something onboard a ship that would soon dock in Long Beach. But whether the cargo was a bomb or a biological weapon, or something mundane like drugs or illegal aliens, wasn’t clear. The NSA was trying to get more information so the Coast Guard would have a better idea of what they were dealing with before they stopped the ship. However, and because of the deputy director’s body language, Claire suspected they weren’t talking about the California-bound vessel.
The deputy director was simultaneously nodding and frowning. The nods implied that he agreed with everything Dillon was saying, but the frowns indicated that he didn’t like anything he was hearing. This meant, Claire was fairly sure, that they were discussing Dillon’s budget. Dillon’s attitude toward his authorized annual budget-a budget that totaled several hundred million dollars and which he agreed not to exceed each year-was that what he was doing was so important that if more money was needed, Congress could either raise taxes or take the money from some other federal agency that was less important. In other words, not an attitude the deputy director appreciated, since he was the one who would have to crawl up to Capitol Hill and beg for the money. And judging by the deputy director’s simultaneous nods and frowns, Dillon was telling the man the significance of everything he was doing and providing a reasonable explanation as to why it all cost so much-but he was also saying there was no way he could reduce his spending.
But Claire knew the real reason why Dillon could never meet his budget-and it had nothing to do with any mismanagement on Dillon’s part. The real reason was that Claire’s organization was not included in the budget and was being secretly funded out of Dillon’s other operations. This, however, was not a fact Dillon could share with his boss.
The deputy director left five minutes later, still frowning, while Dillon appeared completely unperturbed. “That poor fellow,” Dillon said, “is going to give himself an ulcer.”
Claire didn’t care. “The grassyknoll hit,” she said. “I have data now.”
Dillon’s smile widened. “I love data,” he said.
“That night three men in the D.C. area were shot at approximately one A.M.”
“Only three?”
“It was a quiet night in Dodge. One guy had his face blown off by a convenience store clerk who was staunchly defending the fifty-six dollars in his till. The second man, poor bastard, was shot by his wife when he lost his house keys and broke into his own home.”
“And the third person?”
“A man named Paul Russo was found shot in the head near the Iwo Jima Memorial.”
“Could that be the monument we heard mentioned in the intercept?” Dillon asked.
“Probably. And it gets better. Russo’s body was discovered at approximately one fifteen and, as you might expect, the Arlington cops were called to the scene. I had a tech take a peek into Arlington’s computers this morning, and, lo and behold, before the body was even loaded into the coroner’s wagon, an FBI agent by the name of David Hopper shows up and takes over the case.”
“At one in the morning?” Dillon said.
“Closer to two, actually. But that’s not all. As you heard on the intercept, Transport failed to show. Now, assuming Transport’s function was to remove the bodies, how might one go about that? Well, I discovered that at almost exactly the same time as whatever occurred, an ambulance was in a traffic accident two blocks from where Mr. Russo’s body was found.”
“Why would they use an ambulance?”
“An ambulance is an ideal vehicle for picking up and transporting dead bodies. And if traffic is jammed up or you’re in a hurry, you can use lights and sirens.”
“I agree, but what makes you think, other than the time, that this ambulance accident is related to Russo?”
“I don’t know for sure that it is. The accident was just an interesting coincidence which became even more interesting after I learned the ambulance had been stolen from a company in Fairfax and the driver, though dressed like a medic, did not work for the company and had no ID on him. The driver is currently a John Doe car thief in a coma at Arlington Hospital.”
“Now that is a fascinating… anomaly,” Dillon said, his choice of the word a reminder to Claire that she shouldn’t confuse anomalies with relevant facts until she had supporting data-a reminder Claire didn’t need or appreciate.
“But we missed an opportunity,” Claire said. “Messenger, we assume, was removed from the scene. But how did Messenger get to the scene?”
“Damn it,” Dillon muttered. “His car.”
“Right. His car. Based on what we heard, Messenger must have parked fairly close to where Russo’s body was found, so I sent agents to the memorial and had them get license plates on every car within two blocks of the kill site. All cars currently in the area belong to people who are alive, which means the shooters must have removed Messenger’s car last night, maybe even while the cops were still at the scene.”
“Nervy,” Dillon said.
“Not just nervy but connected. Very connected. Who could get the FBI to show up at two in the morning to take a case away from the Arlington cops?”
“Is that a rhetorical question?”
“At this point, no.”
“So what are your next steps?” Dillon asked.
“I’ll see if I can figure out who Messenger is. I’m checking missing persons reports and watching to see who shows up dead in the next few days.”
“Good. What else?”
“I’ll get a copy of Russo’s autopsy and learn more about the FBI agent who was dispatched to the scene. And I’ll find out everything there is to know about Mr. Russo himself. All I know at this point is that he was a nurse.”
“A nurse? Why would someone want to kill a nurse?”
“Wrong question, Dillon. The question is: Why would someone who has access to encrypted radios and possibly military personnel, and who is able to make the FBI take away a case from the local fuzz in the middle of the night, want to kill a nurse?”
“I stand corrected, my dear. Keep me apprised.”
DeMarco called his mother in Queens and told her Paul had been killed. She spent a few minutes saying things like “Oh, my God. Oh, my God. He was so young. He was so sweet.” She cried a bit and talked about how Paul had looked when he was a child. “Like an angel he was, with all that curly hair, those big blue eyes.”
Then, being a practical person, she got down to business.
“Well, Joe, you’re going to have to take care of the funeral. And you better find out where he lived and take care of his things, too.”
Aw, for Christ’s sake. He was sorry Paul was dead but he hardly knew the guy, and he could already see that dealing with his death was going to eat up a lot of time-time he had allotted for playing golf.
“What am I supposed to do with his things?” he whined to his mother.
“I don’t know. Give them to the Goodwill or something. And maybe he had a will. You need to see what his wishes were.”
Yeah, a will. A will was good. If Paul had appointed an executor, the executor could deal with all this shit.
“But didn’t he have any other relatives?” DeMarco said. “I thought Aunt Vivian had a sister-Tina, Lena, something like that.”
Aunt Vivian was Paul’s mother, and although she wasn’t literally DeMarco’s aunt, that’s what he’d always called her.
“Joe, what’s wrong with you!” his mother snapped. “Lena’s eighty-seven years old. You can’t burden her with this. It’s your responsibility. It’s the right thing to do.”
Sheesh.
“Agent Hopper, my name’s Joe DeMarco. I’m calling about Paul Russo.”
Hopper didn’t say anything.
“Agent, are you still there?”
