He rapped sharply on the front door. “Mr. Jorgenson? Are you there?” He knocked again, then moved to the side, trying to peek through a curtain slit. He dreaded that Jorgenson might have skipped town.
With the passing seconds he felt the increasing sourness in the pit of his stomach. Since he hadn’t obtained a search warrant, he couldn’t just force his way in. The forklift driver was probably out bar-hopping, as Sally Montry had suggested. All this way for nothing — and his time was running shorter and shorter. Now he would have to waste part of Thursday conducting the interview as well.
Craig pounded on the door one last time, then stepped to the left, standing on his tiptoes to take a quick peek through another small window. In the darkened trailer, it took Craig a moment to realize he was looking into the bathroom.
A dark form lay slumped by the small shower stall — a body fallen just inside the door.
Craig’s nervous system snapped into high gear. He tried the trailer’s flimsy door, but it was locked, then he pulled out his weapon and stood back to kick out with his foot. The heel of his black wingtip smashed the aluminum doorknob, and the plywood door splintered open.
Craig burst inside at a crouch, sweeping his weapon from side to side. “Federal agent! Mr. Jorgenson, I’m here to assist you, sir.” His heart yammered at the back of his throat. He hoped no trigger-happy militia man would go nuts, thinking that the government was invading —
Craig trotted down the darkened hallway, searching for a light switch. An American flag was draped on the wall in the far bedroom. He kept his handgun moving, tracking anticipated targets as he expected someone to jump out from a bedroom, but nothing happened. Silence filled the trailer.
Reaching the cramped bathroom, Craig bashed the door open with his elbow, glanced in to see the body by the shower, then he backed into the small toilet area. He clicked the light, blinking as the harsh bulb dazzled him.
Keeping his weapon leveled at the door, listening, Craig reached down to pull the body around. A man in his late forties, with close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair, rough face, slack mouth — and skin cold with death. His expression was a grimace of pain, like a rubber mask distorted and twisted.
Craig checked for a pulse, reaching up to touch Jorgenson’s neck. He bent down and put his ear by the man’s mouth, but felt no warm exhalation. Cold sweat soaked Craig’s clothes.
He quickly searched the rest of the trailer to convince himself that no one else was around. Craig thrust his handgun back in its shoulder holster and returned to the bathroom.
Jorgenson could have slipped and struck his head. But Craig could see no bruise on his face, no cracked skull, nothing obviously fatal. Had he died of something else instead? Another “convenient” heart attack?
Like Maguire’s?
CHAPTER 24
Craig didn’t sleep late, nor did he sleep well. Finding the dead body of a prime suspect spoiled his ability to rest comfortably. Everything would come to a head tomorrow, not only the inspection team’s deadline, and the President’s visit, but also the fatal countdown from the Eagle’s Claw. He didn’t have time to sleep anyway.
Before he headed out to the Nevada Test Site on a last, desperate search of the records, Craig drove bleary-eyed to the FBI Satellite Office where Goldfarb and Jackson had set up shop.
Even at this early hour, telephones rang, photocopiers whirred, people in suits moved up and down the halls. It could have been a commercial bank in any large city, but here the file cabinets contained dossiers of every con man, high roller, or drug dealer that had crossed state lines and fell under their jurisdiction.
Jackson had draped his suit jacket on a chair; a paperback Western peeked out of the pocket, though Craig didn’t suppose the other agent would have much free reading time at lunch. Goldfarb looked up from his second cup of coffee. In front of him on the desk lay a manila folder crammed with photocopied faxes. “You missed the excitement this morning. June Atwood called — she’s sending another dozen field agents out here to help.”
“Great,” Craig said. “Just as long as they help and don’t take up any of my time. We’ve got less than twenty-four hours to go.”
“So, what time did you get to bed last night, Craig?”
“After midnight,” he said with a yawn. “Once I found Jorgenson’s body, I had to wait for the local law enforcement and the coroner, then fill out a bunch of forms, make my statement, add to the sheriff’s report.”
Goldfarb shook his head. “I called Julene and the kids at nine and got to sleep by ten. After almost being barbecued, stabbed, and shot in the same day, I needed my beauty sleep.”
“Good, after all that rest, you two can go check out Jorgenson’s trailer yourselves. Have those new field agents take over for you here.” Craig rubbed his eyes. “I’ve already applied for the search warrant, and it should be ready by lunchtime.”
Jackson sat stiffly, intent on Craig. “How does that connect to our case? Tomorrow’s the 24th, and, like you said, we don’t have a lot of extra time on our hands.”
“I’ve asked the ME to check for the same chemical substance they found in Maguire’s autopsy. Jorgenson’s convenient death sounds a bit too similar. And since Warren Shelby was a militia member and an NTS worker.…”
Jackson cleared his throat, all business now. “We think along the same lines, Craig. Remember that hunch I had yesterday?” He slid open the center drawer of the desk, shuffling aside sticky notes, paper clips, pens, and a yellow legal tablet. “I was also wondering if the dam incident had any connection to the murder of your Russian inspector.”
He pulled out sectional topographic maps of southern Nevada showing power lines and railroad tracks. He had used a lime-green highlighter to draw lines, circling electrical substations. “Look at these power substations and electrical lines. A carefully placed explosion at the hydroelectric plant would have cut off power not only to parts of California and Arizona, but also to all of the Test Site.”
“That’s a big area and a big assumption,” Craig said.
Goldfarb leaned forward eagerly. “Remember, Craig, these guys are militant separatists who don’t want our country dabbling in foreign affairs. That high-visibility Russian inspection team is a vital part of what the two presidents will be bragging about at their summit meeting. A total power blackout would have sabotaged the disarmament activities, thrown a wrench into the works, mucked everything up before Saturday’s big show. Quite a statement for the cause, don’t you think?”
Craig stared at the map as the ideas converged around him. “I can’t seem to get away from the militia even when I’m investigating my own case.” He turned to the door, anxious to be on his way to dig through Nevsky’s paperwork.
He had to stop back at the Excalibur to pick up his notes on his way out to the Test Site. This was his last day to solve everything. “Oh, let me pass along another tip I got last night,” he said, suddenly remembering what Maggie the Mind Reader had suggested. “Could just be a false alarm, but you can decide for yourselves.
“Somebody spotted suspicious activity in one of the casinos, frequent surreptitious meetings on the crowded slot-machine floors. Often the people wear service uniforms from a slot-machine repair shop called Dennisons — but the odd thing is that Dennisons apparently doesn’t service the equipment in the Excalibur, so why they’d be there at all is a mystery to her.”
Jackson nodded, running a finger along his smooth chin. “We had assumed the militia group meets in local bars, but if they hang out in busy tourist places, like the Excalibur, they’d never be noticed.”