Fallen Angel (29 page)

"Whatcha think, Agent Zinsser? Drunk and disorderly?"

"Nah, he'd be out on bail in no time."

"How about ugly and stinky? Think we can make that stick?"

"No doubt, but I'd go with assault on a federal officer. That's a felony. Wait, I know. He's interfering with our investigation. That makes him suspect in my eyes. What say we hold him for seventy-two hours?"

"I like it." Brianne pulled a set of black handcuffs from the holder on her belt, hidden beneath her coat. She wiggled them in front of the man's face.

Three men pressed through the crowd. A name tag on the man's work apron helped Zinsser recognize him as the store manager. He guessed the other two were store security.

"What's going on here? I'm calling the cops."

Zinsser raised his badge. "We are the cops. I'm with Army CID and she's FBI."

"Oh. What do you want me to do?"

"Just sit tight for a moment. We need to talk to you." He squatted next to Brianne. "It's your call, but we have to think about time."

She nodded then spoke to a man whose arm, thanks to her, would ache for the next week. "So what's it gonna be, friend? You gonna give me any more trouble, or would you like to spend a couple of days behind bars?"

"No more trouble, Agent."

"Hey, you found your manners. If I let you go, are you gonna walk out the door and not look back?"

"Yes, ma'am. Out the door. No lookin' back."

"That's a good citizen."

She stood. The man lay still for a moment, then rolled to his back and sat. He rubbed his shoulder, then struggled to his feet. He glared at Brianne then Zinsser but kept his jaws locked. Without a word, he walked away.

Brianne looked at Zinsser, then did a double take. "What are you grinning at?"

"That was so hot. May I kiss you full on the mouth?"

"Professionalism, Agent Zinsser. Professionalism."

"Pity." The action had taken his mind off the urgent business. It came back with tsunami force. He addressed the manager and formally identified himself and Brianne. He asked the other men if they were store security. They said they were.

"I need to talk to you."

"Whatever you need." He paused and looked at the young lady behind the customer service counter. She looked close to fainting. "You better take your break." The employee was gone two seconds later.

The manager—the name tag read "Ben Elliot"—led them to the back of the store, past the employee break room where the customer service clerk sat dabbing a tissue at her eyes, and into an office made crowded by two large desks and cardboard boxes. For a store that made millions selling decorating supplies, the office was as dull and bare as a cave.

"That was really something out there." He pulled out a couple of folding chairs and offered them seats. Elliot looked like a man who had worked construction sites most of his life. What propelled the man to leave the field for an indoor job? "He's been a problem before. Hopefully you scared him away for good."

"Glad to be of service," Brianne said. "Now we need your help. We're investigating an abduction and we believe one or more of the people involved may have been in a home-improvement store like yours."

"Do you know how many home-improvement stores there are?"

"As a matter of fact, Mr. Elliot, we do." Zinsser crossed his legs. "We have people canvassing every one of them."

"Okay, let me put it this way: Do you know how many people come through this place every day?"

"I'm sure it's a lot," Zinsser said. "Maybe you could let us ask the questions."

"Oh, sure. Sorry. I've never been interviewed by federal agents before. You know, I once considered becoming a cop—"

"Mr. Elliot."

The man stopped and scratched his thick goatee. "Sorry again."

"You track purchases by computer. Is that correct?" Zinsser kept his tone even, pressing down his impatience.

"Of course. It's how we track inventory. By comparing what has gone by the registers and what's on the shelves, we can also estimate how much shoplifting goes on."

Zinsser pressed on. "My understanding from talking to other stores in your chain is that you can access your database locally."

"Yes."

"I need you to do a Boolean search for a set of items associated with a single purchase. At least we hope it was a single purchase."

"I have no idea what you just said."

Zinsser simplified. "Sorry. I spend a lot of time with computers. A Boolean search is a technique for using several search terms to narrow results. For example, if you go on the Internet and search for 'home improvement stores in South Carolina,' then your first results will include all those terms."

"Okay, I got it. I didn't know the term. This Boolean guy is some kind of Internet ninja?"

"Nineteenth-century English mathematician. You can look him up later. Can you access the database from the computer on your desk?"

"Yes." Elliot tapped a key and the computer came out of sleep mode. "Okay, the senior manager is the one who usually handles this."

"Look." Zinsser stood and rounded the desk. "Let me have a crack at it."

"Don't you need a search warrant or something?"

Zinsser stuffed a few more emotions.

Brianne leaned toward the desk. "Mr. Elliot, you have a right to ask for a search warrant; you have a right to call your superiors; you have a right to remain silent—wait, sorry. Force of habit. We are not trying to find out if you're stealing from your company. We're trying to find a teenage girl who's been abducted."

The man lowered his head. "I have a six-year-old daughter at home."

"Imagine if someone took her." Zinsser hated playing on emotions, but it was that or yanking Elliot from the chair and breaking the law by conducting the search without a warrant.

"I can't imagine that, but I don't want to lose my job."

Zinsser leaned close. "If you lose your job over this, I will come back and have a chat with your boss. If we find what we're looking for, you will be a hero."

