Three Minutes to Midnight (5 page)

He palmed the phone, which fit snugly in his oversize hands, clicked on his top secret Zebra app, and saw he had three text messages from Savage, who was the only person in the world with his phone number. The first message was three sentences long and gave him a name, an address, and a mission to find a body. The second message asked him to confirm receipt of the first message. The third message was a threat to do bodily harm to him if he did not comply with the second message.

Mahegan smiled, thinking,
Fat chance
.

He memorized the address and the name as he replied with one word.
Roger.

The Zebra app automatically erased messages after they had been opened or within twelve hours of being sent, whichever came first. Mahegan had checked the phone in the morning, before heading out to the Wallaby eleven hours ago. He understood Savage's phone call. The man didn't want the message erased before he read it.

And he needed the body of Captain Maeve Cassidy back before anyone learned what she had actually been doing in Afghanistan.

CHAPTER 5

M
AHEGAN SHOWERED AND CHANGED INTO RESPECTABLE ATTIRE
, which included khaki cargo pants, a long-sleeve dress shirt, and a blazer. In the blazer was an official Army Criminal Investigation Command (CID) badge. He had never been a CID agent, but Savage had had the foresight to outfit him with false identities and false credentials, knowing he would need access on occasion to crime scenes. He knew the chances of his being able to remove a body from a crime scene were limited, but Savage had always challenged Mahegan to reach certain stretch goals, such as capturing the American Taliban.

As he approached the address Savage had provided him, police were everywhere. Lights were flashing, as if this were some suburban rave party. Neighbors were gawking from their yards, and he wondered how many had attended the party and how many were purely gawkers. He also saw a group of teenagers pressing against the yellow tape near the backyard. Mahegan's hearing was in the top range on every hearing test he had ever taken, and he listened intently to the kids as he stepped from his vehicle.

“Totally cool, man . . .”

“What's cool about this? Means the parties will probably stop. Sucks for us . . .”

“But all the cops. A murder. Naked people. Not everybody gets to see this kind of stuff. . . .”

Mahegan walked up to the crime-scene tape and showed the uniformed officer his badge. He was uncomfortable flipping creds, figuring a Department of Defense special agent badge would not carry much weight in Raleigh, North Carolina. He had never actually used the badge before, so it looked brand new. He wasn't practiced at the technique, and he didn't watch cop shows on TV. But he gave it a shot and held the badge up at eye level.

“Army special agent,” Mahegan said.

The police officer was dressed in Raleigh Police Department blue and looked fit and professional. His name tag said
HERNANDEZ
. The man had a broad nose, liquid brown eyes, and square shoulders.

“Sorry. Can't let you in,” the sergeant said.

Mahegan spoke in a calm voice, looking the police officer in the eyes. “I understand Captain Cassidy was killed on her first night back from Afghanistan. I'm Special Agent Hawthorne, and we have the Army Criminal Investigation Command en route. After the team arrives, probably not your crime scene anymore.” CID was not en route to this particular crime scene, but Mahegan figured they were going somewhere in the country at this moment.

After a short pause, Hernandez said, “Gotta talk to the police chief.” He turned his chin toward an older man in khakis and a Windbreaker, looking like he had just been called off the golf course. He was standing on the porch, with his hands on his hips, looking at Mahegan.

Without asking, Mahegan stepped under the yellow tape and walked across the perfectly mown fescue grass. The Ridge Road mansion rose up before him like a monument to architecture. Initially hidden behind Leyland cypress trees and tall oaks, the brick colonial mansion now spread before Mahegan. White columns supported picketed balconies that jutted from upstairs rooms like firing ports in a castle. Large windows stared at him, curtains drawn like the half-closed eyelids of a lurking beast.

“Chief,” Mahegan said as he ascended the brick staircase that fanned twenty yards across the facade like a jutting jaw.

“What's your deal?”

“Special Agent. U.S. military. Captain Cassidy just returned from Afghanistan. Need to see the body.”

“Don't we all, son.”

Mahegan processed the response.

“Body's gone missing. If there ever was one. Got a bloodstain, but given all the crazy stuff going on in there, it could be anything. Some woman might have gotten her monthly, for all we know now. Celebrating the completion of a natural gas pipeline from Raleigh to Morehead City port, or something like that.”

