Hostage Zero (16 page)

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Authors: John Gilstrap

Tags: #Suspense, #Fiction, #Thrillers

BOOK: Hostage Zero
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She returned her gaze to Frank Schuler. “Yes, we think that Sean O’Brian was an affiliate of Sammy Bell, the mobster.”
“Is he dead now?”
Marie threw up her hands. “Jesus.”
“Is who dead?” Gail asked. This conversation was beginning to feel like a windstorm.
“This Sean guy. You referred to him in the past tense.”
Oh, shit
, Gail thought. “I meant that as in he used to work for Sammy Bell.” She hoped her poker face held.
“What did he do for him?” Frank asked.
Gail took a deep breath and sighed. “Look, Mr. Schuler—”
“Frank.”
“Okay, Frank. I know you’re anxious to learn as much as you can, but I need to ask you to let me ask the questions.”
“You have something to hide?”
Jesus
, Gail thought,
this guy is sharp as a tack.
“We all have
something
to hide, don’t we?” she countered. As she asked the question, she offered a coy smile.
He acknowledged her with a little nod. “Yes, I suppose we do.” He regrouped. “I do know who Sammy Bell is—and for the benefit of the transcriber, I’ll note that you, too, Mr. Transcriber, have also probably heard of him—but Sean O’Brian still means nothing to me.”
Off to her left, Gail noticed that Marie had relaxed a little. She looked like a dental patient whose procedure hadn’t hurt as much as she’d feared.
Frank continued, “But if you believe in six degrees of separation, I’m only two away from Sammy Bell.”
Marie sat tall in her seat. “Holy shit, Frank.” Relaxation gone; welcome, raw horror.
“Actually, maybe I’m three degrees separated. I guess it depends on how you count.”
Marie said, “As your attorney, I am advising you in the strongest possible terms to shut the fuck up.”
Frank laughed—a deep, throaty laugh that showed he was genuinely amused. “Marie, I love you. And I agree that ‘shut the fuck up’ ranks right up there with the strongest possible terms.”
Gail found herself laughing along with him.
When the moment passed, Frank continued, “My wife, Marilyn, used to work for one of Sammy’s mouthpieces. One of his attorneys.”
Gail clicked her pen open. “What was his name?”
Frank’s face folded into the now-familiar faraway scowl. “Navarro,” he said, snapping his fingers as the name returned to him. “Bruce Navarro.”
Gail made her note. “Do you know what his legal specialty was?”
“Keeping crooks out of jail, I would guess.”
Obvious enough, Gail supposed. “I was hoping for something more ...”
Frank waved off her words. “I know what you were looking for. I was just being an asshole. He did contract law, whatever that means.”
“It means five hundred bucks an hour,” Marie grumped.
Gail continued, “And what did your wife”—she consulted her notes—“Marilyn do for him?”
He shrugged. “Clerical stuff. Secretarial stuff. Nothing terribly important. I just thought it was interesting that Bell’s name came up.”
Something churned in Gail’s distant memory, something from the notes she’d read from the research file. Something about Bruce Navarro. More specifically about Navarro & Associates.
“Aaron Hastings,” Gail said.
Marie groaned, “Oh, please shut up.”
“Marilyn’s lover,” Frank said. “He’s also the man who I think killed Marilyn and framed me for it.”
Gail had read that such had been Schuler’s claim all along, but there’d always been problems with his argument. “But you don’t know why,” she reminded.
“The whole world doesn’t know why, because the police decided from the very beginning that I was their man. They never bothered to investigate anyone else.”
Gail looked to Marie for confirmation and got a nod. “From Day One, Frank was the only suspect in their crosshairs,” she said. “Remember how the system works: The Commonwealth doesn’t have to
be
right; they only have to convince a jury that they’re right.”
To someone outside the system, the statement might have seemed overly cynical, but Gail understood that Marie was stating fact. The entire industry of private investigation—such as it was—was built around the all too frequent occurrences of prosecutorial misconduct. At the end of the day, lawyers on both sides were merely human; and humans were hardwired to reject failure. Gail had known a dozen or more prosecutors in her time—at both the local and federal levels—who would consider a win at the expense of justice to be a perfectly fair deal. Even the venerated FBI had recently been caught fabricating evidence for the purpose of convicting those who were presumed guilty.
Gail didn’t want to let him go that easily. “You have a theory, though? For why Aaron would have killed Marilyn?”
He gave a tentative glance to Marie, then took a deep breath. “Theory is too strong a word,” he said. “I have questions, though, and I think that by stitching them together with answers, you’d have her real killer.”
“I’m listening.”
“Did you know that Bruce Navarro disappeared around the same time that Marilyn was murdered?”
“What do you mean, disappeared?”
“I mean just that. He was around one day, fat and happy with a flourishing practice, and then he was gone. Nobody ever heard from him again, as far as I know.”
