The Kill Order (20 page)

The first thing she did was set the phone to silent. Then she thought about texting Lisette’s number, but had no idea if she was even in Venice yet. The
carabinieri
officer, Giustino, would probably be the better option. Closer. He’d given her his business card. She closed her eyes, pictured the card, saw the number in her mind, and sent him a text: “Don’t know where I am. They killed the man who took me. I’m hiding in the wardrobe upstairs.”

33

Washington, D.C.

S
ydney woke up in an empty bed, her head aching, probably from the late night brandy and not enough rest, and was trying to justify how it was she’d let herself sleep with Griffin. She told herself it was to eradicate him from her system, and that the only reason she wanted him to begin with was that he was the forbidden fruit. But the vivid memory of their lovemaking was potent, the craving for more far too strong. Had he walked in at that moment, she would have dragged him back to bed.

That was something she couldn’t do. They had issues. Big issues.

She needed a clear head, definitely a cold shower, and she forced herself to get up, then walked into the bathroom and saw the steam on the mirror. Apparently he’d already showered before he’d left, whether to avoid seeing her or to give her a few minutes to herself, she wasn’t sure. By the time she got out, he was back, holding two steaming mugs of coffee.

There was an awkward moment of silence as she stood in the bathroom doorway, neither of them knowing quite what to say. “Coffee,” was what came out of her mouth, while her brain was thinking something completely different, and entirely sexual.

He set her mug on the dresser. “I’d have brought you something to eat, but I wasn’t sure what you’d want. There’s food in the sitting room.”

“My head is pounding.”

“The coffee should help. I can check downstairs for aspirin.”

“I have some.”

He nodded, his gaze flicking to the bed, then back to her. And as if he sensed her discomfort, he moved to the door. “I should go. They’re waiting for us in the sitting room.”

“How’s Donovan?” she asked.

“Bruised, but he’ll survive. Bring your coffee, we have some planning to do before we leave this morning.”

She grabbed the yellow pad she’d brought from home, along with the coffee mug, then followed Griffin into the sitting room where Donovan and Izzy were waiting. There was a basket of cranberry orange muffins on the table, and she took one, pleased to discover they were still warm, the tops delicately crisp with a crust of sugar, and the inside moist and fragrant with orange zest.

“They’re great,” Izzy said, opening his laptop and setting it on the table. “The couch was even pretty comfortable. Slept like a baby. How about you?”

Sydney, her mouth full of muffin, looked up, realized he was talking to her, and the only thing she could think of was sex. With Griffin. The temperature of the room seemed to rise several degrees and she was certain her cheeks had turned a deep red.

“Fine,” she said, the word coming out more like a croak as the muffin seized in her throat. She grabbed her coffee, took a sip, trying not to notice Donovan’s amused gaze bouncing from her to Griffin, who seemed fascinated with the wood grain on the tabletop. Izzy, at least, appeared clueless, his attention now on his computer. “The bed was fine,” she added, once she could speak again.

“Let’s get started,” Griffin said, drawing everyone’s attention to more important matters.

Donovan gave a slight cough. “Good idea. Since we no longer have the file, we’re going to have to start from scratch with what we do know.”

Izzy turned the laptop around so they could see the headlines on the Web site. “Looks like someone broke into the
Washington Recorder
last night and murdered two guards.”

Sydney read the article, her stomach knotting with each word, expecting to see her name as well as Griffin’s and Donovan’s. But none of them was mentioned. “They used your gun,” she said to Griffin. “I thought for sure they’d list you as a suspect—”

“They can’t come out and say it was us without saying what
they
were doing there. The ballistics will come back to my weapon soon enough, which I’m sure is what they’re counting on.”

Izzy’s foot started tapping. “Maybe we were a little too thorough in eliminating that video surveillance.”

“Can’t be helped,” Griffin said. “Our best bet is exposing Parker Kane before that happens. And anyone else he’s working with.”

“Which would be who?” Donovan asked. “Every time we eliminate one of these guys, there’s another one taking his place. It wasn’t quite the job security I was thinking of when I signed up.”

Sydney brushed the crumbs from the table in front of her to clear the spot for her pad of paper. “We need to be logical about this. What we know—at least what I know is that this all started when Orozco and my father stole this list, code, whatever it is, presumably from Wingman and Wingman.”

