Operation Zulu Redemption: Collateral Damage - Part 1 (15 page)

Four and a half years had passed since Kellie Hollister was last interviewed regarding the ministry of HOMe—Hope of Mercy, International. It’d be interesting to see the difference in her testimony then and now. Annie had read and reread Mrs. Hollister’s accounts of Misrata, and not without a great deal of nausea and anger.

Annie climbed out of the dark blue Ford Escape and adjusted her lightweight sweater.

On the other side, Téya stood at the bumper eyeing the building. “Quite a place.”

“Maybe someone donated it.” But even as Annie said it, her gaze hit the cars in the parking lot. Lexus, Acura, Infiniti. . . “Maybe not.”

Téya laughed as they strode around the fountain and made their way to the glass and steel structure. Another fountain tossed light-colored streams of water in a dance choreographed to some classical piece. “Must be some good money in orphanages and shelters,” she muttered as they approached the front desk.

Annie showed the guard her ID. Or rather, the fake ID Trace had gotten her. “Angela Pennington to see Mrs. Hollister.”

The guard took her ID, motioned for Téya’s, then took them both and made a very hushed call. He replaced the receiver in the cradle then lumbered to his feet. “Step through the scanners, please.”

Annie resisted the urge to look at Téya—they’d both wanted to take weapons, but Boone warned them that security would not allow weapons on the premises. Although they really didn’t expect trouble, sometimes it came to them anyway. Like Misrata. Like Manson.

Sam.

Annie cleared her throat as she waited for the elevator, working to calm her nerves. She wasn’t Annie Palermo with curly white-blond hair. She was Angela Pennington with a short, brown crop. Téya on the other hand had a more drastic change, wearing the black wig that had convinced Trace to let them start working on the case rather than being sitting ducks. But the wig wasn’t the drastic change. It was the dress uniform—skirt, pumps, and a blouse, that had startled even Annie.

“Stop staring,” Téya said once they stepped into the elevator.

Annie smiled. “Sorry. It’s just so. . .
not you.
”

On the fourth floor, they were greeted by another security station. Two sentries stood by the double doors, while a third stood and smiled at them. A flirt. “Morning, ladies.”

Projecting an air of indifference, Annie presented her ID.

The guard took her card and swiped it on something. Annie’s heart gave a little start. Would it work, being a fake? Where was that data being streamed to?

A bleep sounded and he returned the card. “Thank you.” He did the same with Téya’s and it, too, cleared. Trace had been more thorough than Annie expected.

“This way,” the guard said and started
away
from the double doors. Away from the stark, poignant black-and-white poster-sized photos of third-world children. Group shots. Children playing games. Children crying.

Annie frowned at Téya. “Where. . . ?”

He smiled and pushed through a panel that looked like a regular part of the wall. The heavy release of a lock hissed at them as they passed through the opening.

“Good morning, Miss Pennington.” A woman stood there dressed in a sleek dark gray business suit and silk blouse. Annie couldn’t be sure, but those pumps sure looked like Cole Haans. She’d eyed a similar pair awhile back, bemoaning her ultra-small paycheck and funds. With a blunt, inverted bob, the woman’s salon-perfect hair seemed especially dark against her pale complexion. “Miss Ritter.”

“You must be Kellie Hollister.” Annie accepted the woman’s hand and gave it a firm squeeze, cringing at the weak handshake she got in return.

“Indeed I am.” She motioned to a round table by the wall of windows. “Please, let’s get started. I have a lunch meeting.”

They were seated so the sun streamed straight into Annie’s eyes and made a halo out of the woman’s coiffed hair.

“As was explained on the phone,” Annie began as she scooted her chair in and crossed her legs, “we’re taking a fresh look at this tragedy. We want justice for everyone.”

“For the children, of course,” Mrs. Hollister said as she flicked her hand, the sunlight throwing a blinding flash off the rock on her finger.

“Of course,” Téya said.

Annie tensed, hearing the sarcasm in her friend’s tone. “Would you please share what you know about Misrata?”

“Well,” Mrs. Hollister said, threading her fingers and resting her hands on the glossy table. “As it states in your report, we’d had trouble with the local officials. They were extorting us to stay in the building we’d been in. HOMe didn’t have the funds to pay both the bribe and the new lease cost. We had one day where we had nowhere to stay but had eighteen children, four staff, and a spouse. The warehouse was far from cozy or appropriate, but it was a desperate situation and time. And it was only for one night.”

Annie switched the legs she had crossed. Hearing this story just ate her alive. The chances. . .the probability of these events colliding were astronomical, and yet—they did.