“You think he was killed?”
“I don’t know one way or the other,” Frank confessed. “But there’s a guy in here who swears that there’s a contract on Navarro’s head that would pay a fortune. You don’t put that out for someone who’s already dead.”
“Anyone can say anything,” Gail observed.
“True enough. But this is a guy who would know.”
“Who?”
Frank shook his head. “Not your concern.”
“But if I could talk to him—”
“No. Being in this place on these terms, I don’t have much, but I won’t turn into a rat in my last days on the planet. You’ll have to take it from me that if you talked to him, he’d tell you what I just said. I got no reason to lie. Not to you, anyway.”
Gail searched his face.
“You’re not seeing it, are you?” Frank pressed. “I can see it in your eyes.” He leaned in closer to the table and rested his forearms on it. “Navarro, Hastings, and my wife all worked together for a law firm with mob connections. Now, they’re all missing or dead. You say you’re a private investigator, Gail. How big a stick do you need to be hit with?”
Gail turned to Marie. “How did the police just write that off?”
She shrugged. “They had the guilty party they were after.”
“Have you ever tried to trace it all to ground?”
Marie’s expression said,
Give me a break
. “Of course we have. But the time for suppositions and alternative scenarios passed the moment a jury found Frank to be guilty. It takes a twelve-to-nothing vote to make that happen. In Virginia, once the jury has spoken, it takes truly incontrovertible evidence to turn things around. DNA is working for wrongly accused rape convicts, but even that can be hard to get introduced into the system. Too many political careers get harmed when a prosecutor is found to have made a mistake. Some would rather see an innocent man die than look in his eyes and apologize for countless years lost to wrongful incarceration.”
The cynical words stung. Gail had been a part of that system for long enough to know that the threads of truth within the bitterness were thick and strong.
“I think it might be even worse than you think it is, Frank,” Gail said.
His face darkened as he connected the dots for the first time. “Oh, my God.”
Gail said it out loud for both of them: “They’re all missing or dead, but you’re in prison scheduled to die, and now Jeremy is—” She stopped herself.
They’d left him for dead,
she didn’t say.
Frank’s eyes filled with tears. “Oh, Christ, they’re going to kill him, aren’t they?”
“No,” Gail said. Her tone was too emphatic for the ruse she was trying to sell. “I won’t let that happen,” she added.
Marie’s eyes narrowed. “You know something,” she said.
Gail felt her heart rate double. She’d never been a good liar; she wore her thoughts on her forehead. She stared straight into Frank Schuler’s eyes. “I think you need to have faith that Jeremy will be fine.”
Frank scowled. He started to say something, but when Marie rested her hand on his arm, he swallowed the words.
“Do you have any more questions for us?” Marie asked.
Gail knew that she’d blown the secret, but she couldn’t help but feel relieved. No one should be allowed to think that his child is in danger when it simply is not true. “No more questions,” she said. She stood.
The others stood with her.
“Thank you,” Frank said. “For whatever you’ve done. Whatever you’re going to do.”
Gail scooped her notes into her arm and shook Frank’s hand. “I think there’s an injustice under way here.”
“Welcome to our very small club,” he said.
C
HAPTER
E
IGHTEEN
Jonathan arrived ten minutes early.
The Maple Inn on Maple Avenue in the heart of Vienna, Virginia, had been a meeting place for spies and miscreants for decades. Known locally for its chipped floors and do-it-yourself coffee station, the Inn poured more beer than restaurants three times its size, and hauled cash in by the bucketful, one chili dog at a time. Actually, it was two chili dogs at a time, because no one had the willpower to stop after one.
Situated six and a half miles south of CIA Headquarters, the Maple Inn provided neutral ground, where known sworn enemies could occasionally sit down and discuss matters that would forever remain off the record, even as they changed the course of history. Jonathan had first come to know the place back during his days with the Unit, when his own duties occasionally required him to eavesdrop on conversations that weren’t as off the record as the participants might have thought.
He loved the food and the cheerful atmosphere, and appreciated the unofficial role it played in shaping policy and strategy. Dozens of such hangouts existed throughout the world, but this was the closest one to Fisherman’s Cove, and it was therefore a common place for him to break bread with his contacts.
As he approached across the packed parking lot, he noted the unmarked black government vehicle backed into a spot close to Maple Avenue, and knew that Wolverine had beaten him here. The beefy guy sitting behind the wheel with the pigtail wire in his ear looked none too pleased to be excluded. Jonathan thought about offering him a friendly little wave, but in the end opted for discretion. Venice would have been proud.
Jonathan pulled the door and entered, unleashing the wall of noise that was typical at lunchtime, which at the Inn ran from noon to midnight. Even though he knew where he’d find Wolverine, he made a cursory scan of the inhabitants to reassure himself that it was safe to proceed. His concerns had little to do with violence—given the clientele, if you pulled a gun in this place, you’d be torn in half by the crossfire. What he really worried about were nosy observers with cameras.
