Ultimate Betrayal (15 page)

David was the only one in the Lincoln who fully understood the vehicle’s qualities. While Peter, Frankie, and Paulie dived to the floor and covered their heads with their hands, David kept an eye on the two men outside. As soon as he saw they’d emptied their magazines, he opened the right rear door and jumped out, raised the Uzi over the top of the roof, and shouted, “Drop your weapons.”

Zeke McCoy was a wise country boy with loads of common sense. It took him only a split second to realize his predicament and to drop his weapon. But it was his bad luck that his partner had just inserted a fresh magazine into his weapon.

McCoy shouted, “Don’t!” as Strong raised his weapon. The man on the far side of the Lincoln immediately opened fire.

McCoy groaned, “Shit!” as rounds struck his body. He fell to the pavement and tried to scream. But no words came out. His body shook and he suddenly couldn’t breathe. And then he felt nothing.

Frankie Siracusa stepped from the Lincoln as four of Bobby Galupo’s men in a black Escalade stormed onto the scene. Frankie yelled, “Paulie, check on David and Peter. Get them into one of the other cars.” Then he whipped out his cellphone, called Galupo, and briefed him.

“Is the Lincoln drivable?”

Frankie checked and then told Gino: “Lots of dents and pitted glass. The tires are “run flats,” so we can get it outta here. The vehicle the gunmen were in looks fine, too.”

“Good!” Galupo said. “Put the bodies of the two killers inside their car. Take it over to the moving company. I’ll call with instructions.”

CHAPTER 22

Dennis O’Neil’s flight landed at O’Hare International Airport at 11:15 a.m. Although he hadn’t slept in over twenty-four hours, he was too worked up to go home. He drove to his office, where he again reviewed the information Sam Collins had given him. There was no question in his mind his next step was to locate the unaccounted-for man on Sam’s list: David Hood. Information on Hood was readily available on Google. He pulled up an article about a bombing at Hood’s home in Bethesda, Maryland in which Hood’s wife and kids were killed. “Holy shit!” he muttered. Had Hood also been targeted for death? But the cop in O’Neil bubbled to the front of his mind. Had Hood arranged the deaths of his family members? Could Hood also be behind the deaths of the men who served in the SLSD?

He learned from Google that Hood was the principal shareholder of a company named Security Systems, Ltd. He found a telephone number online for the company’s headquarters, called it, and was routed to a man named Warren Masters.

“Mr. Hood is out of the office,” Masters told him. “What may I ask is the nature of your business with Mr. Hood?”

“It’s a personal matter,” O’Neil said. He gave Masters his cellphone number.

O’Neil went back to Sam Collins’s list of names. Hood had entered the Army from Philadelphia. His father’s name was Peter J. Hood. He called 4-1-1 for Philadelphia and discovered there was one Peter J. Hood listed on Rosemont Street, at the same address that David Hood had listed as his residence when he entered the service. He asked the operator to connect him.

“Hello.”

“My name is Dennis O’Neil. I’m a detective with the Chicago Police Department. May I please speak with Mr. Hood? David Hood.”

“Mr. Hood ain’t home.”

“Can you tell me when he’s expected?”

“Not in the near future,” the man responded. “Leave your number and I’ll see if I can get a message to him.”

O’Neil terminated the call. He closed his eyes and rubbed the middle of his forehead. What now? I wonder if the Bethesda P.D. knows anything. Dennis pulled up the Bethesda Police Department on Google, found its telephone number, and called. He was routed through the police switchboard to the Detective Bureau. The officer who he talked to told O’Neil no one had been able to locate Hood since the funeral. The detective now in charge of the investigation was a Jennifer Ramsey and she was out of town. O’Neil left a message.

As soon as Rudy Anderson, a rookie Bethesda cop who manned the phones in the Detective Bureau, replaced the receiver after he took down a message from a Chicago detective named O’Neil, Detective Roger Cromwell landed on him like a buzzard on carrion. “Did I hear you say Ramsey was out of town?”

“Yeah, Detective. Philadelphia. She called in a coupla’ hours ago. Said she’s trying to find David Hood.”

“Who was that you just talked to?” Cromwell asked.

“Some Chicago cop.”

“You hear anything else from this Chicago cop, or from Ramsey, for that matter, I want to know.”

