Shadow Dragon (12 page)

CHAPTER 25

Maryland

Anderson Colquitt was a man who liked order. Everything about him reflected this. His shirt was crisply starched and wrinkle-free, his tie perfectly straight. His dark suit was carefully pressed and free of lint. His shoes were polished with a spit-shine that made the black leather gleam like the surface of a new mirror. The only items on his finely polished mahogany desk were the blotter, the corners of which were lined up square with the edges of the desk, the telephone, which was also squared up with the desk, and the letter he was currently writing.

The walls of his office were uncluttered by calendars or dry-erase boards. The only picture that hung on the wall was not a piece of decorative art but a framed photograph of him shaking hands with the president of the United States. In the photograph, he wore his military parade uniform. He stood tall and erect, his head held straight and firm. The photograph had been taken years ago, before the wrinkles and gray hair and fading vision had forced him into retirement from the military.

The telephone intercom buzzed, and the voice of his secretary, Linda, came through. “General Colquitt, you have a call on line seven.” Even though he worked in the private sector now, everyone still called him a general.

Without asking, he knew it was an important call. Their phone system was a digital one with hundreds of extensions. There was one special extension, however, that was accessed by dialing a number only a select few people had been given. Whenever a call entered the system through this number, he knew it had come from a remote switching station that had routed it through a series of transfers around the world to prevent anyone, including the phone company, from tracing the call or even backtracking through the records to determine the origin of the call. Before it was connected, it was patched through a digital encryption system and then routed to the decryption server hidden in a locked enclosure behind the wooden paneling in a corner of his office. Anytime a call came in through this server, an icon on the secretary’s phone would light up, and she would inform the general of the nature of the call by informing him the call was on line seven.

“Ring it through,” he said, putting the cap back on the black Mont Blanc pen. He adjusted the piece of paper he had been writing on, making sure it was square with the blotter. He placed the pen down on the blotter parallel to the paper.

He waited for the phone to ring twice before he answered. “General Colquitt,” he said.

The expression on the general’s face did not change while the person on the other end spoke.

“I see,” the general said at last. “Yes, you were right to call. I’ll take care of it from here. Continue on as before and call if there are any further developments.” He hung up the phone. As he often did when he was thinking, he stepped to the window behind his desk.

He stood there with his hands behind his back, staring out the window at the long, four-story, mirrored building across the courtyard. Even though it was cold outside, there were still several people huddled together in the wooden gazebo in the middle of the tastefully landscaped space. All of them were smoking. Smoking within any of the buildings on the campus was strictly forbidden. It was a filthy habit. If he could have things his way, smoking by employees would be prohibited. Period.

After he pondered the situation for a moment, he returned to his desk to place a call. Before he dialed, he entered the code sequence that routed the call through the outgoing encryption system.

“Colquitt here,” he said as soon as Nathaniel Brockemeyer answered. “We may have another situation developing. I want you to be prepared in case we have to respond again quickly.”

“Yes, sir,” Nathan replied sharply.

With that, Colquitt hung up the phone. He leaned back in his plush leather chair and looked at the photograph of himself with the president. In the military, he had been taught to plan for every possible contingency. Before his arrival, his predecessor’s failure to properly plan for every conceivable situation had nearly cost them everything. He was determined to see that nothing was overlooked while he was in charge.

Satisfied, he picked up the pen and began working on the letter once more.

CHAPTER 26

The flight from Denver to Kalispell seemed like the longest flight Carrie had ever taken. In the past, she had flown all across the country—from coast to coast and even to Hawaii—but none of those flights seemed to take half as long as the one she was currently on.

She sighed and took another drink of her Bloody Mary, which was really just a double vodka with a splash of V8. Her head throbbed dully against the backs of her eyes and around her temples. Reaching behind her, she pulled the rubber band farther down her ponytail in an effort to relieve some of the tension.

She felt exhausted, probably from the wine and sleeping pills she had taken last night, and yet, like last night, she found it impossible to sleep. Her mind just kept going around and around, thinking about her grandparents. Why would anyone want to kill them, and how was she going to get by without them? A profound sense of loneliness had settled around her like a thick fog. She felt alone and isolated like she had never felt in her entire life. This time, there was no one left to turn to. This time, she was truly alone.

