“Say again,” Ellsworth radioed.
“Something on the Jane Doe.” He sounded nervous.
“Okay, go ahead.” Ellsworth was a good way crosstown in his squad car.
“I don’t think you want me to do that, sir.”
Ellsworth only needed to be told once. They were on an open transmission — open to other police officers, and open to amateur eavesdroppers.
“Where are you?”
“Heading west on Wilshire. Before Hauser.”
“Copy that.”
The LAPD detective looked in his rearview mirror and waited for a car to pass. He moved into the left lane, continued another short block, then made a sharp U-turn in front of the County Museum. He now headed downtown, due east, toward the LAPD lab.
“I’m about twelve out.”
He flipped on his siren and picked up his pace. A string of lights ahead just turned green.
“Make that ten. See you when I get there. Out.” The call ended.
Cars and trucks pulled to the side as Ellsworth sped downtown. He focused on the one thought foremost in his mind. What the hell is the “something?”
After a late breakfast, Gonzales returned to his study. He told his men not to disturb him. The art dealer locked the door and logged onto his computer.
With a few fast keystrokes, he was through Google and deep into eBay, searching the rare art auctions for a specific bid on a recently discovered, previously unknown oil painting depicting Konstantin’s Battle at the Bridge of Milva. The unknown artist had captured the grotesque detail of a Russian battle. Gonzales had acquired the oil on canvas some years earlier and now offered it for ten days, with a starting bid of $25,000. Forty-eight hours remained in the auction. It might be priced too high. He wanted to sell it, and perhaps would. But he was most interested whether an Internet bidder got in an offer of exactly $27,777.
He scrolled to the bidding history. One offer at $25K. Not bad. Another at $25,400. Even better. He continued scrolling and saw what he was looking for.
$27,777 — a confirmation of a different transaction.
Beside it, an e-mail address that would be dead — like a woman in Los Angeles. He was completely certain of that.
Gonzales smiled at the results. He’d sell the painting for $25.4K, and the job he commissioned was successfully completed. He’d even use the eBay sale to help cover the final payment.
If anything, Gonzales was a man of his word. He typed a new Web address and logged onto the first of four shelter bank accounts, the last one ending up in a secure Lichtenstein bank. It wasn’t in the millions as he had paid before, but then the job wasn’t as big as some of the others. However, if the news broke on the front page of the New York Times, he’d pay an additional, agreed-upon bonus.
Gonzales quickly calculated. Over the past year he’d released $2.6 million to the man, each payment going to a different numbered account. And his spending spree wasn’t over yet.
“So what is it? Do we know who Jane Doe is?”
“Yeah, and she’s not local. That’s why no missing persons,” the 46-year-old former Northrup engineer reported.
“I ran the fingerprints figuring we’d find her through motor vehicles. Not California. Guess where?”
“Dunno.”
“District of Columbia. Your Jane Doe has a name, too. Meyerson, Lynn. Twenty-five.” He read off the birthdate and address.
“Just moved or visiting friends,” Ellsworth concluded.
“I don’t think so,” Cullin replied. He looked up from his computer and handed a sheet of paper to Ellsworth. A phone number was written on it in longhand. “A few minutes after I made the computer hit, the desk told me I had a phone call. I took it, and this guy asked me who I was and—”
Ellsworth interrupted. “Who you were?”
“Yup. And why I was looking into this particular woman.”
“Jesus, who was it?”
“You’re going to find out yourself. And if you ask me, I think you stepped into some messy shit. That’s the number. After I explained why I made the inquiry, I was ordered to have the investigating officer dial this specific number.”
“You were ordered, who in hell…”
“Now you need to do it,” Cullin said, not answering the question.
“A two-oh-two area code.” Washington? “Come on, Cullin. Help me out here. Who the fuck is it?”
Cullin stood up and motioned for Ellsworth to take the seat. “The Director of the FBI.”
The technician left without another word. He wished he hadn’t been the one assigned to the computer this morning.
“Hello.” Ellsworth began tentatively. He thought about telling his own chief about the call. He’s the one who should be doing this. Whatever “this” is. Ellsworth felt he was way too low on the food chain to know how to talk to the director of the FBI. But the instruction was clear. Call. Right away.
“Mulligan,” the voice answered.
“Sir, I’m Detective Frank Ellsworth, LA…ah, Los Angeles Police Department. I was told—”
“Yes, Detective. Have you talked with anyone?”
“Well, sir, Mehegan. My lab man.”
“We spoke. Anyone else?”
“No sir, but—”
“You will notify your chief and no one else. Is that clear?”
Ellsworth didn’t answer the question. Instead, he challenged the command. “Pardon me, sir, but with all due respect, I believe that will be my department’s call.”
“Detective Ellsworth, it is not your department’s call. It is not your call. You will do as instructed. I’m certain that your supervisors will agree.”
“With all due respect—” Ellsworth began again.
“With all due respect to you, Detective, the woman you found is quite important.”
This silenced Ellsworth.
“My team will be coming in to observe the autopsy and participate in the investigation. The information may be sensitive. Do you understand?”
Ellsworth looked around the room. He was alone on the phone with the head of the FBI, and something was extremely out of the ordinary. He wasn’t sure what to say. He decided to go by the book. “My department will cooperate with the Bureau. We will expect the same in return.”
“Appropriate response, Detective. Now, in the spirit of cooperation, was there anything unusual about the crime scene?”
Witherspoon’s phone call triggered a number of reactions from the man who retrieved the message.
Gonzales already knew that the Kessler woman had developed a relationship with the Secret Service agent named Roarke. But the information led him to believe that Roarke was now personally pursuing his man. In his experience, personal vendettas were dangerous — far more dangerous than an investigation in the hands of a nine-to-five civil servant. The latter usually didn’t take his work home. Roarke would look far further, consider possibilities that others would ignore or dismiss. And now Kessler was helping. Luis Gonzales would have to give this thought.
Chapter 13
Umar Komari did as promised. He took one scrawny, diseased man out of the makeshift Shabu manufacturing plant — actually little more than a hut with a tin roof and the requisite burners — and beat him in front of his co-workers. He chose the man partly because he was the first to have eye contact with him and partly because he had three worthless daughters who would not serve the cause for which Allah had chosen him. So, the sins of the daughters now fell on the father, and Amjad Mohammed suffered a twenty-minute caning which left him weak, yet alive. With the last lash, he collapsed on the floor and broke his nose.