Full Disclosure (9 page)

“Why shoot your wife in your own home? Quite a mess to clean up and it's a crime scene for a long while. Shoot Susan next door. Nice solid alibi. I want my wife dead, and I know exactly where she will be five minutes from now. Guy was right there on the scene when the cops roll up.

“His wife goes out the door carrying the groceries over to Elizabeth's. He's got to get his rifle, get around the back of the house to the woods, get lined up for a shot in the kitchen window, and take that shot while Susan is still in the kitchen with the groceries. A rifle with high-powered scope, all you're going to see in the scope at that distance is brown hair and a lot of it. They're both brunettes. The shot could have been meant for either brunette in the house. Run it that way, Ann. See where it goes.”

She mentally reoriented what she knew about the crime as she nodded. “My name is Kevin DeMarko and I'm an angry man. I've been married to a woman I've grown to hate, and I want her gone. Divorce means alimony and maybe it comes out I'm sleeping with someone else. I kill my wife and get away with it, problem solved.

“My wife goes out the door carrying groceries to the neighbor. Murder is on my mind, and I see the opportunity in an instant—see all the potential of it. The one person in the county most people would love to see gone is the gossipy lady next door who is into everyone's business. Kill my wife over there and everyone will assume the shooter made a mistake and the person who was supposed to have been shot is the hairdresser.

“Susan goes out the door with the groceries, and I'm up from the table and running to take advantage of my opportunity. I grab my rifle and go through the backyard. I glimpse my wife at the window unloading the groceries. I find a spot where I can brace and steady a shot. I'm breathing hard and anxious to get it done. I have to wait while Elizabeth pushes the mower around to the garage so when she hears the shot she won't turn this direction and see me in the trees. I hear the garage door going down, I see brunette hair enter my rifle scope, and bam, my wife is shot in the back of the head and goes down. I run back to my home and ditch the rifle somewhere fast, shove it into the gutter extension or bury it in the stack of two-by-four scraps in the garage. I get into the house. And I hear screaming.”

Ann stopped, looked at the murder-board picture of the husband at the scene. “You hear screaming. Only it's your wife screaming that your neighbor is dead, rather than your neighbor screaming that your wife is dead. And you have really screwed up your life.

“You call 9-1-1 while your wife stands there sobbing. You have an alibi of sorts as you were home and you came running when your wife screamed—you've been standing there on the driveway with her while the cops arrive. You get through the first search, the second search, without them finding the rifle.
You get to the night when you can move it to a safer place, and another day when you can dispose of it. Get that far, you know you're okay on the murder. It doesn't point towards you. But you have really screwed up your life.

“You still have the wife in your house. You have cops crawling over your neighbor's property and, by extension, seeing what's going on at yours. There is going to be no chance of getting rid of the wife now without the cops noticing and without suspicion falling on you for both murders. You can't get a divorce very soon either because cops might wonder if you hated your wife that much a few days before as well. And to top it off, the value of your home just dropped by at least twenty percent because a murder happened next door. You have really screwed up your life.”

Ann stopped, and looked at Ben. She'd about convinced herself it was true just by telling the story.

He nodded. “It plays that way, and it is doable. It's even oddly plausible.” Ben looked at the cops who had accumulated around them to listen to the story. “Listen up, guys. We need chapter and verse on the husband. We need to know if he owns a rifle. We need to know if there was trouble in that house. We need to figure out if he's our guy and do it fast. The wife is still in that house. Let's get it done.”

Cops started dividing up assignments between them.

Ben got to his feet to come over and join her. “Thanks, Ann. I always do enjoy your stories.”

“We'll see if this is a rabbit hole or if it's a gold mine.” Ann nodded to the murder board. “You'd have to convince a jury he really wanted his wife dead, and even if you put the rifle in his hands, they're going to wonder—well, if he wanted his wife dead, wouldn't he have at least shot his wife? I think you are going to have to get a confession on the murder if you want to close this case. A random shooting of a neighbor, and he has an alibi of sorts? The DA won't know what to do with it.”

“We can at least put the fear of God into him that we're looking at him, and keep the wife alive. He was there. That's
the nice thing about it. He's the only other person who was right there—neighbor, wife, and husband. The victim, the intended victim, and the murderer. It would have been easier to see that as a possibility if our lady hadn't been the talkative sort and so easily seen as the intended victim. You want to stick around and see where this goes?”

“You've got this one covered. I'll head home. If this turns out to be a rabbit hole, call me, and I'll come back. I'll be surprised if our first idea turns out to be the right one, but the story has got that ring of possibility to it.”

“I think it's going to turn out to be on the money. I'll let you know either way. Safe flying, Ann.”

“Thanks, Ben.”

Ann headed back to the airport. She would file a report in her log that noted who called her and the location. The two lines would be the only record of the day. And that was a good thing. Maybe she had helped, maybe it was a rabbit hole. Time would tell. But it was what she could do—read, listen, talk it through, and help find a new idea to work.

