The Collective (11 page)

A crayon-orange convertible VW bug drove by and she stared for a moment at the silver-haired AARP member behind the wheel, then she raised her iced coffee in a silent toast. The sixtyish guy was tan and smiling, the picture of relaxation, and she envied him his contentment.

She marched across the road and up the drive. The hotel’s electric doors whooshed aside to let her enter and the rush of cold, air-conditioned air seemed to reach out and carry her inside.

Uniformed police officers were locked in grim conversation, all of them under orders to avoid looking amused by anything, just in case reporters showed up. And Voss had no doubt the media would begin arriving soon enough. Despite instructions to the contrary, someone would leak the location of their command center before long. In fact, she would bet somebody already had.

“Good morning, Agent Voss,” a state trooper said stiffly, nodding to her as she passed.

She gave him a sort of salute with her cup and kept walking. Most of the local police and a large number of Staties were in the field, following up on leads provided by the Bureau, which meant that the people lingering around the lobby of the hotel were mostly assistants and aides and other sorts of lackeys. Voss sighed in disgust, seeing no point in this waste of manpower.

The ice shifted in her cup and she took a long sip, wanting to finish the coffee before it became watered-down.

A junior FBI agent waited in the first-floor corridor outside the hotel conference room, looking like a high school kid sent to the principal’s office. When Voss approached, he eyed her suspiciously. She took out her ID, flashing it at him as she reached by and turned the knob, pushing the door open.

“It’s real,” she told the guy. “And you should know by instinct who belongs on the other side of the door and who doesn’t.”

The young FBI agent frowned at this suggestion in the same way that teenagers did, thinking that a woman perhaps
a decade older could not possibly have any counsel to share. It was an arrogance she had seen many times before, most especially in the mirror when she had come out of Quantico. But this kid would learn quickly. They all did.

The agent stepped aside and Voss entered. The conference room was filled with the smell of brewing coffee, and she spotted an urn on a sideboard laden with dishes of pastries, fresh cut fruit, and bagels. But for now, her own caffeine would do.

Files littered the conference table. Maps and photos had been taped to a couple of whiteboards that normally would have been used for business presentations instead of a quadruple homicide with potential terrorist connections.

There were half a dozen people in the room, including the heavyset, white-haired Florida state trooper she had seen the night before, two FBI agents sorting files, and the tall African-American guy who had been talking to Turcotte last night. The only difference was that today he was in uniform. She had guessed right; he was with SOCOM, and his stripes gave him away as a lieutenant. The other two people were in the back of the room, talking quietly as they leaned against the wall.

She wondered how Josh was faring with Nala Chang. The way the two of them had been talking together last night, right before their plane had taken off for Maine, had drawn Voss’s attention. Josh and Chang didn’t really know each other, but there had already been a kind of intimacy in their rapport. The thought made her uneasy.

One of the FBI agents, Michael Koenig, looked up from the files and nodded in greeting. “You didn’t have to go out. We have coffee.”

“But not the ‘world’s biggest cup of iced coffee.’ Ed Turcotte’s hospitality can’t compete. Speaking of … where is he?”

Agent Koenig gestured toward the conference room door. “He’s reaming out the locals. Seems their chief has an interview scheduled with CNN later this morning. Guess the chief sees this as his fifteen minutes and doesn’t want it cut short.”

Voss frowned. “I was wondering why we aren’t already swarming with media.”

Koenig’s upper lip curled in disgust. “They know we’re here, but they’re all reporting live from the site. It’s more horrifying to their viewers to see the scene of the crime. But don’t worry, we’ll be crawling with them soon enough.”

“Lovely,” Voss said. She glanced at the lieutenant, who had served himself a plate of fruit. “You know, I’m still not sure what brought SOCOM to the party.”

The lieutenant paused with his fork halfway to his mouth, a piece of honeydew speared on its tines. After a moment’s hesitation, he set the plate down and the fork on top of it, stepped over to her, and held out his hand.

