“I’m sorry to disturb you, but we have a code black.”
“Code black” referred to an employee fatality.
“Give me a minute.” Briggs left the salon, took the stairs to the ground floor, and proceeded outdoors to the esplanade. The last employee to die had been an SVP who’d dropped dead of a heart attack in Mumbai, brought on by eating the world’s hottest chili peppers. “Who’s the poor devil?”
“It’s Bill McNair.”
“Shanks? You’re sure?”
“Yessir. We’re all pretty shaken up.”
Briggs walked to the balustrade overlooking the Meadow, wanting to be certain that he was alone. “What happened?”
“He was off-duty, so it’s all pretty sketchy, but it looks like he was shot after going to a concert out in Cedar Valley.”
Briggs ran a hand over his scalp, trying to make sense of the news. “Go on.”
“His RFID coordinates put him at a place called the Nutty Brown Cafe. He was stationary for ninety-three minutes, then thirty minutes ago he moved a short distance. Five minutes later his data cut out. No heart rate. No blood pressure readings. It was so sudden we thought for sure it was a glitch. We called him immediately. There was no response.”
“I’ll be right there.”
Briggs jogged across the Meadow, entered Brasenose, and took the stairs two at a time. A four-man skeleton crew was on duty. “Did you send a team?”
“Yessir. They located him in a field behind the venue.”
“Only McNair? There was no one with him?”
“No, sir.”
“Is the team still on-site?”
“Yessir.”
“Put them onscreen and bring up McNair’s bio data on monitor two.”
A concerned Caucasian male appeared on the screen. Briggs asked for a complete rundown.
“We arrived and found his vehicle parked in the lot. The doors were unlocked and the keys were in the ignition. We had to call HQ to get a read on his physical coordinates. We found him three hundred yards away, lying in the middle of some scrub. There’s no indication what he was doing out here, but he had his weapon drawn.”
Briggs knew precisely what Shanks was doing out in the middle of the scrub. “Go on.”
“The cause of death was a shotgun blast to the chest and neck. He still has his phone on him, but we can’t find his wallet. Tell you the truth, I’m confused.”
“Show me the body.”
The security officer trained his camera on the prone, inert body of William “Shanks” McNair.
“All right,” said Briggs. “Any sign of law enforcement?”
“Nothing.”
“Good. Clean up the scene. Get him out of there. Bring his vehicle here. Do not contact the sheriff, understand? This is an internal matter.”
“Excuse me, sir,” said the duty officer. “But McNair was off-duty at the time. His wallet was missing. It may be a case of rob-”
“Do as I say. That is all. And get his vehicle out of there.” Briggs directed his attention to a smaller screen displaying McNair’s vital data as recorded by his bio bracelet. McNair’s heart rate appeared to have been steady at sixty beats per minute, accelerating slightly in the last minutes of his life. His blood pressure increased similarly over the same period. Both readings were consistent with an elevated level of adrenaline in the system. Excitement, not fear.
And then…nothing. All readings plummeted to zero. No last-second spike in heart rate. No surge in diastolic pressure. Shanks died instantly and without foreknowledge. Death as brought on by a shotgun blast delivered at close range. He was bushwhacked.
“Let me know when everything’s cleaned up.”
“Yessir.”
Briggs left the Ops Center. By the time he reached his car, he had a good idea what had transpired. His phone rang again as he left ONE’s campus. It was the Mole, and he sounded as perplexed as Briggs was angry.
“Mary Grant just came home.”
“Shanks encountered some difficulties.”
“He let her get away?”
“Have some respect for the dead.”
“Dead? Shanks? But how?”
“Just keep an eye on the home,” said Briggs. “Let me know if you see any movement in or out.”
“What are you going to do?”
“What I should have done a while ago. Take care of this matter once and for all.”
Thursday
70
Mary parked in the garage as instructed, staying in her car until the door lowered behind her. She climbed out quietly, not wanting to wake the girls or to alert anyone else who might be waiting for her inside. It was a futile gesture. Anyone watching had seen her come home. If they had someone inside, they’d have passed along the word, though the thump of the garage door was warning enough.
She entered through the laundry room and crossed the foyer. The lights were dim, and all was quiet. She paused to take a look around, Joe’s gun heavy in her hand. Her heart was pounding loudly enough to drown out a police siren.
Act like nothing’s happened, Tank had cautioned her. No calls. No texts. Assume they’re listening to everything. Don’t give them a reason to act. They’ll find out about McNair soon enough.
She checked that all the doors were locked and breathed easier. A light burned in the family room, which scared her all over again, but it was the television, sound muted. She turned it off, then returned to the stairs.
She paused to take off her sensible brown loafers, which were killing her more than her four-inch mules ever did. She held the pistol in front of her, one hand gripping the stock, the other supporting the barrel. If she saw anyone who was not her daughter-anyone at all-she was pulling the trigger until the gun was empty.
The door to Grace’s room stood open a crack. Her baby girl’s hair fairly shone on the pillow. Mary slid into the room and perched on the edge of the bed, listening to her daughter’s measured breathing, thinking it was the most beautiful sound in the world.
One present and accounted for, she reported to the admiral.
Mary crossed the hall to Jessie’s room. The curtains were drawn and she saw a lump beneath the covers. “Jess? You awake?” She stepped over a pile of clothes, her eyes getting used to the dark. “Jess?”
There came a ping from downstairs. A knock on the glass door. Tank Potter had arrived.
Mary left the room, picking up the dirty clothing on her way. Potter stood by the sliding door, hunched close like a teenager sneaking into his girlfriend’s house. Mary flipped the lock and slid the door open. “Come in.”
“Doing laundry now?”
Mary dropped the clothes onto the floor. “Never mind.”
Tank pointed at the gun. “You might want to put that away.”
“Sorry.” Mary slipped the pistol into her belt holster.
“Everything okay?”
“They’re both upstairs sleeping.”
“We should go. They’re going to discover McNair sooner rather than later.”
“Mommy.”
Mary turned to see Grace standing at the foot of the stairs, clutching Pink Pony to her chest. “Hi, mouse. Did we wake you?”
Grace’s eyes went from Mary to Tank and back again. She began to cry. Mary went to her and took her in her arms. “Are you still upset from earlier?” she whispered.
Grace shook her head violently.
“Then what is it?”
“I’m sorry,” came the muffled response.
“What for?” Mary held her daughter at arm’s length, wiping away a tear with her thumb.