“Why are you so sure about Sam Newman?”
“Because he’s my brother-in-law. I hired him after my sister got tired of the hours he worked and divorced him. I’ve known Sam Newman for twenty years. Money’s not important to him, and he loved working here.”
“So you think he’s just sleeping and not answering his phone?”
“He might be sleeping, that’s what he said he was going to do. It’s not like him, not answering his phone. More likely, he couldn’t sleep and is out trying to find out who killed my secretary.”
“All right, I’ll keep trying to find him. Thanks for the information.”
Drake hung up and asked Margo to get Detective Carson on the phone.
“Carson here.”
“Anything new your investigation has turned up?”
“Hell Drake, I thought you were going to solve this one for me. I took a long lunch and just been waiting for you to call.”
“Sounds like your work habits haven’t changed much. I’m following up on something and need to talk with Sam Newman. Have you seen him recently?”
“Not since this morning, but then I do have more than one case to work on and may have missed him. You remember how it is to be busy, don’t you counselor?”
“What I remember is how busy I was cleaning up your messes. That’s what I remember, but thanks for all your help anyway.”
“Anytime. I have to ask Newman some questions myself. If I see him, I’ll try to remember to have him call you.”
When Drake broke the connection, Detective Carson shouted to the homicide division’s one secretary to get Sam Newman from Martin Research on the phone, pronto. He didn’t know what Drake was up to, but this was his investigation and there was no way he was going to let Drake get in his way.
“Sorry, sir. Martin Research says he’s gone home to get some sleep.”
“Well, then call him at home. Did I tell you to quit trying after just one call? Jesus, do I have to come out there and do your job for you?”
Detective Carson sat fuming about the quality of his support staff when his phone rang again. Sam Newman wasn’t answering his home phone. He slammed down the phone, grabbed his coat and stormed out to find Sam Newman.
The drive to Orenco Station took less than ten minutes in the afternoon traffic. Newman’s house was in the middle of the block on NE 64th Ave., a brown two-story bungalow with a Chevy Trail Blazer parked on the street. Carson was mildly impressed. Orenco Station was where his last wife had wanted to live.
Carson rang the doorbell twice without an answer, then banged on the door.
“Newman, police. Wake up, open the door!”
When there was no answer, Carson tried the door and found it was open.
“Newman, Detective Carson. We talked this morning. You in there? I’m coming in.”
Carson walked into Sam Newman’s home and knew he wasn’t going to get an answer. The old cop was sitting in his leather recliner with a.45 on the floor below his right hand. An empty tumbler was on the floor below his left hand. He was dead, no question. Blood and brain matter was on the wall and sofa to his left.
In the kitchen, Carson found an empty bottle of Smirnoff vodka sitting on the granite-topped cooking island, next to an IBM ThinkPad. With a pen from his pocket, he depressed the on-button and read the note Sam Newman left behind.
I didn’t mean for Janice to die. I’m sorry. I needed the money but I didn’t want it to end this way. Sorry.
Carson walked to his car and told his driver to call in the crime scene investigators. Nice to wrap it up this way, but it was way too easy. Drake mentions Newman and he finds Newman dead. Drake or someone was way ahead of both of us, Carson thought. He’d have to figure out which tomorrow.
~~~
When Kaamil was told the old cop was dead, he emailed Malik.
Newman is dead. I’m watching the attorney. My contact in the police department will let me know if they don’t buy Newman’s suicide. If they don’t, the attorney is next unless I hear otherwise. K
Kaamil sat back in his office chair and smiled. Allah, and therefore Malik, would be pleased their plan was moving forward. The necessary death of one
Nothing else in life had provided him satisfaction. Playing football had been his early passion. He was the best wide receiver in Oregon, with two state-championship rings, when he graduated with a scholarship to UC Berkeley. He tried drugs, enjoyed the girls and wound up suspended for most of his freshman year.
By his sophomore year, he was a starter, and by the third game, a star. He ran the forty-yard dash in three point five seconds, and at six foot seven inches, two hundred forty pounds, he was hard to stop when he caught the ball. He found it was more fun running over cornerbacks and safeties than outrunning them. By the end of that year, sports writers were already projecting him as a first-round draft pick.
Then, a damn, dumb white lineman who wasn’t even a starter fell on his leg in spring practice and put him out for the year. He had worked hard rehabbing his knee, and then been asked to take a drug test. No one told him who’d talked to the coaches, but his best guess had always been someone on the depth chart wanting his position. That ended his collegiate career, and his last attempt to make the American system work for him legally.
With the NFL out of reach, the next quickest way for a young black man without a stellar academic reputation to make it was by selling drugs. It hadn’t take him long to build a sizeable market among former teammates and other athletes in the Bay area. An irate high school coach put the cops on him and he was in prison before what would have been his junior year.
His two years in Folsom, however, proved to be the best years of his life. He found a religion that promised him personal peace and a way to strike back at a nation of fools.
Less than a week and this phase of the operation would be over. Allah willing, his latest plan would be satisfyingly accomplished.
Chapter 14
Thursday morning held promise, a clear sky and not too warm for a workout and run with Lancer. Drake was enjoying a breakfast of hash browns, sausage, and eggs when Paul Benning, his secretary’s husband, called.
“Margo said you wanted to know if I heard anything about the murder at Martin Research. Their head of security committed suicide yesterday afternoon. He left a suicide note. Seems he was selling inside information. They found a recent deposit in his bank account for a hundred thousand dollars. Detective Carson went to his home, found Newman had been drinking. There was a gun on the floor under his hand, and a note on his computer said he was sorry for the secretary’s death.”
“Any forensics evidence, except for Newman’s, on anything?” Drake asked.
“Not that they’ve found.”
“That doesn’t sound like the Newman I talked with yesterday. He wasn’t defensive about anything, but he was suspicious of their security firm. He thought they were employing a bunch of felons with new Muslim names.”
“You think he was just pointing you in another direction?” Paul asked.
“No, I felt he was genuinely concerned that his company’s security had been compromised.”
“Have you talked to Carson yet?”
“No. We have a history. I’d be surprised if I ever hear from Carson about this.”
“Margo said you had a visitor. If you need someone at your office for a while, I can work something out. This whole thing’s starting to hang together in a way I don’t like.”
“Paul, if I think we’re in the middle of something, you’ll be the first to know.”
