"Have you forwarded the request?" Mendoza said in a weak tone that betrayed the fact that he knew the answer already.
"That, my friend, is a slippery slope for someone at my pay grade. Carlisle is our best interrogator. He'll take the interrogation as far as he can without breaking the law. After that, someone else will have to decide how to proceed. I'm about to authorize Carlisle and Olson to suggest the possibility of a deal. Based on the lack of evidence we pulled from the other crime scenes, I have a feeling he didn't expect this little side trip. The mention of an immunity deal might soften him up a bit."
"It's all we have left at this point," confirmed Mendoza, placing the stack of papers on Sharpe's temporary workstation.
Sharpe nodded at the pile of papers, "More personnel requisition forms?
"Yep. This should be the last of them. We now have most of the building working for us," he said, in hopes of eliciting a laugh, or at least a smile.
"We'll lose these agents just as quickly, if we don't start to produce more than phantom footprints and muddled witness statements. I need to make some calls from my office," he said, grabbing the stack of papers.
The calls would be placed to the lead investigative agents at each crime scene, and he would condense their verbal reports for his final call to his immediate superior within the Terror Financing Operations Section, Associate Director Sandra Delgado. He imagined Agent Delgado would turn right around and call the Executive Assistant Director Fred Carroll, who had overall responsibility for the FBI's Counter Terrorism Division. On and on the calls would go, rising up the chain of command, until Sharpe started the cycle over again less than an hour later. It was part of his job as Special Agent-in-Charge of Task Force HYDRA.
Chapter Eight
Special Agent Justin Edwards stood several feet away from Mohammed Ghani's body, staring out at a multi-million dollar view of the Atlantic Ocean. From the end of the estate's driveway, he had a view of the Atlantic unlike any he had witnessed before. An endless stretch of glimmering ocean, interrupted by an occasional lobster boat and a sparsely inhabited island across Portland's shipping channel. He tried to imagine what the view would be like on the island, but his thoughts were interrupted by a cool, salty breeze that threatened his perfectly coiffed hair. He barely heard Special Agent Margaret D'Angelo as she recapped what local law enforcement agency crime scene teams had determined.
"I'm sorry, I just can't get over this view," he said, and she paused with an impatient look on her face.
Edwards finally brought his attention back to Portland's resident FBI agent, the only agent permanently assigned to the local satellite office. He wondered who she had pissed off to get stuck here, though he did like the water views in Maine. He could get used to sipping cocktails with a view of the Atlantic, but he was years away from that dream. He came from a wealthy family, but had a major impediment to realizing this goaclass="underline" health nut parents who liked to dole out the cash for major milestones like college and law school, but not for general use by their children.
He tried to focus on D'Angelo, but found her uninteresting. She was attractive, in a middle-aged, married female kind of way, but certainly not Justin's type. Like most female agents, she dressed conservatively and put little effort, or money, into her hair. D'Angelo apparently hadn’t even bothered to try this morning. Her hair was pulled back into some kind of "who gives a shit" bun, reserved for women who have simply given up.
"Please continue. Sorry," he said.
"Mr. Ghani's body was discovered last night at about ten thirty by a private security guard, who had been dispatched by a technician at the security company's centralized headquarters in Omaha, Nebraska," she said.
"Anything out of the ordinary with the security guard, or the company?"
"Everything checks out so far. The company is one of the largest in the country, and the guard has been an employee of the company for twelve years. We still have him down at the Cape Elizabeth police station. The company dispatched him at the request of Mr. Ghani's wife, who hadn't heard from her husband that night."
"She's obviously not here?"
"No. She's been in Pakistan for the past few weeks, scheduled to return in early June. Apparently, he always takes her calls, and she got worried when he didn't answer last night," she said.
"No security camera?"
"Wishful thinking," she added.
He squatted down near the body, which was covered with a gray tarp, stenciled in black with ‘CE Police Dept.’ The covered body lay several feet from the driver's side of a previously sparkling white Mercedes convertible sedan. The convertible's tan ragtop was down, and the side of the white sedan was covered with thick, dark maroon stains, indicating a strong arterial spray pattern. Edwards could see similar dark splotches on the light tan driver's headrest, and could imagine that the rest of the light colored interior had been ruined by Mr. Ghani's blood.
A large pool of dried blood extended around the body in an oval shape, stretching toward the end of the small driveway that joined the circular drive. This small section of asphalt serviced the four-bay garage, and the Mercedes was in a position where it had either been purposely parked outside of the garage, or had been stopped before making the turn into one of the bays. Edwards saw that the far garage bay door was open, and he looked back at the circular driveway, which was crammed with police vans, squad cars and SUV's. He saw a few of the ever-present SWAT officers standing near one of the oversized SUV's, cradling assault rifles. They were always looking for an excuse to dress up and parade around in their gear. At least they had their helmets off, though he could think of no conceivable reason why they would need to be carrying military style weaponry on this estate.
He returned his attention to the garage bay door.
"Anything out of order inside?" he said.
"Not that anyone could tell. So far, the crime scene techs haven't found anything useful. Right now, they're focusing on the outside, looking for anything the killer might have left us while breaching the perimeter," said D'Angelo.
"Have they checked the seaside approach? You heard about Rhode Island, right?"
"Just that the guy there was shot. Did they find a boat or something?" she said.
She obviously hadn't been brought into the circle on this one, and that was fine with Edwards. Sharpe didn't want to alert the rest of the terrorist network responsible for last night's murderfest, and had imposed a media blackout. So far, only one internet article had been written by a local Newport, Rhode Island publication, and they had graciously agreed to remove it while the investigation proceeded. Edwards hadn't realized that the same information blackout applied to the rest of the FBI. This was exactly why he would never accept a posting like D'Angelo's. He couldn't stomach the concept of being an outsider.
"They need to give the seaside approaches the same attention as the perimeter fence. That's all I can say for now. What about the body and the car? Do they need to process this?" he said.
"No, they're finished here, and in the house, unless we get specific information regarding the residence," she said.
"Do you trust them? I have a team showing up in an hour."
"I have a close working relationship with the lead investigator and his team. They're competent, thorough and I've used them before when other assets weren't available. This isn't the most complicated murder, but I understand the importance of this case," she said, and Edwards highly doubted she truly understood the implications.