conflict, Ballentree’s private soldiers protected construction crews. They’re now manning private police forces in Kabul and Baghdad and towns all around the Caspian Sea. All paid for by the US taxpayer. That’s how Charles Desmond financed his yacht.”
“I’m working for the wrong damn police force,” said Jane. “Maybe I should sign up for Kabul, and I could have a yacht, too.”
“You don’t want to work for these people, Jane,” said Maura. “Not when you hear what’s involved.”
“You mean the fact they work in combat zones?”
“No,” said Lukas. “The fact they’re tied in with some pretty unsavory partners. Anytime you deal in a war zone, you’re also making deals with the local mafia. It’s merely practical to form partnerships, so local thugs end up working with companies like Ballentree. There’s a black market trade in every commodity-drugs, arms, booze, women. Every war is an opportunity, a new market, and everyone wants in on the booty. That’s why there’s so much competition for defense contracts. Not just for the contracts themselves, but for the chance at the black market business that comes with it. Ballentree landed more deals last year than any other defense contractor.” He paused. “Partly because Charles Desmond was so damn good at his job.”
“Which was?”
“He was their deal maker. A man with friends in the Pentagon, and probably friends in other places as well.”
“For all the good it did him,” said Jane, looking down at the photo of Desmond. A man whose corpse had lain undiscovered for ten days. A man so mysterious to his neighbors that no one had thought to immediately report him missing.
“The question is,” said Lukas, “Why did he have to die? Did those friends in the Pentagon turn on him? Or did someone else?”
For a moment, no one spoke. The heat made the rooftop shimmer like water, and from the street below rose the smell of exhaust, the rumble of traffic. Jane suddenly noticed that Regina was awake, and her eyes were fixed on Jane’s face.
“I’m sure this has crossed everyone’s mind,” said Maura. “Charles Desmond once worked in military intelligence. The man Olena shot in her hospital room was almost certainly ex-military, yet his prints have been scrubbed from the files. My office security has been breached. Are we all thinking about spooks here? Maybe even the Company?”
“Ballentree and the CIA have always gone hand in hand,” said Lukas. “Not that it should surprise anyone. They work in the same countries, employ the same kind of guys. Trade on the same info.” He looked at Gabriel. “And nowadays, they even pop up here, on home territory. Declare a terrorist threat, and the US government can justify any action, any expenditure. Untold funds get channeled into off-the-books programs. That’s how people like Desmond end up with yachts.”
“Or end up dead,” said Jane.
The sun had shifted, its glare now slanting under the umbrella, onto Jane’s shoulder. Sweat trickled down her breast. It’s too hot for you up here, baby, she thought, looking down at Regina ’s pink face.
THIRTY-TWO
Detective Moore looked up at the clock as the time closed in on eight P.M. The last time Jane had sat in the homicide unit’s conference room, she’d been nine months pregnant, weary and irritable and more than ready for maternity leave. Now she was back in the same room, with the same colleagues, but everything was different. The room felt charged, the tension winding tighter with each passing minute. She and Gabriel sat facing Moore; Detectives Frost and Crowe sat near the head of the table. At their center was the object of their attention: Jane’s cell phone, connected to a speaker system. “We’re getting close,” Moore said. “Are you still comfortable with this? We can have Frost take the calls.”
“No, I have to do it,” Jane said. “If a man answers, it could scare her off.”
Crowe gave a shrug. “If this mystery girl calls at all.”
“Since you seem to think this is such a big waste of time,” snapped Jane, “you don’t have to hang around.”
“Oh, I’ll stay just to see what happens.”
“We wouldn’t want to bore you.”
“Three minutes, guys,” interjected Frost. Trying, as usual, to play peacemaker between Jane and Crowe.
“She may not even have seen the ad,” said Crowe.
“The issue’s been on the stands for five days,” said Moore. “She’s had a chance to see it. If she doesn’t call, then it’s because she’s chosen not to.”
Or she’s dead, thought Jane. Something that surely crossed all their minds, though no one said it.
Jane’s cell phone rang, and everyone’s gaze instantly swung to her. The caller ID showed a number from Fort Lauderdale. This was merely a phone call, yet Jane’s heart was pounding with a kick as powerful as fear.
She took a deep breath and looked at Moore, who nodded. “Hello?” she answered.
A man’s voice drawled over the speaker. “So what’s this all s’posed to be about, huh?” In the background was laughter, the sounds of people enjoying a jolly good joke.
“Who are you?” Jane asked.
“We’re all just wondering here. What’s it s’posed to mean? ‘The die is cast’?”
“You’re calling to ask me that?”
“Yeah. This some kinda game? We s’posed to guess?”
“I don’t have time to talk to you now. I’m waiting for another call.”
“Hey. Hey, lady! We’re calling long distance, goddammit.”
Jane hung up and looked at Moore. “What a jerk.”
“If that’s your typical
“We’re probably going to get a few more of those,” warned Moore.
The phone rang. This call was from Providence.
A fresh jolt of adrenaline had Jane’s pulse racing once again. “Hello?”
“Hi,” a female voice said brightly. “I saw your ad in the
“Neither,” snapped Jane, and disconnected. “God, what is it with people?”
At 8:05, the phone again rang. A Newark caller, asking: “Is this some kind of contest? Do I get a prize for calling?”
At 8:07: “I just wanted to find out if someone would really answer this number.”
At 8:15: “Are you, like, a spy or something?”
