. Until that moment, he probably thought he’d gotten away with this decades ago.”

But there was no statute of limitations on murder. He’d have to know that.

“Tearing the page out wasn’t enough,” Sykes said. “He had to make sure Leanne hadn’t stumbled over anything else about this young woman.”

Her bitterness creeping into her voice, she replied, “Yes, and I think he figured he might as well have some fun while he was taking care of his problem.”

They were both silent for a little while. Thinking about that. About a nice young woman, well-liked by everyone, including her boss and his family, being lured by him to her horrible, brutal death. Had she known? Had she figured out who he was?

Considering just how evil this crime—and the one in 1991—had been, she had to assume he would have wanted her to know. He’d been careful not to let himself be seen by that camera in her head, which, of course, he had known about, but he would have done something to clue her off. Because that’s just how evil worked.

“There’s one thing that doesn’t fit, though,” Sykes mused. “Well, two things, actually.”

She was way ahead of him. “
Brian Underwood and Eddie Girardo.

“Right.”

“I know. It stumped me too. Then I started thinking about that case several years ago, when a guy who wanted to kill his wife went to a store near his house and put poisoned capsules in packages of over-the-counter pain medication. He bought one, his wife died, as did a couple of innocent people who’d bought the other bottles. Everybody thought she was the victim of a random killer.”

“I remember. So you think Williams killed two other implantees when he realized everybody was focusing on the fact that Leanne was part of the O.E.P. experiment? He wanted to make it look like it was connected to the program, not the person?”

“Philadelphia and Richmond are pretty close to D.C.,” she said with a shrug.

“How would he find out their status as implantees?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “But he’s got a lot of money and a lot of connections. I imagine he could pay for any information he wanted. Frankly, it’s the best I’ve got. We won’t know for sure until we question him.”

At that, Sykes let out a rude noise.

“What?”

“You really think we’re going to get anywhere near him with this? We’re going to have to walk on eggshells with this guy. We can’t just call him in for questioning like Bailey.”

She hated to admit it, but she knew he was right. They would have to be extremely careful and they needed more evidence than they had now to even try to talk her boss into having Williams brought in.

“If only we had that stupid key,” she muttered. “I’ll bet it had his fingerprint on it.”

The key’s presence in the tunnel might not have been damning, but it did help add to the pile of circumstantial evidence that might have brought the man down.

“Think that’s why he attacked Daniels? So he could get it back?”

“Yes, I do.”

Sykes frowned. “So how’d he know Daniels had it? He wasn’t with him in the tunnel.”

“Definitely not.” She snapped her fingers. “But Johansen was! What if he told him? He might have mentioned it to Williams, might be able to make some kind of connection between them.”

“We need to talk to Johansen.”

She was already on her feet, not even wasting the time it would take to get into her uniform. Fuck regulations. She’d tear the White House apart in jeans and a T-shirt if it meant catching the man who’d attacked her partner.

Sykes was right behind her as they walked out the door. When they reached the parking lot, he headed for his FBI vehicle and she went to her car.

“Wait…”

“I’m driving,” she snapped. “My head’s fine and I really need to grip something in my fists and choke the shit out of it.”

He held up his hands. “Okay, just don’t mistake my throat for the steering wheel.”

“Not a chance. But believe me, if I had a shot at Williams, he’d have a really tough time ever swallowing again.”

Because of the shut-downs on the site last week, Ronnie knew crews were working around-the-clock at the White House, which meant the Secret Service would have to have a presence. She hoped to find Johansen on site, but if he wasn’t, they could at least find out how to reach him from somebody else in the office.

First, of course, they had to go through security. Jesus, if she’d thought it had been bad during the morning after a murder, it was ridiculous on a Saturday night. That could be because more drunks were out and about, protestors and the like, but it could also be because she pulled up to the security gate a little too fast.

“Get out of the vehicle!” a voice shouted. Meanwhile, six body-armor wearing soldiers leveled their weapons at the windshield of the car and three more came running from further down along the fence-line.

“Whoops,” she mumbled, wishing she’d taken the time to get her uniform back out. It wouldn’t have gotten them past this checkpoint but it might have made it slightly less probably that they were gonna get shot.

“Please don’t get me shot tonight,” Sykes said, groaning.

She opened the door, putting her hands on her head as she stepped out. “Sorry!” she called. Then, hoping to speed things up, she added, “I’m Detective Veronica Sloan, D.C.P.D., that’s Special Agent Sykes. We’re investigating a murder.”

“Shut the hell up,” the glaring, stone-jawed soldier replied.

Sykes apparently didn’t like that. “Watch your mouth, soldier.”

Ten pair of eyes, armed to the teeth, swung in his direction.

He didn’t back down. “I understand protocol, I know you’re doing a tough job, but there was  time when the armed forces actually treated people with respect. There was also such a thing as professional cooperation between the military, cops and the FBI.”

