Cut Out (12 page)

Riley poked his head into the indicated square and spotted the familiar figure. “Sergeant Major.”

Alexander looked up from his desk and frowned for a brief second, then his face cleared as he recognized his visitor. “Chief Riley. How the hell are you? Haven’t seen you in what, two years?”

Alexander had been assigned to Riley’s team during the EYES missions in Colombia. Riley had found his name on the large organizational chart that hung in his company sergeant major’s office when he’d looked up the O & I committee. Special Forces, despite the recent increase in numbers, was still a relatively small, close-knit community, especially among those who had spent more than ten years in it. Alexander’s name had leaped out at him as he scanned the chart, looking for someone who could do him a favor. Alexander was the senior NCO; his name was second, right below the major who commanded the teaching cadre.

Never one for small talk, Riley nevertheless tried for a few minutes, inquiring about Alexander’s family and the committee. Finally, he wound his way around to the purpose of his visit.

“Sergeant Major, do you have any exercises scheduled this afternoon or evening?”

“What kind of exercises?” Alexander didn’t wait for an answer. “We’ve got two classes in session and both are running ops.” He didn’t need to consult a training schedule. “Class six is running a surveillance exercise and class seven is doing photography.”

Riley nodded. “Can I borrow some of the people you have on the surveillance op?”

“Borrow?” Alexander peered closely at Riley. “What exactly do you mean by borrow? To do what?”

“I’m running an operation with the officers—an E & E exercise— and I’d like to put some of your guys on surveillance to cover a personal meeting. See if the officers spot the surveillance—you know what I’m talking about.”

Alexander leaned back in his swivel chair and regarded Riley for a few seconds. “You know that the training schedule is next to the Bible around here. You don’t change it, especially not on the day of the training.”

“I’m not asking you to change the training schedule,” Riley explained. “They’ll still be doing surveillance—just in a different location and with a different objective.”

Riley could see that the sergeant major wasn’t buying his story. There was a long silence, then Alexander stood up and gave a yell: “Martin!”

A worn-looking master sergeant appeared a few seconds later. “Yes, Sergeant Major?”

“A change in plans.” Alexander poked a thumb at Riley. “The chief here will brief you on what your students will be doing later today on their practical exercise in surveillance. We have a slight change of training locale.”

Master Sergeant Martin looked none too thrilled, but as a veteran of the ACFAC, he was used to changes. “Right, Sergeant Major.”

CHARLOTTE

30 OCTOBER, 10:30 a.m.

Master grabbed the portable phone on the first ring. “Anything?”

“We’re still searching. We’ll find her. You’ve got to be ready to move quickly. The longer she’s free, the more dangerous she becomes.”

“What if she’s no longer around here?”

“We’ll get her no matter where she is. You just worry about your area.” The connection went dead.

Master put down the phone and went back to hand-loading shells for his Glock pistol. He hated waiting.

CHICAGO

30 OCTOBER, 11:15 a.m.

The Central District Filtration Plant jutted out into Lake Michigan just above the spot where the Chicago River entered the lake. Private First Class Milton Lee Olive III Park took up the land where the plant connected with the main shoreline. Giannini drove around the police barrier that had been placed at the end of the parking lot for the recreation area. A uniformed cop waved her to a parking spot.

Before leaving the car, she opened the trunk and pulled on a set of worn coveralls. She’d learned that trick on her first case in Homicide when she got a small spot of the victim’s blood on the clothes she wore to the crime scene. That automatically made her clothes part of the evidence, and she had to turn them in. This morning she also pulled off her flats and put on an old pair of cheap tennis shoes. Properly dressed to enter the area, she slipped under the yellow tape.

She made her way to the first response team, which was quartering the scene, gradually working their way in. Unlike crime dramas on TV, it sometimes took four to eight hours to make it back to the body’s location. Ninety percent of homicide cases were solved at the scene, and the detectives had only one chance to do it right. Starting from the outside and moving in made sure that all the evidence was as undisturbed as possible and that nothing was missed.

Giannini walked up to the two detectives who were handling the case, chosen only because their names had been next on the roster. She knew both men well from her time in Homicide. They watched her approach curiously, uncertain as to why she was there.

The taller of the two, Mike Gann, had a face permanently set in sad lines. He was thin to the point of emaciation and always moved very slowly, as if any sudden action would break something. His partner, Howie Willis, was a large, jovial, ebony-skinned version of St. Nick, minus the beard. For some strange reason that Giannini had never been able to figure out, the two got along quite well—an essential trait for a homicide team.

“What’s up, Lieutenant?” Willis greeted her, the unspoken question from the tone of his voice being, What the hell are you doing here?

Giannini nodded. “Howie. Mike. I heard this was a mob hit.”

Willis looked at her for a second. “The task force taking this?”

Giannini held up her hands. “Hey, I don’t know. I just take out the trash for the task force. I’m here because I heard the victim’s name and she’s in a case file I’m trying to put away downstairs.”

“You gotta do major case prints if you want to see the body.” Gann spoke for the first time.

Giannini knew that was Gann’s way of trying to get rid of her. It was a technique all homicide detectives used to keep the riffraff and straphangers away from their scene. Anyone who wanted to get close to the body was required to get not only their fingers printed, but also their palms, arms—anything that could possibly leave a distinguishing mark that forensics might pick up. It was a large deterrent because the procedure was such a hassle.

“Okay,” Giannini agreed. Gann frowned and turned away, going back to his meticulous search of the ground, continuing the grid pattern the two had established.

Willis didn’t seem put out by her presence. He was one of the few cops Giannini knew who didn’t let his job get to him. He didn’t drink, didn’t smoke, wasn’t divorced, and didn’t seem ready to eat the end of his gun. He was a content and reasonably happy man. “Need the particulars?” he asked.

