The Patrick Bowers Files - 05 - The Queen (49 page)

I was no expert on profiling, but her comment took me by surprise. “No?”

“To find out what lies at the core of someone's personality, you need to know more than what he wants.”

“What he loves?”

“No.”

“Dreams of?”

“Uh-uh.”

“Fears?”

She shook her head.

“Then what?”

“What he regrets. Only when you know what someone most deeply regrets will you know what matters to him most.”

I took a moment to reflect on that, recalling my thoughts from my conversation with Jake yesterday about assassin mentality:
Without rationalization we'd have to live in the daily recognition of who we really are, what we're really capable of. And that's something most people avoid at all costs.

Tessa's observation:
Denial is too cheap a cure.

“What happens,” I said, “when you're not able to rationalize or justify your deviant thoughts or behavior? When you're left with regret but no hope of forgiveness or resolution?”

“The mind has to deal with guilt somehow. When it's overwhelming, escaping reality is sometimes the only choice.”

We run from the past and it chases us; we dive into urgency but nothing deep is ultimately healed.

“So, some kind of psychotic break? A split personality?”

She shook her head. “I see where you're going with this, but that's incredibly rare. Usually people just find a way to diminish the wrong or justify themselves in some way. Assassins, terrorists, espionage agents are experts at that.” She sighed in disappointment. “I'm sorry, I know at this point all of this is sketchy, just unfounded conjecture.”

“No, it's more than that. It's your instinct based on experience.”

“Pat, you don't trust instincts.”

“I trust you.”

A long moment. “Thanks.” She regrouped at the keyboard. “How much farther to the Inn?”

“Just a couple minutes.”

“Let me see what I can find out about those criminal statutes.”

One hour and four minutes left.

Solstice had thought they should just use a small, handheld camera, but Cane had wanted to go all out, so they'd brought a Sony HVR-HD1000U digital high definition HDV camcorder along.

“Go ahead and set it up,” Solstice told Gale. “Let's get this statement filmed.”

He flipped open the tripod and began to pull out the equipment.

“I made a real mess of things,” Amber said, her voice quavering in a delicate, broken way. “Sean—he's not really that bad of a man. He never hurt me. Never hit me. He's never . . . I love him. I think I was just looking for a reason . . .”

To justify leaving him . . .
Tessa thought, filling in the blanks.

“It's all gonna work out,” she told Amber. “Don't worry.”

Cliché, cliché, cliché.

Lame, lame, lame!

In the unsettling silence following her words, Tessa remembered the broken glass from the sailboat painting in the living room. “Maybe we should clean up that glass? From the picture, in the other room?” Okay, it was a little pathetic, but at least it might help distract Amber for a little bit.

Amber took a breath that was obviously an attempt to compose herself. “Yes.”

The lights flickered briefly as the two of them traipsed down the hallway.

“There should be some flashlights in the kitchen,” Amber suggested, obviously in anticipation of a power outage. “And we should probably get that fire started. Just in case.”

“All set,” Gale announced as he finished tightening the height adjustment on the tripod.

Solstice nodded.

Right now, three members of her team were carefully setting the remaining TATP ordnance in the tunnels on the top level of the base; Eclipse was guarding the hostages on the second level. Cyclone had taken Donnie up to the crew quarters for the time being so he wouldn't disturb the filming. The remaining team members were here with Solstice in the control room.

She eyed the remote control detonator on the desk next to her keyboard. A simple five-step plan: (1) send the transmission, (2) get to the tunnel that wasn't rigged to explode, (3) shoot anyone who tried to stop her, (4) blow the base, (5) disappear.

No more Eco-Tech team.

No more ELF base.

No loose ends.

Cane and Squall donned their ski masks and positioned themselves in front of the camera. Behind them hung a flag with a picture of the earth taken from outer space, as well as Eco-Tech's logo and their boldly lettered motto: A New Breed of Green—Dialogue When Possible, Action When Necessary.

“Ready?” Gale asked.

Cane nodded, Gale moved behind the camera.

The light went on.

And the filming began.

Lien-hua and I were less than a mile from the Schoenberg Inn.

Ever since starting in law enforcement sixteen years ago, I've always prided myself on my commitment to uncovering the truth and then seeing justice carried out, but now in this situation with my brother, I was sorry I knew the truth and I wasn't sure I wanted justice carried out at all.

“All right, Pat.” Lien-hua took a small breath. “I've got something. In Wisconsin there's a fifteen-year statute of limitation on prosecutions for second-degree reckless homicide. It was in place at the time of the accident.”

“But, let me guess: for first-degree reckless homicide there isn't one.”

