The Moses Riddle (Thomas McAllister 'Treasure Hunter' Adventure Book 1) (3 page)

DJ was the FBI’s number one field agent, but many high-level FBI employees were at a loss as to why. He had been extensively profiled— more than once and without his knowledge. They’d found that he had very few of the traits that the most successful agents typically possessed. Yet, he was the FBI’s
most
successful.

But DJ’s key success factors were difficult to measure and even when identified, did not fall within the standard definition of the superlative agent. He was disproportionately stubborn and dogged. He owed much of it to his father, who had been a bronco rider in a West Texas rodeo. DJ’s father’s often repeated motto, “Once you get on, don’t ever let ‘em buck you off,” was exactly how DJ approached each case. True, there were other agents who were stubborn and had plenty of perseverance. The difference was that DJ applied these qualities to a greater degree than anyone else. He had long since separated from his family, and he had long since given up every hobby and bad habit that he’d ever had. As a result, his stubbornness and his ability to tirelessly pursue his prey knew no bounds. When most agents were heading home for dinner with their families, DJ was passionately beginning the second half of his day. This made him twice as productive as other agents.

He also had a unique ability to be his own profiler. Through experience, and a sort of osmosis, DJ was often able to understand the thoughts, and predict the actions, of his prey. He understood the criminal mind, its fears and motivations, and could save time by not bringing in professional profilers.

His best quality, however, was one he never, ever, talked about it. In fact, he rarely allowed himself to even think about it, for fear of jinxing himself and losing it. DJ was not clairvoyant, but once he understood all the aspects of a given case—the players, their backgrounds, their motivations, the crimes they’d committed, what time they woke up and went to sleep, what they ate, and wore—he often got “feelings” that would help him solve the case. He thought of these feelings as a high-grade intuition, but people at the Bureau called him “The Witch.” They said he cast spells on criminals, causing them to fall into his hands. Yet it was these premonitions, combined with his stubbornness and his free-ranging ability to endlessly pursue his prey, that had given him the highest percentage of solved cases in the history of the agency.

He was sorry he’d missed busting into McAlister’s house. The breakin would have been the only fun—the only spark—in what had been a boring last assignment. Surveillance in Phoenix. Hargrove had put him on this project for two reasons. The first was because he was retiring in three months and didn’t have time for a long-term assignment. The second reason was as a thank you for the job he had done on his last case.

DJ was in the FBI’s Special Projects group. They were given assignments that were either too confidential to run mainstream or that simply didn’t fit under any other department. He’d just been given a commendation for breaking up a cult ensconced in a farm house in Western Kansas. They had four semi-automatic weapons per person and enough dynamite to fill the back of a pickup truck. The real problem was the kiddy-porn they’d been using to fund the purchase of all the guns and dynamite. He put all of that in the search warrant and one night, at 3 a.m., he and his team tore that farmhouse apart. He shook his head as he thought about it. A religious group selling kiddy-porn to buy weapons to kill people. It made him happy to be retiring soon.

At least it had been a challenging assignment! Moving on to this one had been like going from Vietnam to Disney World. But now things had changed. This assignment had become a real problem. If McAlister had gotten out of their surveillance net it meant that DJ had been outsmarted. It meant that McAlister had not only figured out that he was being watched, but that he was crafty enough to escape.

DJ dreaded having to tell Hargrove that the archeologist had escaped and that they might never find the treasure. But McAlister couldn’t have gone far, and there was the slight chance that DJ could find him again before his next update to Hargrove. In a rote motion, he rubbed the handle of his gun, similar to the way a devout person might pray for divine intervention when faced with a crisis.

For the tenth time in an hour he tried to figure out how McAlister could’ve gotten through the curtain of surveillance that he and Scott, his surveillance team leader, had custom designed. Where had the weak point been? Finally, he said, “
Forget it!”
.

DJ had forgotten that Elmo was sitting next to him. Elmo was his case partner. They were polar opposites and worked together perfectly. Elmo was short, had pasty white skin and black oily hair. He wore blackframed glasses and always seemed to be wearing a light blue, shortsleeved polyester shirt. He was also beginning to go bald on both forehead and crown. His entire wardrobe looked like it had cost less than twenty dollars. But Elmo’s defining feature, his emblem, was the Phillips 66 pocket protector that he’d gotten for free from the gas station where he gassed up his seldom used Honda Civic. Sometimes DJ chided Elmo about the pocket protector, but it never bothered Elmo. It had saved far, far too many shirts when one of the green, black, blue, or red felt-tip pens that he carried had broken open.

DJ took Elmo everywhere. He didn’t like Elmo and he didn’t dislike him. He didn’t really even know him, despite having worked with him for ten years. He did, however, respect Elmo’s special talents. Elmo was a computer geek and an information horse. He knew how to get at any piece of information available for the getting. Elmo understood the Internet, all the government data bases—both public and classified—all public records, and virtually any others. With a computer, a modem and ten minutes time, Elmo could tell you anything about anybody who had ever been put into a database. And these days, most everything and everyone was entered somewhere.

