Zero Separation (14 page)

“This morning at the hospital, you made a head shot to stop the guy from killing me.”

“A body mass shot was out of the question.” Montero shrugged. “I had to take out his brain stem or he could have made a reflexive jerk and pulled the trigger on his weapon.”

“Maybe Alec was doing the same thing.”

Montero nodded. “He didn't kill those men. Alec could shoot, but coming from the army, he was all about automatic shoulder-fired weapons. I spent time with him at the range. To be perfectly honest, he wasn't good enough to enter into a fluid situation and take out three armed men with three perfectly placed head shots. In that situation not many people can do that.”

“Who has those skills?” Donovan thought he knew the answer but wanted to hear Montero's response.

“Special Forces guys and spooks. I've seen some CIA types that were scary good with a handgun. To top everything off, we were never able to ID these guys. We ended up with three John Doe's. They had U.S. passports, papers, and credit cards—you name it and it looked real, but everything was a forgery, top-shelf stuff. Each and every paper trail we followed eventually dead ended. It was like chasing ghosts.”

“What about Burgess? Did he believe your story?”

“He did, but my actions put his ass on the hot seat in Washington. I broke the rules. Bottom line is that I shouldn't have been there. I set off the chain of events, so Alec is dead because of me.”

“You didn't kill Alec,” Donovan said as a matter of fact. “What about the informant?”

“We never heard from him again.”

“Back up for a second,” Donovan said as he rubbed his tired eyes. “So what ties Diego, the guy who tried to kill Michael today at the hospital, to what happened in the Keys?”

“We identified him from some of the pictures Alec shot. He'd been around, so officially he's a person of interest in the investigation. The latest intelligence I saw had both men in either Trinidad or Venezuela. I have no idea why he's involved with the stolen Gulfstream. But I promise you, either this girl, Sasha, or his brother, Ramone, is the key to the puzzle.”

“How long ago did all of this happen?” Donovan asked, sorting through all the information.

“Six weeks,” Montero said, just before her cell phone rang.

She spun away from Donovan, answered the phone, and then listened. “You're sure? Okay. Thanks, I owe you.”

“Who was that?” Donovan asked, sensing the intrusion had interrupted her carefully worded dance of confession and retribution. A look of consternation clouded her face.

“That was a friend of mine. She works Vice down in Dade County. We have a lead on our dancer, Sasha.”

“Okay,” Donovan said. “So, let's say we find Sasha and through her we discover the whereabouts of Ramone. What then? Do you call in Burgess? Or are you doing this without the rule book?”

“No rules. We find Ramone, he's mine.”

If nothing else, Donovan appreciated her direct answer. It was what he'd expected her to say—it was what he'd have said if the positions were reversed. “So we work our way through the bad guys until you find the people who killed Alec. What then, kill them all and call it a day?”

Montero shrugged. “That depends on them, I guess.”

“But once they're dealt with, I'm free to go and my secret stays safe?”

“You have my word. But not until it's finished.”

She'd said nothing that had dissuaded him from his initial assessment of her. She was a wounded animal. He'd learned a lot in the last couple of hours. That she could be functioning at any effective level so soon after the traumatic events she'd disclosed was hard to comprehend. A month after Meredith had been killed, he'd been a wreck, living on pills and whiskey. He didn't know
whether to be totally impressed with how well she was holding it together or terrified that she could bottle up her emotions to the extent that she could orchestrate her revenge. Either way, not only was she completely unpredictable—she was extremely dangerous.

Donovan heard the sound of water running as Montero began her shower. He went to the kitchen, poured some whiskey in his glass, then picked up Montero's home phone, and dialed Lauren's cell phone.

“Dr. McKenna.”

“It's me. Can you talk? Where are you?”

“Michael's awake. I'm on my way to the hospital.”

“How's he doing? Does he remember anything?”

“Susan said he's doing okay. His head hurts. Susan also told me the FBI showed him some pictures, but he didn't recognize anyone. Apparently he doesn't remember much of anything after you two landed.”

