The second way, the dumb way, the risky way, was to find the senator's records and destroy them.
That would be a job. Hayes hoped to hell the senator didn't have the records in his congressional office; that was the most dangerous place to keep them, where they were most likely to be turned up by accident.
In his Georgetown townhouse? Possible. His estate in Minnesota was more likely; it was larger, more hiding places, plus the senator had grown up there. He knew the house, the grounds, intimately. Then there was the summer house in Cape Cod, but the senator hadn't been there this summer, so Hayes thought he could dismiss that possibility.
If he had stashed the records in a safe deposit box somewhere, which was what Hayes had done, then they were beyond reach. He would have to find out which bank and what name the box was rented under, get the key, and learn how to copy the senator's signature. Hayes had a lot of talents, but forgery wasn't among them. Then there was the possibility that rather than deposit the papers himself and take the chance of being recognized, the senator had had his wife do it under her name. Mrs. Lake was a sweet, cheerful, uninquisitive person, and she adored her husband. She would do whatever he told her.
The possibilities were endless. The one place the records wouldn't be was in a computer. The senator was computer-illiterate; hell, he had never even learned to type. From birth, he had been surrounded by wealth, and if he wanted to send a letter, he simply dictated it to a secretary or scrawled it by hand if he wanted it to be personal. From the beginning, Hayes had been relieved to know that; his personal opinion was that if you wanted sensitive information to get out, you put it in a computer. They were notoriously unconfidential. He wondered how many people would use accounting programs in their online computers if they knew the information could be accessed. Using the bank account number, a thief could then wipe out the account.
Bank accounts. Something about bank accounts niggled at him. Something he should have thought about days ago.
Suddenly, he knew what it was, and he wanted to kick his own ass. He had overlooked something so obvious that he shook his head in disgust.
He had been thinking only about covering his ass when Vinay came looking, so the DDO wouldn't link him to Rick Medina's death. Instead, now he was pretty sure he had figured out how to find the book.
He had wondered about the damn book, wondered exactly what was in it that the senator wanted kept quiet. Wouldn't it be a bitch for the senator if the man he sent after it kept it and used it against him the way Whitlaw had done?
Hayes almost laughed aloud. He didn't like Senator Lake, and he sure as hell didn't trust the lying, sanctimonious, murderous bastard. On the other hand, he definitely liked the idea of a neat little double-cross. Why, it made him glad all over.
If Whitlaw had hidden the book somewhere that only he knew, then the book was gone. Hell, maybe he had buried it somewhere. At any rate, under those circumstances, the senator was reasonably safe, because what were the odds it would turn up during his lifetime?
On the other hand, if Whitlaw had sent the book to his wife or daughter…
The wife had died in January. She and the daughter had lived together; the daughter would have her mother's effects. Then, only a couple of months later, the daughter had moved, from a house into an apartment. She would have been pushed for space. Where would the excess stuff go?
Into storage.
Columbus was a city of about six hundred thousand people. A city that size would have hundreds of storage companies, but there was a simple way to narrow the search: canceled checks.
She would pay the monthly storage fee with a check. She might even write the unit number on the check, but if she didn't, that wasn't a big obstacle. All he would have to do would be to break into the company's office and locate her name in their files, then break into the unit. Most people just put small padlocks on the things anyway; bolt cutters would clip them right off.
She was in hiding; no one would be at her apartment. The police would have it sealed off with crime-scene tape anyway, until they finished their internal investigation into Clancy's death. Any IA investigation could take days, even one as cut-and-dried as this one.
All he had to do was find her bank statement and go through the canceled checks. Even if she only got photocopies from the bank, he would have the information he needed.
Hayes chuckled, feeling very pleased with himself. In the morning, he would make a phone call to the senator to tell him he had a lead on the book, to calm him down, and then he was going on a little trip to Ohio.
