The Winner

  George Masters stared down at the file intently. He was sitting in his office at the Hoover Building in Washington. Masters had been with the FBI for over twenty-five years. Ten of those years had been spent in the FBI’s New York office. And now Masters was staring down at a name that he had become intimately familiar with ten years ago: LuAnn Tyler. Masters had been part of the federal investigation of Tyler’s flight from the United States, and although the investigation had been officially closed years ago due to basic inertia, Masters had never lost interest mainly because none of it made sense. Things that didn’t make sense bothered the veteran FBI agent greatly. Even after transferring to Washington, he had kept the case in the back of his mind. Now there were recent events that had ignited that spark of interest into a full flame. Matthew Riggs had made inquiries about LuAnn Tyler. Riggs, Masters knew, was in Charlottesville, Virginia. Masters knew Riggs, or who Riggs used to be, very well. If someone like Riggs was interested in Tyler, so was Masters.

  After failing to prevent LuAnn Tyler’s escape from New York, Masters and his team had spent considerable time trying to reconstruct the last several days leading up to her disappearance. He had figured that she would have either driven up from Georgia to New York or taken the train. She didn’t have a driver’s license or a car. The big convertible she had been spotted in had been found in front of the trailer, so she hadn’t used that vehicle. Masters had then focused on the trains. At the station in Atlanta, Masters had hit the jackpot. LuAnn Tyler had taken the Amtrak Crescent to New York City on the day the authorities believed the murders were committed. But that wasn’t all she had done. LuAnn had made a phone call from Otis Burns’s car phone. Burns was the other dead man in the trailer. The FBI had traced the phone call. The number was an eight hundred number, but it had already been disconnected. Investigations into who had leased the phone number had run into a complete dead-end. That had gotten Masters’s curiosity up even more.

  Now that he was once again focused on LuAnn Tyler, Masters had instructed his men to go over NYPD records looking for any unusual events occurring around the time of LuAnn’s disappearance. One item his men had just discovered had interested Masters greatly. A man named Anthony Romanello had been found dead in his New York apartment the night before the press conference announcing LuAnn as the lottery winner. The discovery of a dead body in New York City was hardly news; however, the police had been suspicious of Romanello’s death because he had a long arrest record and was suspected of hiring himself out as an assassin. The police had probed into the details of what he had done on his last day among the living. Romanello and a woman had been seen at a restaurant shortly before Romanello had died; they had been observed having a serious argument. Barely two hours later, Romanello was dead. The official cause of death had been ruled cardiac arrest; however, the autopsy had revealed no sign of heart trouble in the youthful and strongly built man. None of those details had gotten Masters excited. What had gotten his adrenaline going was the description of the woman: It matched LuAnn Tyler precisely.

  Masters shifted uncomfortably in his chair and lit up a cigarette. And then came the kicker: Found on Romanello’s person was a receipt for a train ticket. Romanello had been in Georgia and returned to New York on the very same train with LuAnn, although they had been seated in separate compartments. Was there a connection? Drawing on information that had been long buried in his mind, the veteran FBI agent was beginning to piece things together from a clearer perspective. Maybe being away from the case all these years had been a good thing.

  He had finished poring over the files he had accumulated on LuAnn Tyler, including records from the lottery. The winning ticket had been purchased at a 7-Eleven in Rikersville, Georgia, on the day of the trailer murders, presumably by LuAnn Tyler. Pretty nervy for her to stop and buy a ticket after a double homicide, Masters thought. The winning ticket had been announced on the following Wednesday at the drawing in New York. The woman fitting LuAnn’s description had been seen with Romanello on Friday evening. And the press conference announcing LuAnn as the winner had been held on Saturday. But the thing was, according to Amtrak records and the ticket found on Romanello, both Tyler and Romanello had taken the Crescent train on the previous Sunday getting them into New York on Monday. If so, that meant LuAnn had left for New York City before she had known she had even won the lottery. Was she just running from a possible murder charge and coincidentally chose New York in which to hide, and then just happened to win a hundred million bucks? If so, she must be the luckiest person in the world. George Masters did not believe that anyone could be that lucky. He ticked off the points on his hand. Murders. Telephone call. Purchase of lottery ticket. Train to New York before winning ticket announced. LuAnn Tyler wins the lottery. Romanello and Tyler argue. Romanello dies. LuAnn Tyler, a twenty-year-old with a seventh-grade education and a baby, walks right through a massive police net and successfully disappears. She could not, Masters decided, have done that alone. All of this had been planned well in advance. And that meant one thing. Masters suddenly gripped the arms of his chair tightly as the conclusion hit him.

  LuAnn Tyler knew that she was going to win the lottery.

  The implications of that last thought sent a deep shudder through the grim-faced agent. He couldn’t believe he hadn’t seen that possibility ten years ago, but he had to admit it had never even occurred to him. He was looking for a potential murderer and nothing else. He drew solace from the fact that ten years ago he didn’t have the Romanello angle to chew on.