"I don't care about being a hero, but I do care about the girl. Have at it, but if I lose my job, I'm moving in with you."

"Deal."

"Call up the database and then give me some room." Elliot did. From memory he typed in the name of the security camera system and the estimated materials necessary to create the small room. A few moments later, a result appeared. "Bingo."

"You got a hit?" Brianne shot to her feet.

"Two days ago, six in the morning. We're off on the number of studs and drywall but we're close, and they bought the camera." Zinsser turned to Elliot. "I need two things, hero: one, the receipt for the purchase; two, I need to see your recordings. Please tell me you have the recordings."

Elliot grinned. "You bet we do."

"Mr. Elliot, I could kiss you full on the mouth."

Zinsser looked at her. "Hey!"

CHAPTER 33

MOYER WAS LOOKING THROUGH
his binoculars. He should have been seeing the clearing, the Chinese unit, the forest line, Crispin's nano spy helicopter, or the approaching Russians. Instead he was seeing Gina curled up on the love seat reading a novel. He swept the image from his mind and tried to focus. His brain refused to process the real world, choosing instead to substitute a different event from last month.

Moyer was sitting in his easy chair reading
Popular Mechanics.
Stacy was cooking grilled-cheese sandwiches; Rob was reclined on the sofa, playing a handheld video game.

Gina walked into the room and paused. Moyer lifted his eyes. "Uh-oh."

"Daaaady." Her grin had a touch of mischief in it. She walked over and sat on his lap.

"Every time you say
daddy
that way, my wallet starts hurting."

"I love you, Daddy."

"You're toast," Rob said.

"The answer is no."

"But, Daddy, I haven't asked for anything." She laid her head on his shoulder. She smelled like apple-laced shampoo, and a mind-numbing, free-will paralyzing aura emanated from her.

"I'm on to your tricks. I'm not that easily manipulated."

Stacy's laugh wafted in from the kitchen. "You're a goner. How long, Rob?"

"He's acting pretty tough. I give thirty seconds."

"Everyone's a comedian."

Gina nuzzled his neck. "Daaadyyyy. I'm going to the movies with my friends. Pauline's mother is driving, but I don't have any money."

"You have plenty of money. You save your allowance like no other kid I've ever seen, especially your brother."

"Leave me out of this."

"But, Daddy, that's to help with college. I'm trying to do my part. Movies are expensive these days."

"You got that right."

"I don't need much. Please, Daaadyyy."

"How much?"

Stacy laughed again. "And Rome falls."

"Just a little, maybe forty dollars."

"Forty dollars?" Moyer shook his head. "Movies haven't gone up that much."

"But there's popcorn and I might find something in the mall."

"I don't know, sweetheart. We're trying to cut back."

Gina raised her head so Moyer could see her lower lip shoot out. She sighed. "I understand. I suppose I could get by with thirty."

"Get by?"

"It'll be tough."

"Oh, please, Daddy."

"Okay, but you'll have to move. I can't reach my wallet with you pinning me to the chair."

"You're the best, Daddy."

Rob turned from his video game. "While you have your wallet out—"

"Shut up and get a job," Moyer said it with a smile.

"Hurricane Gina takes down another city," Rob said.

Gina moved and Moyer retrieved a pair of twenties.

"Oh, Daddy, you're the best. I love you . . .

. . . I love you . . . I love . . ."

THE MEMORY SHREDDED HIS
heart as if someone had taken his KA-BAR tactical knife and had at it. Moyer lowered his head and buried his face in his arm. Every fiber of his being, every cell in his brain was fighting back the tears, once started, he knew would never end.

He never felt sorry for himself. Two years ago he thought he had colon cancer, news he kept to himself on a mission to Venezuela. J. J. had enough suspicions to question him on it. Ever loyal, J. J. offered advice, comfort, and kept the secret to himself. Now Moyer was awash in self-pity and self-hatred. Every minute the emotions grew more powerful; the sense of helplessness unbearable. He bore up anyway. He had no choice.

"Boss?"

The mission was critical for reasons not yet fully revealed to him. He long suspected there was more to the satellite than what was being said.

"Boss?"

Then there were the Air Force men still being held. He had to think of them. They might be dead, but there was only one way to find out. The fact the Russian group was advancing through the forest at this moment indicated one of them talked. That meant torture. They might be Air Force but they were Spec Ops, brave men, and Moyer did not leave brave men behind.

A hand touched him. A big hand. It shook his shoulder. "Boss!"

Moyer looked up into the worried, black face of his closest friend. "Yeah?"

"You are scaring me, man, and I don't scare easy."

"I've scared you before. In fact, I scare you on every mission."

Rich's eyebrows shot up. "True that." He paused. "I gotta ask. They're your orders: You with us?"

"I'm with you."

"You good to go?"

"Those are the first words I uttered." He took deep breath. "I'm good to go, Shaq. It's time to kick this op into gear."

Moyer activated his throat mike. "Hawkeye, bring your toy home."

"Roger that, Boss."

"Colt, Hawkeye. You're with me. We move in sixty."

