“Reach under the second rock, near the front steps.” He pointed to the right of the concrete steps. “There should be a key.”
Alena’s heavyset partner stooped down, flicked over the rock. “Here it is.” The man sounded like he’d grown up in New York, a heavy Brooklyn accent, a strange contrast to Alena’s Eastern European inflections. The man stood, leaped up the front steps, and popped the door open. He turned back toward them. “Now where?”
Gerrit made his way up the steps with Alena’s help. Once inside, he extricated himself from her grasp and tottered toward a rear bedroom. He dropped to his knees and leaned under a queen-size bed. “Help me move this.”
Once they dragged the bed to one side, he found where loose boards had been pried up. Mark’s handiwork. Yanking up the boards, he saw it-the briefcase he had been given in Vienna. Opening up the case, he sighed with relief when he saw the laptop and thumb drive inside. He closed the case, then glanced up.
“Got it. Now let’s get out of here.”
Alena momentarily eyed the briefcase. “How do you say it here in America? Let’s scram?”
Gerrit smiled. “That’s what we say.” He rose to his feet and then his world turned black again.
Marilynn Summers climbed out of her coupe, closed and locked the door, before activating the alarm. She walked from her assigned parking space in the federal building toward the stairway leading to the lobby.
She began to relax, knowing that once inside she would have complete protection. She knew security cameras recorded her movement right now. Any hint of trouble and security would be running to her aid.
The only unease she felt at the moment had to do with a man a thousand miles away. Richard Kane. He had sent her to change Gerrit’s mind. That was her mission and she failed. Kane did not tolerate failure.
What was he going to do? Shoot her? Daughter of Senator Summers?
I think not, Mr. Kane.
The more she thought about it, the more secure she felt. Being John Summers’s only child brought some perks. Nobody but the senator could mess with her-and survive politically.
Footsteps echoed behind her.
She turned her head to see a man a few yards away. Funny, she had not seen another car enter the garage.
“Ms. Summers?”
She turned toward the voice as the man drew closer and her chest suddenly tightened. Just for an instant she saw a metallic reflection from something in the man’s right hand.
A gun.
Her brain registered an explosive flash. Then pain. Then nothing.
Chapter 21
Clearwater River, Idaho
Daylight streamed through a dusty cabin window when Gerrit finally managed to open his eyes. He tried to remember the details of the ride from Seattle during the night. He must have slipped in and out of consciousness several times. He barely remembered climbing into bed.
Noise from a television drew his attention, his eyes slowly focusing on the screen. A news reporter, mike in hand, stood near where Gerrit’s boathouse once stood.
“A joint local, state, and federal task force investigation continues as authorities sift through what is left of Seattle Police Detective Gerrit O’Rourke’s home. A source close to the investigation revealed that there appears to have been a body inside the residence at the time of the explosion, possibly that of the missing officer. However, investigators refuse to confirm the identity as bomb experts continue to search for clues. A spokesman for SPD did confirm the explosion was intentionally set.”
Gerrit closed his eyes, a headache nagging at the backside of his brain. He reopened them to see that the television screen moved to another crime scene at the Henry M. Jackson Federal Building in Seattle. The garage entrance was taped off, and two uniformed officers stood guard, prohibiting a number of reporters and television camera crews from entering. The same announcer’s voice continued.
“In a related investigation, task-force representatives are looking into the shooting death of federal prosecutor Marilynn Summers, whose father sits as chairman of the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence. Police say Ms. Summers was shot and killed after she parked her car and began walking toward the U.S. Attorney’s office. And in a third killing- Wait, we just have this in. Seattle Police Department has an announcement to make. We switch you live to Seattle PD headquarters.”
Gerrit raised himself onto one elbow, peering at the television screen, gritting his teeth. A knot developed in his stomach. A third killing? Oh, God, no. He seemed to know what was about to be disclosed.
Lieutenant Stan Cromwell, his craggy face tired and angry looking, loomed on the screen. It seemed the lieutenant had aged ten years since Gerrit last saw him. His boss approached a sea of bristling microphones, his broad shoulders rounded and hunched.
Cromwell glared into the camera. “I’m going to make a short statement and I will not answer any questions. Our patrol units were called to a warehouse near the waterfront shortly before nine o’clock this morning. They found the body of Seattle Detective Mark Taylor who has been missing for eight hours. He’d been shot at close range, and there is evidence he had been subjected to torture.” Cromwell’s voice cracked.
Gerrit pounded the bed in anger. No. No. No. Mark had nothing to do with anything. Kane reached out and killed his partner just to send a message. No one ever turns his back on Kane. Raised voices on the television drew him back to the screen. He watched with clenched fists, a wave of fury pounding his head with pain.
A flurry of voices followed.
The lieutenant waited until everyone quieted down. “Let me finish my statement.”
Silence followed.
Cromwell brushed the corner of his right eye before continuing. “There has been a body recovered from the explosion at SPD Detective Gerrit O’Rourke’s residence. There is no identification on the body; however, it is believed that the remains may be that of our officer. Lastly, we are continuing to investigate-along with the FBI and other state and federal agencies-the shooting death of the federal prosecutor, AUSA Marilynn Summers.”
Cromwell paused and took a swig from his water bottle. All eyes focused on him.
“We’re pursuing all possible leads. The only connection we have at this time in all three deaths is that these victims were connected to a strike force case involving Russian organized crime groups. The primary suspect in that OC case was killed by Detective O’Rourke during the execution of search and arrest warrants in a San Diego, California, residence a few weeks ago. We’re continuing to investigate. There will be no further comments at this time.”
Cromwell turned and walked away. No one seemed brave enough to follow.
Gerrit dropped back on the bed. He felt weak, and the news seemed to wrench away any strength he had left. So the cops thought that Russian organized crime might be responsible.
Richard Kane covered his tracks well.
He thought of Senator Summers. Could he be involved in his own daughter’s death? This seemed highly unlikely. The senator might be the person to start with to get some straight answers. Maybe Marilynn’s father finally had enough of Kane and might be willing to talk.
He heard several sets of footsteps on the porch outside. The door swung open and Alena and two men entered. She smiled as he turned toward her. “We are so pleased you are alive. I worried.” She came to his bedside, stroking his forehead. “How do you feel?”
He glanced at the television before speaking. “Two of my friends are dead, and the world thinks I was blown up. Other than that and a bad headache, I’m doing just great,” he said, anger building up with each word. “How do you think I feel?”
Her eyes softened. “I’m sorry, Gerrit. You heard.”
He looked away and focused on the other two men.
“I want to introduce you to a very special man, my good friend Joe Costello.” She pointed to the older of the two men, who had been intently watching them as Gerrit and Alena conversed. The man stepped forward, extending his hand. His freckled face and curly reddish-brown hair-lightened by the onslaught of gray-complemented his hazel eyes. The man looked to be pushing seventy.