Jess McPherson was tired. It was four-thirty in the morning. His eyes burned, and every time he blinked, a pound of sand scratched across his eyeballs. The lines of data on the computer screen kept blurring, and he kept blinking. He had personally drunk two pots of coffee, and his stomach was burning worse than his eyes. He needed to take a piss, and he needed to sleep, in that order.
He wondered how John held up the way he did. The stamina, the absolute concentration, amazed McPherson, and he wasn't a man who was easily impressed. But the younger man had been sitting in front of a computer screen even longer than McPherson had, so totally focused he scarcely blinked. He had flown thousands of miles, crossed about eight time zones, and dealt with his father's funeral. He had to be both jet-lagged and stressed out, but none of that showed in his face. Looking at him, no one would suspect what he was.
His brown hair was neatly cut and combed, his white oxford shirt neatly pressed, his slacks unwrinkled. He wore a pair of wire-frame glasses to ease eye strain from working at the computer for so many hours. He had a manicure, for God's sake. He could be any Ivy Leaguer, any lawyer or banker, or an investment broker, the guy next door.
But he wasn't. His long fingers danced over the keyboard, agile testimony to his complete familiarity with computers and their workings. McPherson was competent, but John was a master at ferreting out information.
He was also the most dangerous man McPherson had ever known.
He loved John like a son, but he knew no one knew him completely. It was anyone's guess what went on behind those calm eyes, the thoughtful manner. No, it wasn't just a manner; John really was thoughtful. Most people saw only the surface; John saw multiple layers and intuitively knew how to manipulate those layers so people reacted the way he wanted, causing certain events to unfold.
He also knew how to kill in more ways than most people knew even existed. He had trained with the Navy SEALs, going through the rigorous physical conditioning as well as the classroom stuff. He had learned about computers from some legendary techno-wizard. He could fly a plane, sail a ship, set a bone, and probably sew a dress.
The CIA gathered information on roughly a hundred and fifty countries. John Medina had been in all of them.
He had been married once, in his early twenties. The young woman had died. Rumor had it she was a double agent and John had killed her himself rather than let her compromise a highly placed mole in the Kremlin. McPherson never met the young woman, and he didn't necessarily believe the rumor, because there were other ways to prevent her from passing along information, and John didn't kill unnecessarily; nevertheless, he admitted John was capable of the action.
The computer screen blurred again, and McPherson leaned back in his chair, stretching his legs out and yawning. "Damn, whoever would have thought they would know so many of the same people?"
"They were in Vietnam," John murmured, his fingers skimming the keys. "Hundreds of thousands of troops were over there at any one time. Dad was in and out of the country several times, multiplying the possibilities. Whitlaw did multiple tours of duty. They met a lot of people, not necessarily at the same time."
"Jesus, some of these people have been dead over twenty years. Can't you weed out the dead guys, shorten the list a little?"
"Sure." John tapped some keys, then paused with his finger poised over the mouse. He typed in another command. A hard copy began spitting out of the laser printer beside McPherson.
r />
"What's this?" McPherson reached over and picked up the first sheet lying in the tray.
"A list of the dead guys."
Squinting at the names, McPherson said, "Why?"
"Because the answer may be in someone who's already dead. Maybe Dad and Whitlaw were just next on someone's list." John shrugged to show the endless possibilities. "The wider the search area, the more likely I am to see a pattern."
"So you're looking for people who have recently died."
"I'm looking for anything. If I see anything interesting, then I'll run a match to see if any of the people on the deceased list also knew any of the people on the present list. There has to be a link."
The printer stopped printing. McPherson gathered up the sheets and handed them to John, who tilted back in his chair and began scanning the list of names and the dates of their deaths. Ten minutes later, he paused, his gaze returning to one name, and he stared at it thoughtfully for a moment. Then he leaned forward, pulled up another file on the screen, and typed in a name.
"Hmm."
"Did you find something?"
"Maybe. It's… interesting. I'll check further."
