Last Track, The (21 page)

Andy shut the television off himself and played his portable video-game device instead, zapping alien invaders.

She got through to Lisbeth.

“Jessica! How are you feeling?” Lisbeth asked.

“Much better thanks,” said Jessica. “I’d like to offer some more help.”

“If you’re up to it, I’ll take whatever I can get for this poor kid. What are you thinking?”

“Mike mentioned there was something else you had him look at before he joined the search. A murder. I think I could be very helpful to you in that area. Did you identify the victim yet?”

“Listen, Jessica, don’t take this the wrong way, but I don’t discuss open homicide investigations with journalists,” Lisbeth said. “If the wrong details find their way in print before a trial, cases get blown out of the water in court by defense attorneys. I keep things civil between myself and the DA’s office. Surely you understand the gravity of what you are asking, and why I can’t answer your question.”

“You do make a valid point. The way I see it, though, we’re just two women talking.”

“We may be talking as friends,” Lisbeth said, “but we both know how we pay the bills.”

“I’ll make you a deal,” Jessica said. “Anything you tell me about the murder investigation stays off the record, period. Privileged information. In exchange, I have connections in every alphabet agency who owe me favors and won’t drag their heels getting answers. Whatever information they give, I’ll route straight to you. Experts, analysis, information. The best there is.”

“I have to admit, I like what I’m hearing. What do you want in return?”

“Anonymity. Any information I provide, you take full credit for. Your investigation, your breakthroughs. As far as everyone else knows, I’m a guest at the ranch, and nothing more. A nameless reporter on vacation.”

“So anonymous, she sells pieces to
News Story.
” Lisbeth paused. The sound of a lighter flicking over the phone. “It sounds workable. But why do you want to do this? You’re not going to write about it, and you won’t get any recognition later.”

“Help is a two-way street. If I help you now, maybe someday, when I need help, a little comes my way. Besides, how do you think I got all these connections?”

“This all is for karma, huh? I’m not sure I entirely believe that.”

“Can you afford to take that chance? I know the longer murder cases stay open, the harder they are to solve. And with so many people committed to the search, your office is stretched thin. Who knows how long the search might last?”

“Put it like that,” Lisbeth said, conceding, “and we pretty much have to work together, now don’t we?”

“Exactly.” Now that Jessica stood on familiar ground, she started charging. “What do you have on the murder investigation?”

“Not a lot. Besides some tainted blood samples, and a few plaster impressions, we have some pictures taken with a cell phone. But they’re a bit grainy, and we haven’t had any luck sharpening them.”

“I know someone at NASA who does excellent image enhancement and analysis. He’s verified several pictures for me. He can correct and adjust for data loss, and sharpen the image.”

“If I sent you the file, you could forward it to your contact at NASA?” Lisbeth asked, a bit incredulous.

“Consider it done.”

Every so often, the less-scrupulous journalists in the press corps passed off a digitally altered photo as genuine, especially if there was a bounty on the shot in the tabloid markets.

An imagination, an afternoon with photo-editing software, and an editor-in-chief with irrational expectations nurtured a breeding ground for artificially enhanced pictures. The sort of neverland where the truth got a boost. Pictures even better than the real thing. Jessica knew photography well enough to spot the hack forgeries. But she also knew debunking a more skilled one beyond all doubt required more expertise than hers. That’s where her friend at NASA proved invaluable.

After they exchanged e-mail addresses, Lisbeth asked, “You have some kind of relationship with Erich Reynard, correct?”

Jessica presumed Lisbeth meant a working relationship. Strictly platonic and professional. Really, the word relationship was overkill for their situation. The term mutual admiration fit better. Sounded better, too. “Why do you ask?”

“Erich owns a small passenger plane and has volunteered it before. I’d like his help again. If you see him, could you remind him to call me back ASAP?”

Recalling that Erich had offered her a personal flight twice already, Jessica said, “I wonder why he’s taking so long to get back to you? After all, his guest is missing. I would think he would be doing everything he could to help.”