Mahegan nodded as he processed the information. “I need to see the crime scene to prep the Army Criminal Investigation Command.”

“Let me see your creds.”

He replayed the scene with the sergeant, and apparently, Savage had done a decent job, because the Raleigh police chief said, “Be my guest. Damn freak show in there.”

Mahegan stepped into the foyer of the home through a wide double oak door with a giant brass knocker on each panel, one a cursive
B
and the other a cursive
T
. Immediately, he was stopped by a dutiful lab tech handing him a pair of surgical booties to put over his shoes.

“Big feet,” she said, looking down and then locking eyes with him. She was of Asian descent and petite. She had almond eyes, high cheekbones, and razor-cut black hair that kissed the base of her neck with a slight inward curl.

“Born that way,” Mahegan said, slipping the booties on his shoes. “Murder scene?”

“Technically, it's a crime scene. We don't know for sure if it's a murder.”

“I'm Hawthorne, by the way,” he said to her, logging in his mind that she might be useful in the follow-up investigation. Plus, he couldn't help but imagine her in a black, strapless dress instead of the lab tech smock.

Savage enjoyed literature and had chosen a variety of aliases for Mahegan from his favorite literary works, and Hawthorne worked as both a last and first name. Now that he was in official mission mode, he used Hawthorne. Only his landlords, the Robertsons, knew him as Mahegan.

Standing in the foyer, Mahegan noticed a
Gone with the Wind
staircase to his left. Beyond the staircase's tongue-and-groove oak millwork, he glimpsed a sunken family room with a fireplace, which centered the entire house. On the sofas he saw pillows and sheets randomly strewn about, an obvious sign of a sleepover or what he now suspected had been something more. He recalled the chief's term, “freak show.”

“Grace,” the lab tech said. “Grace Kagami.”

“Beautiful mirror,” Mahegan said.

Grace Kagami took a deep breath and said, “Wow. Impressive.” Her smile belied the fact they were at a crime scene and momentarily took them beyond the new acquaintance stage.

“Lived in Okinawa for a year with Special Forces. Learned some Japanese and knew some Kagamis over there. They explained the meaning of their name, so not so impressive. Just lucky.”

She stared at him for a moment. He could feel her measuring him in a way that was beyond the scope of her duties. He was glad he had showered, but he was self-conscious of his weeklong beard.

“What exactly are we looking at?” Mahegan said to break the awkward moment.

Grace smiled, as if answering another question. What was she looking at? “We are looking at the remnants of a swingers' party turned into a possible murder turned into a missing-person-slash-missing-body case.”

“Swingers' party?”

“Yeah, you know. The women throw their keys into a bowl and the men pick, or vice versa. Then everyone has sex. All to celebrate the opening of a pipeline.”

Mahegan looked past her into the yawning family room with the pillows and sheets. “Like an orgy,” he said.

“That too.”

The leftover ambiance of the party infested his senses, as dusty incense lingered in the air like a fog. He spotted a bottle of lotion on one of the end tables and caught the faint whiff of a flowery scent comingling with the incense.

“That way,” she said, pointing up the carpeted stairs to a brightly lit hallway.

“Thanks, Grace.”

“You're welcome, Hawthorne.” She used her fingers to make quotation marks when she said, “Hawthorne.”

Mahegan nodded at her and then climbed the stairs, wondering what, exactly, her deal might be. As he passed the various bedrooms flanking the large carpeted hallway, he took a minute to scan inside each one. Oddly, they all resembled one another both in appearance—unmade beds, lotions, and towels—and arrangement: one bed, two nightstands, a bureau, and a connecting bathroom. Two bathrooms connected to a pair of guest bedrooms, like Jack-and-Jill rooms. He spotted the master bedroom at the end of the hallway, its double doors open and revealing a team of forensic experts on their hands and knees, studying a precise spot on the floor.

He scanned the walls of the hallway as he approached the investigation area, work lights shining on the crew, making them look like giants in a miniature sports stadium. His and hers college degrees dotted the walls in full “I love myself” regalia. Bachelor's, master's, and PhDs in business and accounting for him. The same accomplishment levels in education for her.