McPherson rolled his chair over beside John's and read the information on the computer screen. "Huh."
"Did you know him?"
"No, but we sure as hell know his brother, don't we?"
"Wake up, honey." Marc smoothed his hand over Karen's shoulder, cupping his palm over the smooth, cool ball of the joint. "Here's a cup of coffee."
She blinked sleepily. "What time is it?" she mumbled.
"Not late. Seven-thirty."
"Then why are you up? You said you don't have to go to work." She pushed herself up in bed, yawning as she reached for the cup of steaming, fragrant coffee. The sheet slid to her waist, and Marc's hand almost automatically went to her bare breasts, stroking, rubbing her nipples. Karen leaned against him and nestled her head on his shoulder as she sipped the coffee, enjoying his fondling.
"I don't, but we do have to go to Columbus. I called the airline and got two seats on the ten-thirty flight."
She was silent, a little frightened at the thought of returning to the city she had fled in fear only the day before. It had to be done, though. Marc could go alone, but she didn't want to be separated from him, and he seemed to feel the same way.
He tilted her head up and kissed her, long and slow. She was amazed at how relaxed she felt with him, how comfortable and secure. It didn't bother her that she was naked and he was clothed. They had just spent roughly eighteen hours in bed together, making love, dozing, making love. He had let her get up only to go to the bathroom. When she got hungry, he brought food to her.
The pampering had worked. She felt much better than she had the day before, not nearly as sore. She was well rested, and she was happy. She felt guilty for being so happy, because her father had been murdered a week before and her own situation was serious, but the giddy, light hearted sensation that filled her chest was undoubtedly happiness.
After all her anxious, uncertain over-analyzing before, she felt calm now, and confident. They had committed to each other, and she trusted him. She had no doubt they would soon be getting married; otherwise, he would never have made love to her without using birth control, no matter how good the lack of barrier felt or how tempted he was. Marc was infinitely responsible and reliable. He had shown her that in a hundred small, different ways from the moment she first met him. For the rest of his life, he would be there.
The strong coffee hit her system with a jolt of caffeine, stirring her brain to activity. She needed to shower and wash her hair; she wanted to put down the coffee cup and pull Marc down on the bed with her again, but she wasn't certain they had enough time. She slid her hand up his thigh to check out the situation.
''You're wasting your time," he said ruefully. "After last night, I couldn't get a hard-on now if my life depended on it."
"Are you certain?" She found what she was looking for and began stroking him.
"Not one hundred percent certain, but fairly confident." He grinned. "Trust me, the two nights we've spent together are aberrations."
Tilting her head back against his shoulder, Karen smiled at him. "So what is your usual—ah—level of performance?"
He laughed. "Twice a day is plenty. Once is normal."
"Every day?"
"If I say yes, are you going to hold me to that?"
"Rain or shine."
"In that case, yes. But if I'm tired, you'll have to do the work."
"Oh, all right, if I have to." She stopped teasing him and took her hand away. "I'd better get ready. Want to shower with me?"
"I have breakfast ready. Eat first, then we'll shower."
After breakfast, he called Shannon to let him know where they were going. "I'm going to let McPherson know, too," he said.
"Are you on to something?"
"Karen remembers getting a box in the mail from her father. We're going to see what's in it."
"When will you be back?"
"Tonight, if we can get a flight. I didn't book a return ticket because I don't know how long this will take. Tomorrow for sure."
"Okay. I'll keep an eye on your house while you're gone, in case any suspicious characters start nosing around." He paused. "Watch your ass."
"I will. I'll let you know when we get back."
Then he called the number McPherson had given him, having decided to go with his instincts and trust the man. McPherson picked up on the second ring. "Yeah."
"This is Chastain. Miss Whitlaw is with me, and we're going to Columbus this morning to look at some papers of her father's that are in storage. I've notified Shannon, and he knows I'm calling you."
McPherson snorted. "Cautious soul, aren't you?"
