A moment later, Uzi balled a fist and rapped on the flaking wood door. Nothing.
“Is that blood on the doorframe?” DeSantos asked.
“Where?”
“There.” DeSantos indicated generally with a dip of his nose.
Uzi didn’t see anything, then understood.
“Someone’s life could be in danger,” DeSantos said. “We’d better go in.”
As Uzi opened his mouth to object, DeSantos kicked in the door.
Uzi swung into position, Glock held in front of him, knees bent, eyes darting around the interior. He slid in, followed by DeSantos. Pistols leading the way, they began clearing rooms.
It didn’t take long for Uzi to find what they were looking for. “Santa! In here.”
DeSantos appeared seconds later. His shoulders slumped in resignation as his eyes found the uniformed Marine lying faceup on the threadbare carpet. “Shit.”
“Corporal Ellison, I presume.”
DeSantos moved the man’s arm with the tip of his Desert Eagle, and the nametag, now visible, confirmed Uzi’s assumption. “Large caliber weapon.” He got down on a knee to examine the gunshot wounds in the forehead and chest. “A forty-five with hollow point rounds, I’d guess.”
“Shooter was standing about fifteen, twenty feet away. Over there,” Uzi said, nodding toward the far end of the room. “Groceries are on the counter. Bag’s from the base commissary.”
“I love it when everything fits together.”
“Sister?”
“Let’s go see.”
They walked together down the hallway, on alert with guns still drawn, though Uzi figured the killer was long gone. They entered the first room on the right.
“Oh, Jesus,” DeSantos said.
In the bed sat a radiation-bald Katherine Ellison, a bullet hole in her forehead, the dark stare of death draped across her face.
While DeSantos briefed Vasquez by phone, Uzi called the field office and informed Marshall Shepard of what they had found at Katherine Ellison’s house. The FBI forensics unit was dispatched immediately and arrived in twenty-five minutes. One of the task force members accompanied the lab techs, allowing Uzi and DeSantos to return to Corporal Ellison’s apartment.
Upon their arrival, they began a methodical search of the Marine’s residence. While DeSantos rifled through old papers and files, Uzi mentally walked through the facts of the case. Someone wanted Ellison and his sister dead. The questions were obvious: who and why? And more significantly, was there a connection to the downing of Marine Two?
Uzi sat down at a cabinet housing the corporal’s computer and started poking at the keyboard.
A few minutes later, DeSantos gestured at the monitor. “Find anything with ARM letterhead?”
Uzi managed a laugh. “I have a feeling we’re not gonna find any smoking guns in this case.”
“No, guess not.” DeSantos tossed the file onto the bed behind him. “Just smoking helicopter ruins.”
“We should bring his PC over to the lab, have CART go through it,” Uzi said, referring to the Bureau’s Computer Analysis Response Team. “There’s all sorts of shit that gets buried on hard drives that people don’t know about. They think because they delete something, it vanishes into thin air.”
DeSantos nodded. “Brian once said the data’s still there, but the computer can’t find it.”
“Your partner was right,” Uzi said. “A computer’s hard drive is like an index system. When you delete a file, it stays on the hard drive but its entry in the index is removed. The supersmart computer thinks it’s gone, but good old low-brow human intelligence can find it.”
DeSantos leaned back. “You admit that?”
“Hey, what’s fair is fair.” He nodded at the PC. “Can we take what we need, or do we have to clear it with Vasquez?”
“You have to clear it.” The voice came from behind them, down the hall. Warren Vasquez appeared a second later. “Just submit an inventory of what you’re taking,” he said to Uzi. “And don’t forget to copy me on every report you people generate.”
“Of course,” Uzi said. “We’re all on the same side.”
“Let’s hope so,” Vasquez said.
Uzi’s head tilted. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Ignoring Uzi’s comment, Vasquez tossed a glance at DeSantos. “I assume that answering machine tape will show up on the inventory, right?”
Uzi could feel a slight sweat break out across his back. “Of course.”
Vasquez’s eye twitched slightly. “Good,” he said, then walked out.
Fifteen minutes later, Uzi ended a phone call, then found DeSantos in the garage. “Anything?”
“He was a gear-head, apparently.” DeSantos swiveled his body, nodding at the mess of objects strewn before him. Car magazines, specialized tools, cases of synthetic oil.”
“You’re on your own for a while.” He held up his phone. “Shepard just called. I was summoned to the White House—”
“Agent Uziel?” A suited man entered the garage and displayed his Secret Service credentials. “Please come with me.”
“As I was saying,” Uzi said to DeSantos as he backed away toward his escort. “The president wants a dialogue with me.”
DeSantos cocked his head in bemusement. “A dialogue with the president? How quaint.”
Uzi tossed DeSantos his keys. “Catch up with you later. Don’t scratch the paint.”
President Jonathan Whitehall stood on the sloping, manicured patch of grass behind the Oval Office, a puffy goose down vest snapped around his torso and a titanium putter clutched in his leather-wrapped hands. Several balls were arranged in a row in front of him. He was lining up a shot, seemingly oblivious to Uzi’s presence.
Not wanting to disturb the president’s concentration, Uzi stood off to the side, waiting for Whitehall to acknowledge him. He had been escorted to the Southwest Gate, then handed off to another set of agents who ushered him to the tip of the grass, turned, and left him there.
“How long are you just going to stand there, son?” Whitehall’s voice had the southern drawl Uzi had become accustomed to hearing the past eight years.
Uzi felt like he should have been awed by the man’s presence, or at least be a bit nervous because of the setting. He was on the president’s turf — literally — and totally unprepared for this meeting. Had he known in advance, he would’ve worn a suit. Then again, maybe not.
Marshall Shepard’s warning did not give him much to go on. All he was told was that the president wanted to see him. Innocuous enough. But Uzi had learned years ago that casual chats with powerful leaders could sometimes evolve into something much more significant… if not downright dangerous.
He stood with his hands shoved deep into his leather overcoat’s pockets, legs spread wide, conveying relaxed confidence. “Didn’t want to disrupt your shot, sir.” Courtesy first and always.
“Nonsense,” Whitehall said, his eyes still focused on the putter. “Is this the way you’re running your investigation? Afraid to assert yourself?”
“There are very few things I’m afraid of, Mr. President.”
Whitehall looked up and found Uzi’s gaze. Uzi did not look away. Whitehall conceded the silent battle and straightened. Keeping the putter in his left hand, he walked the ten feet separating the two men. Though Whitehall had lost half an inch sometime between sixty and seventy, it did not make much difference: his physical stature was not where his strength lay.
Whitehall had the reputation of being a hard-hitting negotiator, a staunch conservative who held to strict Republican values, a politician who always played fairly — a rarity in Washington. Tough, but fair. A man many liked to hate, but admired. His brutally direct nature had gotten him into trouble, while earning trust and respect among foreign leaders. He once told the Chinese premier his tie was god-awful ugly, and smiled while doing it.