  Masters obviously wasn’t old enough to remember all the lottery corruption from the last century, but he certainly remembered the game show scandals in the 1950s. Those would seem laughable by comparison to what the country might be now facing.

  Ten years ago someone may have corrupted the United States Lottery. At least once, possibly more. The ramifications were truly terrifying to think about. The federal government depended on the revenue from that lottery to fund a myriad of programs, programs that were now so entrenched politically that it would be impossible to repeal them. But if the source of those funds was contaminated? If the American People ever discovered that fact?

  Masters’s mouth went dry with the thought. He swallowed some water from a carafe on his desk and downed a couple of aspirin to combat the beginnings of what would still become a torturous headache. He composed himself and picked up his phone. “Get me the director,” he instructed. While he waited for the call to go through, Masters sat back in his chair. He knew this eventually would have to go up to the White House. But he’d let the director talk to the attorney general and the A.G. could talk to the president. If his conclusions were right, so much shit would hit the fan that everyone would eventually be covered in it.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  Jackson was again in his suite and was again staring at his laptop. LuAnn had met with Riggs several times now. Jackson would give her another few hours to call. He was disappointed in her nonetheless. He had not tapped LuAnn’s phone line, an oversight that he had decided was not worth remedying at this point. She had caught him a little off-guard by sending Lisa away so quickly. The associate he had retained to track LuAnn’s movements had been compelled to follow Charlie and Lisa, thereby depriving Jackson of a valuable pair of eyes. Thus, he did not know that LuAnn and Donovan had already met.

  He had contemplated sending for more people so that all bases would be covered, but too many strangers lurking around town would probably raise suspicion. He wanted to avoid that if possible. Particularly because there was a wild card out there he was unsure of: Matt Riggs. He had transmitted Riggs’s fingerprints to the same information source and was awaiting a reply.

  Jackson’s mouth sagged as the information spread over the screen. The name that appeared as the owner of the fingerprints was not Matthew Riggs. For a moment Jackson wondered if he could have lifted someone else’s prints in the cottage by mistake. But that was impossible; he had seen the exact area the man calling himself M
att Riggs had touched. There could have been no mistake there. He quickly decided to check the other source of a possible mistake. He dialed the number and spoke at length to the person on the other end.

  “This one was tricky,” the voice said. “We went through normal channels initially to avoid any suspicions. We believe the request was kicked to senior level and we received back a ‘no-fingerprint-found’ reply.”

  “But a person was identified,” Jackson said.

  “Right, but only after we went back through other channels.” Jackson knew that meant hacking into a database. “That’s when we pulled up the information we transmitted to you.”

  “But it’s a different name than the one he’s using now and it lists him as being deceased.”

  “Right, but the thing is, when a criminal dies, the standard procedure is to fingerprint the corpse and transmit the prints to the FBI for verification. When that’s completed, the pointer — the linkage used to retrieve the print from the database — is deleted. The result is that there are, technically, no prints of deceased criminals on the database.”

  “So how do you explain what you just sent me? Why would they want to have this person listed as deceased but under another name?”

  “Well, that tells me that the name listed on the database is his real one and the one he’s using now is phony. The fact that he’s listed as dead tells me that the Feds want people to believe he’s dead, including anyone who might try to get access to their database to check. I’ve seen the Feds do that before.”

  “Why?”

  The answer the man gave him caused Jackson to slowly hang up the phone. Now it all made sense. He stared at the screen.

  Daniel Buckman: Deceased.

  It was less than three minutes after LuAnn left that Riggs received a telephone call. The message was terse, but still managed to chill Riggs to the bone.

  “Someone just made an unauthorized access of your fingerprint file through the Automated Fingerprint Identification System. And it was somebody who knew what he was doing because we didn’t realize it happened until after the fact. Exercise extreme care, we’re checking it out right now.”

  Riggs slammed down the phone and grabbed his receiving unit. He took a moment to unlock a drawer of his desk. He pulled out two pistols, two ammo clips, and an ankle holster. The larger pistol he put in his pocket and the smaller one he inserted in the holster he belted around his ankle. Then he ran for his Jeep. He hoped to God LuAnn hadn’t found and removed the transmitter from her car.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  From the car phone LuAnn called the number Jackson had given her. He buzzed her back less than a minute later.

  “I’m on the move too,” he said. “We need to talk.”

  “I’m reporting back to you, like you said.”

  “I’m sure you are. I trust you have a good deal to tell me.”

  “I don’t think we have a serious problem on our hands.”

  “Oh, really, I’m so very glad to hear it.”

  LuAnn responded testily. “Do you want to hear it or not?”

  “Yes, but in person.”

  “Why?”

  “Why not?” he fired back. “And I have some information that might be of interest to you.”

  “About what?”

  “No, about whom. Matt Riggs. Like his real name, his real background, and why you should take every caution in dealing with him.”

  “You can tell me all that over the phone.”

  “LuAnn, perhaps you didn’t hear me. I said you’re going to meet me in person.”

  “Why should I?”

