The Cyclops Conspiracy (33 page)

Baxter looked at Jason as if he were a ten-year-old boy, trying to explain how the water from the bathtub had managed to flood the bathroom floor.

“We’ll check out your story. I need the phone numbers for your brother and this Walter character.”

Jason recited the numbers. Notetaker scribbled them on his legal pad.

Notetaker asked Baxter a question. “Do you want me to start having the boys make the phone calls?”

Baxter shook his head and leaned over, invading Jason’s personal space. “Not yet.”

The notetaker stopped writing and looked up.

“Why don’t we cut the bullshit, Jason,” Baxter continued. “Tell me where you were last night after seven o’clock. We already know where you were, at least for part of the night. So just come clean.”

Jason squirmed in the chair. “Well, if you know, you tell me.”

He expected Baxter to recite the litany of events. The yacht, the package, following Sam Fairing. Deep down, Jason knew that wasn’t going to happen. He also knew Baxter wasn’t buying his story. “Jason, we also know you had an altercation with Ms. Boquist on the twenty-eighth of September. Witnesses saw you and the victim argue after some party. She then kneed you in the cojones. We also have some witnesses that confirm Sheila was at Maggie’s tonight.”

Jason sat perfectly still, afraid to move.

“Being a guy, I can understand how embarrassing that would be. I bet it really pissed you off. So you invited her to the restaurant tonight to get a little payback. You know, rub her face in it. That’s what happened, isn’t it?” Baxter smiled at Jason. His expression said he thought he was right on.

Jason shook his head. “No,” he whispered.

Baxter removed three photographs from the folder and laid the first one on the table. Jason’s eyes widened and his jaw dropped as the images registered. He had spent a rotation in pharmacy school in surgery at Medical College of Virginia. He’d peered over the surgeon’s shoulder, watching various procedures over the course of two weeks. A triple bypass. An aortic valve replacement. A splenectomy. The inside of the human body, blood, entrails were not something that caused him shock or revulsion.

But when he saw the blood, the open, unseeing eyes of his gutted ex, he leaned forward and opened his mouth and began to dry heave. The photographs were in full, living color, every nuance, every detail captured expertly by the crime-scene photographer.

Sheila’s naked body lay sprawled almost facedown in the blood-soaked carpet. The hilt of an everyday kitchen knife protruded from her abdomen, glistening, slick with blood. Her glassy, green eyes stared like those of a discarded doll.

Baxter laid the next picture on top of the first. This one had a better view of the fatal slice. The wound yawned across her belly. From inside the gash peeked out severed layers of skin and yellowish subcutaneous fat, a bluish-purple haze of some internal organ, probably the liver. The third photograph was much like the first two.

An electric charge zipped through him. He shuddered. “Holy shit!” he muttered, burying his head in his hands.

Baxter did not speak for thirty seconds. Finally, he said, “A neighbor phoned the police and said she heard fighting and arguing from Sheila’s address. The woman also said that a red Mustang was seen leaving the scene shortly after the fight. You own a red Mustang, Jason. You weren’t driving it when you came home. Where is it?” It was not a question.

Jason knew he’d been set up. He hadn’t driven his Mustang since he’d rented his first car, the Ford Fusion. He opened his mouth to explain, when Baxter interrupted him.

“Jason, here’s what I know…” Baxter paused and leaned back in his chair, leaving the photographs in plain view. “Sheila Boquist was
killed with a knife stabbed in the abdomen. There was a five-inch gash from here to here.” Baxter motioned with his hand over his own chest. “She bled to death. She was stabbed with a four-inch blade. That knife had fingerprints all over it. Your fingerprints. And only your fingerprints. The knife is one that came from your kitchen set.”

Jason felt as if a knife had been stuck in
him
. “I didn’t kill her!”

“Your gun was also found at the scene.”

“I told you, it was stolen. I didn’t kill her!”

“Two wine glasses were found. One of them had your fingerprints on it. We’ll be checking it for your DNA as well. I’m sure that it’ll come back positive. Stop wasting everyone’s time. Just tell me what happened.”

“I didn’t do it!”

