Precipice (13 page)

Yet despite her sorrow, Shannon invigorated him to fight harder, to attack the case with renewed vigor.

Unable to wait for the results of the facial recognition software to come to him, he rose and headed down to the forensics department. Today was not the unlucky day he had believed it to be. Despite, and even through, the unfortunate death of Victor, they’d gained something more valuable and Dominic was ready to use it to attack the problem head on.

***

“Jillian Roth.” The forensic department’s lead investigator addressed Dominic as soon as he strode through the door. “Facial recog software got a hit.”

He repeated, “Jillian Roth. One conviction, a simple assault a few years ago in a bar fight. Really roughed up some redneck townie who wouldn’t leave her alone. More notably, however, Roth is suspected of having ties to nearly two dozen assassinations worldwide. Might be a hired gun. Never enough evidence for a warrant or arrest, though.”

A seventy-year-old curmudgeon, Clifford Peck, had worked in the department for longer than Dominic remembered. He led a team of about a dozen analysts in a variety of different fields, from fingerprinting to bloodstain pattern analysis to computer forensics.

The man was grumpy, but Peck’s ill-temper was mostly a façade, erected as a means of establishing authority and intimidating “newbies.” Giving recent hires a hard time was a favorite pastime. But the old man possessed a soft spot for Dominic, whom he’d met as a boy.

“Thanks Cliff. You got an address or anything we can use to track her?” Dominic yawned, still fighting exhaustion.

The forensics lead sat at his computer, facing away from Dominic, but turned toward the agent as he responded. Off to one side, the printer whirred to life. “Last known address looks to be a plot of land recently razed for new apartment buildings. The Housing and Zoning Department claims no one’s lived there for at least the last three months anyway. No forwarding address.”

“So that’s a dead end,” Dominic frowned.

Turning left, Cliff placed both feet flat on the floor and pushed. He smoothly slid his wheeled office chair backward alongside the counter, catching himself when he reached the printer. After grabbing the newly inked papers, he pulled himself to his feet. He walked to a nearby table and spread the pages on its surface, nine in all. “These, however, might be of interest.”

Dominic joined his colleague at the edge of the table. The papers Cliff arranged appeared to be detailed profiles of various individuals. Small photographs in the top right corner complemented a large amount of data covering the rest of the page. “Who are they?”

“One of my minions pulled known associates of Roth. At some point in the past, each of these people was linked to her as a possible accomplice or employee. As you can see, your Victor Ramirez among them.” Cliff pointed to a profile he’d pulled aside. “Though it appears whatever relationship they had in the past may have soured.”

“Wow…this is great.” Eight more profiles were arranged in two rows of four on the tabletop. “We should be able to use one of them to track her down. Plus, if she’s worked with them in the past, she might do so again. Any stand out?”

“Seven men, two women.” Tapping the top three pages, Cliff gathered them and placed them in a pile off to the side. “These first two died years ago out in LA, shot to death in a drug deal gone bad. I know the M.E. who did their autopsies. Cut and dry homicides. The third is behind bars.” He paused. “Has been for the better part of the decade.”

“So that leaves us with these five…”

Cliff interrupted, pointing to the next two. “Not so fast. There’s more. These two here, Matthews and Hunter, are known associates,” he pointed to numbers four and five, “but they aren’t even in the country, according to the State Department. So we’re left with these three.” He moved the overseas duo into the pile with the first three, leaving a trio of suspects. “Douglas Grant, Roscoe Nichols, and Anthony Mack.”

“What do we know about them? Any priors?”

“Criminal history isn’t my job, kid. I’m a forensic geek who happened to print out a few files. But everything we know is in there.”

Nodding, Dominic continued to study the profiles. “This guy here, Mack, doesn’t exactly fit the tough-guy profile the other two do…” The man was a 30-something, rather obese, black guy. “He’s a computer programmer. In and out of jail for hacking and computer fraud, but nothing violent and he’s been clean the last two years. But he and Roth did allegedly collaborate on some money laundering a decade ago.”

