Collateral Damage (40 page)

“We've never quite figured that out. We know that Nigella was the one who talked Maude into using her ties to the Otto Foundation to turn it into a drug operation, but we don't know why. Nigella isn't talking. She's invoked her right to remain silent. There's nothing we can do.”

“What if,” asked Jock, “I told you this was a national security issue and that Nigella is a target of a national security investigation?”

“I know who you are, Jock,” said Delgado. “If you tell me that you need her for a national security investigation, I'll turn her over to your custody.”

“I may want to do that,” said Jock. “Let me think about it. Where is she now?”

“She's in the county lockup, held in a secure area under our jurisdiction. No visitors, but I'm afraid she'll be seeing her lawyer this afternoon. I can't hold that off any longer.”

“Can you have her brought here so that I can talk to her?”

“Sure. I can have her here within the hour.”

“Dan,” I said, “do you want to speculate, based on everything you know about the drug operation, as to how Maude got roped into this by her niece?”

Dan was quiet for a moment, stroking his chin. “I think there is some
body way up the food chain who is in charge of this thing. These ladies didn't come up with this sophisticated an operation on their own. We were trying to work our way up the chain when you guys showed up.”

“I've got an idea about who was in charge,” said Jock. “But I'm going to have to do a little digging. I don't have some of the legal constraints that you guys do.”

The phone on the table buzzed. Delgado picked it up, spoke into it, and then listened. He hung up. “I do have a little package for you. Mary Jennings.”

“Who's Mary Jennings?” I asked.

Delgado smiled. A big happy, gotcha kind of smile. “A young lady who works for Hillsborough County and managed to leave her thumbprint on that check at the Sarasota bank. She's a part-time actress. Does commercials and amateur plays and looks uncannily like a certain Longboat Key detective we all know.”

“I'll be damned,” I said. “Is she here?”

“Yep. Scared shitless and in the interrogation room. You want to talk to her?”

“Bet your ass,” I said.

“Be my guest, Counselor.”

Mary Jennings was sitting in a small room with bare walls. The only furniture was a table with a chair on either side. A video camera hung from a bracket high in one corner. A one-way mirror was built into one wall so that agents standing in the next room could watch the action.

She appeared to be about thirty years old and wore her light brown hair in a French twist. She was dressed in a navy business suit, white blouse, and low-heeled pumps. She sat alone at the table, her nervousness showing in her body movements. She crossed and uncrossed her arms, then her legs. She looked around the room, obviously uncomfortable, nervous, concerned. I watched her for a few minutes through the one-way mirror. At first glance there was no resemblance to J.D. Duncan. She was not as tall as J.D. and carried a little more weight, but when I looked closely at her face, I could see how some makeup and a dark wig could transform her enough to fool the bank security camera. And me, as it happened.

I walked into the room, shut the door, and stood quietly, staring at the woman at the table. She looked at me and finally said, “What is this all about?”

“Ms. Jennings, my name is Matthew Royal. You do realize that you're in a Drug Enforcement Administration facility, don't you?”

“Yes, but I don't know why.”

“We're looking at drug charges as well as some very nasty national security matters.”

“I don't have any idea what you're talking about.”

“Let's start with the name J. D. Duncan, a bank in Sarasota, and a monthly withdrawal.”

She opened her mouth as if to say something, thought better of it, and shut up. She took a deep breath and said, “I want a lawyer.”

“It doesn't work that way, Ms. Jennings. You can't have a lawyer.”

“I know my rights.”

“Those rights are suspended during national security investigations.” I was lying, but I didn't think she'd know that.

She paled, blinked rapidly, sat back in her chair. “National security?”

“Yes. You're in a lot of trouble here, and your best bet is to come clean with us and tell me everything you know.”

“Who is ‘us'?” She wasn't going down easy. A smart woman. “Let's start with the fact that federal security agencies are involved and I'm working with them. That's all you need to know.”

She seemed to deflate, the fight going out of her. “There's nothing to tell. I was hired to do an acting job and I did it.”

“Tell me about it.”

“I got a phone call from a man who identified himself only as ‘Gem-stone.' He told me that he needed an actress to pose as somebody else and cash some checks in a bank in Sarasota.”

“Didn't you think that might be illegal?”

“I raised that issue. He said it was okay, that the money was his, but that he couldn't get to it because an ex-wife was hounding him for back alimony.”

“What were you supposed to do?”

“He sent me a picture of a woman named J. D. Duncan. Said it was his sister and she was helping him dodge the ex-wife. The problem was that the sister lived in Idaho, and he needed somebody to cash the checks at the bank in Sarasota.”

“That sounds pretty thin,” I said. “I know, but he was going to pay me five hundred dollars for each trip to Sarasota. I couldn't pass it up.”

“Why the disguise?”

“Gemstone said that his ex-wife had a lot of friends in law enforcement and could possibly get hold of security tapes from the banks. He wanted me to look as much like his sister as possible.”

“You know that this makes no sense at all.”

“I know. But at the time it seemed like an easy way to make a few bucks.”

“What did you do with the cash?”

“I took out five hundred dollars and mailed the rest to Gemstone at a post office box in Tampa.”

“Did you have any other contact with Gemstone?”

“He'd call every month and tell me to go to the bank. That was all. A total of three or four calls.”

“Did he ever tell you why the money was in a bank in Sarasota?”

“No.”

“And you never asked?”

“No. What's going to happen to me?”

“I'm going to turn you over to the Sarasota police. Let them work out the charges.”

She teared up. “I'll lose my job with the county.”

“Yes, but you got five hundred bucks for each run to Sarasota.”

“That's not fair.”