“Tell him I said hello.”

“Why are you whispering?”

“I'm still with Montero,” Donovan said. “I don't want her to know I'm on the phone.”

“What does that mean?” Lauren asked. “You're not allowed to call your wife?”

“Not when I'm going to talk about her,” Donovan took a hard swallow from his glass and grimaced at the burn. “I was hoping you'd read a file today.”

“I did. How secure are we?”

“I'm on Montero's landline. I doubt anyone is listening.”

“You're at her house?”

“Yeah, this thing might actually be manageable. Based on everything she's told me so far, she's out for vengeance. She lost someone, and there are some connections to what happened to
Michael. We've got a lead and we're going out later to find a few people who may have some answers.”

“You're not going to trust this woman, are you? I mean, let's stop and think for a moment what she's really doing here. It's called blackmail. You think running around playing cop makes sense?”

“Did you have time to read her file?” Donovan avoided Lauren's question and waited for her to say something, anything. Briefly, he wondered if she'd hung up on him. He mirrored her silence and waited for a response.

“Her real name is Veronica; she hates that name and goes by Ronnie. She's thirty-six years old, never married, no children. She's an only child, raised in Chicago by her father, who was a United Airlines mechanic. Her mother died in a traffic accident when she was six years old. Her juvenile records are sealed, but there were some early run-ins with the police, typical wild-child behavior, I'd guess. She grew up mostly on her own, spending a great deal of time as a latchkey kid and weekend airport bum with her dad. Most of her early jobs were at a small airport outside Chicago. I guess she got it together, because she went on to graduate from high school as a national merit scholar. She did her undergrad work at Cal State Fullerton and graduated from their criminal justice school at the top of her class.”

“What was William's assessment of the person who gave this to him?”

“He seemed to think the source was good, but there is a defense attorney bias at work here.”

“Okay, go on.”

“She joined the FBI full time shortly after graduation. At one point, she was on a fast track within the FBI, but she was suddenly shipped out, sent back to Quantico for additional training, and then reassigned to South Florida. There were whispers about a sexual harassment issue, one she chose to deal with herself. The file says she may have assaulted a superior officer. There was a similar incident in college, an assistant professor ended up with a broken arm, but no charges were filed. She has an IQ somewhere in the
one fortyish range, which makes her Mensa material,
and
she has a temper. Not counting today, she's been involved in four shootings and was cleared for duty after each instance. She's been accused of using excessive force on at least three occasions, but that isn't all that unusual. Criminals love to try and play that card, but who knows? She's an expert marksman and a certified instructor in hand-to-hand combat. Then the report gets a little sketchy, but an agent was killed, and she was placed on restricted duty. Her return to full-duty status is pending the outcome of an internal investigation.”

“That's the issue she wants my help with. She lost her partner and may have inadvertently had a hand in it. Overall, what do you think I have to work with here?”

“So, she's fixated on some sort of vendetta?”

“Yes.”

“I take it she turned down any thought of financial reward?”

“Yes.”

“My guess is she sees you as some sort of kindred spirit. With what she knows, she could view you as a mentor in dealing with what she's going through.”

“There are some parallels.”

“That should give you some insight into her behavior. You might think about using what you know to manipulate her actions, though I'm not all that sure she's the best candidate for that approach.”

“You don't think she can be manipulated?”

“Only that you need to tread lightly, be careful, she's an expert on the subject. I'm no psychologist, but her childhood scenario, coupled with her subsequent actions, point to boundary and accountability issues. She's had several official reprimands for not following procedures. Then there was one other thing that I found worrisome. It was only a footnote with multiple question marks, but it referred to her possible criminal involvement with an underage prostitute.”

“In what context?”

“The file only said that the person in question was a fourteen-year-old girl who accused Montero of blackmail and assault, and then the girl disappeared before any kind of formal investigation could be launched.”