Carrie stared out the window at the blanket of puffy white clouds drifting beneath the wings. She remembered Audrey Gran had always told her that God never gave people burdens that were more than they could handle, but that held little comfort for her now. She wasn’t nearly as strong-willed as her grandmother had been.

“Would you like another drink?” the flight attendant asked as she pulled the cart next to Carrie’s row.

“Uh, no. No, thank you,” Carrie replied, looking down at the empty plastic cup in her hand. It wouldn’t look good if she showed up at the sheriff’s office reeking of booze.

As the attendant began to push the cart down the aisle, Carrie reached out for her. “Wait, I’m sorry, I … let me have another Bloody Mary please.”

CHAPTER 27

Montana

Morning found Kyle and Lewis back in the Justice Center conference room with Marasco and the sheriff. A rolling metal cart and monitor sat at the end of the table. They had been reviewing the taped interview with Bill and Audrey Jones from several weeks ago, looking at it again for any clues they might have previously missed.

Kyle’s stomach gurgled.

They hadn’t bothered to stop for breakfast. Instead, they had made do with a dozen donuts brought in by Deputy Johnson. Even though he had gotten little sleep the night before, Kyle drank water instead of the thick, black coffee everyone else was drinking.

On the table in front of them lay a copy of the
Kalispell Mountain
Herald
. Printed across the top in big, bold letters, the headlines read, “NEW MURDERS AT HUNGRY HORSE. POLICE AND FBI BAFFLED.”

Lewis hadn’t said anything about it, but Kyle knew he was furious over the headlines. It was that reporter, Wallace Hipple, again, casting them all as a group of bumbling idiots.

To make matters worse, Deputy Johnson had informed them that the phone company had rebuffed his attempt at getting a copy of the phone records without a warrant. It was one thing to do it when an individual was suspected of a crime, they said, but there was just too much risk of exposure and potential liability if they were to do it against the local newspaper.

All of that topped off with the greasy donuts had given Kyle a queasy stomach.

It rumbled again as the sheriff hit
play
on the CD player.

“Nine-one-one, what is the nature of your emergency?”

No reply. Sounds can be heard in the background, as if the receiver is off the hook.

“Nine-one-one, hello?”

Still nothing. There are several seconds of faint rustling and clattering followed by a sudden gasp and two thunderous booms, undoubtedly the sounds of a shotgun being fired.

“Hello? Hello?”

In the background, there is a second or two of unintelligible gasps and groans along with a low, thumping, scraping sound.

Boom!

More noise. Then a woman’s horrified scream of “Bill.”

More noise, still indiscernible.

“Hello … hello, can you hear me?”

A loud clattering, as if the handset was dropped.

Silence.

“Is that it?” Lewis asked.

“Yes,” the sheriff replied.

“Goddammit!” Lewis stood up, his chair screeching across the floor as it was shoved into the wall. He started toward the door, as if he were about to storm out, but then he stopped, his hands on his hips. He let out a long, frustrated sigh. “I assume a copy’s been sent to our lab for analysis?”

“Yeah,” said Marasco.

“Did your people come up with anything on the Joneses?” Lewis asked.

The sheriff looked at the open the folder in front of him. “The fingerprints on the severed limb were a positive match for Mrs. Jones. We still have not heard word from your office regarding the rest of the evidence.”

“I talked with them this morning,” Lewis said. “It’ll take them another day or two, but it’s a top priority.”

The sheriff continued. “Six years ago, they leased the land from the government for thirty years. Their lawyer told us they leased it with money from an insurance settlement with a trucking company they received about ten years ago. Their daughter and son-in-law were killed in a wreck when one of the company’s drivers fell asleep and jumped the median.”

That explains the lack of family photos at the cabin
, Kyle thought.

“Did he say how much the settlement was for?” Lewis asked.

“About four million,” George replied.

Marasco whistled.

“Did he say who inherits the Joneses’ estate?”

“Their daughter was an only child. Their only surviving heir is their granddaughter, Carrie Daniels. We contacted her yesterday and informed her of what happened. She should be here this morning.”