“That’s a very good question,” Lisbeth said. “And one I’ve been asking myself.”

10:31:34 AM

Mike turned to Dagget, still grappling with the reality of Shad’s death. “How did it happen? How did Shad die?”

“A neighbor heard shots fired and called the police. They found Shad’s front door busted open, and his body face down on a couch. Three shots to the head,” Dagget said. “His place is in shambles, and he doesn’t live in the greatest neighborhood anyway. There are plenty of addicts and dealers prowling the streets. Might have been a burglary in progress that Shad wandered into and the thug panicked and shot him. Some thug hopped up on who-knows-what who didn’t even know where he was.”

Mike doubted that version of the facts because he knew details the police did not. He knew Shad was asking questions someone did not want answered. He also knew why Shad was asking them, and who requested that favor.

And now Shad’s involvement might have gotten him killed. The drug-related break-in sounded like a textbook cover-up for an assassination. Generally speaking, addicts were lousy with firearms—even when sober. Multiple shots to the head required too much proficiency to be accidental. Killing like that took a steady, practiced hand. Not exactly the top tool in the average druggie’s tool chest.

“When?”

“They found him about thirty minutes ago,” Dagget said. “The gunpowder was still hanging in the room. Messed up, huh?”

“I need to make a phone call.”

He had to reach Jessica immediately. He had to talk her out of investigating the murder. She had to leave with Andy now. Right now.

“The canteens are empty anyway,” Dagget said. “I’ll fill ’em up. I have people to contact, too. Someone has to tell Shad’s father.”

Mike dialed. Silently, he prayed Jessica would answer.

10:40:12 AM

Four men stood at attention in a single row. By no coincidence, all were the same height, wore the same hairstyles, boots, and shirts. The consistency gave the line a military look. A generator droned in the distance. An overhead lamp dangled from a chain above and behind them, and the backlight spilled shadows from their brows upon their cheekbones. In the corner, a dehumidifier hummed, strained from months of near-continuous use. Ice encased the top three coils.

Except for the fourth, Crotty approved of the men the unit leader had assembled. A slight mismatch he expected, because the men that served the company were as diverse as their talents. Literally a rainbow of skills.

While the Partner allocated personnel based upon a whimsical set of criteria, that was not Crotty’s way. Directives Crotty issued to the unit leader requesting the best men really meant the right men, and the unit leader understood the unspoken order. Crotty was often vague with directions. He omitted details purposely, testing the coping abilities of those around him, while concealing his true goals. Busy trying to figure out what he wanted them to do, his men rarely bothered asking why or what he might gain from their success.

Before an important deployment, he conducted quick interviews, so he might make adjustments in personnel. He kept the questions short. Anything more involved than a few per man was overkill, because he had one advantage at the ready always: a hard drive full of employee dossiers. Embarrassing facts a man never wanted in circulation.

Crotty was relentless. He got the dirt, and spread it where it worked best.

As for the fourth man, well, he bugged Crotty for a different reason: a scapular with thin, brown shoulder tape peeked through his shirt. Crotty had never noticed this about the man before. The oversight bothered Crotty. He disliked mistakes. Especially his own.

“Why don’t I like you?” Crotty asked the fourth man. He traced the outline of the scapular in the air, inches from the man’s chest. “Would you consider not wearing that for a day?”

The fourth man reached inside and removed the brown thread that joined two pictures of a red and blue cross together and held them over his heart and back. He jammed the two-sided amulet down into his pocket. Crotty rebuked him in a sharp tone. “No. No. Let me see that.” The article was worn, though in good repair. The plastic covering the images was lightly frayed at the edges. “The Scapular of the Most Blessed Trinity. It’s obvious you’ve worn this for years.”

“Since first grade, sir,” said the fourth man.

“But not during recruitment.” Surely he had not overlooked something so obvious during screening and induction. Crotty decided he had not.

“I always wore a second undershirt to conceal it.”

Crotty raised his brow. “All that trouble and at the simplest prompt you removed a beloved effect. If it’s not on your chest, it’s not providing you any protection. You know this.”