"Cautious enough."
"It's a smart thing to be. I'll get someone there to tag along behind you."
"Tell me what he looks like, so I won't get nervous."
McPherson paused. Marc had the impression he covered the mouthpiece. Then he said, "Ah, okay. Tall, early to mid-thirties, dark brown hair, glasses."
"Got it."
"He—urn, he'll be wearing a Cincinnati baseball cap. Red. And, um, change the glasses to sunglasses."
Either the man who would be following them was standing right there in front of McPherson telling him what he was going to wear, or McPherson was making a list of instructions. Marc suspected the former, otherwise why cover the mouthpiece of the phone?
"Can he get there ahead of us?"
"No problem."
"How will he spot us?"
"We have ID photographs of both of you."
"That was quick."
"As a fox," McPherson said.
"Have you turned up anything yet?"
"An interesting possibility, but no way to verify it. I hope you find something in that box that will help."
* * *
Chapter 19
« ^ »
Columbus, Ohio
Hayes studied the setup of the apartment building. It was an older building, in a good neighborhood, only four stories, probably two to four apartments on each floor. It was the kind of building where the residents knew one another and kept track of what was going on. That wasn't good. On the other hand, there wasn't much in the way of security: lights on each corner, and the glass double doors to the small foyer were certainly locked at night, but if they were supposed to be locked during the day, then someone wasn't following the rules, because people came and went without hindrance. Not many people, true, but enough that he was cautious.
Her apartment was on the second floor, 2A. That should mean it was the closest to the stairs.
He paused before he entered the building, taking a casual look around to make certain no one was watching him. A car turned into the small parking lot, and Hayes calmly opened the door and went inside, for to stand outside the door watching the car would get him noticed.
A small elevator in the rear of the foyer servi
ced the upper floors; the mailboxes were on the right wall, the stairs on the left. Hayes took the stairs.
As he had surmised, apartment 2A was at the top of the stairs, the door just to the right of the steps. Yellow crime-scene tape was attached to the hand rail and stretched across the hall to the wall, creating a small alcove. Tape also had been placed across the door.
Looking down, he saw the large rusty stains in the beige carpet. The door had holes in it, jagged, messy holes. The smell of death, of blood and urine and feces, still lingered, and would until the carpet was cleaned.
Hayes took a pair of latex gloves from his pocket and pulled them on. Ducking under the crime-scene tape, he tried the door. As expected, it was locked. Otherwise, the scene would have been an irresistible lure to teenagers and the morbid; they might even have gotten up the nerve to ignore the warning on the tape and go inside. People were incredibly nosy.
The locked door was a minor barrier. He had it open within fifteen seconds. If anyone came out of the other apartments and saw him, they would think he was a police detective. After all, he wore a suit and latex gloves. The suit was a definite sacrifice in ninety-degree weather; obviously, no one would be wearing one unless his job required it. That made him official; he doubted he would even have to show a badge, though he had one with him just in case. It wasn't a bad fake, either, considering how fast he had gotten it.
The inside of the door was covered with the same rusty stain, streaks smeared across the white surface, on the door jamb, part of the wall. Other than that, the apartment was neat. Clancy always had been particular about how he did a job. He was neat. No one would ever know their place had been searched; everything was back in its previous location, nothing taken, nothing sliced up. Clancy had claimed he could tell if anything had been hidden inside a cushion without taking it apart, by carefully studying the seams.
Yeah, Clancy had been an artist. Hayes had watched him toss a room before. He had tapped walls, gotten down on his hands and knees and studied the floor, inspected books and lamps and bric-a-brac. Nothing in that room had escaped his notice. And he had found the file for which he had been searching, hidden in the bottom of an upholstered chair. The particle-board bottom had been unscrewed from the frame and the file placed inside, then the bottom screwed back on. Clancy had noticed the small scratch marks on the particle-board where the screws had been removed and then replaced.