He focused on another aspect of the case. A news article from back then detailing the loss suffered by Leonard and Wanda Atkins, Joe’s parents and Desiree’s in-laws. Buckley reasoned that they had to know about Rebecca. They lived nearby and were the only family Joe had. And they were the only survivors, other than Desiree, mentioned in the news article and the related obituary. The article also said that Leonard Atkins had fought in Vietnam. Buckley checked Len Atkins’s age at the time, which was given in the article, and added on the intervening years. He would be well into his seventies now.
He sent an email with another information request. An hour later he received a reply. It turned out that Atkins was registered with the VA and was getting treatment after having had a stroke. And the reply included his current address. Buckley didn’t know how his associate had obtained this info so fast, but he thought that the VA needed to seriously upgrade its cybersecurity firewalls.
But then don’t we all?
However, this time, he wasn’t complaining.
Buckley was wheels up on his jet in a few hours. When they landed he drove a waiting rental car to a hotel where he had made a reservation. He checked in, went up to his room, and spread his case files out on the desk.
He had some wine from the minibar and pondered what to do next. This was all growing extremely complicated. And intriguing. He opened his laptop and brought the image up. He flicked his finger against Rebecca Atkins’s/El Cain’s picture on the screen.
She would not be easy. He smiled at the challenge.
And since the FBI was now involved, he had a unique asset that he could call on to help him in his quest to find the woman. It was late, but he could always leave a message. He hit the name in his contact list, and a voice answered within two rings.
“Hello, Peter, I trust you have something worthy of me. I’ve been rather bored lately.”
“I do indeed. In fact it has to do with your former employer.”
“The Army or the FBI?”
“The latter,” Buckley replied.
“Excellent, I always love to stick it to the Bureau when given the chance.”
“They’re looking for a woman named Rebecca Atkins, aka Eloise Cain. And so am I.”
“And your interest in her?”
“Entirely personal. She killed my brother, Ken,” said Buckley.
“Sorry to hear that.”
“I can send the jet. Just give me a location and a time.”
“I’m a bit tied up at the moment. Just finishing something up. I can be ready to go tomorrow morning around eight. I’m in DC currently. I can go out to Dulles to catch your ride.”
“All right. They’ll fly out of the Signature Terminal.”
“And where are you?”
“The great state of Alabama.”
“Okay, and what is there of interest to you in the great state of Alabama?”
“I’ll fill you in when you get here,” promised Buckley.
“Private jets are so convenient. I wish I could afford one.”
“Well, you’ll always have the use of mine.”
“Aren’t you sweet. Look, I really have to go. A few things to tidy up, like I said.”
“Right, see you soon, Britt.”
He clicked off.
Chapter 38
Britt Spector put her phone away and looked down at the body on the floor. A few minutes ago it was a living, breathing human being. Now she had transformed it into a corpse via a broken neck that would make it look like the very elderly and long-serving and high-ranking congressman had fallen down the stairs of his lovely home, in a stately old neighborhood in northwest DC. The tox report would show that the man had had too much to drink, and was already unsteady on his feet due to some neurological ailments and cognitive debilitation, although he had won his reelection by a landslide. And the forensic trail the fall had left would not suggest foul play, because while she had nudged him down the stairs, it wasn’t enough to change the trajectory of his descent, alerting the police that something was amiss. Then it came down to finishing the job with a slight but classic maneuver on the man’s already extensively damaged vertebra that the Army had taught her. And he had died.
Simple and easy.
Spector had no sympathy for the fellow, who was cruel and corrupt. For over four decades he had sold his influence in hundreds of different ways, with wired funds sliding into foreign numbered accounts, or substantial favors and hidden payments handed out to those he favored, relatives, friends, mistresses. Sometimes it was as simple as making sure a law wasn’t passed; indeed, he was known as a particularly efficient bill killer. And the laws he made sure would never see the light of day usually would benefit the masses, who had little money and no power. Thus, the result of his either stonewalling or passing a bill always benefited the wealthy and the connected because they could reward him. That was how the game was played, and he played it better than most.
And his growing net worth had been explained away through well-designed investment devices, or lucky business gambles that had nothing to do with luck. His real wealth was outright hidden from view in those numbered accounts in faraway places. However, he had gotten too big for his britches and made a fatal mistake in deciding to renegotiate a deal that was already done, for far better terms.
Spector’s employer on this job had had this done to them once too often by the man. Before, they had agreed to his demands. This time, they had decided to cut their losses and also take the congressman out of any more deals, as well as the remainder of his years. And with his declining health, he was getting far more difficult to trust and control. And there was growing concern he would let something slip that would spark an investigation that would turn out to be inconvenient.
The far younger man replacing him at this pinnacle of power would not be nearly as duplicitous. Or stupid enough to think that he could get away with anything. They were all cookie-cutter drones. The only principles they believed in were the ones that benefited them. The question was simple: How much would they cost? They were just another line item in a budget, though that line item would never officially appear in any budget. Yet that made it no less critical.
The calculation was a simple one: Laws equaled money. If you made the laws, you made the money.
And this immoral and corrupt man, whose political decisions had harmed many ordinary citizens in myriad ways, would be buried, and his loved ones would mourn him; but then they would immediately fight over his money, the only thing of value he would leave behind.
Good riddance, thought Spector.
She finished with the body and took her time erasing all traces of her presence there. After that, she made her way out the way she had come, via an impossibly high window and down a wall that seemed to have no visible means of support for such a climb or descent other than a copper gutter. But that was for the average intruder, not Britt Spector. There were no signs of forced entry. And that would make it certain that the police would conclude the man’s death was an unfortunate accident.
She walked down the darkened street and arrived back at her hotel in short order. She took a shower, had a drink, and sent an encrypted message to her employer. Then she waited and checked an electronic bank account to make sure that the remainder of the agreed-upon funds had been deposited. When this was verified, she went to bed. She rose at six the next morning, showered and dressed, packed her bag, checked out, and was on her way to Dulles via an Uber.
She liked working for Peter Buckley. He was a class act who paid extremely well. And he never called her in for something that was not aligned with her elite abilities.