And she wrote: “#1. Theft. W2.”

Then, poising her pen over the paper, said, “Anyone else?”

“The Devil’s Key,” Donovan said.

“The what?”

“That,” Griffin said, “is the name of the code your father and Orozco stole. What Orozco gave to you when you found him in Mexico.”

“Oh.” She looked down at the paper, thinking the name rather apropos, considering. “And what does it do?”

Griffin looked at Donovan, but neither man said anything.

“For God’s sake,” she said. “They’re already trying to kill us over the thing. I think the rules go out the window at this point, don’t you?”

“Izzy’s here.”

Izzy looked up from his computer screen. “Huh? Are you serious? Who
doesn’t
know what it does. One of the greatest conspiracy theories of . . . I don’t know. The last couple decades, I guess. It’s a case management software called SINS commissioned by the government, stolen, actually, because they never paid the developers. Only it was enhanced with a back door so that anyone running it can be spied on.”

“That’s it?”

“Isn’t that enough?” Griffin asked her.

“No. Even I’ve heard of that. Wasn’t Canada involved? The whole thing blew up when they started investigating that they were being spied on. It just sort of died, didn’t it?”

“It died because the government did everything in its power to make sure it was relegated to conspiracy theory. They sent out a security patch to close the back door to any countries using the software, and made sure that any remaining keys were destroyed.”

The thought that her father had been involved in the theft of this Devil’s Key sickened her. And though she wanted to believe that maybe he and Orozco had stolen it to keep it safe, protect the government, she knew it wasn’t true. Orozco had told her otherwise, and everything she’d learned about her father since had confirmed it.

She leaned back in her chair, trying to remember all that Orozco had talked about when she’d found him in Ensenada, because there was still some element about this she felt she was missing. “Orozco told me the government was trying to whitewash it. But there has to be something more to this.”

“What more do you want?” Griffin replied. “Enemy countries learning that the U.S. sold them software so they could be spied on? Seems pretty cut and dried to me.”

“Why not just have them remove the program? That’s what I would do. Why run around and kill a bunch of people? We’re missing something. I know it.”

“What else did Orozco tell you?” Griffin asked.

“Mostly he thought it was related to the BICTT banking scandal, and BICTT’s Black Network having ties to the government . . . And the information from those numbers would literally cripple corporate America and end treaties with a number of countries.”

“Which fits with what we know about it. No one likes spies in their midst.”

“He also said it was the tip of the iceberg. That about covers it.”

“So write down BICTT, the Network, and corporate America.”

“Which tells us the Network and W2 have to be related.” She added Orozco’s information to the list.

“Except,” Donovan said, “BICTT was closed down.”

“The investors’ money,” Sydney replied, “was never recovered. Millions upon millions of dollars still out there.”

Griffin eyed the list Sydney was making. “The BICTT money is finite. Hard to believe it didn’t end up in the Network’s coffers anyway.”

“Again my point in why are they so hot to get this thing?”

She stared at the pad, trying to think what she was missing, what he wasn’t telling her about the program, when her gaze caught on the torn edge at the top. That was the page of notes she’d ripped off the day her apartment was searched.

They hadn’t taken the pad during the search—the pad she’d just written all over.

Twice after she’d completed a sketch for Griffin, he’d confiscated her entire sketchbook, on the off chance someone could re-create the sketch by using the sheet below . . .

How had she not remembered that?

Because she wasn’t thinking of sketches.

“I need a pencil.”

Izzy tossed her his, and she held it so the lead was flat against the paper, lightly rubbing it across the surface.

“What . . .” Griffin leaned forward to see what she was doing.

“This is the pad of paper I used to write the list of names from those files Scotty gave me, and that Pearson confiscated.” Within a short time she had the column of names covered. Unfortunately she had written across half of them, but she thought she still could make some out. “Some of these people we know about. My father, Orozco. But some of them I have no idea who they are.”

“We look them up,” Donovan said. “Never too late to reopen an investigation. Just gotta figure a way to do it without an electronic trail. Maybe through old phone books and microfiched news articles at the main library. One that isn’t connected to the Internet.”

“That will take forever to go through. The Internet would be much faster.”