  “I’ll give you a wonderful reason. If you don’t I’ll find Riggs and kill him in the next half hour. I’ll cut off his head and mail it to you. If you call to warn him, then I’ll go to your home and kill everyone there from the maids to the gardeners and then I’ll burn it to the ground. Then I’ll go to your precious daughter’s exclusive school and slaughter everyone there. You can keep calling, trying to warn the whole town, and I’ll just start killing people at random. Is that a good enough reason, LuAnn, or do you want to hear more?”

  LuAnn, pale and trembling at this verbal onslaught, had to force her next breath out. She knew that he meant every insane word. “Where and when?”

  “Just like old times. Speaking of old times, why don’t you ask Charlie to join us. This applies to him as well.”

  LuAnn held the phone away from her, staring at it as though she wanted to melt it down along with the man on the other end. “He’s not around right now.”

  “My, my. And I thought he never left your side, the faithful sidekick.”

  Something in his tone touched a chord in LuAnn’s memory. She couldn’t think of what it was. “We’re not exactly joined at the hip. He’s got a life to live.”

  For now, Jackson thought. For now, just like you. I’m having my doubts, though, I really am.

  “Let’s meet at the cottage where our inquisitive friend was nesting. Thirty minutes, can you manage it?”

  “I’ll be at the cottage in thirty minutes.”

  Jackson hung up the car phone and with an automatic motion felt for the knife hidden in his jacket.

  Ten miles away LuAnn almost mirrored that movement, slipping off the safety on her .44.

  Dusk was gathering as LuAnn drove down the treelined, leaf-strewn dirt road. The area was very dark. It had rained heavily the night before and a spray of water kicked up on her windshield as she drove through a deep puddle; she was momentarily startled. The cottage was up ahead. She slowed down and swept the terrain with her eyes. She saw no car, no person. She knew that meant nothing. Jackson seemed to appear and disappear whenever he damn well pleased with less rippling than a pebble flung across the ocean. She pulled the BMW to a stop in front of the ramshackle structure and climbed out. She knelt down for a moment and eyed the dirt. There were no other tire tracks and the mud would have shown any very clearly.

  LuAnn studied the exterior of the cottage. He was already there, she was certain. It was as though the man carried a scent that was detectable only to her. It smelled like the grave, moldy and dank. She took one last deep breath and started toward the door.

  Upon entering the cottage, LuAnn surveyed the small area.

  “You’re early.” Jackson stepped from the shadows. His face was the same one from each of their face-to-face encounters. He liked to be consistent. He wore a leather jacket and jeans. A black ski cap covered the top of his head. Dark hiking boots were on his feet. “But at least you came alone,” he added.

  “I hope the same can be said of you.” LuAnn shifted slightly so that her back was against a wall rather than the door.

  Jackson interpreted her movements and smiled slightly. He folded his arms and leaned against the wall, his lips pursed. “You can start delivering your report,” he ordered.

  LuAnn kept her hands in her jacket, one fist closed around her pistol; she managed to point the muzzle at Jackson through the pocket.

  Her movements were slight but Jackson cocked his head and smiled. “Now I distinctly remember you saying you wouldn’t kill in cold blood.”

  “There are exceptions to everything.”

  “Fascinating, but we don’t have time for games. The report?”

  LuAnn started speaking in short bursts. “I met with Donovan. He’s the man who was following me, Thomas Donovan.” LuAnn assumed that Jackson had already run down Donovan’s identity. She had decided on the drive over that the best approach was to tell Jackson mostly the truth and to only lie at critical junctures. Half truths were a wonderful way to inspire credibility, and right now she needed all she could muster. “He’s a reporter with the Washington Tribune.”

  Jackson squatted on his haunches, his hands pressed together in front of him. His eyes remained keenly on her. “Go on.”

  “He was doing a story on the lottery. Twelve of the winners from ten years ago.” She nodded toward Jackson. “You know the ones; they’ve all flourished finan
cially.”

  “So?”

  “So, Donovan wanted to know how, since so many of the other winners have gone belly-up. A very consistent percentage, he said. So your twelve sort of stuck out.”

  Jackson hid his chagrin well. He didn’t like having loose ends, and this one had been glaring. LuAnn studied him closely. She read the smallest of self-doubts in his features. That was enormously comforting to her, but this was not the time to dwell on it.

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I told him I had been referred to an excellent investment firm by someone from the lottery. I gave him the name of the investment firm you used. I’m assuming they’re legitimate.”

  “Very,” Jackson replied. “At least on the surface. And the others?”

  “I told Donovan I didn’t know about them, but that they could have been referred to the same firm for all I knew.”

  “And he bought that?”

  “Let’s just say that he was disappointed. He wanted to write a story about the wealthy screwing the poor — you know, they win the lottery and then parasitic investment firms churn their accounts, earn their pieces of the pie, and leave the winner with nothing but attorney fees for filing bankruptcy. I told him that I certainly didn’t support that conclusion. I had done just fine.”

  “And he knew about your situation in Georgia?”