“Disappeared? As in Montero may have stepped outside the law and dealt with the problem herself?”

“That's how I read it,” Lauren said. “In my mind this woman has no real regard for rules.”

“She told me she sent my file to someone who has instructions to open it if anything happens to her, which forces me to watch her back.”

“This woman is no dummy. This isn't some crazy impulsive maneuver, it was premeditated. Blackmail is illegal and it didn't slow her down for a second. Keep in mind she's an attractive woman who has no problem using her looks to get what she wants. Manipulating others is one of the main weapons in her arsenal. My guess is she's also hypertuned to being manipulated by others, which in my opinion, makes your task more difficult. She's smart, desperate, and, above all, emotionally compromised. You'd do well to remember your Kipling.”

It took him a moment, but he finally made the connection. “I'll keep that in mind.”

“Please do.”

Donovan noticed that the water had quit running. “I need to go. I'll try and call you later tonight or tomorrow.”

“Be careful. I mean it. This isn't worth your life,” Lauren said.

“If I can't control her, or the situation, I'll bail on the whole thing and meet you in Europe,” Donovan said. “Whatever happens we'll be together, okay?”

“Just be careful.”

“I will.”

Donovan was about to tell Lauren he loved her when he heard Montero's footsteps. He hung up the phone and reached for the bottle of whiskey. When he turned, she was standing there, still wet, one hand holding up her towel, the other a pistol.

“I thought I heard voices.”

“That's reassuring,” Donovan replied, as he took a drink.

Montero studied Donovan carefully then her eyes darted to the phone. “Who were you talking with?”

“Relax. I called my wife.”

Montero used her free hand to tighten her towel. “From here on out, don't make any calls without my direct permission. I'm serious. Don't screw with me again, there's too much at stake.”

Donovan stepped close enough to look down on her. Despite the gun, she seemed defenseless wrapped in nothing but a towel. “You bought my help. You didn't buy my soul. Now go put some clothes on.”

Montero pursed her lips, her face flushed red. “Be ready to leave here in an hour. And quit drinking, I need you to be sharp.”

Donovan watched as Montero padded off to her bedroom. He thought of Lauren's reference to Kipling and decided that his wife may have pretty well summed up Montero. “The female of the species is deadlier than the male.”

He dumped out the remainder of his drink as an unsettled feeling came over him. He wondered if the Kipling reference was solely about Montero—or if Lauren had brought it up for other reasons.

Lauren, unhappy about her conversation with Donovan, wheeled her SUV into the Fairfax County Hospital complex and found a parking place not far from the main entrance. She felt completely severed from her husband. It should be the two of them going to see Michael. Instead, he was running around Florida, his phone turned off, with an attractive yet unstable woman who was yanking him around like her own private puppet. When they spoke on the phone, she'd heard the unmistakable sound of ice cubes tinkling in a glass—he was drinking.

It hadn't escaped Lauren that at some levels her husband wasn't all that different from Montero. Both were highly intelligent, they'd each had difficult childhoods and they were also two emotionally scarred, type A personalities, who possessed unique skill sets. Montero carried a gun and a badge—Donovan had private jets and an unlimited bank account. Lauren felt the creeping insecurity that Donovan may have found a measure of commonality, maybe even comfort with a person who was as damaged as he was.

She grabbed her purse, slammed the door, and hurried toward the entrance. It was already pushing nine o'clock, and she wasn't sure when visiting hours ended. She hoped they'd still let her in to see Michael.

As she approached, a man dressed in a suit and carrying a bouquet of flowers came at her from the left. He hurried a few steps, then stopped and smiled widely as he pulled open a door, graciously allowing Lauren to go first. She smiled in return, guessing that he'd come from work, and, like her, was trying to beat the end of visitation hours. She went straight to the information desk. Lauren
was given Michael's room number and informed that visiting hours ended at nine thirty. Relieved that she'd made it, Lauren thanked her and followed the directions to the bank of elevators. She only waited a moment before there was an empty elevator going up.