The forensic expert cut in. “One more thing. I ran a comparative, ballistic analysis on the bullet she used, as well as the cartridge collected from the scene. It was .22 caliber, rimfire with a brass casing. Looks like she used a long-rifle bullet.”

“What does that tell us?”

“It’s an unusual choice,” Cliff responded. “Not something you see for self-defense.”

“What would I do without you Cliff?’ Dominic slapped his colleague on the shoulder, grabbed the three relevant profile pages, as well as Water’s page, and turned to leave.

Cliff shook his head and returned to his desk. He plopped down on the chair and spun around to face his computer. Glancing behind him to make sure the door had fully shut, he minimized his work screens and pulled up his guilty pleasure, solitaire. With no new evidence to analyze, he had time for a couple games.

Krieger must have just returned from the hospital—a few stiches were visible an inch above his right eye. He and Shannon already sat in Sloan’s office when Dominic arrived on the upper floor with the good news, but the three were deep in conversation. Their boss had his back turned to them and leaned against the bookcase behind his desk while the other two were animated in what appeared to be an argument.

Speech stopped flowing the second he entered the room. A dense fog of awkward silence descended as they all turned to look at him.

His mental funk had caused great consternation for his boss. When an agent became too emotionally invested in a case, his performance and judgment suffered and in this business, such lapses could have fatal consequences. Shannon’s pep talk and Cliff’s revelations had renewed his vigor for the case. There was nothing to worry about, but he’d need to make them understand. Dominic chose to break the silence first.

“Look…” The speech he wanted to make died on his lips, and he cleared his throat before continuing. “I know what you’re thinking.”

“Randal, I know having Ramirez die on you was hard.” Sloan interrupted and, like he had a knack for doing, got straight to the point.

“You need to block that out.” He walked around from behind his desk and put his hand on Dominic’s shoulder. “You need to understand something. Evil exists in this world. Real evil. This death won’t be the worst thing you see. Not even close.”

Using his big, fat hand to turn Dominic to face him, he continued. “It’s always tough to see things like that happen, even for grizzled vets, but you need to find a way to deal with it. Shut it out, separate emotion from the situation, use the pain as fuel, do whatever you need to get the job done. It gets easier, I swear. Desensitization.”

He slapped Dominic on the back and spun toward his desk. Sitting down in his chair, he glanced up at his young agent. “Now, what do you say?”

Dominic was acutely aware of the other two guests in the room staring at him, taking in this exchange. In his peripheral vision, he spotted Shannon watching him with concern in her eyes, but the glare emanating from Krieger was severe. He obviously didn’t trust Dominic’s ability to handle it. Speaking slowly, Dominic assured them he felt fine. “I know I had a rough time earlier,” he admitted. “But I’m better now. I promise.”

“Knew I could count on you,” Sloan barked, swiveling, his concern vanishing in an instant. He was easily convinced; Krieger would likely not be. “Now then, did Shannon tell you the good news about the tape?”

“Yes, sir. Cliff ran the face through the database and he already got a hit.” He paused to rifle through the profile pages, searching for the one depicting their girl with a gun. Finding it, he leaned over and planted it on Sloan’s desk with a loud smack. Leaving his palm on the profile for a second longer than necessary, he made eye contact with his boss.

“Jillian Roth.” He lifted his palm and turned to face Shannon and Krieger before continuing. “There’s better news. Cliff pulled known associates of Ms. Roth. We eliminated a few that are dead, locked away in a cell somewhere, or out of the country. So we’re left with these three.”

Splitting them up, he handed the pages to the others. Even though it was Cliff who found these suspects, Dominic enjoyed delivering the good news. He strode to the window and leaned against the sill. He crossed his legs at the ankles, and waited for their response.

“Very good, Randal. Did we check this last known address for Roth?” Sloan raised an eyebrow, seemingly impressed with the speed at which they’d found this information.

“No luck there. It’s an empty field.”

Krieger sprung to the edge of his seat, snapping their attentions to his frenetic action. His fist clenched, crumpling the paper he held and his speech came out fast and frantic. “I know this man!”

