Blackout (Sam Archer 3) (5 page)

Turning, Cobb sat down behind his desk and watched the report shift back to the studio newsroom.

Something must have got to Charlie. Who knew what inner demons he was fighting. After all, he’d served all over the place with the army and been in some hellacious places in the darkest corners of the world. He’d been to Bosnia, Kosovo, Iraq and Afghanistan, right in the middle of all of the conflicts. God only knew the things he must have seen and the way they might have affected him. Cobb had only had a brief interaction with him just before the turn of the millennium, but he couldn't have done his job better, a true leader of men. Definitely not the kind of man who would blow his own head off with a handgun.

Rising and feeling agitated, Cobb moved across the room to his coffee machine and poured himself a thick espresso, no milk, no sugar. He took it back to his desk and let the drink cool, looking back up at the television screen. The
Breaking News
banner across the bottom of the screen was running the headline on a loop, but the screen had changed, now showing a picture of Captain Adams in some faded combat fatigues, kneeling and smiling up to the camera, his SA 80 rifle cradled over his thigh, squinting in the sunlight. He was in a dusty courtyard, somewhere in Iraq probably, and his skin was tanned, his dark hair untidy, the beginnings of a beard on his face.

Nevertheless his broad smile and whole persona demonstrated that raw charisma he’d always had, the quality that drew people to him and made him such a good leader of men. Staring at the image on the screen, Cobb shook his head in disbelief.

Charlie Adams had killed himself.

Why?

Just over three thousand miles to the west, across the Atlantic, a forty year old man stepped out of a da
rk strip-club in a Washington D
C outer suburb and walked wearily across the empty parking lot towards his car. His seven hour shift had just ended and he was wiped out.

He worked the door at the joint four nights a week, making sure the girls weren’t harassed and that the guys who came in paid the eight dollar cover and didn't cause any trouble. It was a shitty job with a shitty wage, but it was all he could get. He needed the money because he needed to eat. He couldn’t survive without it, but he hated coming to work here. The place was seedy and grimy and he couldn't remember the last time he'd seen someone run a mop over the floor. The lights on the sign outside didn't fully work, constantly buzzing and flickering, and it was depressing as hell inside.

The man hawked and spat on the ground as he walked, his footsteps echoing in the empty parking lot as he made his way towards his car, the only other sound the electronic
buzz of the blue neon sign above the door of the club. It was called
Mermaids
, a run-down place out of the centre of the city towards the projects, far away from the political glamour of the Beltway and the college red-bricked cleanliness of Georgetown. It had been a quiet night, typical midweek stuff, only a few customers, losers still in shirt and tie from the office catching a quick sleazy view or maybe a private dance before they went home to their wives and told them they’d been forced to stay late at work. The sad thing was those guys were probably earning more in one day than he made in a month. He was supposed to be working the door till four, but business was so quiet they'd locked up just before three. It was his only job and he needed the money, so that hour’s less pay had put him in a foul mood.

He walked over to his car, an unreliable piece of shit that didn’t run like it should anymore, and pulled out his keys. He pushed the button but the car didn’t beep.

It was already unlocked.

He cursed, pissed at himself that he’d left the car open all night. It was a miracle it was still here, given how close the strip-club was to the projects. If it had been stolen, he'd have been well and truly screwed.

Shaking his head at his stupidity, he climbed inside and shut the door.

He never even saw the man hidden in the back seat.

The stranger was small, dressed all in black, and had been lying in the shadows so he was close to invisible from the outside.
In a flash, h
e lifted a piece of wire over the doorman’s head and pulled it back
hard
around the man's throat, locking his arms tight. The guy in the front seat's eyes widened and he started thrashing in panic, scrabbling at his neck as the wire garrotted him. Behind him the small man cinched it tighter, the wire slicing into the doorman's neck, cutting off his oxygen, the sharp wire splitting the skin.

The guy in the front fought vainly for about ten seconds, the blood vessels in his eyes bursting, his head turning the colour of boysenberry, his fingers grasping at the wire frantically as he was strangled. Behind him, the small man pulled it tighter
still
.

The doorman gave a final wheeze and then died.

The small man held the wire tight for a few moments longer, ensuring the guy was dead. Then he pulled it free, gathering it up into a ball and tucked it back into his pocket. Up front, released from the wire, the dead man slumped forward, his forehead coming to rest against the steering wheel, his arms limp, like he was drunk and had passed out while trying to start the engine. The smaller man checked the guy's pulse with a gloved hand, making sure he was gone, then slipped out of the rear door of the car quietly, clicking the door shut behind him.

The parking lot was deserted, the city asleep around him. No witnesses. No one around.

Popping his collar, the small man put his head down and moved off into the shadows. Four minutes later, the wire and gloves gone, the man was in a taxi heading straight for Dulles International Airport and his 5:05 am direct flight to London Heathrow.

FOUR

Almost an hour later, Cobb was still at his desk inside the ARU headquarters thinking about the Adams suicide. He was going over and over it in his mind in a loop, like the
Breaking News
banner on the news channel, trying to process what had happened.

Thinking hard, he suddenly reached forward across his desk and scooped up a black phone receiver from its cradle, pushing 1 on the keypad. The call connected to Nikki next door, the head of his analyst group, a dark-haired woman in her late twenties who did a great job running the entire tech team. He looked up and saw her grab her phone, not looking away from her computer, sitting with her back to him as she took the call.