DJ worked on instinct; he hated computers. He had spent the first three-quarters of his career in a computer-free environment. Typewriters and carbon paper he knew; computers he did not. But DJ was smart, and he understood the value of computers and the information they could access. He marveled at the information Elmo could extract. And the speed! Information that would have taken a team of five men at least a week to gather ten years ago could now be on the screen in minutes. Elmo was great, and the government had supplied him with the fastest computer and modem available. Stuff that wasn’t available to civilians yet. DJ always joked that his weapon was his Colt .45 and Elmo’s was his laptop. They made a perfect team. DJ protected Elmo and kept him happy. Elmo remained DJ’s loyal partner, providing him with the information he asked for, and needed, to solve his cases.

DJ remembered Elmo’s question. “Forget nothing, Elmo. I was just thinking out loud.”
DJ saw the sign for McAlister’s street. He flicked on his blinker and slowed to make the right turn onto Nightingale. An Army green Land Rover Discovery was waiting at Nightingale, to make a left turn onto the street DJ was turning off of. When the driver of the Discovery saw that DJ was turning, he began pulling out and turning left. As DJ turned right, and the Discovery turned left, DJ was thinking about what he expected to find at the McAlister house. For a split second, he saw the silhouette of the driver of the Discovery through its tinted windows. Immediately, an inner bell sounded, deep within his subconscious.
DJ felt a tingling below his solar plexus. It was happening. The old, welcome feeling that meant a clue was not far away. Somewhere, lodged in the gray area between knowledge and intuition, a clue was developing. If he could only figure out what it was! What had triggered it? From experience, DJ knew he needed to playback mentally the preceding two minutes. But he had to hurry, this one was fading fast, leaving him. He needed to grasp it soon. Come on, DJ, just play it back. He slowed the car. Elmo looked over at him, but remained silent; he knew what was going on.
DJ replayed everything, quickly, like Elmo’s computer, but his mind was even more agile, faster. He’d been driving, thinking about the house ahead. He’d turned on his blinker, hit the brake, and seen the Land Rover. He remembered thinking the Discovery was good in foul weather and that he liked the Army green color. Then, briefly, he’d seen the silhouette. The profile of a man through tinted windows. The driver’s profile. Hmmm. What about it?
Could it possibly have been . . . ?
DJ peered into the rearview mirror. The Discovery was gone. Without warning Elmo, he immediately whipped into the nearest driveway and jerked the car to a stop.
He had it now. The profile of the driver of the Discovery reminded him of the archeologist! No. Impossible. Driving down his own street in the middle of the day? Right past the surveillance van? Come on, he told himself, get to the house and look for clues. Don’t waste time with your little mental games.
Despite already being late to the scene, DJ knew himself too well. He would never change. He had to follow the man in that Discovery, until he was sure it either was or was not Thomas McAlister. He rolled his eyes at himself as he shoved the car into reverse.
Elmo also knew what was happening. In his ten years with DJ, he had seen him do a great many unpredictable things. Things that Elmo would never have thought of doing. He had seen DJ link seemingly unrelated information, synthesize it, and use it to solve unsolvable mysteries. DJ sometimes had “feelings” about things, and Elmo could tell he’d had one of his feelings about the SUV they’d just passed. For DJ, solving crimes was an art but for Elmo, it was a science. Together, they had solved more crimes than any other team in the history of the Bureau. It was a record they took pride in, though they never discussed it.
DJ pulled out of the driveway and sped back to the stop sign. “Pull up a picture of the archeologist!”
Elmo began typing, accessing the case files that he’d downloaded to his laptop computer.
DJ wanted to get to the McAlister house and this was probably going to be a huge waste of time, but he had to do it. Christ, he thought, I wasn’t even
looking
at the guy behind the wheel of that car. What the hell am I doing following him? Wasting time. I’m two blocks from the goddamn house! DJ knew that ninety-nine times out of a hundred these hunches led nowhere, but he lived with the memory, of the ecstatic feeling he got, when, one time in a hundred, they solved cases. He always followed them and Elmo never doubted him.
He could see the Discovery about a mile up the road. He floored the Taurus and was a car behind the Discovery in seconds. Elmo turned his laptop toward DJ. It showed both a head shot and a profile of Thomas McAlister, taken at an annual anthropological meeting of Egyptian specialists. He was at a podium, giving a speech on early Egyptian architecture. It showed a youngish face, sun-bleached blond hair, and blue eyes alive and excited with the thought that an ancient Egyptian civilization might have shared architectural concepts with other early cultures.
DJ looked at the picture. He needed to see the driver again. The Discovery pulled into the parking lot of a drugstore. DJ pulled into the lot, but kept his distance. The man got out and walked into the drugstore. DJ didn’t see his face. After ten minutes of waiting, DJ called the McAlister house and told his team to sit tight, he’d be there soon.
The man came out of the drugstore with two heavy-looking plastic bags. At forty yards, DJ was almost positive it was McAlister. But what the hell was the man doing driving down his own street in the middle of the day? Especially if he was trying to escape from under their surveillance? Moreover, how the hell did he get out from under their blanket of surveillance? DJ had put his best team on McAlister. He followed the Discovery back down the same road, four miles past Nightingale, to a five-star resort called the Camelback Inn. DJ followed McAlister down a narrow winding asphalt paths, until McAlister pulled into the driveway of a detached cabana. Cabana Nine. McAlister got out and went inside.
DJ was furious with the surveillance team, but euphoric at his luck. He drove past Cabana Nine and left Elmo in the car while he walked to the front desk. He showed his FBI badge, and asked who was staying in Cabana Nine.
“That would be Miss Havenport, sir.”
“Do you know the man staying with her?”
“We don’t inquire, sir.”
“She paid cash?”
“She hasn’t paid yet, sir. She’ll pay when she checks out.”
“And when is Miss Havenport scheduled to check out?”
“Tomorrow morning, sir.”
“Thanks.” DJ smiled as he walked out. He had the bastard. Smart guy, this archeologist. But he had him! Now that McAlister thought he was safe, his guard would be down. His mistake would make it even easier for DJ to move in and steal the treasure. It almost assured him of a successful final case before retiring, and because of its importance, and its ties to the White House, it probably meant a high-level commendation as well. Things couldn’t have worked out better.

