The phone rang and I returned to the bedroom.
It was Janet, and she informed me, “I caught John at home. He says there’s nothing in his database about Grand Vistas.”
“Is that odd?”
“For privately owned internationals that do little business in the States, no. So he called the U. S. consulate in Bermuda. The consulate found an address and sent a man over to check. Grand Vistas occupies a small office on Hamilton Street. The consulate man spoke with the landlord and was told Grand Vistas has rented the office the past four years. The landlord says he rarely sees anybody enter or leave.”
“Meaning what?”
“John was guessing, but the office might contain a phone switch. The office fulfills the residency requirements; calls come in and are rerouted somewhere else.”
“Isn’t that odd?”
“Not according to John. Corporations that want the tax benefits of Bermudan registration set up these empty shells fairly frequently.” She added, “He then called the SEC and asked some contacts there if they have anything on Grand Vistas.”
“Did they?”
“They never heard of it.”
“Anything else?”
“One more thing. The SEC sent an open inquiry to their counterparts in every European country. It was marked expedite, so hopefully they’ll respond soon.”
There was a long silence, then Janet said, “Sean, it’s time to tell George about this.”
“Is he there?… With you?”
“No. He dropped me off and immediately left to attend to some business. He left me his cell phone number.”
“We will not tell him. Not yet.”
“What are you worried about?”
“Did I mention who runs the backbone of the FBI’s data and Internet needs? Morris Networks.”
“This is scary.”
She was right. It was scary.
But I was also pleased that the pieces were finally falling into place. It was all coming together-the killer, the motive, the accomplices-all the who, what, and how stuff that solves a crime. Right?
Wrong. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was missing something, something big, that in making everything fit together, I was looking the wrong way.
CHAPTER FORTY
So we were huddled in my living room in our bulletproof vests, swapping stories, watching the big-screen tube, munching popcorn, the usual routine when you’re expecting a hit man to drop in.
The Army expends a lot of energy and money trying to understand things nobody but soldiers give a crap about. For example, the best time to attack somebody. The general theory holds this to be somewhere between 3:00 A.M. and 5:00 A.M., when sleep cycles are heaviest, alertness is dullest, moonlight is dimmest, and, in our case, TV shows are worst. After Jay Leno, it’s a bottomless pit. Sometimes, before Jay Leno.
We were reduced to infomercials after about 2:00 A.M., and I was out of gas, as was Spinelli, since we’d both spent the previous night playing masked crusader and rushing to Janet’s rescue.
Charlie kept his nose tucked inside a small cathode-ray screen that led to the tiny camera that peeked out into the hallway.
By 4:00 A.M., I began entertaining the notion that this guy would try to hit me on the way to the courtroom that morning. For a variety of reasons, moving targets are easier to take down than stationary ones. But perhaps I was just looking for an excuse to nap.
The more unsettling notion I tried not to dwell upon was that nobody was coming after me. I had guessed right about Boston, but guesses are like coin tosses: fifty-fifty every time.
At 4:05, Charlie popped his nose out of the monitor. He said, “Somebody’s out there. Near the end of the hall, too far to see clearly.”
Bill helpfully suggested, “Could be a neighbor going for a jog or leaving for work.”
Yes; could be. But they all grabbed their rifles and shotguns, we adjusted our vests, and we crouched behind the shooter’s shields. I was beginning to wish I had a weapon.
Spinelli whispered to his partners, “Shoot to kill.”
The proper advisory was “employ only reasonable force,” and as an attorney, I should have swiftly corrected and clarified this point. I let it slide. People who try to get fancy in situations like this often get dead.
A few minutes passed during which Charlie kept his face pressed into his monitor. In fact, so much time passed that we were all starting to unwind and relax, when out the blue there was this loud, awful scream on the porch. At the same instant, the TV shut off and the lights went off, apparently from the energy surge on the porch.
Spinelli immediately spun around and began pumping rounds through the glass porch door, which showered outward.
Bill was beside me and he suddenly doubled over. Then Charlie flew backward off his feet and landed with a thud. Spinelli screamed, “Shit!” and kept firing his M16 through the destroyed porch door, where three dark figures had suddenly materialized, dangling off ropes, pointing silenced weapons inside, spraying my apartment with bullets.
A second later, my apartment door exploded from a huge blast that blew wooden splinters through the air.
Enough of this no-weapon shit-I scrambled around the floor, found Bill’s shotgun, rolled backward, and aimed it at the door. A dark figure came diving through, and I fired twice but couldn’t be sure I hit him. Then another figure dashed through, I fired again, caught him in the midsection, and he flew backward, right back into the hallway.
Spinelli had emptied his M16 and now resorted to his pistol. He was still firing at the porch, although when I spun around and looked, the figures on the ropes had vanished.
Then there was silence. I said, “Reload and stay down.”
Spinelli said, “Something’s stickin’ out my fuckin’ shoulder.”
I felt around the floor for Bill and Charlie. My hand crashed into a body, then a full head of silky hair-Bill, apparently, and I felt his neck for a pulse. The pressure brought a moan. His ticker was still pumping; faintly, but that’s all you need. I kept moving my hand around until it came up against Charlie; I could feel no pulse. Shit.
My ears were ringing, but then I thought I heard sirens. I tried to picture what just happened-three guys were hanging off ropes outside the porch, and at least two more had tried to make it through the door. Not one guy; five guys. I mean, what the…?
The phone suddenly rang. I crawled over and answered.
A male voice ordered, “Put Drummond on.”
The voice was baritone, but this weird mechanical baritone, as though it had smoked a million cigarettes, or was being distorted by some high-tech disguising device.
I said, “Who the hell’s this?” I mean, maybe I didn’t know who, but I did know what the call was about-roll call. Was I dead, or did I still need to be whacked? I’m not completely stupid, and I had no intention of confirming anything.
There was a weird laugh before he replied, “Tell Drummond it’s the dimwit from Boston. Stop wasting my time and put him on.”
I replied, “Can I take a message?”
“Heh-heh. You’re very funny, Drummond.”
Shit. “And you’re an incompetent fuckup. This is twice you missed. First Janet Morrow, now me. Your bosses know about this one yet?” “I didn’t do this one. I just dropped by to, you know, observe.” What an asshole. This guy’s ego was even bigger than I imag ined. I said, “I forgot. You only do unarmed women.” “I do who I want.” He added, menacingly, “For example, I’m going to do you.” “Before or after I mount your slimy ass on my wall?” “You have a wall left?” He laughed. “I heard a big explosion.” “The place was in need of a redo. Thank your pals for me.” “I’ll pass it along. But forget the redo. Waste of money.” “I’m out of your league, asshole. You do unarmed girls.” “You’d be surprised, Drummond. I kill guys all the time.” “You’re right… I’d be surprised.” We both let a moment pass, then I said, “You’re probably telling yourself the ghoulish things you did to those women were necessary to mislead the cops. Truth is, you’re a sick little pervert, and deep down, you enjoyed it.”