The aggressive one took a step forward, murder in his eyes, then a voice barked, “Stand down.”

A sergeant, who’d been hidden in the shadows behind a nearby truck, apparently smoking a cigarette, which clung to his bottom lip, emerged. He walked straight over to Sykes, his bushy brow pulled down into a frown. When he got close, he didn’t snap at him, he instead stuck his hand out. “Howya doin’ Lieutenant?”

Ronnie’s mouth fell open. Sykes was ex-military? She would never have guessed that. Not in a million years. He was so…educated, and squeaky-clean. It boggled the mind.

Sykes grinned. “Just fine, Sarge. It’s good to see you. Didn’t know you’d pulled White House duty.”

“Shit duty is what it is.” He waved a few of his other troops over. “Go ahead and scan them…with
respect
.”

The first soldier, who’d been so aggressive, backed up, trudging, as if knowing he was going to get reamed out shortly.

The screening was over in under three minutes. The fastest she’d ever experienced. During that time, she eavesdropped a little on Sykes’s conversation with the sergeant, who’d apparently served with him in Iran before he’d left the military and joined the FBI.

Was she ever going to really know this man? Or would there always be new facets, layers to discover? She hadn’t had time to dwell on it—on them—for obvious reasons. But for just one second, she allowed a hint of sadness, near pain, to stab her dead center.

Things would have been tough to work out between her and Sykes before Daniels had been attacked.
Now she honestly didn’t imagine how they ever could.

That would have been painful to realize yesterday. After last night, what they’d shared in that Richmond hotel room? It was, quite frankly, devastating.

Okay, pull a Scarlett O’Hara and think about that tomorrow
, she told herself.

Thanking the sergeant, they headed through the gate toward the White House. Coming up on it at night was a different experience. During the daytime it looked like a monstrous beast. In the dark, with the spaced spotlights shining only on certain areas of it, there were glimmers of the building it had once been…and would be again. She could almost see the graceful columns and stately grounds, both of which were a long way off. Still, for the first time since coming back here last week, she was reminded of the warm, patriotic way this place used to make her feel, before the world had exploded into blood and fire in 2017.

Maybe it could happen again. Maybe she and everyone else in the country would feel it again. She certainly hoped so, anyway.

Reaching the nearest construction crew, they flashed their identification, asked which of the Secret Service agents were on site and were informed Johansen and Kilgore were both here. After being admitted to the building, they went inside and headed for the security office.

“We’re looking for SSA Johansen,” said Ronnie as they entered the room, surprising Kilgore at his desk.

The SAIC flinched, shoving what looked like a magazine he’d been reading down onto his lap and crumpling it in his fists. “Ever hear of knocking?”

She cast a pointed look at the sign on the door, clearly marked as the security center. “Oh, sorry, I didn’t realize this your
private
office.”

Beside her, she heard Sykes quietly tsk.
Honey and vinegar, Sloan
.

“What do you want him for?” Kilgore asked.

She carefully explained about wanting to ask what had been found during the search of the tunnel last night, revealing as little as possible. Kilgore, who had to have heard about Daniels, didn’t even ask his condition. The ass.

“Last I saw SSA Johansen was about twenty minutes ago,” he said, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest. “He got a call, then said he was going to walk around. He mentioned needing to check-out something in the sub-basement.”

“Does he usually do that? Go walking around checking windows and doors like a rent-a-cop?”

The SAIC sneered. “No. We’re not security guards, you know.”

No, they weren’t. And a routine sweep seemed very much beneath the pompous Secret Service agent and his team. Very curious.

They turned to leave, but before they did, something occurred to Ronnie and she had to turn around. “Question for you, Kilgore.”

His jaw stiffened at the disrespectful tone.

“Whyd’ja  spy on Bailey and Leanne Carr doing it and never put a stop to it?”

The belligerent man’s eyes almost popped out of his head. She noted that he immediately reached for whatever magazine he’d been reading when they walked in and pushed it down onto the floor below his desk, as if that would shield it better from their view. Unfortunately for him, all it did was make it easier to see beneath the desk. She caught a glimpse of a graphic image of a couple involved in a sex act, and immediately grasped it.

“Friggin’ pervert,” she muttered as she turned and walked out of the office.

He sputtered something behind her, but she didn’t even acknowledge it. She had absolutely no use for the man and if and when this awful case ever ended, she would file a complaint against him.

“Sure hope you don’t ever get White House detail under that guy,” Sykes said, his tone low and reproving.

“He’s a creep.”

“Definitely. But not necessarily the kind of guy you want to call a pervert to his face.”

“I call them as I see them,” she snapped as they reached the stairwell.

They jogged down, taking the stairs a few at a time. About halfway down, she suddenly got a chill, remembering the last time she’d come down here. Thankfully, this time, she had backup.