“We got the bunks set up and in the area that had running water and just bedded down.” Mrs. Hollister went stiff, her gaze dropping to the table. “They weren’t supposed to be there,” she whispered, her green-blue eyes glossing. “I didn’t even know for two days afterward. . .”

Numb as streaks of warmth washed across her shoulders, Annie feared the moment this woman would uncover the ruse. Realize that Annie had been in the warehouse that night. That she’d set the charges, unaware of the children. Who hadn’t been there an hour earlier when she’d cleared that building.

“You didn’t know?” Téya straightened and cocked her head. “How is that?”

“It was normal not to hear from a team except once a week, especially if things were going well. I hadn’t heard from them, but I assumed things were sorted.” She pushed back from the table. “Again, that’s really all I know—well, that and the fact that I had to answer to Libya for the death of eighteen children and four caregivers.”

“Four?” Annie glanced at her notes. “I thought there were five adults.”

“There were. Four were HOMe staff, the fifth was a. . .spouse.” She lifted her chin, a haughtiness drenching her put-together persona. “I would
never
have condoned that, had I been aware. One of the orphan girls who had aged out stayed to work at the center. She married a man and they lived at the center.” She jutted her chin toward their paperwork. “His name is Berg Ballenger. You’ll probably want to talk to him next.”

Annie scanned her notes. “It says his wife and child died in the fire.”

“Yes. Again, that was against regulations for a married couple to stay with the children, but the Misrata administrator authorized it—temporarily.”

“Who was that?” Téya asked. “The administrator, I mean.”

“Michelle Campbell.”

“The survivor,” Annie muttered.

“Yes.” There went her stuck-up jaw again. “She narrowly escaped. I’m not sure how. You should talk to her.”

“Do you have her address? Or one for Berg Ballenger?”

“I do.” She nodded to the guard who stood behind and to her left. “I never felt Michelle quite gave us the whole story.”

The door clicked open and a slender, petite woman gave a nod to the HOMe cofounder.

“Sorry,” Mrs. Hollister said as she stood. “That’s all I have time for. I do hope you can put this thing to rest.”

Annie made her way to the door. “Oh, we had trouble locating. Mercy Chandler. Do you know where we can reach her?”

“No.” Iciness oozed out of Mrs. Hollister as she lifted her purse from a drawer in her desk. “I do not. She hasn’t been a part of HOMe for a long while.”

“But you kept her name.” Hope of
Mercy
. . .named for Mercy Chandler.

“We kept everything but her and—” She froze, as if she’d made a mistake. “If you’ll excuse me.”

Back in the rental, Téya tugged out the slip of paper the man handed her. “I thought that guy was her ‘man in black.’ Couldn’t believe how he just did her bidding.”

“There’s a lot I couldn’t believe,” Annie said.

“Yeah?” Téya used the burner phone and pulled up the maps app. She plugged in the addresses.

“Don’t you think they’re a bit too wealthy?”

“
A bit?
How about
a lot
? Besides—there’s something not right with that woman.”

“What she told us matched perfectly with the files.”

“Except her tone and body language.” Téya lifted her phone and showed Annie the map. “Campbell lives a half hour away.” She pointed to another spot. “That’s Ballenger’s last known, which is only a couple of blocks over.”

“That’s convenient.”

“Yes and no. Our flight leaves in three hours. Think we can tackle both in that time?”

Annie winced. “Maybe.”

“Then let’s split up.” Téya held up her disposable phone. “We have communication, and I can hoof it over to Ballenger’s, then meet you down the street at that burger joint.”

“You’re going to walk to Ballenger’s?” Annie arched an eyebrow.

Téya frowned. “Yeah, what of it? I’m not out of shape.”

“But you
are
in heels.” Annie started the engine. “I’ll drop you at Ballenger’s then head over to the Campbells’.”

“No, seriously. I’m a big girl. I can handle myself. If anything, I can use these suckers to fend off attackers.” She grinned and opened the door. “See you back at the burger joint.”

Téya crossed the street before Annie could object. It was silly really, but Téya just seriously needed the time alone. She hadn’t been this crowded for quiet space in years.

Five years.

And in Bleak Pond, besides the noises unique to simple, Amish life, it wasn’t too different from being in the country. Most of all, it was quiet. Save the peals of children’s laughter. Or the neighing of horses. A sudden pang struck her—she missed those sounds. Missed the evenings of quiet spent sitting on the porch doing needlework.

Téya snorted. Needlework. Who in their right mind would’ve thought she could find pleasure in doing anything with yarn other than strangling someone with it.

Gruesome thought. She cringed, knowing
Grossmammi
would give her
that
look. The one that held disapproval and yet never withheld love.

After another block, she turned left and headed down the street, searching the buildings for address numbers. On the other side, a vacant field had been fenced with several signs that read K
eep
O
ut
. With each step, Téya’s unease grew—and so did the dilapidation of the homes.