The cop gave Cromwell a sour look and said, “I thought you were off the Hood case.”

Cromwell bent at the waist and stuck his nose in the rookie’s face. “You fuckin’ with me, Anderson?”

“No . . . no, sir.”

“I didn’t think so,” Cromwell said and walked away.

Dennis O’Neil answered his phone.

“Did you just call a number in Philadelphia?” a man asked.

“Who is this?”

“That’s of absolutely no importance. Answer my question or I’ll hang up.”

“Okay! Okay!” Dennis said. “Yeah, I called a number in Philadelphia a few minutes ago.”

“What number did you call?”

Dennis recited the Hood number.

“All right, Detective. I’m a friend of David Hood’s. You won’t be able to contact him unless you’ve got a damn good reason.”

“Look, Mister, maybe I’ll tell you why I called if you tell me why you’re screening his calls.”

After a pause, the man said, “Because assassins have tried to kill him three times in the past week.”

The full import of the man’s words struck Dennis like a lightning bolt. Hood could now be moved from the “Suspect” column to the “Potential Victim” column. O’Neil had a momentary sinking feeling. That left him without a suspect in the murders of eight men. Except, perhaps, Rolf Bishop, which made no sense. He circled Bishop’s name on the list and drew in question marks next to it. But why would a top CIA guy murder a bunch of average citizens? Bishop could be a target, as well. But the guy probably had bodyguards around him. He wouldn’t be an easy target.

O’Neil said, “There have been eight murders around the country in the last few weeks. I believe there may be a connection between those murders and the murders of David Hood’s wife and kids. I need to talk with him as soon as possible. He may be able to help me establish a motive for these killings.”

“Okay, Detective O’Neil,” the man said. “Here’s how you’re gonna get to talk to Mr. Hood.”

O’Neil put down the phone and stared at it. This was getting more complicated by the minute. He thought about trying to contact Rolf Bishop. As far as he knew, Bishop was still alive. But he wasn’t ashamed to admit that a confrontation with a CIA senior official about several murders was not his idea of a good time. He’d never been a conspiracy buff and didn’t think of himself as being paranoid, but that didn’t mean there weren’t boogey men around the corner. “Oh shit, what have I got—?” The ringing telephone interrupted him.

“Hello!” he said, louder than he’d really intended. “Dennis O’Neil.”

“This is Detective Jennifer Ramsey of the Bethesda Police Department. I got a page you called me.”

O’Neil moderated his tone. “Thanks for returning my call, Detective Ramsey. I’m a detective with the Chicago Police Department. I wondered if you could provide some information about a case you’re working.”

“Which case?”

“Last name’s Hood. I understand his wife and kids were killed in an explosion. Can you tell me anything about it?”

“How about you give me your badge number and I’ll call Chicago and verify you are who you say you are.”

O’Neil recited his badge number, spelled his full name, and said, “Please call me right back. It’s important.”

O’Neil wondered if Detective Ramsey would call back. Fifteen minutes later, his telephone rang. He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw it was from the Bethesda area code.

“O’Neil.”

“Jennifer Ramsey, Detective.”

“Thanks for calling back.”

“I’m intrigued that a Chicago cop is interested in David Hood.”

“It’s a long story. For now, I hope it’ll suffice to tell you it has to do with eight murders around the country.”

Ramsey remained silent for a few seconds and then said, “What I can tell you is that someone wants David Hood dead. Three hours ago, a hit team tried to take him out in front of his father’s house in Philadelphia.”

“How did you learn about it?” he asked.

“Because I was right in the middle of it.”

“What happened?”

“I was trying to track down David Hood when bullets started flying. I fired at the men who shot at Hood. Unfortunately, when I tried to follow them, I got blocked by a garbage truck. I don’t know what happened after that.”

“Was Hood hit?” O’Neil asked.

“I don’t think so,” Ramsey said. “But I can’t be sure. He had armed men with him who fired at the attackers. They sped away from the scene, followed by the hit men.”

“What armed men?”

Ramsey paused again. “I don’t know for sure, but I’d guess they were Bartolucci’s men.”

“Bartolucci?”

“Gino Bartolucci. Former Don of the Philadelphia mob. David Hood’s father-in-law.”