“You invited her to the restaurant to teach her a lesson. It got heated. You followed her back to her apartment. You argued some more and then it turned really violent. The body had some bruises on the arms and legs. So you grabbed her. She fought back and you stabbed her. It got out of hand and then you—”

“No!” Jason screamed.
This can’t be happening!
“No!”

“The question I have,” Baxter continued, “is when did you decide to take the knife from the house? Did you take it to the restaurant, or did you stop home after you left dinner? Why not just shoot her?”

Jason sat with his head in his hands, trying to catch his breath.

Baxter waited for Jason to calm. “I want to take an impression of your shoes, Jason. Will you allow us to do that?”

He was doubled over now, like he was in pain. “I didn’t kill her!”

“Jason, the hardest part is taking the first step. After that, everything is easier. Just tell me why you killed her.”

In his whole life, Jason never thought he’d ever utter the next words, which came out in a tense whisper. “I want to talk to a lawyer.”

Notus stepped off the Air Tran flight 707 at Newport News—Williamsburg International Airport and strolled up the Jetway. He had killed in far more sophisticated places. London, Paris, Prague, and Zurich, to name a few. Newport News, Virginia, was a working class town by comparison. But a job was a job. And this one would pay well.

Notus was not his real name, of course. It was the pseudonym given to him specifically for this assignment. Notus, a god of Greek myth, carried the wet, storm-laden southern winds of late summer.

The call had come three hours ago. He’d been banging the cute waitress with the nice ass and small tits. The ringing cell phone had interrupted him before he had a chance to finish the job. He’d pushed her out the door wearing nothing but her panties and an armful of clothes. The mission was a priority delta.

There’d be plenty of time for Carol or Cheryl or whatever the hell her name was later. Maybe he’d make it up to her with a weekend in the Bahamas. Hell, after this job, he could afford to take a whole year off. The money was that good and—from the sound of
it—this assignment was going to be a walk in the park. Notus was unrivaled at what he did. His business was death. In ten years, he had compiled an impressive resume.

They would be paired in two-man teams. Notus noticed his soon-to-be partner, Deacon Jim Miller—also an alias—sitting at the small bar watching CNN. Notus had had no idea what Miller looked like until that very moment, and didn’t know his real name. If things went to shit, the less they knew about each other, the better.

Their target, a certified public accountant, was a woman. She was an average citizen who’d managed to get mixed up in something she shouldn’t have. Notus didn’t know what that was, and he didn’t give a shit. Nor did he know why Hammon wanted her dead. Her photo and data had been securely e-mailed to his Blackberry. She was the cute next-door-neighbor type every guy wanted to bang. The job should be easy.

Each man wore a dark blue baseball cap totally absent of insignias, emblems, or logos. Just plain blue caps. On the right side, pinned just above the ear, was a small gold ankh, the Egyptian symbol of life that had been all the rage many years ago. Now, ironically, it symbolized not life but death.

Miller sipped a Heineken and watched Notus file slowly past. They nodded imperceptibly to each other. Notus strolled down the long glass corridor to the baggage claim. He didn’t know who’d come up with these names. “Deacon” Jim Miller, gun for hire in the late eighteen hundreds, had been a teetotaler, a devout Methodist. He’d been hanged in 1909 for a contract killing of an Oklahoman cattle rancher. These names were a piece of work, he thought.

Never looking in the other’s direction, they waited at the baggage carousel. Twenty minutes later, Notus exited the terminal, pulling his bag behind him. He found the car. The keys were hanging in the ignition. He paid the fee and circled back to the terminal to pick up Miller, who climbed in without a word. They drove to a motel on Jefferson, staying cautiously under the speed limit.

* * *

To the north in Richmond, Zephyr, the west wind of Greek mythology, walked out of another airport terminal. Tom Horn, another gunman and killer for hire whose namesake had dispatched seventeen men in a span of four years in the late nineteenth century, climbed into their rented car. They would drive to Newport News in an hour’s time. Their target was a man named Peter Rodgers, an ex-marine sniper.

* * *

Eurus, the east wind in Greek myth, slipped the sedan under the awning at a hotel just north of the Coleman Bridge in Gloucester, Virginia. He’d driven three hours since the call. The man known as Robert Ford, the cowardly assassin of Jesse James, opened the passenger door and plopped onto the seat, slinging his bag into the backseat. In another hour, they, too, would arrive in Newport News. Ford placed the dossier on the seat between them. He leafed through it. “His name is Walter Waterhouse,” he told Eurus.