As everyone stared at him, his face reddened as he realized how his outburst looked. He drew in a long, steady breath and unclenched his fist. “Well, not personally. But the director…Braxton, he mentioned this guy when we spoke. He’s one of the men Braxton let into the museum the night that janitor was killed.”

“Are you sure?” Sloan eyed Krieger with a raised eyebrow.

              “Absolutely. Roscoe Nichols. Goes by Ross. Braxton said the man used to work for him.” He stood and slid the profile onto the desk so everyone could see. “I assumed it was either an alias or simply some poor sap they used and disposed of. But if he’s a real person, that changes things.”

His voice sped up. “Whoever wanted the janitor dead planned it long ago and planted this man, Nichols, there to figure out a way to do it.”

Dominic caught on to Krieger’s train of thought. “He determined Braxton was the weak link.”

“Unless…” Sloan frowned. He stood at his desk and rested his palms on its smooth surface. “What if their original plan didn’t include killing the janitor? If they wanted to, there are plenty of easier ways. Besides, why wait so long if they wanted him dead, especially if Nichols was an ex-employee? What if they employed the janitor to complete a job, with Nichols there to keep tabs on him and ensure the job got done? When the man failed, they take care of him.”

“Interesting.” Krieger crossed his arms and cocked his head to the left. “I can see that.”

“But what would they want a janitor to do for them?” Shannon interjected. “It’s not like janitors make a lot of money or wield much power.”

“Well, they usually carry keys to every door in the building.” Krieger responded. “Maybe they needed access to something. That’s a form of power.”

“Or maybe they wanted something from him outside of work. Hang on…” Dominic dug through a small stack of files on the sideboard. “Got it! Here.”

He jabbed a finger at a page from the janitor’s dossier. “His file said he moonlighted as a locksmith on weekends. Maybe they needed those skills. Planting Nichols at the museum provided a daily reminder that their eyes were everywhere.”

“I like it.” Sloan smiled. “That’s conjecture, but I like it.”

“Did Braxton mention either of these other two?” Shannon asked Krieger.

“Just Nichols.” Krieger flipped through the other profiles. “This man here, Grant, could be one of the other suspects from the museum. He looks vaguely like one of the heavies on the video.”

The afternoon sun angled its strong, hot rays through Sloan’s floor-to-ceiling windows, but everyone was too busy concentrating on their work, so no one bothered to walk over and close the shades. Dominic pored over the janitor’s file, while Shannon and Krieger studied the files of the three associates.

The file belonging to Jillian Roth, on the other hand, still sat smack in the middle of Sloan’s desk untouched, right where Randal had deposited it. Sloan leaned back in his chair, eyes closed, forehead scrunched in concentration. Several long minutes went by in silence, broken only by the shuffling of papers before Sloan ended the quiet. His eyes snapped open and he sat up straight as he took command.

“Okay. Randal, I want you and Shannon to track down Grant and Mack. We’ll start with those two. I’ll look into Nichols.”

Krieger eased his way to his feet before asking, “What do you want me to do?”

“I’d rather you reach out to your contacts to try and find a connection between the victims. Maybe they were into something shady. Hopefully, the same shady something.”

Sloan frowned as he attempted to lift himself out of his cushy chair. Failing to heft his big body to a standing position, he admitted defeat and sank into the plush cushions with a grimace. He glanced at each of his agents before dismissing them by waving his hand toward the door. “You can go now.”

“Yes sir.” The three filed out of his office.

Once alone, Sloan reached down and pulled at his lower desk drawer. It slid open without a sound. He removed a small metallic flask, removed the cap and poured a bit into his coffee cup. As he swirled the cup, mixing the liquids, he pursed his lips and expelled a heavy sigh.

“I swear,” he muttered to himself, “one of these days...”

Glancing into the outer office to make sure no one was looking, he splashed another good-sized dash into his cup, replaced the lid on the flask, and furtively slipped it back into the drawer. He smirked, “Guess that’s the day I retire…”