Karl had gone to great lengths to set up a trail designed specifically for me, which meant he didn’t want anyone else, not even Victoria, knowing his secret. I hoped my old friend hadn’t got caught up in anything illegal. I was already struggling with his loss and didn’t want to have to face anything that might tarnish my memories of him. I wanted to remember Karl as an honorable man who’d served his country with distinction, but the cache of false passports, weapons and money led me to suspect I was clinging to false hope.
“I know that face,” Justine said, sliding onto the stool beside me. “Something bothering you?”
She was a welcome sight. Truly the only person I wanted to be with at this moment.
“We found weapons, fake passports and foreign currency that might have belonged to Karl Parker,” I replied. “Not the sort of stuff the average CEO has lying around.”
Justine pursed her lips.
“Can I get you anything?” the barman asked.
“I’ll have what he’s having,” she replied.
“One highball,” the barman said, before stepping away to prepare her drink.
“You think he might have been Agency?” Justine asked.
I’d clutched at that hope too. The CIA recruited from the armed services, and had a track record of supporting businesses of strategic importance. Karl’s firm, Silverlink International, certainly fit that category.
“Maybe,” I replied. “But he’s dead. Why go to all this trouble? If he was Agency, why not just leave a note?”
“To protect a source or a mission maybe?” Justine suggested.
I smiled. I knew she was trying to make me feel better by suggesting a scenario that didn’t involve my friend being a bad guy. She looked at me and the light caught her eyes, making them shine. I thought of the times we’d spent together and wanted to feel her in my arms.
“I know that look,” she said, laughing and turning to the barman as he brought her drink. “Thanks.”
“We weren’t so bad together, were we?” I asked as she took her first sip.
“Not bad,” she replied. “Just complicated. Grief can do strange things, Jack. It makes you yearn for things that are gone.”
She looked at me pointedly, and I held her gaze. She was right. Death had a way of distorting emotions, but my feelings for Justine had nothing to do with Karl’s murder. I’d often thought about how good the two of us were together.
“I don’t want to complicate what we have.” Justine reached out and put her hand on mine.
Her touch was exactly what I needed. Reassuringly familiar and gentle.
“Justine...” I began.
“I don’t think we can afford the confusion, Jack,” she said, cutting me off. She looked as though she was about to say something else, but she never got the chance.
“You would not believe the day I’ve had,” Sci said, appearing suddenly at our shoulders. “It’s brutal out there.”
Justine withdrew her hand, and Sci shot me a questioning look.
“You find anything?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Nothing useful yet. Footage shows the shooter wore gloves throughout, and traffic cameras picked him up coming out of the Broad Street subway station. We tracked him back to Classon Avenue in Brooklyn, but after that the trail runs cold.”
“Same with the chopper,” Justine said. “It crashed with three on board. It was chartered by a service company acting for Antares Futures and Investments, a corporation based in Belize. NYPD has asked for FBI support, and the Bureau is trying to find out who owns the Belize firm.”
“So we’ve got nothing?” I asked.
Justine glanced away, and I wondered whether she thought I was talking about the case, or our relationship. She’d been right. It had the potential to get complicated, and right now my mind wasn’t completely on the investigation.
“Sorry, Jack,” Sci replied. “I’ll get back on it first thing.”
“Thanks. I’m calling it a day,” I said, getting to my feet.
“Aren’t you going to finish your drink?” Justine asked.
“Another time, maybe,” I replied.
“Night,” Sci said.
“Night, Jack,” Justine added, and I could have sworn I felt her eyes on me as I left the bar.
Chapter 27
I could still taste the highball when a phone call woke me at six thirty. I saw Mo-bot’s name light up the screen, and answered: “Yeah.”
“And good morning to you too,” she responded cheerfully. “I found something. When can you get here?”
“You still at the office?” I asked.
“Sleep’s overrated,” she replied.
“I’m on my way,” I said, hanging up.
I got out of bed, dressed quickly, brushed the whisky from my mouth and left the room. I thought about waking Justine, but after the previous evening I wasn’t sure why I wanted her with me. For her professional insight? Or for something far more personal? It irritated me that she had been right.
I left Justine and Sci sleeping and took a cab from the Nomad to the Madison Building. They could follow me later in the Private staff car.
When I arrived, the office was almost deserted, save for a couple of investigators who were at their desks in their sweat-soaked jogging gear. It was a Sunday, but the Parker case meant we’d called people in. The two early-morning joggers stiffened when they saw me, and we exchanged greetings as I hurried through.
I found Mo-bot in one of the conference rooms. Her gear was spread across a large table along with discarded Chinese takeout boxes, files and handwritten notes. She sat in front of the laptop we’d recovered.
“Morning,” Mo-bot said. “I cracked the computer. I also found out who owns the building where we found it. Mahmood Hannan, a Lebanese national who’s been living in America for twenty years.”
“We need to speak to him,” I said.
“I already have. At three forty-seven this morning. He was eager to talk when I threatened to set the IRS on him. Said the warehouse was rented by a company in Belize. The same one that chartered the chopper the assassin used to escape, Antares Futures and Investments.”
I was stunned by the revelation. Karl Parker had led us to a building rented by the people who’d killed him.
“See if you can track down the owners of the Belize corporation,” I said.
Mo-bot nodded and turned the laptop to face me. “There’s some interesting stuff on here.” She opened a text document. “This was in a folder marked personal.”
I read the document, which amounted to a single sentence.
Sometimes the only way out is a dead end.
It was a bleak message that could have been a suicide note or an admission he’d known he’d been targeted for death. But if he’d known he was a target, why hadn’t he done anything about it?
“I also found this,” Mo-bot said.
She opened another document from the same folder which contained a web link. She clicked the link and went to an MSNBC page that told the story of Robert Carlyle, a Washington, D.C., financier and fixer. Carlyle had died less than two weeks ago in a single-vehicle car accident. According to the article, his Mercedes S-Class had come off the road at speed and wrapped itself around a tree.