“Neither is what you tried to do to an outstanding police officer.”

“I don't understand.”

“You don't need to.”

I got up and left the room, leaving a small-time actress to contemplate her immediate future. I felt no sympathy for her at all. She'd given no thought to what grief she may have caused someone while she earned her five hundred bucks. I hoped they put her away for a while. A little prison time might give her a new outlook on how to use her talents.

“That wasn't very productive,” I said to Jock as we stood outside the interrogation room.

“I don't think she was a part of anything bigger than what she thought was a small-time scam,” he said.

“I agree.”

“I thought it interesting that the man she dealt with identified himself as ‘Gemstone.'”

“I caught that. The CIA guys in Operation Thanatos were all named
after gemstones. What I don't understand is why they went to all this trouble to implicate J.D.?”

Jock shrugged. “It was probably part of the misdirection and maybe a safety valve in the event that J.D. started closing in on them. They could always implicate her in their scheme and discredit her investigation. The checks started coming in her name about the time she began her investigation.”

“Maybe you can get something out of Nigella,” I said.”

Nigella Morrissey was in the same interview room that had held Mary Jennings. I stood with Logan and watched her through the one-way mirror. She was wearing an orange jumpsuit, the kind that jails and prisons all over the country issue to their inmates. She sat with her back straight, arms resting on the table, her wrists cuffed, shackles around her waist secured to a U-bolt cemented into the floor. She didn't move except for an occasional involuntary blink of the eyes. She seemed unconcerned about her situation.

Jock walked in the door and stood quietly next to the table. Nigella looked up and smiled. “Ah,” she said. “The thug returns. Got your knife? Want to cut my clothes off ?”

“I just want to chat for a bit.”

“Get me my lawyer.”

“You don't get a lawyer.”

“Bullshit. I'm a lawyer. I know my rights.”

“This is a national security matter.”

“So?”

“So you don't get a lawyer.”

“That's not the law.”

“Maybe not, but you still don't get a lawyer.”

“I'm not saying a thing without one present.”

“That's exactly what your aunt Maude Lane said.”

Nigella flinched, an almost imperceptible movement. “Maude Lane? Don't know her.”

“That's odd,” said Jock. “She's your dad's older sister, helped pay your way through college and law school. Works for the Otto Foundation. Juggles the money for you.”

Nigella shook her head, whether in denial or resignation, I couldn't tell.

“She's on her way to Egypt,” said Jock.

“Egypt?”

“Surely you've read about the whole rendition thing.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know, where the government sends national security risks to other countries that don't have the legal constraints we do against torture. It helps get the prisoners talking. Been going on since the early years of the Clinton administration.”

“I know about rendition. What have you done with my aunt?”

“So, she
is
your aunt.”

“Yes, you bastard. What have you done with her?”

“She's in jail in Macon, Georgia, waiting for a government plane to come get her.”

“I don't believe you.”

“Don't count on Barry Nitzler to stop it. He's in custody in Virginia.”

“Bullshit. He's way up in the food chain.”

“I'm higher.”

“I don't believe you.”

“Do you have a number that you can call and he'll always answer? In case of emergency?”

“Yes.”

“Have you called it before?”

“Yes.”

“Always able to get hold of Nitzler?”

“Yes.”

Jock handed her his cell phone. “Call him now.”

“Then you'll have the number.”

“I already have it.”

“Bullshit.”

Jock took the phone back, pushed a couple of buttons and showed Nigella the small screen. “Is that the number?”

She nodded, dialed the number, listened, closed the phone.

Nigella sat back in her chair, a look of defeat replacing the defiance she'd shown before. “No answer,” she said.

“Tell us what we need to know and I'll guarantee that your aunt won't be sent out of the country,” Jock said. “She'll go into the criminal justice system just like any other drug dealer.”

“Can I have a glass of water?”

“Sure. As soon as we've finished talking.”

“Okay,” Nigella said, “okay. My dad was a CIA operative in Vietnam at the end of the war. He met and married my mom and they lived in Saigon. I was born there. When I was just a few weeks old, my dad was killed by some American soldiers who were part of a team he was leading.”

“How do you know this?”

“My uncle is Barry Nitzler. He told me.”

“Your uncle?”

“Yes. His wife and my mother are sisters. He and my dad were best friends. They'd met in college and joined the CIA together.”

“When did he tell you this?”

“A couple of years ago. He'd just been promoted to an important position in the CIA. He went into the records and found the names of the men who'd killed my dad.”

“How did you get involved in the drug business?”

“I was practicing with a firm in Tampa. Barry suggested that I set up my own shop and work to launder some drug money. The profits from the drug business would be used by Barry to take revenge on the ones who'd killed my dad.”

“How did he plan to get that revenge?”

“I don't know. He never said and I never asked.”

“How did the operation work?”

“Barry said that the Otto Foundation would be the perfect front and since Aunt Maude worked there, maybe we could get her to handle that end of things.”

“Did you talk to your aunt?”

“Yes. Barry and I went to see her in Macon early last year. He'd known her for years. He told her that he now had the documents that
proved that some American soldiers had killed my dad and another CIA man. He wanted her help in getting even.”

“Did you set up the scheme then?”

“No. She wanted time to think about it. She called me a few days later and discussed the procedures, how it would be done. Barry would provide her with a computer whiz who would help her set things up and hack the bank computers.”

“How did it work?”

“The money would go from the foundation to several dummy companies that Barry set up. Then the funds would be wired from those companies into my trust account. I'd then send money back to an account that Barry controlled.”

“What was the money used for?”

“I don't know.”

“Murder?”

“I don't know. I didn't ask, didn't want to know.”