FIFTY-THREE
Washington, D.C.
06:00 hours
Emerson Palmer was hitting nothing but dead ends. Since he had spoken to Jason Henry about their common interest in the Coscarelli matter, he had made little progress. Working with the D.C. Metro Police had yielded almost no leads. What the Washington police had learned was that Dr. Coscarelli was a conscientious research professor at Johns Hopkins, devoting her time almost exclusively to work. She lived alone and had few close personal friends. Many of her colleagues at the university didn’t even know she was related to Senator Coscarelli.
An inspection of her home also yielded few clues about her abduction. It was obvious that she had left in a hurry; her purse was left on the dining room table, and the cat’s food dish was empty even though a full bag of food stood nearby. Inside the refrigerator were a forgotten sack lunch and her monogrammed water bottle. It wasn’t hard to figure from this sparse evidence that the woman had been surprised by her abductors, but willingly accompanied them rather than mount a struggle. Who kidnapped her or where she’d been taken was a complete mystery. Even more quizzical was the fact that no one had called making any ransom demands. It was as if the woman simply disappeared without any cause or consequence.
Palmer was sitting at his kitchen table, perusing the meager facts of his case and trying to figure his next move when he received a call from Jason Henry. His pulse quickened with anticipation.
“Morning, Jason,” he said answering the call. “I hope you’ve got something for me, brother, ’cuz the trail here’s colder ’n a well-digger’s ass.”
“Very funny,” Henry replied. “You’re witty as ever, I see.”
“Hey, I’m not kidding. The trail’s as cold as a Minnesota lake in January. I’m working with Metro…we’ve interviewed all of Coscarelli’s neighbors and work associates and don’t have a clue. And there hasn’t been a word about a ransom demand. I’m beginning to think my case is somehow tied to yours,” he ventured, the frustration evident in his voice.
“Well, hold on; I’ve got interesting information that may give you the needle in the haystack you’re searching for,” Agent Henry began. “Dr. Niles Penburton, the principal owner of Quantum and partner of my missing scientist, was executed late yesterday in a car bomb on the Stanford campus.”
“No shit,” Palmer interrupted nonchalantly. “What’s that got to do with me?”
“Easy, pard’…I’ve been suspicious of Penburton ever since this case began,” he said, bringing Palmer current on everything that surrounded the theft of Dr. Conrad’s equations and his new antigravity technology.
“I picked up a court order earlier today to search his personal records. The guy I’m working with out here got hold of Penburton’s phone records. We found dozens of calls involving Triton Energy dating back over a year. Triton’s involvement makes me even more suspicious,” he said, pausing to let Palmer catch up.
“Yeah, okay…but I don’t get this guy’s connection to Coscarelli, or the missing scientist.”
“Look, it gets better,” Henry said. “It so happens Triton Energy is well-known to DOD. The owner, Alastair Holloway, is politically connected and closely allied to the Secretary of Defense. He’s a self-made billionaire, chiefly from oil, but has his fingers in all kinds of Defense Department contracts. He’s cunning, ruthless, and has a reputation for destroying people that cross him. I’m willing to bet that Holloway’s somehow involved in this scheme. Penburton crossed him and he took revenge. I’m telling you…this guy could be the lead we’ve been looking for.”
“Okay, I believe you…but what do you want from me?”
“I’ve made some calls. It seems that Holloway just berthed his yacht at Hilton Head, where he also has an estate. I suggest you get to Hilton Head and interview the man. Ask him about his business with Niles Penburton. Feel him out. I’ll bet you anything he’s dirty,” Henry said, hoping he’d convinced Palmer of the connection.
“I don’t know, Jason. That’s pretty thin. You want me to approach one of the wealthiest men in the country on the hunch that a bunch of calls from his company somehow connects him in this man’s murder? And, even more far-fetched…that he’s the mastermind behind this whole conspiracy? Sounds like a boogie-man theory if you ask me,” Palmer posited, his skepticism overstepping his diplomacy.
“Look, I know I sound desperate, alright. If I were you I’d find this hard to believe too. But I’ve been on this case since the first theft at the Quantum Building. I’m convinced there’s one smart son-of-a- bitch behind the whole thing. Knowing Holloway’s history makes him my prime suspect. I really need your help on this, Emerson.” Henry was relying on their past history to carry the day.
“Okay. Since you put it that way, I’ll check out this Holloway. Hell’s bells…at least it gives me a lead,” he acknowledged. “Can you give me an address and some contact information for Triton Energy? I’ll need some reason for this guy to see me. What’s my way in?”
“I’ll fax over Penburton’s phone records and the location of Holloway’s estate on Hilton Head; everything you’ll need. Make up what you like. Tell him you’re working for a client interested in Penburton’s death and you came across his phone number. As soon as you make contact, let me know what you find. I’ll bet anything he’s involved,” Jason said, relieved he had convinced his old friend to check out the lead.
For the first time since the Quantum job he was feeling a ray of hope. From what Henry had heard about Alastair Holloway, he was certainly cunning enough to have put all the pieces of this intricate plan in motion.
“Send me your information as soon as possible. I’ll catch the next flight to Hilton Head. We’ll know later today if this guy’s hiding anything.”
“Thanks buddy. I owe you one,” Jason, said relieved that Emerson was on the case.
“Hey, don’t mention it. You just remember who I work for…and I don’t mean Senator Coscarelli,” Palmer said.
“Emerson, believe me, that’s on the front of my mind, too. Before this is over the whole damn team could be activated. I won’t forget you,” he said. If the cleaners were activated, his old friend Emerson would resume his rightful place in the group.
“It’s not you I worry about, Jason. Just sit tight. You’ll hear from me…I promise,” he said, ending the call.
Armed with a new assignment, Emerson walked to the hall closet and took out his travel bag, readying himself for a trip to question one of the richest men in the world. He had absolute faith that Jason Henry would do all he could to keep him involved. It was that backstabbing Freeman he worried about.
Wouldn’t that be something if the Holloway lead culminated in activating the ‘cleaners’? he thought. It’s way past due for an assignment. I wonder who’s left? Christ…we’re sure a bunch of old farts.
FIFTY-FOUR
Hilton Head
08:30 hours
Angelina Navarro stormed into the master suite she shared with Alastair Holloway. She was livid. She had met with Dr. Coscarelli a second time the night before when she delivered the clothes and personal items she had promised to bring. She knew Sela was desperate for a laptop computer, but had decided not to risk bringing her the device on the next visit, wary that Sully Metusack would thoroughly search anything brought into the woman’s room. Once she knew the man’s technique, she would be able to determine if it was at all feasible. As expected, Sully had searched through everything Angelina delivered, even though she assured him it was only clothes and personal women’s things. She was relieved her intuition was correct.
When she arose early to bring Sela her breakfast, however, she found the woman was no longer on the premises. She was incensed that Alastair had sent her away without considering the woman’s well-being. This was the last straw.