“I’d appreciate it, Howie.”

Willis flipped through the notebook in his hand. “The body’s over there. We already did our work there, so the coroner’s on the way to pick her up. She’s lying in one of the overflow tubes. Luckily that one isn’t in operation, so it’s dry.” Giannini could commiserate with him on that. There was nothing worse than a body pulled out of water.

“You know the name. As far as we can tell, cause of death is one shot through the forehead. It’s hard to tell how long since she got hit. Not much blood. We haven’t found anything yet.” He shrugged and grinned. “You can go take a look and you’ll know as much as we do. Try not to trip over the murder weapon on the way there if you happen to see it.”

“Thanks.” Giannini walked to the overflow tube and peered in. Jill Fastone lay on her back, dressed, sightless eyes staring up. Plastic bags were placed over each hand. Giannini knew the detectives had done that to preserve any material that might have gotten under her fingernails during a struggle. The hole just above and between her eyes was black with just a slight fringe of red. Death must have been almost instantaneous. Giannini moved around for a different view—no sign of an exit wound. That meant either a small-caliber bullet or a subsonic round, indicating a silencer or a specially modified bullet. The placement of the wound suggested that she had been shot by a professional. There was no mutilation or special placement or garnishment, as there sometimes was with a mob hit—to send a message. The body was simply lying there dead. Giannini peered closely at the wrists— no indication they had been secured. And no sign of a struggle—just the bullet hole.

Giannini stood and looked around. She doubted that Fastone had been killed here. Most likely she was killed somewhere else and dumped. Giannini considered the situation. So Fastone had made it back from North Carolina and been killed. Why? Had she led the mob to the Cobbs and then been killed to remove a witness? If that was the case, it was likely that the mob was still after Lisa. It was hard to tell how long Fastone had been dead.

Giannini walked over to Willis. “I’ll give you a call later. I’d like to know when you get an estimate on time of death.”

“Sure thing, Lieutenant.” Willis smiled and waved. Gann didn’t even bother turning around.

Giannini got in her car and sat behind the wheel, trying to collect her thoughts. Lisa’s story, the Torrentino file, Jill Fastone’s body here in Chicago. Giannini had no idea what the connection was, and that was what troubled her the most. She’d involved Dave in a mess that was growing larger by the minute.

At least Lisa and Dave were safe, she thought. The only link to Dave was herself, and that link was secure.

A shadow loomed in the window, and Giannini started.

Guyton’s face was a hard mask. “What are you doing here?”

“Sitting in my car,” Giannini replied.

Guyton took in the coveralls, looked up at the crime scene, and then back. “You been over there?”

Giannini knew there was no sense in lying—Gann and Willis could confirm that she’d been there. “Yes.”

“Listen, sweetie, you stop sticking your nose in things that don’t involve you. This is a task force case and you aren’t on the task force. And you aren’t on Homicide anymore either. So I suggest you get your little butt in gear and get the hell out of here.”

“What’s going on, Guyton?” Giannini didn’t like having to look up at him through the window of her car.

He leaned an elbow on the door and poked a finger at her face. “We got assholes shooting each other, that’s what’s going on, and we don’t need you fucking things up.”

Giannini decided to fish a little. “Fastone was involved with Michael Torrentino for a while. Then she got involved with Philip Cobb, who turned state’s evidence and put the Torrentino brothers away for a long time. Now she turns up dead. My question is: Why did she do what she did? And who killed her? The Torrentinos?”

Guyton stared at her for a few seconds, then he leaned over and spoke in a whisper. “Listen, Donna. Don’t ask questions, okay? You’re not involved, and don’t get involved, all right? There are heavy hitters in anything to do with the Torrentinos, so back off. For your own sake.”

Giannini was surprised by Guyton’s sudden change in character; more than that, his sincerity made her nervous. In all the years she’d known the man, he never used her first name; she was shocked that he even knew it. For him to stop threatening and try being nice was totally out of character. What was he hiding? It suddenly dawned on her that beneath his bluster and cajoling, Guyton was afraid, and that truly worried her.

Giannini began to wish she wasn’t involved. “All right. Forget I ever asked anything.”

As she drove away, Guyton’s cold eyes watched her car until it disappeared from sight.

FAYETTEVILLE

30 OCTOBER, 12:56 p.m.

Hammer turned and snaked his hand into his fatigue shirt, pulling out a short-barreled, large-bore revolver. He motioned for Lisa to be quiet and silently made his way to the wall near the front door. She had no idea what had alerted him. Seconds after he was at the door, the bolt slid back and the door started to swing open, only to be stopped by the chain.

“It’s Riley,” a familiar voice called out.

Hammer reholstered his weapon and slipped off the chain. “How’s it going, Chief?”

“It’s going,” Riley replied as he relocked the door behind him. “Any calls?” He put a small backpack down on a chair.

“Negative.”

Riley looked at Lisa. “How are you doing?”

“All right, I guess.” She watched as he grabbed a cup of coffee. “What now?”

“Now we call the feds.”

Lisa’s stomach, having spent the morning churning with a blend of coffee, guilt, fear, and anxiety, kicked into overdrive. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea. Although it’s most likely that they found Philip and me because of Jill Fastone, and I know you think they followed me to the rest area, there’s still the possibility that the phone at the Witness Protection end might have been bugged or is at least traceable.”

Riley held up a hand. “Don’t worry—it’s not going to be like last time. Before we make the phone call, there’s some preparation we have to do.” He reached into a drawer and pulled out a notepad. “We’re going to make the call from an unoccupied room in the BOQ on post. That way, if the call is traced, and we have to assume it will be, all they’ll find is that room. It will pin us down as to relative location, but Fort Bragg and Fayetteville are pretty big places to go looking.”