It would advance no one’s agenda for Jonathan and Wolverine to be spotted together. They never spoke on the record, which was why Dom D’Angelo always made the arrangements for them to make contact.
Confident that his anonymity would be maintained, he navigated through the first line of booths, and then around to the far side of the bar, where he saw Wolverine nestled into the farthest, darkest corner on the left. Whether by happenstance or design, the acoustics of the corner made it ideal for clandestine conversation. You didn’t have to shout to be heard, yet the ambient noise of the room made casual eavesdropping virtually impossible.
When she saw him, she smiled. And what a smile it was. Wolverine was a holdover code name from years ago, when Uncle Sam had been a client. While they’d occasionally found themselves on opposite sides of certain tactical decisions, Jonathan had always liked her. Now that she was
the
Irene Rivers, director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, he admired her even more. Not only was she the first female to hold the seat, she was the only director in history to actually step out for occasional field work.
He leaned in for the cheek-peck that would sell their cover, and as always, he sensed that she kind of liked it. “Hi, Irene,” he said as he sat in the seat that placed his back to the room. He much preferred to be oriented the other way, but if anyone could cover his back—literally—Irene would be as good a choice as any.
“Hi, Digger. Long time, no see.”
He smirked, “Well, with you being a rock star and all, I figured you didn’t have time for us little guys anymore.” The last time they’d worked together—if that’s what you could really call it—Jonathan’s discovery of a cache of chemical weapons had brought a lot of great press to the Bureau in general, and to Irene in particular.
“Alas, fame is such a fleeting thing. Things are changing since the new sheriff came to town.” He knew she was referring to the new president. “The way we used to do things doesn’t fly anymore.”
“You mean that part where we used to fight to win?”
Irene gave a wry smile and shook her head. “We still win,” she said. “It’s just that the strategy has changed. We pretend that our enemies like us now, so that takes all of the pressure off.” She sighed and took a long sip of water. “Speaking of pretending, that was a clever bit of work this morning. George Washington’s birthplace, for God’s sake.” The chuckle became a laugh.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Jonathan said, but he made no effort to bluff with his eyes. Given what these two had on each other, neither had any cause to play that game.
“Did you get any good information from him?” Irene asked.
A waitress approached from the area of the kitchen, but when she saw Jonathan shake his head, she turned on her heel to become scarce.
Jonathan leaned on his elbows and beckoned with his fingers for Irene to lean closer. “We’ve had a lot of interesting times, Wolfie. Please don’t start gaming me now.”
She recoiled, offended. “What do—”
“They came into the school I built,” Jonathan said. He felt his temper fraying. “They shot the place up, critically wounded one of the most decent men on earth, and they took two boys in the middle of the night. Don’t. Play. Games with me.”
Irene’s veneer of disgruntlement faltered just long enough that even she knew that her bluff had been called.
“You know who did this,” Jonathan said.
Irene glared at the table as she considered her options. “No,” she said. “We think we know who planned it. And we definitely know why.”
“Are you squeezing Arthur Guinn?” Jonathan asked, cutting straight to the heart of it all.
This time, her face showed genuine surprise. “Wow,” she said. “You’re good.”
Part of him worried that she would lose respect in him if he ’fessed up to how ridiculously easy it had been to figure out. “Is it Sammy Bell?”
Irene’s eyes darted around the room, no doubt searching for eavesdroppers. “Honestly, Digger, no one’s supposed to know any of this.”
“And Evan Guinn and Jeremy Schuler are supposed to be in English class now. Funny how things don’t always turn out the way you want.” He was careful to imply that Jeremy was still missing. “Sammy Bell?”
Irene sighed. “We
think
it’s him. Obviously, if we had evidence to that effect, we’d have him in custody. But yes, we’ve reached a deal with Arthur Guinn that would get him a new identity if he came clean with his activities for the old Slater operation. On the second day of questioning, the kidnapping happened. We’ve already received a picture of Evan in custody holding today’s
Washington Post
.”
“I want a copy,” Jonathan said.
“I’ve got the best photo analysts in the world—”
“I want a copy,” Jonathan repeated, this time more forcefully.
She took a second. “Fine.”
“And I want to speak with Arthur Guinn.”
“Not possible.” She raised a finger as he inhaled to argue. “Don’t bother. That is one thousand percent off the table.”
Jonathan had expected that to be the case. When people went into witness protection, the secrecy had to be absolute, or else what would be the sense? “I want transcripts, then.”
Irene shook her head. “No.” Her eyes were hard as obsidian. Another nonnegotiable point. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t want your help.”
“On the record or off?”