“This is Baxter,” the deep, gravelly voice said.

Peter spoke quickly. “Detective Baxter—”

“That’s Investigator Baxter,” the man interrupted.

“My name is Peter Rodgers. I’m Jason Rodgers’s brother. You’re holding him right now.”

“That’s correct. He’s under arrest for murder.”

“Jason just called me. I’m calling to tell you Jason was with me most of the evening. I’m his alibi.”

“Okay,” Baxter replied. “What were you two doing tonight?”

“Are you going to—check out—what Jason told you?”

There was a pause on the line. Baxter’s heavy sigh communicated his displeasure. “Peter!” he began. “To be quite honest, your brother didn’t tell us a whole lot about where he was. Another investigator is looking into his alibi. He’s probably tracking you and your friend down—” Baxter paused. Peter heard a page moving and guessed he was checking his notes. “Walter Waterhouse, right now.”

Peter had called Waterhouse after hanging up with Jason. The call rolled to his voice mail. That was right before Peter put in a call to the lawyer who’d handled the incorporation of his gun shop. The man said he knew a good criminal attorney. He’d call him first thing in the morning.

“We have strong evidence that two men are in danger. We have a recording.” Peter then outlined what had happened.

“Mr. Rodgers, can you provide me with proof as to where Jason was and for how long this evening?”

“You think I’m lying?”

“You’re his brother. It wouldn’t be the first time someone covered for a family member. We have some very hard evidence against your brother. In fact, I have just been handed some evidence which puts this crime into a whole new light.”

“What’s that?”

“We have strong evidence your brother killed his ex-girlfriend. And was planning much more. Let us conduct our investigation. Someone will be in touch.”

* * *

Who were Torpedo and Thunderbolt?

The question had haunted Jason in the hours since he’d asked for legal counsel. As soon as the words were uttered, Calvin Baxter had calmly stood up and ended the interrogation. He’d motioned with his head, and he and the notetaker left. Baxter returned and, with the calm of a librarian, said, “Jason, we’re placing you under arrest for the murder of Sheila Boquist. Please stand up and put your hands behind your back.” Baxter read Jason his Miranda rights as the metals cuffs cut into his wrists.

The next thirty minutes were a collage of images interspersed with bouts of panic. Phone calls were made. He was driven to the regional jail in Williamsburg, where he was fingerprinted again, photographed, and his belongings confiscated and catalogued. His cell phone, car keys,
clothes, driver’s license, and sixty-three dollars were placed in a large manila envelope. He donned the orange jumpsuit and flip-flops and was escorted to a cell. Thirty minutes later, he phoned his brother.

He asked him to find a lawyer and make sure Jenny had taken Michael to safety. He’d learned no one had questioned Peter about Jason’s alibi. Jason explained what he had told Calvin Baxter. When he’d hung up, a sinking feeling consumed him. Baxter did not believe his story. Jason had given him Peter’s, Waterhouse’s, Christine’s and Lily Zanns’s names. Baxter would probably make the calls or have someone do it for him—eventually. But there didn’t seem to be any sense of urgency. Peter had promised to call Baxter personally. Jason wondered if he had.

Since then, Jason had lain on the uncomfortable steel-framed bed, which was bolted to the floor, brooding over the identities of Torpedo and Thunderbolt and the sight of his ex-girlfriend gutted like a trout.

Torpedo and Thunderbolt. Where had he seen those names before?

Of course, he’d been expertly and convincingly framed. It had to be part of Zanns’s plan. Jasmine must have stolen his gun the day he passed out and taken his knife from the kitchen.

Jason finally realized what he’d managed to stumble into. The doomed men attached to those names were the reason he was in jail; the reason Thomas Pettigrew was dead; the reason Douglas Winstead’s head had exploded. Zanns been setting him up from the beginning to take the blame for Sheila’s death. But why? Something else was going on.

His fate rested with the identities of those two people—Torpedo and Thunderbolt. Figure out who they were, and maybe he could keep them from being murdered. In the process, he might be able to convince someone who carried a badge that he wasn’t a killer. But all of that was impossible while sitting in a jail cell.