‘Nikki,’
she said, seeing it was on the internal line.

‘Nikki, it's me. Who’s handling the Charlie Adams investigation?’ Cobb asked.

‘Hang on, sir, I’ll check,’
she said.

Through the glass of his office, he saw her place the receiver to one side and start tapping keys on her computer. He sipped his second espresso of the morning, the caffeine not helping his agitation. There was a pause.

‘A Detective-Inspector Graham in CID,’
she said.

‘Can you find out if they've spoken to Charlie’s wife yet?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Thank you.’

Cobb put the phone back on the cradle and looked back up at the television screen. As he took another hit of espresso, he saw through the glass the sergeant of his task force, Porter, approaching his office door. He was dressed in some dark blue jeans and a grey sweater, the jumper emphasising his wide shoulders and strong frame.

Porter was a dark-featured guy in his mid-thirties, an imposing figure of a man, but he was a gentle giant. He was one of those people who never swore, no matter how bad the situation or how frustrated he was feeling. He reminded Cobb of one of those big dogs at the park who remained aloof and kept their patience whenever smaller dogs nipped and bothered at them, never losing his temper or biting back, endlessly patient no matter what the provocation. Cobb had seen people underestimate Porter, mistaking his quiet patience for weakness, but every one of them had quickly discovered their mistake. He was strong and loyal, and like Charlie Adams
,
was someone Cobb had taken to immediately as a human being.

His predecessor, a tough-as-nails army veteran called Mac, had retired towards the end of last year and Porter had been a shoe-in as his replacement. Everyone had approved of his selection, and so far Port had proved to be an outstanding choice as a leader. The men on the task force all liked him, but more importantly they all trusted him, the most crucial thing when out there in the field. Since he'd taken over, Porter had led the team against a potential terrorist plot and also the drug-dealing ring that the Unit had smashed just over a week ago, and the success of both operations had left no doubt in Cobb's mind that he had chosen the right man to be Mac's replacement.

Although he saw Cobb watching him approach, Porter still stopped and knocked on the glass, respecting rank. Cobb nodded and Porter entered the office, closing the door behind him.

‘Morning, Port.’

‘Morning, sir.’

Stepping further into the office, Porter glanced up at the television screen, at the headline running on the lower portion of the television, black text on a yellow stream under the newsreader.

Breaking News:
Political candidate Charlie Adams commits suicide on South Bank early this morning
.

Porter looked over at Cobb and shook his head. 

‘Sad news.'

'Yes. It is.'

'Deaks mentioned he was a friend of yours?’

Cobb nodded. ‘We worked together a few years ago.’

Both men watched the screen in silence as a photo of Adams in suit and tie came onto the screen. He was smiling and waving to a crowd on a podium, a lectern in front of him, either before or just after he had given some kind of speech. Even out of combat fatigues and dressed in the suit, the man still cut an impressive figure, the broad musculature of his shoulders and arms clear under the dark suit jacket, his eyes narrowed warmly as he smiled at the crowd.

'Did you know of him?' Cobb asked.

Porter nodded. 'Yes, sir. He gave a speech in my local area last month. Impressive guy. He had my vote, that was for sure.'

Pause.

'The report said he left a widow and a small boy. A real shame.’

‘Yes. It is.’

Just then, the phone on Cobb’s desk rang. He reached over and pushed a button for the loudspeaker on the phone.

'Yep?'

‘Sir, I spoke to CID,
’ Nikki said, her voice filling the office.
‘I have some bad news.’

‘What?’

‘The wife and boy are both missing.’

‘What?’

‘No one has seen or heard from them since the news of the suicide. Not family, nor friends. They’ve just vanished. The boy didn’t show up for school, and the woman isn’t picking up her phone.’

‘What about the house?’

‘DI Graham went round to talk to her, but no one answered. When they eventually got inside, he and another detective found two unmade beds upstairs. The master and the kid’s room. But the house was empty. No bags were packed though. Everything was still there. Clothes, valuables, the whole lot. They haven’t done a runner.’

‘Maybe they had a fight,’ Porter suggested, loud enough so Nikki could hear.

  ‘
Seems unlikely,’
Nikki said. ‘
DI
Graham said the neighbours told him they heard no noise last night, saw no one arrive or leave the house. Adams was at the office until midnight anyway, so if they argued, it would have been over the phone.’

She paused, as Cobb and Porter absorbed what she’d just said.

‘Speaking of his office, I have more news for your sir.’

‘Go on.’

‘DI Graham spoke to the receptionist at Mr Adams' office. The girl said a letter came in the post for him late last night, around eleven o'clock, completely out of the blue. She said she gave it to him before he went home for the night, around midnight. She was the last person who saw him alive.’ 

Cobb looked at Porter, and both men frowned.

‘Have they found the letter?’ Cobb asked.

‘No, sir. But they found the envelope in his car. Forensics took a swab from the seal and are already running it to try and match the DNA. They're also checking the envelope for prints or anything at all they can trace
which
might tell us where it came from. When they found his body, the report said there were black remnants of burnt paper by his feet. Two different types. Standard sheet paper and photographic.’

Cobb nodded. ‘Any details?’

‘No sir. They were only singed edges, all curled up. The letter and photographs themselves were torched. Only parts of the edges are left, and those are black and charred.’