Close behind, taking hurried steps, was Elmo. Short and thin with greasy hair and Woody Allen glasses, Elmo carried a small black case. His black hair was parted on the side and his clothes were simple. Scott already knew that Elmo wouldn’t say a word to anyone the entire time he was in the house. The other commandos had already learned to ignore him. They knew he would come in a nervous wreck and wouldn’t relax until he had his computer plugged into an electrical outlet and his modem into a phone line.

DJ came in and sat on one of the large leather chairs in the living room. He could tell that McAlister was gone by the way the men were scurrying around the house. The team was already looking for clues as to how he got out and where he may have gone: maps, scraps of paper with phone numbers, creases in phone books, etc. There would be hundreds of things to check.

DJ let out a deep breath. He examined his fingers, pursed his lips, and shook his head. He closed his eyes, rested his head against the back of the chair, and said, “Scott, give me the report. Here’s the order I want it in: estimate of when he left, how he got out, and clues as to where he’s headed. Go.” DJ kept his eyes closed as he listened.

“We still don’t know when he got out, sir. We’re checking everything, current water temperature at all the faucets, temperature of the mattress springs, humidity levels in the bedroom and bathroom, trash bins, everything. Nothing yet. He definitely went out one of the basement windows. It’s open, the screen is off and he didn’t bother to close it behind him. As for where he’s headed? No clue yet. At this point that’s all . . . .”

DJ opened his eyes, leveled an obsidian stare, and held up his hand, stopping Scott cold. He said, “Scott, the open window, it’s in back right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Here’s what happened. McAlister went out the back basement window very early this morning, while it was raining. Your man in back didn’t pick him up because looking through night vision binoculars when the rain is warm is like shining a flashlight on a green blanket in the dark. If McAlister crawled slowly he would’ve been impossible to see. Have someone look around the yard, we should be able to find out which direction he went.”
Scott yelled to one of his team to begin looking for clues starting outside the basement window and working out towards the perimeter.
“The motion detectors didn’t work, because he was moving so slowly. I should’ve put in perimeter weight sensors, Scott,” DJ said. “I won’t make that mistake again, and neither will you.”
He walked over to the aquarium. Scott followed him. It was empty. DJ wanted to lift it up and slam it down onto the floor, but instead he took a deep breath. White anger rose within him, but he pushed it back down. He’d give Scott one more chance.
He lowered his voice and whispered tersely, “Scott, I couldn’t be more displeased about the sloppiness of your operation. Your team let McAlister slip away. This will go into your file. Now listen to me, and listen good. McAlister is over at the Camelback, in Cabana Nine, registered under the name of Havenport. Get a full surveillance team over there by five o’clock. He’s checking out tomorrow. This is your last chance.”
Scott was dumfounded. He had heard DJ was good, but this was beyond good. The information DJ had was eerie, almost as if the man were some kind of seer. His crack team of experts had had the McAlister house under full surveillance, video and sound and motion, using the most modern equipment, for an entire week, and by all accounts, Thomas McAlister had not left this house today.
“You sure, Chief? I mean, how could you know that? You weren’t even here with us last night.”
“Scott, I don’t think you’re in a position to question me. Be goddamn careful with McAlister. He’s slipped by us once. We cannot afford to let it happen again.”
“Yes, sir.”
DJ started to walk out of the room. He wanted to check McAlister’s closet to see what kind of clothes he’d left behind. Before he left the room he turned and said, “Oh, and by the way, that man you have checking outside.”
“Yes, sir?”
“Have him check the sewer cover in the corner of the back yard. All the houses around here have them. I’ll bet you a six-pack McAlister pried it off and crawled away through the sewer.” DJ turned and walked out. Scott would later find that DJ was right about that too.