Chapter 82
Forbes’s former partner and his attorney went in to give him the good news. But after I’d learned the real name and most recent address of the man we called Pseudo-Craig, I’d decided not to go with them. I told them to give Marty my sincere best, and I left.
The first thing I did was call Keith Karl Rawlins to tell him to start digging. Then I called Ned Mahoney and told him to meet me in the lab beneath the FBI’s cybercrimes unit at Quantico.
Mahoney was already there when I pulled open the lab’s glass door and was met with the thudding techno dance music Rawlins listened to when he was working.
The cyber expert was sitting at his keyboard facing an array of six screens. Ned was standing behind him. I tapped Mahoney on the shoulder and he jumped.
“I didn’t hear you come in,” he said, almost shouting, and then he pointed to the silicon earplugs he’d stuffed into his ears.
Rawlins’s head was bobbing to the beat, but at that point, he stopped and shut off the music. He looked over his shoulder at me as if he’d expected to see me there and then gestured with his chin toward my phone. “It’s clean now. You can take it.”
I picked the phone up off the bench, put it in my pocket, and said, “What about Nolan?”
“Oh, I’ve got a bunch of stuff on him already.”
“Tell me,” I said, coming closer. “And let’s lose the techno soundtrack. I’ve already had a ridiculously long day.”
Rawlins didn’t like that, but he shrugged. “Your loss.”
He gave his keyboard an order and up popped a digital rap sheet on one William Nolan, age forty-six, address in Encino, California.
“Look at him!” Mahoney said. “He is an absolute dead ringer for Kyle Craig.”
“From all three angles,” I said, shaking my head.
“But I ran Nolan’s prints against Craig’s old prints. Not even close to a match.”
There it was, then, finally. Kyle Craig was still a dead man, and I wasn’t crazy.
I let that make me feel better about things and listened intently as Rawlins gave us a summary of what he’d found. Nolan had been a stuntman and a B-movie actor in Hollywood until he’d developed a taste for cocaine, which got him involved in burglary and then grand theft auto.
The latter move had gifted him with a three-year swing in the California Institution for Men at Chino. Nolan had served his term and left prison four years ago.
There was a phone number for his parole officer, whom we caught at her desk. She called Nolan a model parolee. After his release, he’d worked in a car wash and then for a company that dealt with contamination on construction sites.
“Where would we find him?” Mahoney asked.
“The company’s offices in Encino,” she said.
But when we called, we learned that Nolan had quit his job six weeks before. He’d told coworkers he was getting back into the film business, that he’d gotten the role of a lifetime.
When we hung up the phone, Rawlins jumped up from his console, flipped on the techno, and started pumping his fist overhead.
“You’re killing me with this music,” Mahoney said. “Nuke it.”
The FBI contractor rolled his eyes and turned it off. “You know the problem with most Americans and definitely most FBI agents, Special Agent Mahoney?”
“Do tell,” Ned said, crossing his arms.
“They’re all stick and no carrot,” he said. “They drive themselves day and night, but when they score, they don’t celebrate. I believe in celebrating every victory, especially one as big as this.”
“So let us in on the reason for the celebration,” I said.
Rawlins smiled. “William Nolan has a bank account and two high-interest credit cards, the kind given to risky creditors like ex-cons.”
“He use them?”
“Six weeks ago, he bought a ticket for a flight from LA to New York, then a train ticket to DC, and then twenty-two nights at a one-star in Gaithersburg called the Regal Motel. Snap! Eat the carrot, Cross! You’ve got him now!”
Chapter 83
Gaithersburg, Maryland
The Regal Motel was anything but.
For $22.00 an hour, $62.50 a night, and $213.00 a week, you could stay in a room that stank of stale cigarette butts and beer and featured threadbare rugs and bedcovers with suspicious-looking stains.
Hookers had used the place for tricks until the Montgomery County sheriff had cracked down a few years back. According to the desk clerk, the residents these days were homeless people, addicts, or women trying to hide from abusive spouses.
“We’ve got three or four of those, and their kids,” the clerk, Souk, told me, Sampson, Bree, and Mahoney. She was a bright young woman who was taking night classes at American University. Souk nodded over her shoulder at photographs of men thumbtacked to the wall. “Any of them come in the drive, I call the sheriff,” she told us. “They all have restraining orders against them, and I got copies.”
“Good for you,” I said. “Have you seen this man around?”
I pushed the still shot from the detention-center security feed across the counter to her.
“Sure,” the clerk said. “Short, sandy-blond hair. Five ten, one seventy. Slips in and out of thirty-nine B. Pays weeks in advance.”
“You sound like you studied him,” Mahoney said.
“I study everyone who comes in while I’m working. I want to be able to testify if something bad happens here, which is bound to happen. Just the odds, you know?”
“Well, we’re glad you’re on duty, Souk,” Bree said. “Is he here?”
She shrugged. “I just came on shift, and like I said, he kind of slips in and out. You catch glimpses of him.”
“No car?”
“If he has one, it is not here. He says he’s using the buses.
Why? What’s he done?”
“We just want to talk to him,” Mahoney said. “Is there another way out of thirty-nine B?”
“A window in the bathroom to the back roof. But it’s at least a thirty-foot drop.”
“No fire escape?”
She shook her head. We moved outside, split up, and climbed to the motel’s third floor. Bree and Sampson came at Nolan’s room from the west. Ned and I slid toward 39B from the east. All four of us drew our weapons and stood on either side of the door. Mahoney knocked sharply. No response.
Mahoney knocked harder. “William Nolan, open up. This is the FBI.”
For a moment, there was silence, and I thought Ned was going to use the key the desk clerk had given us. Then we heard the soft squeak of an old bed frame.
Mahoney shouted, “Mr. Nolan, we are—”
Inside, we heard running. A door slammed.
Ned spun the key and opened the door, which was latched with a security chain.
Sampson threw his whole weight at the door.
The chain snapped. The door fell. We swept into the room and saw fast-food wrappers, empty booze bottles, and an open duffel stuffed with clothes on the unmade bed. A cigarette burned in the ashtray.
Sampson motioned to the shut bathroom door at the rear right of the room.
He slammed on the door with his fist. “Nolan, open this door.”
There was no answer, and Sampson broke down that door too.
The bathroom window was up, revealing a narrow roof.
I went to the window, stuck my head out, and saw Nolan, looking for all the world like Kyle Craig’s twin. He wore a camo knapsack and was crouched twenty feet to my left, six steps back from a thirty-foot drop into woods.
I shouted, “Nolan! Don’t do it!”
But he did.
Chapter 84
The former stuntman sprang from his crouch, took four strides, and drove off his right foot. He exploded off the edge of the roof, legs and arms pumping as he fell.