If her phone stayed quiet for a few more hours, she would have a leisurely flight home, a long walk with her dog, and a chance to sleep in her own bed. She might even make it home in time to take the evening patrol. She placed a call to the Medora Police Department and left a message for Marissa that she was heading back. If she was fortunate, she would get four days, maybe five, before the next MHI call came in. She liked being sheriff, taking her turn on patrol, answering calls to settle neighbor disputes, arresting those who deserved it, warning those who were skirting the line. The job of sheriff would end when the county took over policing, but until that day came, it was a job Ann could do and enjoy. No one had been murdered in Medora in twenty-three years. It would be good to get back home.

P
aul was pleased with the case progress. His team was surging through the paperwork they'd brought back from the middleman's home five days ago. With help from other agencies, they were linking receipts and phone calls and bank records and reconstructing his business dealings. It was good, solid forensic work, turning documents and other written pieces into a functional picture of the man. There was a web around the middleman now—names, faces, places.

Gordon Whitcliff had his fingers in a lot of crime, made connections for a lot of people. He was the go-to guy for those who fenced stolen goods, were known to run car-theft rings, along with a few suspected of being black-market art dealers, two crime families on the East Coast, a banker convicted of fraud five years before, and then there were the big connections to the currency thief and the lady shooter. The middleman's records were yielding good evidence for all kinds of lawbreaking. Paul had his team passing on the data to other agencies as fast as they found it. The only piece of it they were going to keep for themselves was the lady shooter.

Over the last five days he had also carved out time to read three more of Ann's books, grabbing hours when he got home, and waking himself up with extra coffee of a morning.

Paul stopped on the fifth floor after lunch. Dave was on his office phone, twisting a page ripped out of a thick report into a fine-looking funnel while he listened. Paul figured an interruption would be doing the man a favor. He tapped on the door, and Dave motioned him in, then promptly announced to those on the call he had to go—he had a guest. He hung up. “I swear they were talking just to talk. Thanks for the save.”

“Glad to help.” Paul offered one of the breadsticks from the sack he carried, for he had done Italian for lunch. “Ann writes religious books.”

Dave dealt with the report by dropping it in the trash.

“She's religious.”

“Something you forgot to mention.” Paul settled into an office chair.

“I would never have considered you a good match for her if you weren't a solid Christian. Guys that treat their faith as an afterthought don't have a chance with her.”

“The books were just unexpected.” He hadn't thought he had it in him to be surprised after everything Dave had told him. Ann had surprised him. She was weaving God into her stories as seamlessly as the romance and suspense. If a certain character didn't believe in God, that fact was as interesting to her as if a character did. “I could see you and Kate in
The Negotiator
. She did a nice job on your story.”

“We think so.”

“Marcus and Shari—I'm still getting my mind around the fact Ann knows the head of the U.S. Marshals and the Virginia congresswoman well enough to write their story. And I've had dinner with Quinn and Lisa—their story was like a photograph of them together. Are the other O'Malley stories like that—true at the core?”

“Yes. We asked Ann to write the O'Malley stories. We wanted to capture who Jennifer was to us. How many have you read?”

“Four. I think Ann's misplaced as a cop. She should be writing for a living.”

“She doesn't want the weight of it. She writes for herself and her friends. They just happen to be good reads.”

“What about the military novels?” Paul asked.

“Real people, friends of Ann, and written by request. They're fiction like the O'Malleys, but built around what is true. I've met the navy pilot that is Grace. I've heard rumors about the woman awarded the CIA Intelligence Star. I know Joe and his wife met up with Ann for a winter trip to Canada. Ann's circle of friends extends in a lot of different directions, and I am constantly surprised by who they turn out to be.

“You get used to it,” Dave continued. “Ann is private about her friends. It's not that she doesn't want to share them, or thinks you wouldn't be interested. She just keeps confidences. She gives people privacy. And she doesn't trade on the fact she knows someone. Ann will introduce her friends to each other if they are in the same room, but she wouldn't think to mention them otherwise.”

“Ann protects her friends.”

“Yes. To her, it's what a friend does.”

Paul thought about what that said about Ann. She'd be someone his dad could trust. She kept what she knew to herself. But she'd also be hard to get to know if she decided not to share her life. There wouldn't be many clues to what was even out there to know. He'd have to get her to the point that she trusted him, and somehow figure out how to make that happen sooner versus later. “Is she working on a book right now?”

“The signs are there that she is,” Dave replied. “She'll fly with a passenger more often when she's between books. I don't have a clue whose story she is writing. Kate thinks it's a friend with a background in art. It's as good a guess as any since Ann's been carrying art books with her the last couple years. I know Ann made a special trip to see Quinn a few months back, and followed it with a trip to New York. She borrowed my bulletproof vest for the trip. Never a good sign. So she's researching something significant. Those were personal trips, not work related
to her MHI role. When Ann has a book to the point she wants first readers, she'll call and ask if there's time to give her some feedback on it. That's always a nice request.”

“Do you happen to know when she is coming through town next?”

“She's planning to do a turn at the airport next Saturday night, in and out, probably never leave the airport grounds. You thinking of going to see her?”

“‘Thinking about it' being the accurate phrase.” He was still mulling over the approach he wanted to take with her, and it was best to plan it out before he made the first move on the board.