Her expression said, “Don’t be an idiot.”
“What do you want me to do?”
She swept the room again with her eyes. When she spoke, her voice was barely a whisper. “I want you to get Evan Guinn back.”
Jonathan laughed. “Oh, well, if
that’s
all ...” Then he saw she was serious. “Irene, you’ve got the full power and authority of the United States government at your disposal. Why don’t
you
get him back?”
“Because we’re not allowed to go there anymore.”
“Where’s
there
?”
“Your old stomping grounds, I believe. Colombia. They won’t allow us on their soil anymore, and the president won’t approve a covert op. The secretary of defense won’t even recommend it. Hell, he won’t even approve the intel.”
Jonathan cocked his head. “So, what do you want me to do?”
She shrugged. “What you always do. Ignore the law and do what needs doing.” When her levity didn’t earn a smile, she said, “Look, Digger, I’ll say it again. The rules have all changed now. The rules are real rules. I can’t ask my people to break them. Not like this. It would mean jail.”
Jonathan laughed. “Well, thanks a lot.”
“This is what you
do
. This is your gift. I’m only asking you to do what you’d do anyway if I told you you couldn’t.”
Jonathan rubbed his forehead to make the confusion go away. “How is your sanctioning me doing it different than you actually doing it?”
She looked away, and then he got it. “Jesus, Irene. I have to pay for it, too? At least half this op belongs to you, doesn’t it?”
She waved that idea away. “No, I can find funds from somewhere. The administration is too new to know where all the hiding places are. That way we can go to jail together if it comes apart. Does that sound better to you?”
Jonathan chuckled. “Actually, it does. Both parts—the money and the company in jail.” He shifted gears. “Colombia’s a big place for a small country. Do you know
where
he is?”
“I have a contact there. He’s generally pretty reliable, and he tells me that a guy named Mitchell Ponder is the kidnapper, and he’s got the boy with him.”
“Who’s Mitchell Ponder?”
“A bad egg. He used to do some wet work for the good guys back in the day, and then he went after the bigger money. We’ve never been able to catch him, but he’s suspected in a number of shootings from years ago. Now we think he runs Sammy Bell’s cocaine operations in Colombia with a wink and a nod from appropriately grafted politicians. But again, in official Washington, this is none of our business.”
Jonathan was confused. “Why would they take the boy there? I mean of all the places in the world, why there?”
Irene shrugged. “I think it makes sense. It’s out of the country, in a corner of the world that is safe from America’s prying eyes. And it’s a place they have to be anyway. Why not?”
Jonathan felt the weight of the challenge bearing down on him. “So out of hundreds of little factories dotted all over the mountainscape, how are we going to find one boy in one place?”
“Now, there we got a break. Because the Colombian government is a willing partner in the drug trade these days, we hear that Ponder has been able to consolidate his operations into just a few good-sized factories.”
“You mean slave farms,” Jonathan corrected.
Irene showed her palms. “Truer than false. By all accounts, Ponder is a butcher when villagers don’t cooperate. I don’t know if it’s true or not, but my contact tells me that Ponder’s MO is to gain cooperation by killing the men and teenage boys of a village, and then putting the younger boys to work in the fields and the factory.”
“And the girls?” Jonathan asked. The instant he heard his own question, he knew the nauseating answer.
“They become the playground for the men. It’s a disgusting business.”
Jonathan inhaled. “Tell me what you know about someone named Bruce Navarro.”
Irene’s eyes grew large again. “Jesus, I’ve got entire field offices that are slower on the draw than you,” she said. “He was a lawyer for Sammy Bell. He’s one of my dream witnesses, but he pulled a Jimmy Hoffa and disappeared on us. Why?”
Jonathan smirked as he recalled his debriefing from Gail. “Did you know that he was Marilyn Schuler’s boss?”
Irene scowled. “Who’s Marilyn—” Then she got it. “Holy shit. No, I didn’t.”
Jonathan filled her in on the details of Gail’s jailhouse interview. “I think if we can find him, we can get some nifty answers.”
Irene got a faraway look. “He’s got a sister in New Jersey,” she said. “We’ve always suspected that she knows where he is—at least if he’s still alive—but she won’t say a word to us.”
Jonathan raised his eyebrows. “To you. I wonder if she’ll speak to me.”
“I doubt it. But from what I know of Gail Bonneville ...” She let him finish her thought for her.
Jonathan liked that idea. “We’ll give it a shot.” He snorted a laugh. “What an honor it is to be the boss. She gets New Jersey, and I get the armpit of the world.” He shook his head at the irony. “Tell me about your Colombian contact.”
Irene hedged, “I can give you a name, but you need to understand that he’s an independent contractor.”
“Is he any good?”
“He’s done good work for me,” Irene said. “Problem is, his loyalties are not predictable. He likes chasing the highest bidder.”

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