O’Neil’s mind whirled with all he’d just heard. Maybe there was more to this than just the Special Logistics Support Command. He felt a knot grow in his gut.

“We need to meet, Detective,” O’Neil said. “As soon as possible. Maybe we can help one another.”

APRIL 22

CHAPTER 23

An unmarked moving van left Philadelphia just after midnight and followed the Interstate to Washington D.C. The driver drove at the speed limit, used his turn signals whenever necessary, and carefully observed traffic signals and stop signs. He wasn’t about to be stopped by a cop.

At a few minutes past 4 a.m., the driver pulled the van into a parking lot near the Georgetown University campus. He and his passenger—both Galupo Family soldiers—left the cab and walked to the back of the van, opened the lock, and jerked out the pins that held the back doors in place. They secured the doors to each side of the van and pulled out two metal ramps. The passenger walked up one of the ramps, took an old Army-issue gas mask from a hook in the cargo bay, and put it over his head. He got behind the wheel of a brown Ford Explorer and started the vehicle. After he carefully backed out the SUV, he parked it, and left the engine running. The two men replaced the metal ramps and closed and secured the van doors. The passenger returned to the SUV and, still wearing the gas mask, drove it to a residential street in Georgetown seven blocks from the campus.

He parked in a space a block up from the address he’d been given, left the vehicle, removed the gas mask, and walked sixty yards uphill to a cross street, where the van waited. He stuffed the gas mask under a thick, low-growing juniper bush, climbed into the van’s cab, and told the driver, “Let’s go home.”

According to her daily schedule, at exactly 6:15 a.m., Dorothy White-Simpson took her two Pekinese for their morning constitutionals. The dogs decided to pee on a very large maple tree next to a brown Explorer. Precious and Tinkerbell watered the maple, while Mrs. White-Simpson warily looked around the street. After all, one could never be too careful—even in gentrified Georgetown. She scrunched her nose and looked down at Precious and Tinkerbell and wondered if one of them might be sick. The stench that assailed her nostrils was overpowering. Then her gaze fell on the brown vehicle by the curb. At first, Dorothy thought her eyes deceived her. She stepped closer, and the stench got stronger. She dragged the dogs with her, held her nose, and peered through the vehicle’s rear passenger window.

A woman’s screams alerted Rolf Bishop’s two bodyguards seated in a black Suburban parked in front of Bishop’s townhouse. They jumped from their vehicle. One man ran up the street toward a screeching woman, while the other moved up the stairs to Bishop’s house and pounded on the door. Bishop opened it almost immediately.

“What happened?” Bishop demanded. “Who’s screaming?”

“Not sure,” the guard said. “Stay inside; keep the door locked.” Then he ran back down to the street and raced uphill to join his partner. He found him attempting to calm a woman tangled in a couple leashes attached to two yapping dogs.

“What’s wrong, ma’am?” one of the agents asked.

The woman babbled and pointed a shaky hand at the Explorer. Apparently, the sight of dead bodies and pistols was too much for her. She collapsed into the arms of one of the agents, who unceremoniously dumped her on the pavement.

The agents looked inside the vehicle, saw two bullet-riddled, bloody bodies there, and immediately drew their sidearms.

Normally, the CIA would immediately call the local authorities if one of its employees found dead bodies in a vehicle. But because these bodies were located just a short distance from the front door of a CIA Deputy Director, one of the agents called in a damage control team from Langley. Before that team could arrive, Bishop’s bodyguards opened the SUV’s back doors and were immediately overcome by the stink of decomposing flesh and body wastes. One man vomited; the other gagged. They slammed shut the doors and backed away from the vehicle. One of them, however, had glimpsed an envelope pinned to the jacket on one of the bodies. He reholstered his pistol, put a handkerchief over his nose and mouth, held his breath, reopened one of the car doors, leaned into the back seat, and pulled the envelope free. After he reclosed the door and backed away from the car, he read the words typed on the front of the envelope: “For Rolf Bishop’s Eyes Only.”

The agent held the envelope by its edges, between thumb and forefinger, raced to Bishop’s door, and knocked. When Bishop opened the door, the agent quickly briefed him about the bodies and the call he’d made to headquarters, then held out the envelope. Bishop glanced at it, grunted at the agent, snatched the envelope, and closed the door in his face.