When they reached the bottom level, she saw all the lights were on. Stepping out into the corridor, near the area where Leanne’s remains had been scattered, she called, “Johansen? SSA Johansen?”

Nothing. Not a sound, not a whisper, not a movement.

“Strange,” Sykes said. “You’d think he would have killed the lights when he was finished.

Yes, she would have thought that. But another thought occurred to her. She approached the breaker panel, lifting a hand to the mass of switches.

“What are you doing?”

She thought about it, pictured what Johansen had done last night, when he’d been down here with Daniels, and pulled what she thought was the correct sequence of levers.

A click and the entire wall behind the panel popped out an inch.

“Holy shit, the mystery tunnel?”

“Uh huh.” She stepped inside. As soon as her feet crossed the threshold, the lights came on, washing in a wave down the long corridor, which sloped down slightly as it led away from the White House in the direction of the Washington Monument.

Sykes followed. “Think he’s in here?” He raised his voice and called for the agent, but they heard nothing in response.

Ronnie was about to suggest they go upstairs and search the basement—her second least favorite level in this building—when she spotted something on the floor a few feet away. It looked like a scrap of fabric. Small and ragged, the green square appeared to have been torn off someone’s clothing. Or someone’s green uniform.

Right beside it was a tiny red spot. Liquid. Shiny.

Blood.

“Sykes,” she said, nodding toward it.

He was already unsnapping his holster, way ahead of her. His voice a thick whisper, he said, “I’ll take point.”

She nodded, retrieving her weapon as well, holding it down at her side.

They edged down into the tunnel, walking quietly. Although they could see a good distance in front of them, because of the powerful overhead lights, the hallway made a sharp turn about ten yards ahead, and they could make out nothing beyond it.

Every so often, they would catch sight of another tiny, red spot. Eventually, they got a little bigger, going from a pinpoint to the size of a dime, then a nickel.

Whoever was bleeding was in trouble. He’d staggered down this hallway—been pushed, or ordered at gunpoint—getting worse with every step he took.

They hugged the inside wall, edging toward that unknown turn in their path. Ronnie thought hard about Daniels’s download, remembering that the next section of the tunnel went for about five yards, before turning sharply again, this time to the left.

Just about to whisper that to Sykes, she froze when every light in the place cut out.

Blackness descended. Her pulse fluttering wildly, Ronnie fought to control her reaction. Instinct was trying to take over, trying to remind her of what had happened the last time she was trapped down her in the dark with a madman.

It’s not the same. He won’t catch you off guard.

Plus, this time, she wasn’t alone.

Sykes moved closer in the darkness, until his warm breaths fell onto the side of her face. “Emergency lights will come on,” he said, his voice as light and soft as a butterfly’s wing.

She waited. Her pounding heart kept the time.

Nothing happened. No emergency lights. She imagined their opponent, who was in charge of rebuilding this entire place, knew his way around an emergency power generator.

Finally, realizing they weren’t going to come on, Sykes asked, “Flashlight?”

She again cursed herself for not taking the time to change into her uniform, on which she’d clipped a nice, sturdy little mag the other day after her dark-adventures in the White House. “No.”

“I left my damn phone charging in the car. Yours?”

She groaned softly. “You’re not going to believe it, but I raced out of my place without it.”

A phone screen might not have done much good, but anything was better than this inky world in which they’d been thrown.

“I believe it,” he said. “Because, sometimes, if it weren’t for bad luck, you’d have no luck at all, Veronica Sloan.”

“Tell me about it.” She just hoped her partner had luck enough to make it through the night. And that she and Sykes had enough to get them out of this hellhole.

“Back? Or forward?” Sykes asked.

She thought about it. They were at about the halfway point, if her memory was correct. Going back in the blackness through which they’d already come seemed moderately better than going forward into the unknown. But it didn’t mean they wouldn’t be walking into a trap, no matter which way they went. Williams could have been hiding somewhere in the basement when they went into the tunnel and followed them in. Or he could be ahead of them with Johansen’s body.

Damn it, think, think
.

Suddenly, an option popped into her head. She remembered everything Daniels had noticed and thought frantically, trying to figure just how many steps they’d come. They’d been looking forward, focusing on finding Johansen, or Williams, and she hadn’t paid any attention to all those emergency supplies left like bread crumbs for missing children along the trail.

But it couldn’t be far. There had been more medical kits, yes, but there had to be at least one of the boxes she was looking for between here and the entrance.

“I’ve got an idea,” she whispered, gripping his arm. Holding on, she pulled him to the other side of the tunnel. She put her free hand up on the wall, a little above her head, and began walking back towards the White House, feeling every inch of the way. Her eyes hadn’t adjusted the tiniest bit. They were moving through blackness, it was as dark as a sensory deprivation chamber, and she had to rely only on touch. It was dizzying, frightening being totally blind, especially knowing they were not alone and were, most likely, being stalked by a predator.