“Did you see my birthday gift from Kate?” Dave dug out a photo. “She got me a cat.”

Paul looked at it and laughed. “What's the name?”

“Carmine, for today. It keeps changing. It's a big soft fuzzy thing and purrs like an engine is going.”

“You already love it.”

“I do. Kate got it for herself, but we're both pretending she didn't.” Dave returned the photo to his pocket. “I've got a strong-willed, beautiful wife, an adorable little girl, and now a fuzzy cat. There are worse things in life. But I'm going to sneak a dog into the picture as Kate's birthday present. Something big enough to tower over the cat and guard the kid.”

Paul laughed. “You love being married.”

“Best thing that ever happens to a guy.” Dave's phone interrupted. He glanced at the number. “I need to take this. I'll get you the time Ann's flight is due in.”

“Thanks.”

Dave reached for the phone, and Paul headed upstairs.

He entered the secure conference room where boxes taken from the middleman's home now lined one wall, documents filling most of the table. They were continuing to build his world and write his biography. Paul took a seat and scanned the boards.

They had five possible names for Miss L.S. All had been
eliminated. Phone number and bank account were still flagged as open.

“Sullivan, where are we at with the phone numbers?”

“We know the middleman called her. We have his old phone bills that overlap the last few murders. Jason has one number that repeats—might be the lady shooter. He can't find a name to attach to it. Records simply don't exist back that far. The number today is a business, and the number has been changed between one business and another over the last several years. I'm helping him look, but we're running out of where to tug.”

“Was there better luck with her bank account?” They knew the middleman had paid the lady shooter with a bank transfer rather than a check, and that all payments had been made to the same account.

“The bank failed during the savings and loan crisis. We've been able to determine the account was closed shortly after the thirtieth murder. The address we've been able to tie to the account is a city dump.”

Paul looked at the boards, made a decision. “People, listen up.” He got to his feet. “I like what's on the boards. You're making good progress. You've been pushing and it's appreciated. But we're heading into the middle game, where forward momentum is going to get tougher. I need your best on this for the next few days, so I'm stepping on the brake. Shut it down for now, and get out of here by no later than five o'clock. Enjoy an evening catching up on your personal lives. We'll hit it fresh tomorrow.”

Paul took his own advice and turned off the lights in his office shortly after six p.m. He took the stairs to the lobby. It was a comfortable night and he thought about making a visit to the gym. He got to the shooting range once a week and to the gym four or five days a week if possible. He could feel the stiffness that set in with too many days moving paper.

He was approaching his car and digging out his keys when his phone rang. He pulled the phone out of his pocket. “Yes, Sam.”

“Treasury guys just picked up their currency thief.”

“I owe you five. I figured it would take them another week.”

“You want to go over for the interview? You can tell they were in a good mood because they offered to let us sit in.”

Paul unlocked his car and weighed the pros and cons of the offer. “Ask them for a tape. I'd rather watch it at our leisure. We go over, we're going to one day have to return the courtesy.”

“True. You want me to let the others know?”

“Sure, spread the word. They've earned something to celebrate tonight.”

Paul thoughtfully closed the phone. The news changed his plans. There was a possibility here he could use. He worked it through as he drove and started making calls when he got home. The gym would have to wait.

Ann unlocked the motel room door and pushed it open with her foot. She found the light switch. It was a twelve-room, privately owned motel along Interstate 80 in Chappell, Nebraska, and that made it one of the more significant businesses in town. The soft blue walls, floral rose bedspread, and bright white towels on the vanity were basic and familiar. She stayed in motels like this more nights than not when she traveled. Her bag went on the bed, along with the murder book she had picked up from Elliot Reeve to review tonight. She'd managed four days at home before this call came in, and she was glad she had caught up on her sleep. The coming days promised to be anything but restful.

A thermos sat on the round table by the window. She opened it, sniffed, and found hot chocolate. The note beside it was tugged from a standard pad of paper, but it was addressed to her.

Ann, please call me. Type www and the following numbers and it will be secure video. Two a.m. is fine, whenever you get in. Paul Falcon

She made the connection while she shrugged off her rain slicker. She'd forgotten how much of a punch the man conveyed as his image appeared on the screen. He was in a short-sleeve shirt rather than suit and tie, and he looked tired. He also looked like a guy who wore authority as a second skin, even off the job. That was his home behind him. There had been nice art in his FBI office, but nothing like the painting that was visible over his shoulder. Since he was sitting someplace he could answer an Internet call, she assumed it was his home office. The picture finished stabilizing, and the audio frame went from red to green.

“Falcon? Something wrong?”

He looked over as her image appeared on his end of the video link and smiled. “Hello, Ann.” He laid down the document he held and turned fully toward the screen. “Just news I thought you should hear. The guy in your morgue was the middleman for my lady shooter. He was also the middleman for the Treasury Department's currency thief who's hit Federal Reserve shipments and stolen more than fifty million over the last decade. Treasury picked up their thief today and recovered about fifteen million in cash and have leads on a good portion of the rest.”

“Nice.” She dumped her jacket on the back of a chair and dropped down into a seat that had been plush a decade ago and now was closer to a fabric-covered frame.