A moment later, Jack found himself in an air-conditioned glass-enclosed entranceway which housed a wide staircase made of a single steel beam stacked with marble stairs. Hugh Vetri’s mansion had been constructed vertically, down the side of the hill. Each of its three glass-fronted stories shared a spectacular view of the valley below, already swathed in haze and smog.
“Down here, Jack.”
Castalano led Jack down the curved staircase. Modern art and hanging sculptures dominated the walls, the ceiling. The lamps, the furniture resembled the art; it was all made of cold steel, glass and chrome. When they arrived on the first level, Jack heard many voices. The tone was professional, but their voices muted, respectful, whispered. That’s when Jack knew someone had died in this place.
“Who is this Hugh Vetri?” Jack asked, his professional instincts aroused. “A movie star or director?”
“Vetri’s an independent producer,” Castalano replied. “A couple of years ago he made some fantasy movie that turned into
“Was?”
Castalano halted in front of an ornately carved oaken door, pushed it open. “Meet Hugh Vetri.”
The smell hit Jack first. Spilled blood, emptied bowels and bladder — the stink of the abattoir. His eyes followed a trail of clotted brown blood that led to a large oak desk. A man was sprawled across it, arms and legs out, like a frog on a dissecting table. Leather belts and silk ties had been used to bind the man’s wrists and ankles, and like some biological specimen, the victim had been eviscerated. Ribbons of entrails lay scattered across the room. On the floor, a chunk of the man’s liver gleamed dully in the sunlight streaming through the glass wall. The organ lay amid the scattered contents of the desk top — only the corpse and a computer monitor remained on the oak surface. The computer was running, on the monitor a screensaver with an ocean view played in an endless loop.
Jack tamped down his revulsion enough to study the corpse without touching it. Of particular interest was the positioning of the body, the binding wounds on the arms and legs, the bright bruise on the cheek, under the right eye. Most revealing was the expression on the dead man’s face — one eye open, the other closed, mouth gaping and blood flecked, tongue black and distended. This man’s death was deliberately prolonged. He’d experienced hours of torture before being released.
Detective Castalano broke the silence. “His wife, Sarah, is in the master bedroom. Her throat was cut. Vetri’s daughter is in the bathhouse. Whoever did this found her while she was taking a midnight swim. She was the first to die, but it was mercifully quick, unlike this poor bastard.”
“Anyone else?” Jack’s voice was brittle.
“The live-in nanny and an infant son. They’re both in the nursery. Want to see those crime scenes?”
“No.”
“That’s smart. Their murders were savage enough, Christ knows. But whoever did this saved their real fury for Hugh Vetri.”
“How did the murderer get in?”
“That’s the funny part,” Castalano replied. “The alarm company says the alarm was activated at eight p.m., then turned off again around midnight. The code was used. Whoever did this may have been an insider. We’re checking out that angle now, along with some others.”
Castalano glanced at the corpse, looked away. “It’s like fucking Charles Manson all over again. I thought hippies were extinct.”
Jack began to back out of the room. Castalano caught his arm. “Sorry. There’s more you have to see, Jack.”
The detective crossed the room to the computer still sitting on the corner of the desk. The keyboard had been knocked on the floor, but the wireless mouse was lying on its pad near the dead man’s head.
“Hugh Vetri was using his computer when he was murdered,” Castalano said. “He was viewing the information from a CD-ROM.”
Using a gloved hand, Castalano reached out and touched the wireless mouse. The screensaver vanished and the computer jumped to the last file on display. Jack stifled a shocked gasp when his own face appeared.
To go with the picture there was an accurate profile of Jack, complete with the names of his family members, his home address, and all of his numbers, including his home phone, his cell, and the office telephone at CTU Headquarters. Jack leaned closer to the monitor. On second glance, it appeared this file came right out of CTU’s own database.
“Where did Hugh Vetri get this information?”
Castalano shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine. Maybe the experts can tell us both, once they data mine the dead man’s hard drive.”
Jack studied the monitor. “Who found the bodies?”
“We’re thinking the killer called it in,” Castalano replied. “911 received an anonymous tip five hours ago. We’ve got some leads; the call came from a pay phone and we traced it. Nothing definitive yet, though.”
There was a pause. “Jack. I have to ask you this.”
Jack nodded. “Shoot.”
“Do you know any reason why Hugh Vetri would be interested in you or any member of your immediate family?”
“Not a clue,” Jack replied.
3. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 7 A.M. AND 8 A.M. PACIFIC DAYLIGHT TIME
Tony dragged the remaining backpack out of the cargo bay, set it on the hot pavement. Music blared on the street. Not a traditional Mexican ballad or even brassy mariachi music — just raucous urban hip-hop chanted in Spanish. Men, old and young, headed to jobs or to look for work. Children traipsed off to school in groups, darting among the cars as they raced across the crowded streets, while stalled traffic continued to pump noxious fumes into an already smog-choked atmosphere.
The back of the van was empty now. This would be Tony’s final trip. Upstairs, Fay Hubley had already gotten the satellite interface up and running. The computer system would be next.
Before he closed the driver’s side door, Tony considered pocketing one of the two Glock C18s hidden in a secret compartment in the floor — then changed his mind. Guns were trouble and the fugitive they hunted wasn’t prone to violence. Tony hoped he could get through this mission without resorting to weapons.
He was almost finished when he suddenly felt his sweat-dampened skin prickle. Someone was observing him. He could feel it. Without looking up, he reset the van’s security system and slammed the door. While adjusting the backpack on his shoulders, Tony casually glanced around. A policeman leaned against a squad car on the opposite side of the street. His gray uniform appeared crisp, despite the melting heat; his face was impassive, unreadable; his eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses.
Tony considered the possibilities. He could be eyeing the van for towing later. Though the vehicle was legally parked, auto extortion was common enough in Tijuana, especially cars with U.S. license plates. Vehicles disappeared only to be returned after a hefty “towing fee” was paid to the
On the other hand, the guy could be watching out of natural curiosity, the need to know what’s happening on his beat. Tony hoped it was the latter. Among other things, the CTU pre-mission briefing reminded him and Fay that criminal gangs did, on occasion, kidnap Americans and hold them for ransom. Corrupt police had been known to get a piece of that action as well.
With a final yank on the strap, Tony circled the van and walked through the doors of La Hacienda. With every step he could feel the cop’s eyes boring into his spine.
Back in room six, things seemed suddenly cluttered. Several laptop computers, interconnected with a small server to form a network, were now spread out across the small desk and one of the two beds. Lights blinked and disk drives whirred, but Fay was nowhere in sight. Tony saw the closed bathroom door and heard water running. He