“Anything on her?” Lewis asked.

The sheriff flipped to another page. “She was eleven when her parents were killed in the wreck. She lived with the grandparents until she went off to college at Stanford. After graduating, she took a job in Denver with a small weekly newspaper.”

“Did he say anything about her relationship with her grandparents?”

“Only that they were very close,” the sheriff said and then added, “When the Joneses received the settlement, they put half of the money in a trust fund for the granddaughter, which she received when she turned twenty-one.”

“She received two-plus million when she was twenty-one and still graduated from Stanford?” Kyle said. “Most kids coming into that much money would have never even considered going to college, and even if they had, it would have just been to party. They probably would never have graduated.”

Lewis didn’t seem as impressed. “Any idea what her financial status is now?”

“No,” the sheriff replied.

“Sometimes when people come into a lot of money, it changes them,” Lewis said, almost in an I-told-you-so manner. “She’s known about that money since she was just a kid. Who knows how she really feels about it? Hell, for all we know she might have resented the grandparents getting half of it.”

“I don’t think that’s the case here,” Kyle offered.

“Why?” Lewis asked.

“The pictures at the cabin.”

“Pictures?”

“Yeah, on the TV. They looked like a happy family. I just can’t imagine that she had anything to do with their murder.”

“Oh, come on,” Marasco said mockingly. “Are you trying to tell us that we should rule her out as a suspect just because they looked happy in a few family photos?”

“I’m not saying we should rule her out, just that I don’t think she did it. There
is
a difference.” Kyle knew that it wasn’t good investigative procedure to make judgments based on a few pictures above the mantel, but there had been something about the pictures that had struck him. He knew of all the stories of jealous lovers and greedy family members killing each other for money—there was one in the papers almost every day—but he hated to think that what appeared to have been a happy, loving relationship between the Joneses and their granddaughter might have ended that way. If that were true, how could anyone ever feel safe?

“Is there anyone else who stands to benefit from the Joneses’ death?” Kyle asked. “Someone who wants their land? Maybe a dispute with a logging company or the Forest Service?”

“Not that we know of,” said the sheriff.

“Maybe that’s why we haven’t come up with any leads on the Seattle men,” Kyle thought out loud. “Maybe they were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Maybe the Joneses were the target all along. Maybe they were just lucky the first time when they went into town because of the storm.”

“It’s possible,” Lewis admitted. He sat back down at the table. “But what about the missing skier? What was his name?”

“Adam Peters,” said the sheriff.

“Maybe Peters isn’t tied in with the others,” Kyle said. “Isn’t it possible he had an accident or something?”

“It happens,” said the sheriff. “He could have hit a tree, fallen into a snow well, or skied off the trail and broken a leg and then been covered up by the recent snows. If so, it might take another month or two for his body to turn up.”

“But we can’t assume that’s what happened until we have evidence to back it up,” Lewis said. “I want us to take a look at the files on the Seattle men again, see if maybe there’s some connection between them and the Joneses we might have missed the first time.”

A thought occurred to Kyle. “Sheriff, did the Joneses call in at any time between the first killings and now?” he asked.

“There were no other 911 calls,” he replied.

“Not 911 calls but just a regular call like a complaint about someone intruding on their land or something.”

“Or a certain poacher—say someone named Tucker?” Marasco offered.

“Right,” Kyle agreed.

“Non-911 calls aren’t stored on the system. We’d have to do a manual search of the phone records for the last several months,” George said.

Kyle looked at Lewis. “It’s not a bad idea,” Lewis said. “Why don’t you get with Deputy Johnson and see about getting a copy of the records. And I want to call the Joneses’ lawyer back to ask him if there have been any inquiries by anyone looking to buy out the Joneses’ lease in the past.”

The sheriff nodded. “I’ll check with the game warden to see if he received any calls from the Joneses and the Forest Service to see if they know of any reasons someone might want that land.”

Lewis seemed less than optimistic, but Kyle was beginning to feel at least some encouragement with the new developments. He felt like he was actually contributing something, and for the first time in weeks, they had a new avenue to pursue.