“Marc Arsenault,” he said, surprising her by not leading with his rank.

“Rachael Voss, ICD,” she said, shaking his hand.

“You’re right to wonder, Agent Voss,” Lieutenant Arsenault said. “It’s unusual for SOCOM to express any official interest in a domestic crime, even considering that the victim was a highly respected member of our armed forces. That’s why there’s nothing official about my presence. I’m here purely as an observer. If a decorated U.S. Army officer was targeted by foreign interests, whether they’re terrorists or just mad dog killers, SOCOM wants to know who and why. But you don’t need to worry about whether we’re cooperating.”

“Understood, Lieutenant,” Voss said. “Though it could be the FBI will need your help with other known associates once they have legit ID on these guys. Even if SOCOM’s not officially in the picture, that doesn’t mean we can’t all cooperate.”

Lieutenant Arsenault nodded, but before he could reply, she added, “What confuses me is what Black Pine is doing here.”

The lieutenant cocked his head, looking apologetic. “They’re consultants.”

“Yes, but someone must have asked for the consultation. According to SSA Turcotte, it wasn’t the FBI, and we know it wasn’t the Florida State Police. So who called them?”

“I don’t know,” Arsenault replied.

“Someone did,” Agent Koenig said. “He’s got clearance to be here and we have orders to keep him in the loop.”

Voss didn’t like that. Black Pine were civilians. They didn’t have to follow the same rules that the government and law enforcement did.

The door to the conference room opened and they all looked up to see Ed Turcotte entering. He had a laptop under one arm and the moment Voss caught his eye, she knew that something had changed. He had a lead on the case.

“Gather ’round, kiddies,” Turcotte said.

He set the laptop on the conference table, opened it, and tapped a button to make it come to life. While the screen lit up, he went back to the door and made sure it was tightly shut, then looked around the room as if confirming there wasn’t anyone there he didn’t want present. He seemed to hesitate on Lieutenant Arsenault.

Then a single knock came at the door and Norris entered. Turcotte’s eyes narrowed. He obviously would have preferred not to have someone from Black Pine in the room, but he wasn’t going to throw Norris out, which meant he had specific orders not to do so.

“What’s going on, Ed?” Voss asked.

“As you know, we have names on all four of our local suspects, but they’re just aliases. Or they were. But now we’ve got a positive ID on our babynapper up in Maine,” Turcotte said as they all gathered around to get a view of the laptop screen.

“The Amber Alert for the baby has prompted the usual calls, but nothing concrete yet,” Turcotte continued, glancing at Voss. “But Homeland Security has confirmed that the man in Bangor is definitely one of the guys who toured the Greenlaws’ house.”

“That’s not news,” a heavyset state trooper said.

Turcotte silenced him with a look that said he was dubious about allowing state law enforcement to take part in the investigation in the first place. Voss had no love for Turcotte, but she felt the same.

“We had grainy video before, and stills made from that. Now we’ve got confirmation from our analysts that it’s the same guy. Better yet, we’ve got a name, and we think it’s his
real one. Or, at least, the one he’s known by in the places that evil bastards gather.”

He bent over, tapped a couple of buttons, and brought up the familiar grainy video showing the dark-haired man attacking the young mother in Bangor and snatching the infant car seat from her hand.

“That was last night,” Turcotte said. “We’ve had our people working on it since then.” He closed the screen and clicked on a different file. “Have a look at this.”

The second version had been cleaned up considerably, the size and clarity of the image enhanced, and it had been slowed down.

“Gharib al-Din,” Norris said.

Turcotte gave him a sharp look. “That’s right.”

Voss stared at him. “You knew who this guy was all along?”

“No,” Norris said. “The video footage was too corrupted to get a decent look at him, both in Maine and at the realtor’s office here. He could’ve been anyone. But my people have been working on this, too, and Gharib al-Din is known to us. According to our research, it’s his real name.”

