Executive Actions (31 page)

C
overage of Congressman Lodge dominated Boston’s morning papers and early news. Nothing about Haywood Marcus made air until 11
A.M.
Once it was out, word spread quickly through the office. The law firm issued a statement puncutating Marcus’ esteemed accomplishments and his skill as a lawyer. Colleagues gathered in the halls, stunned by the senseless robbery and murder.

Katie Kessler believed robbery had nothing to do with it and the murder was anything but senseless. She reached Roarke on his cell phone.

“What?” the Secret Service agent shouted. “Say that again.”

“Marcus is dead. Shot and robbed walking in the North End.”

“Robbed my ass,” Roarke interrupted.

“That’s what I figured, too. Scott what’s this mean?

“I’ll get back to you, sweetheart. Gotta go.” He hadn’t answered her question.

Roarke called Shannon Davis’ office at the FBI. “I need everything you can get on a shooting last night in Boston,” he demanded. “Murder victim. The name is Haywood Marcus.”

“Marcus? Like in the Boston law firm?”

“Same one.”

“That’s a coincidence,” the FBI man said, not believing it.

“Yeah, right,” Roarke said, agreeing.

On another floor, Roy Bessolo opened an e-mail on his computer. An agent working on a case in Idaho had a footprint match he wanted to discuss. Bessolo worked on so many cases he didn’t give it much attention until a second e-mail popped up.

“Re: Latent print Sun Valley, ID—Hudson, NY 2
nd
analysis.”

This time Bessolo went right to the phone.

“Bessolo. You e-mailed me.”

“Yes, thanks,” said Jake Messenger, the Denver field officer. “Figured you might be interested in this. I was running the evidence analysis on a possible heart attack that one of our people lifted nearby.” He hadn’t been privy to the news it wasn’t a heart attack. “Well, I’ve been away on vacation and I just got back. After going through all of my messages, I saw the results of a routine search I put out to the bureau. A case in Hudson, New York came up. Hudson was where the guy took a pot shot at Congressman Lodge, right?”

“In a matter of speaking.”

“Well, 97 percent likelihood the footprint you pulled is a match to the one I got. A right Frey boot, basic signatures are the same, except a few more on mine. Probably for the wear and tear since.”

“Holy shit!” Bessolo shouted into his phone. “I want everything you have and every way to reach you. Cell phone, home phone. Your pager. Christ, I want to know that I can reach you if even when you’re banging your wife.”

Forty-five minutes later, Bessolo had what he needed. He read through the file. Maybe this case will finally break. Of course, one boot print didn’t mean he had a suspect. But it was a start. He read on. Now who the hell was this Nunes guy? He read further and saw that another agent had his hand on the file, too. Shannon Davis.

“All right, Davis. What the fuck is this all about?”

Shannon Davis recognized Bessolo’s voice. He closed his eyes and imagined Bessolo towering over him; his head as bald as a bowling ball, his body wound tighter than an eight-day clock. He was an asshole, but a great agent.

“What are you talking about?”

“You’ve been asking about a guy named Nunes?”

“Yes.”

“Well, seems that a footprint lifted near the recently departed Nunes comes up as a match for a little case I’m working on.”

“That’s nice,” he said without trying to give away his interest.

“Cut the shit you son of a bitch. This links back to the assassin in Hudson. And I want to know your involvement in this.”

“Well, now that the pleasantries are out of the way, why don’t you come down and we’ll talk about it,” Davis offered.

“No. I’ll see you in the director’s office.”

Davis gulped. This was escalating fast. “I’ll be there.”

Bessolo ignored the elevator and ran for the stairs. He beat Davis to Robert Mulligan’s office where he treated the FBI Director’s secretary to the same soft sell.

“Get me in to see Mulligan now,” he stated. “Shannon Davis will be down, too.”

She notified the director. Bessolo’s name carried weight. He got his meeting.