“There’s four of us,” Izzy said. “Divide and conquer. The library in Washington, D.C., still has a large microfiche file of past newspaper articles. It’s electronic, but not on the Internet. I have a feeling most of what we want to look up is not going to be recent stuff.”

He was right about that. They spent the next couple of hours at the library, reading archived newspaper articles on the names. It wasn’t too long before Sydney noticed a pattern with each name she’d written down. Every one of them had died an unnatural death.

Between the suicides, car accidents, and small planes going down, there wasn’t one person on there who was alive.

“Now what?” Sydney asked, feeling close to defeat.

“Easy,” Donovan said. “We do what Orozco did. Move to Mexico.”

Griffin was sitting across the table from her and Donovan, and he looked up from the article he was reading. “Maybe not. I remember this case.” He slid it across the table toward them. “John Hettinger. Investigative journalist who committed suicide about eighteen years ago. He, apparently, was looking into the suicide of White House deputy counsel Gannon Ferris, and thought there was some sort of conspiracy with tentacles reaching deep into the government.”

“How does this help us?” Sydney asked. “He’s dead.”

“He left behind a wife.”

“What’s she going to tell us that she hasn’t told someone else?”

“Hard to say unless we ask. But there’s an interesting quote at the end of this article. Hettinger was allegedly on antidepressants, and at first his wife denied that was true.”

“At first?”

“Apparently she changed her mind.”

“Someone got to her.”

“Exactly. And if we’re lucky, nearly two decades of being left alone might get her to tell us why she recanted.”

34

L
ydia Hettinger was not listed in the phone book, nor was she still living in the home she’d shared with her late husband. They were able, however, to track her down by contacting the neighbors, one of whom had kept in touch with her over the years and provided an address as well as her new name, Lydia Hettinger Walton. Sydney and Griffin went to interview her, while Izzy and Donovan continued the research to see what else they might find.

As Griffin was pulling up in front of the house, Lydia Hettinger Walton was backing out of her driveway. She was younger than Sydney expected, late forties, which meant she’d been a young woman at the time of her husband’s death. Griffin followed her car, a gray Mercedes, to a school about two miles away. He parked in the slot next to hers. “Might be less intimidating if you approach her,” he said.

Sydney got out, followed the woman toward the school office doors, where two preteen girls, both blond like Lydia, exited and walked toward her. It appeared as though school had been out for a while, since there were very few cars in the lot.

“Lydia?”

The blond woman looked back, saw Sydney, and gave a polite but vacant smile.

“Sorry to bother you, but do you have a moment?”

“I’m heading into town. What’s this in regards to?”

“A case from almost twenty years ago.”

Lydia’s gaze flicked to her children, then back to Sydney. “Who are you?”

“I’m with the FBI.”

“ID?”

Sydney pulled out her credentials from her pants pocket, noticing that Lydia stood firmly between her and the girls as they walked toward her, making sure they couldn’t see.

She examined the identification, seemed to think about it for a moment, then handed her keys to one of her daughters. “Go wait in the car. I’ll be right there.” When they left, she said, “I need to drop them off at tutoring. I can give you five minutes.”

“Thank you.” Griffin joined them. “He’s with me,” Sydney said, when Lydia turned suddenly wary at his presence.

“Is this really necessary after all this time? My daughters know nothing about my first husband’s suicide and I’d like to keep it that way.”

“Are you sure it was a suicide?” Griffin asked.

Lydia stared at them for several seconds. “You can’t be serious?”

“We are.”

“After all the evidence your agency bombarded me with to convince me it was?”

Sydney had to decide what to tell her, and settled on the truth, even if it meant it would shut down any chance of learning her side of the story. “We’re not investigating officially.”

“Then what are you doing?”

“I think your husband was writing about a case that my father was involved in. And when I read that he’d committed suicide, I realized I needed to know if that’s what really happened.”

“John had a very fanciful imagination. I think when he was finally faced with the realities, that all these things he had conjured up led nowhere, it was too much for him.”

“What if they were true?”

Lydia’s mouth parted, but then she clamped it shut, and turned away. When she looked back at Sydney, she said, “I’ve remarried. I have a family that I don’t want involved in this. I’ve moved on. You should, too.”

“I can’t. I believe there’s more to this than what’s been released to the public.”