Dr. Robert Brand Throckmorton and Dr. Sharon Hunter Throckmorton were the recipients, though Sharon's bachelor's degree listed her as Sharon René Hunter. Mahegan had the random curiosity as to why some women chose to use their family name as their middle name after marriage, while others used their given middle name. He quickly lost the thought and removed his smartphone from his pocket as it buzzed.

He looked at Savage's text message, blanked the screen, and pocketed the phone. Complications were going to accumulate quickly, so he needed to move fast. Savage had just informed him that Throckmorton owned several businesses, including a private security company, and hundreds of acres of land in Wake and Chatham Counties, just southwest of here, and they were prime drill locations for natural gas exploration. In his prep to find Gunther, Mahegan had learned that North Carolina had its own rich basin of fossil fuels that just needed a well and the equivalent of a B
₁₂
shot in the ass to pump the gas out of the earth.

He stood in the doorway, observing the techs as they studied the approximately twelve-inch circular bloodstain as if it were some new fossil discovery on an Egyptian dig. One of them stood and looked at Mahegan.

“Who are you?” The questioner was a tall man with a few wisps of hair at the top of his head. He wore glasses and a Raleigh Police Windbreaker. His face was ruddy and sunken, as if he had had some type of surgery on his cheeks. Maybe a face-lift, maybe shrapnel from Vietnam. He would be about that era.

“My name's Hawthorne. I work with the Defense Department, and I need to see the body.”

“Don't we all.”

That line must have been on the standard press talking points memo for this particular crime scene, Mahegan thought.

“What was the time between the original nine-one-one call and the arrival of the police?” Mahegan asked.

The man stepped around the group to Mahegan's left, which gave him an opportunity to move to the right, deeper into the bedroom. He moved all the way to the far wall, opposite the spot where Cassidy had allegedly been shot. He peeled back the curtain and saw a deck off the master bedroom and an outdoor stairway from the deck to the backyard. Multiple points of access and egress. But he already knew that.

“I don't think you should be here,” the tall man said.

“Name?”

“Raleigh detective first class Rowland Griffyn. Griffyn with a
y
. Raleigh native all my life.”

His second comment was intended as some sort of challenge, Mahegan figured. He had been dealing with that type of condescension all his life, with his frequent moves as a child and his Native American lineage. Mahegan was taller than Griffyn, darker as well, and he detected a hint of bias in the detective's voice. The man probably figured himself to be a direct descendant of Sir Walter Raleigh and had spent a lifetime proclaiming his indigenous status. Mahegan knew that as far as Griffyn was concerned a Croatan Indian such as himself had no right to be in this swank Raleigh palace.

“I'm just an interloper here, but an important one. Army criminal investigation is on its way,” Mahegan said, again. Griffyn gave him a blank stare. “You know, like NCIS.”

“I know who they are, but nobody told me they were coming.”

“I just did. I moved over here so that I could have a private conversation with you, instead of telling you that this all could soon be an Army crime scene.”

Making a cop give up a crime scene, Mahegan figured, was tantamount to asking a child to release her teddy bear. Griffyn seemed territorial about all things, and threatening to remove his dominion over the Throckmortons' home was probably a good play.

“So I'm giving you the courtesy,” Mahegan said. “Get me some info fast, and maybe I can keep it in your hands. I need blood trails, fingerprints, shoe prints, lists of all participants in the . . . the party, and an opportunity to interview them.”

“In exchange for all that, we get to keep the scene?” Griffyn, the Raleigh native, asked.

“I will recommend that to CID. Keep me in the loop, and maybe you can keep control.”

Mahegan knew this was the tack Savage would want him to take. The case was far too sensitive for CID. Instead of staying completely out of the investigation or commandeering the entire thing, which he couldn't do, anyway, he wanted to be able to slip in and out, with the appearance of local control. Savage's text message had also indicated that he had informed the Fort Bragg CID commander that this was a Joint Special Operations Command case and would remain classified as such until further notice.

“If I ever get the sense, Griffyn, that you are keeping me out of the loop, CID will be on top of this like a hawk on a rabbit. Understand?”

Griffyn eyed Mahegan warily. Not only was Mahegan taller than him, but he also had probably fifty pounds more muscle. He watched the detective process the information, as if his forehead were an iPad displaying his thoughts:
Federal government, big guy, ethnic of some variety. Got to protect my turf. Raleigh native all my life
.

“Okay. How do I get in touch with you?”