Shaq asked, "What's the plan, Boss?"

"I'm splitting the team. You, Junior, and Doc are going to observe from here." He looked Rich in the eyes hard. "This isn't going to make sense at first and I can't explain it all because I'm doing this on the fly, but you are to see to it the Russians win the skirmish. They shouldn't need any help since they outnumber the Chinese almost two-to-one and have surprise on their side. I doubt they make it to cover."

"You want us to help the Ruskies?"

"Only if you have to."

"I don't get it."

"I'm giving them the satellite."

ZINSSER AND BRIANNE FOLLOWED
Elliot across the store to a narrow stairway leading to the second floor. The upper story was a narrow projection stretching only a third of the building's width and held a few offices, but most of the floor space was taken up by the security office. Large, tinted windows overlooked the sales floor, enabling security personnel an eagle's-nest view of events. It was one reason they arrived at the scene of Brianne's confrontation with stinky man. There was also a bank of monitors displaying video feeds from within and outside the store.

"How far back do your video records go?" Brianne asked.

Elliot seemed proud of the system. "It's all digital these days; no more tapes to store. Since we can compress the video files, we store several months of video footage. Unless something has happened, there's no need to keep it beyond that."

"Outstanding. Let's take a look at the records from two days ago around six in the morning."

"Inside or out?"

"Both." Zinsser hovered over one of the plainclothes security officers. "Let's start with inside."

Elliot told the guard what he wanted and the fiftyish man with a shiny bald head complied. "The files show the person or persons checked out by the lumber section, which fits with the list of materials you gave."

Brianne's cell phone chirped. She stepped away as she took the call. She returned a few moments later. "Interesting."

"That was about the number on the receipt?"

"Yes. It reads like a MasterCard but it's a blind account."

Elliot looked confused. "What's a blind account?"

Zinsser and Brianne exchanged glances. "Without going into too much detail, it's a bank account set up in the name of a business. The business is a sham as is its masthead of executives. The account, however, is real. The credit card company does an automatic withdrawal each month so it's always paid on time. Enough money is kept in the account to keep the bank happy. Money flows into the account from another artificial business. There are several more layers. You have to be a CPA to unravel it all."

"Sounds like something a spy organization would do," Elliot said.

"Yes, it does," Brianne said.

"Got the video." The bald security guard worked a keyboard, advancing the video frame by frame. "Okay, we should be coming up to the time of the purchase."

Zinsser leaned in close. He wanted to see everything he could on first pass. Brianne moved to his side, close enough for their shoulders to touch.

Two men pushed a large cart, the kind used to hold lumber, drywall, or any other bulky, heavy items. They stopped at the register. The man closest to the register had bleached blond hair, was tall, and had broad shoulders.

"This guy could be the one in our video." Zinsser pointed at the screen. He watched as the checkout clerk rang up the purchase. The second man, shorter but built like a tank, carried a large box. "Could that be a security camera system?"

Elliot leaned in. "Stop the video." He squinted. "Yeah, that's what that is."

"So Guy 2 is definitely with Guy 1." Zinsser pulled at his lower lip. "Hit play."

The security man did.

"Who's that?" Brianne asked, indicating a black-haired woman standing close to Guy 2. "Is she with them?"

"Body language says yes. No one stands that close to a stranger." Zinsser crossed his arms. "That's three players."

"None of them have looked up," Brianne said. "It's like they're avoiding the cameras."

"I'm surprised they're not wearing hats."

She shook her head. "They're overconfident. I'll bet you this isn't their first time."

"Maybe not, but I'm going to make sure it's their last."

"
We
are going to make sure it's their last."

Zinsser faced Elliot. "This is the loading area?"

"Yes. It's where customers can drive their trucks to the door and load things up. We have confrontations there all the time. Someone gets ticked off at someone else for hogging the space or parking a trailer so no one can share the space. We have a fistfight at least once a month."

"Let's see it."

"On it." The security man called up another file. The image of a covered area open on three sides appeared. A dark, full-sized Toyota pickup waited by the door. The windows were tinted. Zinsser judged it to be a late model, maybe less than five years old. They watched as the trio loaded the back of the vehicle.

"She's definitely with them," Brianne said.

"I can get the license number," the guard said.

"Go ahead," Zinsser said, "but it won't do any good. I'm sure the plates are stolen. So is the truck."

"I'm on it." Brianne was on the cell phone before Zinsser could respond. A few moments later, she returned. "I had my office run the plates. They belong to a 1995 Ford Mustang."

"I'll bet a check of reported stolen vehicles will turn up a Toyota Tacoma double cab."

"They're checking." Brianne returned the phone to her pocket. She touched Elliot's arm drawing the man's attention from the monitor. "Do you have a good broadband connection here?"

"Sure."

"Good, I imagine these files are large. Okay, we're going to send these files to the FBI. I'll fill in the e-mail address. I want to do that now. They'll be able to enhance the video, then our video forensic guys and gals will tear into it."

"Facial recognition?" Zinsser marveled at the resources available to the FBI. CID had to do with smaller facilities, distant labs, and sometimes independent contractors.