All eyes looked to Turcotte then, and Voss saw his upper lip twitch with barely concealed fury. She decided it might be best for her to speak up first, before Turcotte did something to get himself into trouble. That was the whole point of her being there after all. Troubleshooting.

“By ‘we,’ I assume you mean Black Pine,” Voss said.

“I thought I recognized him but I didn’t want to say anything until I was sure. Black Pine has a file on him.”

Turcotte nodded, his eyes clouded with distrust. “I’m going to need that file.”

“Pertinent details are encrypted and on their way to you,” Norris said. “Probably already in your e-mail in-box.”

Voss stared at the two men. The subordinates in the room had the sense to look away, and it seemed Lieutenant Arsenault was making good on his promise to only observe.

“Explain ‘pertinent details,’ ” Voss said.

A look of irritation flashed on Norris’s face. “It means exactly what you think it means, Agent Voss. Black Pine’s files
are extensive. All of the details we think will be helpful to your investigation have been provided.”

Turcotte laughed. “Mr. Norris, you’re a civilian. You don’t get to tell the U.S. government what is and isn’t pertinent to an FBI investigation.”

Norris picked a piece of lint from the lapel of his charcoal black suit jacket. “Actually, Agent Turcotte, we do. We’re a multi-national corporation, and our clients depend upon us to provide discretion in all matters. The information we have sent you is a courtesy. Anything else would require a subpoena. And, as I’m sure you can imagine, any attempt to secure one would turn into a circus that would be embarrassing for you and still would not provide the further contents of that file, or anything else we don’t wish to provide.” He gave a small bow of his head. “Just to be clear, sir.”

“You want clear?” Turcotte said. “How’s this—”

“SSA Turcotte,” Voss interrupted, “why don’t we focus on the case for the moment? If Gharib al-Din helped commit a quadruple murder in Fort Myers the night before last, what was he doing in Bangor yesterday?”

Voss glanced at Arsenault, but the lieutenant seemed only to be waiting for the answers the same as everyone else. Norris had a smug look on his face that she wanted to erase with a baseball bat.

“That is the question of the day,” Turcotte agreed. “If we can find the answer, we may be able to figure out how to track these bastards.”

Voss opened her hands. “Just tell us how we can help. You’re in charge of this investigation, Ed. Utilize all the resources you have, and if you need more, Homeland Security will provide them.”

Turcotte nodded his thanks. They both knew that it might be his investigation, but it was Voss who held the real power in the room. And then, of course, there was the wild card—Black Pine.

“As for you, Mr. Norris,” Voss continued, “I know I can speak for us all when I say that we appreciate Black Pine’s assistance. And I know that we can count on your further
assistance, even if Homeland Security must get directly involved with Black Pine’s management. After all, the U.S. government is, I believe, your biggest customer. And the customer is always right.”

Before Norris could reply, the conference room door swung open and a young Florida state trooper stepped in, excited and anxious.

“Agent Turcotte,” the trooper said. “We’ve got one. Karim al-Jubouri.”

“What do you mean, you’ve got him?” Turcotte demanded.

“Locals picked him up in Sarasota. Routine traffic stop,” the trooper said, grinning like a kid.

“You’re shitting me,” Turcotte said.

“No, sir. Captain Wetherell’s already on his way. The Sarasota P.D. has been notified to do nothing until you arrive.”

Voss turned to Turcotte and found herself grinning at him. They weren’t friends, but they both wanted the killers caught—and fast. Now maybe they would get some answers.

“Let’s go get him,” Turcotte said, starting for the door.

She let him lead the way.

Weekend mornings in the summertime, the highways north and south of Boston were jammed with people headed to Maine or New Hampshire or out to Cape Cod for vacation. Fridays were even worse, with the folks headed out of town just for the weekend. But getting
into
Boston on a Sunday morning in August was like driving through one of those post-apocalyptic movies. Last-woman-on-Earth kind of stuff.