“So, woman in heels and expensive business suit strolls down crack neighborhood,” Téya muttered to herself as she rounded a corner, “looking for”—her gaze hit the building—“Oh snap.”

Annie climbed the steps to the rundown Craftsman-style home with its wide, angular columns flanking the path to the door. Peeling paint revealed rotting wood and possible termites. She extended her pointer finger toward the cracked, yellow-brown doorbell button.

She pressed the doorbell. But she heard nothing. She craned her neck. Did the bell even work? After a few seconds and not hearing any movement inside, she jabbed it again. That time she heard the sound of a sick, dying doorbell chirp out its chime.

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” someone called from the other side.

Chains slid back. Locks clicked back. The interior door swung open.

Through the screen door with its metal, dingy scrollwork, she saw a man. He stood there in gray sweats and a stained tank top. “Yeah?” he growled.

“I’m looking for Michelle Campbell.”

The grumpy facade melted before Annie’s eyes. But just as quick, he scowled. Squared off. “Yeah, what for?”

Annie held up her ID. “I’m Angela Pennington with the Department of Defense. I just wanted to ask a few questions.”

He pushed open the screen door. “I’m Tim, her husband. Well,” he mumbled, “I was. C’mon. I ain’t afraid to talk to no one.”

Gingerly stepping into the home, Annie stifled her automatic recoil against the dirt and the smell. Stale odors of cigarettes and something. . .lemony created a heady cocktail, hammering Annie’s sinuses.

“Sorry about the mess. I didn’t want to change anything after Michelle left.” He cleared newspapers off the sofa. “There. Have a seat.”

He plopped in a leather recliner that seemed to have a permanent impression of the man’s body.

Perched on the edge of the sofa, Annie forced herself to think. “Left? Are you two separated?” That sounded so much nicer than ‘divorced.’ Semantics went a long way in placating people and convincing them to talk.

The man looked at her as if she’d lost her mind. “Separated—guess you could say that. She’s dead.”

Annie jolted at the revelation. “I. . .I’m so sorry. I had no idea.” She riffled through her file. “There’s no record of that here.”

“That’s because nobody’s been around since then.”

“Was she ill?” Annie felt terrible for even asking. It didn’t matter how she died.

“You’re here about that Misrata thing, aren’t ya?” The scruffies rimming his chins caught the dim light of the swing-arm lamp.

“Yes, Misrata. I just wanted to—well, I’d hoped to hear what she knew,” Annie said as she tucked a brown strand behind her ear and felt the wig shift a little. She tensed and chided herself for forgetting she had one on.

“Everything she knew she told them. She sure hated that Hollister.”

“Mrs. Hollister, the cofounder?”

“Yeah, she wouldn’t give Michelle the time of day after she returned.” The man clucked his tongue. “For cryin’ out loud, she had burns all over her arms and legs, and they wouldn’t help her get medical care. They wouldn’t even talk to her.”

A bitter taste glanced across Annie’s tongue. She pushed her attention to the files.

“She had nightmares and needed help, but they wouldn’t even acknowledge her.” He shook his head, his chin dimpling beneath the brown and gray stubble as he fought off tears. “She couldn’t take it no more, so she swallowed a bunch of pills while I was out of town for work.”

“For work?”

“I was working for a software company. But after losing Mich. . .” He hung his head then thumbed away a tear. After a long sniffle, he met her gaze again. “You look like a nice lady, Officer.”

Annie couldn’t bring herself to smile, though she tried.

“Please—promise me you’ll find out what happened. Who bombed that place and burned those kids to death. Who stole my wife from me.”

Legs trembling, Annie struggled to her feet. “I—I will.” Good night! The person responsible for his wife’s death was right in his own living room. What would he think when he found out? “Thank you for your time,” she managed around a very dry mouth.

Stiff and poised so she did not give herself away, Annie hurried to the car. She climbed in. Her vision blurred, but she blinked it away. Forced herself to drive a few blocks. Tears streaking down her face, she pulled into the nearest shopping center and parked.

Gripping the steering wheel tightly, she pressed her forehead against her hands. Fought back the squall of grief, guilt, and anguish.

She would do anything to erase that night. To rewind it and
never
enter Misrata. She slammed her hand on the wheel. She was so sick of innocent blood being spilled. The children. The staff. Now Michelle in a suicide.

Shuddering for a breath, she sat back. Stared out at nothing, seeing everything from the past. That night. The fire. The smoke. . .the smell.

She batted the tears away, angry again. Some psycho painted Zulu’s hands with the blood of those innocents, and she was going to take him down in the biggest way possible.