By the time Davis walked in, Bessolo was already standing over Mulligan’s desk, pointing to some papers. He looked pissed.

“Shannon.”

“Bob, good to see you.”

“I take it you know Roy.”

“Yes. We met about three years ago. November. The Mystic Seaport security breach.”

“The Al-Qaeda break-in,” Bessolo shot back.

“You did a good job.”

“You got in the way,” Bessolo answered.

“Enough, gentlemen,” the FBI Director said. “Now that we’ve established you have a little history between you, let’s talk about this.”

Mulligan pulled a picture of Alfred Nunes. He tossed it in front of Davis.

“Both of you, take seats. Shannon, you’re on.”

Davis began. “Alfred Nunes. Healthy until a few weeks ago. Apparent heart attack. Now suspected sodium morphate induced murder.”

“Come again?” Bessolo asked.

“Wait. Who is Nunes?” Mulligan asked.

“You’ll find this interesting. Former family attorney for the Lodges. Congressman Teddy Lodge’s family.”

“This isn’t your case, Shannon. Mind telling me why you’re so expert in this?”

“Scott Roarke asked me for some help a few weeks ago.”

“Roarke?” Bessolo boomed.

“Who the hell is—”

“Secret Service,” Mulligan explained. “Special detail.”

The director made a quick decision. “Roy, will you excuse us for a few moments.”

“What?”

Bessolo showed his displeasure, but left without complaint when Mulligan tapped his watch and held up five fingers.

“I’ll be just outside,” Bessolo said.

Mulligan waited until they had privacy then simply asked, “Roarke.”

“Yes, sir. But…”

“No ‘but’s.’ You work for me. Not Roarke. Not his boss.” The latter could be debated.

“Now think about this very hard before you answer. Do you believe he has any political motives? That he’s acting on behalf of Taylor for any political reason?”

“None, sir.”

“You’re sure?”

“Positive.”
I hope.

The FBI chief thought about it through a deep sigh.

“Let’s hope so. Because this whole thing is suddenly getting more complicated.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, and now that you volunteered to join this goddamned party, let me tell you about a man named Dolan.”

Davis packed everything relevant into his attaché case and headed to Roarke’s White House basement office. On his way he called. “You got yourself a partner, so clear off your grease board, buddy. We need to sort out a bunch of stuff.”

Roarke met Davis with a red marker in hand. He had already started writing after the FBI man’s urgent call. At the top was
Teddy Lodge
and beside his name,
Jenny Lodge.

“I have a few for you to add,” Davis said when he got settled. He leafed through a note pad and began to dictate names that Roarke wrote down in block letters.

“Good, I need to see how this all lays out.”

Then below
Teddy Lodge
add,
Sidney McAlister
, the assassin. then further down,
Frank Dolan
.

This was a new name that Davis threw out to Roarke; a man known to have been in the St. Charles Hotel and involved in the death of a Connecticut commuter, Steven Hoag. Mulligan had offered it up to Davis during their earlier conversation and Roarke added it to the right side.

“Tell me about this Dolan character.”

“I don’t have much. But I do have a nagging suspicion that your boss can find out more from my boss. Or vice versa. The file is sealed. What I have gathered is this guy Dolan occupied the room that McAlister ultimately needed to get his direct shot. He checked out. McAlister conveniently checked in. Now it appears that Dolan can’t be found. The number and address he gave to the hotel desk were fake.”

Roarke put a question mark after Dolan.

“And Hoag?”

“A guy on a train. Killed two days after the assassination attempt on Teddy Lodge. Business manager at a publishing company. Beyond that, I can’t tell you.”

“And he’s dead.”

“Deader than a door nail. Now add
Alfred Nunes
, then
Haywood Marcus.
Do it above Hoag.

“Three dead guys on one side,” Roarke said. “Let me move
Jenny Lodge
to the middle. And see what connections we can make.” He drew his first line, the obvious one, between McAlister and Jenny.