“Yes, sir, because you wanted . . . ,” said the fourth man.

Crotty returned the scapular to the fourth man, who was uncertain whether to pocket it, or don it again. Crotty spoke. “I’ll tell you what I want, not the other way around. I didn’t ask you to remove it; I asked if you would consider taking it off. You either stand up for your beliefs or you don’t.” A single beat. Then came the final judgment. “Dismissed.”

“But, sir,” said the fourth man. “I feel I’d be an asset to this . . .”

“You’re done here,” Crotty said. Walking up and down the line, he said, “This assignment requires a lot more determination and listening skills than that. Whoever is chosen needs an unflinching commitment to the goal and the larger picture. It requires reserve under pressure and the ability to work independently.” Pausing at the fourth man, Crotty’s eyes reflected back only nothingness. “It’s three, ladies.”

The fourth man stood, the scapular crumpled in his hands, hesitant and confused, head bowed in shame.

“You’re all going to have to work faster and more carefully,” Crotty said, “especially since you’re down a man. That means less breathing room, more chances for mistakes. Just like the first team did yesterday, you have the coordinates, you know what the markers look like. You know what to do with those last few. Just keep the throttle down and be back here by lunch.”

Satisfied they understood, Crotty unleashed them into the morning.

The unit leader appeared with good news. “I confirmed with someone on the base that your briefing packet reached the pilot of the search helicopter an hour before takeoff.”

“So the pilot knows what dangers might await her crew on the ground?” Crotty asked. “The details that Lisbeth couldn’t tell them.”

“According to our source, they expect the worst and have equipped themselves accordingly.”

Crotty nodded to himself. “Perfect.”

10:43:31 AM

A helicopter crept along the horizon. The blade sliced through the air. The rotor hum sent Sean reeling. He charged down the incline of broad-faced rocks, grass, and dirt. His sneakers served as eyes, his arms a compass.

Instead of landing forward of his heels as a long-distance runner might, his toes struck ground first. Then he pushed off his calves like a fell racer.

Sean learned the hard way about the British sport—because he needed to move like hell down a mountain. Casting aside concern for personal safety, fell racers assailed slopes, often treacherous ones, during the dry season. They wore boots with studs, shorts, and a T-shirt. More recently, many events also required windproof clothing, food, maps, and a whistle. Quite a lot more gear than Sean had.

Whatever equipment a racer packed, the principles remained the same. The key to a successful descent was to keep moving, and never resist the downward trend. Those who fought gravity’s effects lost. At least he knew that lesson going into the descent.

Endorphins flooded his nervous system. Neurotransmitters blasted signals toward the proper receptors, and sugar coated the pain. Most of his body parts ached, and a heavy pressure weighed on his chest. Yet he continued. He must.

Sean barreled down the slope, a boy in motion. For all the distance and speed gained, he could reach much farther. Just not right then. Wasted movements—the hidden price of a hapless running style—bogged him down. As his right toe struck earth, his torso swayed to the right. His upper body then recentered itself midstride. Leading with the left foot into the next step, his torso tilted leftward, and drifted less noticeably than when he swayed right. The uneven pendulum knocked his arms off balance, slumped his shoulders forward, and sent his forearms swinging across his chest. Damnable inefficiencies, all of them. He paid the price.

On and on he ran. He wondered how much faster he could go. He had so much farther to go.

This was a time for speed, and he wished he had gleaned more from the cross-country coach about proper form. Often he had ignored the former champion who led the team. He almost regretted that now. He had reasons to block the coach’s messages out.

Driving alongside the team, the coach prodded them with a bullhorn. He enforced a pack-style run. A pack that moved as a team, won as a team, he said. The goal was a perfect score—fifteen—which meant putting the first five finishers across the line. Whatever the cost, the team stayed together, always at a brisk pace, and always pressed harder.

If a runner lagged, the leader retreated and circled around, pressuring holdouts back into the main group. Leaders nudged or prodded. It was their job to keep the pack in-line. They employed whatever tactics they wished.