A pause. “That's right.”

“We could be talking about a twenty-year sentence for—”

“Pat, it doesn't do any good jumping to conclusions like that.”

“How do the statutes define the difference between second- and first-degree homicide?”

She consulted the computer. “First-degree reckless homicide—whoever recklessly causes the death of another human being under circumstances which show utter disregard for human life. It's a Class B felony.” She scrolled to the next part of the law code. “Second degree—whoever recklessly causes the death of another human being. It's a Class D felony.”

Utter disregard for human life. What does that mean exactly?

I already knew the answer to that: it would be up to a jury to decide.

The Schoenberg's parking lot lay a quarter mile ahead of us, and I could see its parking lights glowing blearily in the snow-strewn night. “Are there any statutes that specifically address vehicular homicide?”

“Yes, but that's not as clear-cut. According to Statute 940.09 1(c) it looks like a Class D felony. Unless . . .”

“The person was legally intoxicated.”

“Let me see.” She gazed at the computer screen, but I had a feeling she was stalling, that she already knew the answer. “Yes, there's another statute that determines if it's a Class B or Class D felony, 340.01 (46m). And yes, you're right, it has to do with blood alcohol content.”

There were so many factors that we didn't know, would never know—Sean's alcohol concentration, Mrs. Everson's, whether or not she was driving too fast for conditions, whether or not he was—

Utter disregard for human life.

A skilled prosecutor could probably make the case for the first-degree reckless homicide charge, but the only way he'd be able to make it stick would be with proof of Sean's intoxication. And after all these years, the only evidence he would have of that was—

“Does that help?” Lien-hua asked.

“Yes,” I said unenthusiastically. “Thanks.”

—Sean's confession in court—

—Or the testimony of a federal agent to whom he had personally confessed.

We arrived at the Schoenberg Inn, and as I parked the cruiser, I tried to put thoughts of my brother and what he'd told me aside.

I tugged out my phone and pulled up the security camera photo of Alexei Chekov from the Minneapolis–St. Paul International Airport, but even as Lien-hua and I hurried inside to see if Kayla Tatum was all right, my disquieting fears for my brother's future wouldn't leave me alone.

And neither would the nagging question of where Alexei had gone after he'd left the sheriff's department.

8:06 p.m.

54 minutes until the transmission

It took us only a few moments to locate the hotel manager, Simon Weatherford, a gaunt-faced lanky man in his early forties. His shaved head and slightly graying goatee made him look more like an avant-garde artist in LA than the manager of a historic hotel in northern Wisconsin.

“You have rooms you did not show the officers earlier,” I told him firmly. “I want to see them. Now. The rooms on the south end of the basement.”

“I don't know what you're talking—”

I held up my phone and showed him Alexei's photo. “This man paid you for the use of a room and he left a woman there. She was kidnapped and right now you're facing charges as an accessory. Take us to her
now
.”

Weatherford's face flushed. “He said she was hungover when he brought her in, he—”

I grabbed his arm and directed him toward the hall. “Let's go.” I didn't even try to hide how furious I was that he hadn't shown the officers earlier where Kayla was.

Reckless homicide.

Utter disregard for human life.

Weatherford took the lead and hurried us through a network of corridors and past a series of plaques that celebrated the history of the Inn and its inclusion in the list of National Historic Landmarks in 2004. When I questioned him about Alexei, he admitted that Chekov had given him $200,000 cash with the promise of another $300,000 in twenty-four hours if he didn't tell anyone about the woman.

A stunning amount of money. No wonder Weatherford hadn't led the officers here. Half a million dollars can buy an awful lot of silence.

We came to a dusty, wood-paneled lounge. Weatherford went directly to the far wall and pressed open a doorway that had been cleverly and imperceptibly hidden in the paneling.

A set of steps descended to a lower level. Lien-hua and I drew our weapons.

I passed Weatherford and jogged down the stairs, slightly off-kilter as I tried to keep pressure off my ankle, then proceeded through a door that read “Authorized Service Personnel Only” and entered a dim hallway with rooms on either side.

“Which room?”

Weatherford produced a key card and approached the second door on the left.

Secure the scene, Pat. Then assist the victim.

I motioned for Lien-hua to take the key, and as soon as she'd unlocked the door I flung it open and swept inside, leading with my Glock.

Kayla Tatum lay tied up on the king-sized bed and appeared only semi-conscious. Lien-hua rushed to her side while I quickly scanned the room for Alexei or any accomplices.

Saw no one.

Weatherford gasped when he saw Kayla. I didn't want to take any chances; I pointed to the floor. “Get down. On your knees.”

“I didn't know—”