“One.”

Roarke then connected McAlister and Nunes.

“Two,” Davis said. “Now here’s another new one for you”

“Oh?” Roarke raised his eyebrow.

“Hot off the wires. But not for publication. Courtesy of Roy Bessolo, who’s heading up the Hudson investigation. He called to find out why I was snooping around Nunes.”

“Why would he….”

“Wait, it gets better. He got my name because the Denver office called him about a footprint they lifted upriver from our friend Alfred Nunes. Matched one his team had found. Guess whose?”

Roarke didn’t need to look at the board. “McAlister,” he said solemnly.

“Draw your next line, Mr. Roarke. McAlister to Nunes.”

“I’ll do you one better,” Roarke said. “Connect McAlister to Haywood Marcus.”

“Why?”

“Marcus’ killer is our very busy and talented assassin.”

Roarke then put a line through the names of everyone now dead:
Jenny Lodge, Alfred Nunes, Haywood Marcus
and
Steven Hoag
.

“So what’s the connection with this Hoag guy?” Davis pondered.

“I can’t say. But considering that McAlister and Dolan are related, why don’t we add lines between the two men at the hotel and carry it over to the late Mr. Steven Hoag.”

Roarke finished and stood back to examine their handiwork. Grease boards helped him see the big picture. This was as big as they get.

“Four deaths, two trigger men,” Roarke noted.

“Seems that way. Considering the footprints in Hudson and Idaho. And Dolan also showing up in two places.”

Roarke examined the board for a long minute. “You know, this requires an incredible amount of planning. Tons of coordination and money. An assassination attempt in Hudson, a successful hit a few days later in Connecticut. Then Nunes’ poisoning out West and Marcus’ death in Boston. What’s intentional and what’s the cover up?”

“And who’s behind it all?” Davis asked.

“A very good question. I’d say it isn’t McAlister or Dolan. Someone else. Somewhere.”

“Someone wanted Teddy Lodge out of the picture, But he also decided to have two people killed who handled his parent’s estate. Why? And instead of eliminating him from the election, his action has the opposite effect.”

Opposite effect?

The words hung in the air.

Did they have the opposite effect?

Davis kept talking, but Roarke’s mind was elsewhere—on Touch Parson’s photo locked in his desk.

“Thanks for the e-mail. I’ll give you an ‘A’ for effort a ‘B’ for results. Good shot of the father. Okay one of the screaming kid. And the yearbook shot’s passable.” Touch Parsons said.

The computer expert typed in some keystrokes and his work came up.

Roarke was more than curious. “And…”

“I got the refinement I needed. You can throw that old rendering out. This is it. And sometime I’d love to compare it against an actual contemporary shot of the guy and see how accurate I am. Feeds the ego. Do you have one?”

“Oh, plenty,” Roarke affirmed, surprising the FBI computer expert.

“Well then, I look forward to seeing it. But presto change-o, here goes.” Touch pressed the commands and the age progression began.

Five minutes later, Roarke had a hard copy in his hand.

“Not bad. Huh?” Touch boasted.

Roarke nodded. As he examined the computer rendering, he figured that Parsons was either the very best in the world at this or one of the worst.

The picture was different from the first. Based on what he extrapolated from his family traits, the hair receded more gradually. The nose was now narrower, while the chin spread and the cheeks rose higher.

“The picture of the father gave me a whole new way to look at the way his face would widen in his late forties. Still, if I had his mother, I could do more. But even the high school photo helped out a bit.”

“And you feel pretty damned good about this?” Roarke asked.

“I’d run it in the newspaper like it was taken yesterday.”

Roarke could pull any number of pictures from yesterday’s news coverage of Congressman Lodge and not one of them would resemble this man.

All he said in addition to “thanks” was, “I’ll be back.”

Outside on his cell phone, Roarke went right to the point. “Meet me back at my office. I have a new photo for you.”