“You work for the government. You do realize that?”

“Yes. And I believe in the government I work for. I just don’t always trust it.”

Lydia held her gaze for several seconds. “I’m sorry. I can’t help you.”

Sydney nodded. Then, handing her a business card, said, “If you change your mind, leave a message on my voice mail.”

She and Griffin turned away, started walking toward the car, when Lydia called out to them. “Why would my late husband have been interested in your father?”

“My father stole something that the government wanted back.”

“And what are you looking for?”

“Answers.”

Lydia’s eyes shimmered, as though she knew what that meant, the need, the desire to find out why something bad had happened. “I can meet for coffee.”

Sydney nodded. “When?”

She gave the cross streets of a coffee shop, saying, “In half an hour.”

“I’ll be there. Thank you.”

F
orty minutes later, Lydia still hadn’t shown up and Sydney told herself that was to be expected. After all, who would want to relive one’s husband’s suicide? “How long do you think we should wait?” she asked Griffin.

“I’d say as long as it takes, but given the lethal outcomes of everyone else involved in this case, and the fact we’ve been followed before, I’d be more comfortable knowing she’s safe.”

“What do you want to do?”

He looked at his watch. “You stay here. I’m going to drive past her house, just to make sure nothing’s amiss.”

He left. Twenty minutes later, Sydney walked out, tossing her coffee into the trash, wondering where Griffin was, and disappointed that Lydia had failed to show. Lydia was the last link. There were no other names, she thought, as a vehicle pulled up alongside her.

“Ms. Fitzpatrick?”

Sydney turned, saw Lydia Hettinger Walton behind the wheel. A different car, she noted. This one a white Ford. “Hi.”

“I thought we could go for a drive? Alone.”

Sydney eyed the vehicle, then looked around the lot, trying to decide if this was a wise course of action. Where the hell was Griffin? Getting into a stranger’s car was not something she usually did. But in this case, her desire for answers outweighed her reticence.

And her gun at her side helped tip the scales.

“Sure.” Sydney walked over to Lydia’s vehicle, getting in.

“I’m sorry about being late, but I had to be sure that you were alone.”

“I am.”

“Never mind I changed my mind. Several times in fact.”

“Why?”

Lydia glanced over at her, then back at the road. “It’s been nearly twenty years. I’ve remarried, put that part of my life away. It’s not something I wanted to revisit.”

And that Sydney understood. “Where are we going?”

“There’s a park I want you to see. My husband—first husband—felt that there were a lot of inconsistencies in a story he was investigating, and this park is where it all started.”

Sydney’s curiosity was piqued. She wasn’t aware of what particular case John Hettinger had been looking into at the time of his death that had to do with a park. “I appreciate you taking the time.”

“So why now? No one’s contacted me in forever. After the official statements came out, the newspaper articles, the magazines searching for sensationalistic conspiracies that never materialized, why now?”

Since Sydney wasn’t prepared for a cross-examination, she wasn’t even sure what to say. There was so much she
couldn’t
say, but she knew she had to tell this woman something, especially if she wanted her cooperation.

Partial truths were better than lies, and so she decided to mention the only thing she knew was in the public domain. “My father was murdered around the same time that your husband died. I started looking into it and found that he was involved with some people who may have crossed paths with your late husband. Every time I turn around, there are more questions than answers, and I’m just not sure what to believe anymore.” She glanced out the window, trying not to think about her own father, the things she remembered, the hurt and confusion when she discovered he was not the man she thought she knew. For so long she wanted to discover he had been wrongly accused, and yet the deeper she dug, the guiltier he became. “I found your name, saw what your husband was looking into before he allegedly committed suicide, and I had to wonder if any of what I’ve been told is true.”

“Who was your father?”

“Kevin Fitzpatrick. I think he may have been more on the fringes of whatever this was that your husband was looking into. Honestly, though, I don’t know.”

Lydia took the freeway, eventually crossed the Potomac into Virginia, then drove for several minutes along the George Washington Memorial Parkway, eventually exiting into an area known as Fort Marcy Park. “This is where it started.”

“Where what started?”

“Another suicide. The one that got my husband involved. He believed it was a murder and started investigating. I’ll show you where.”

They got out, and Lydia led her along a path through a heavily wooded area of the park. She stopped, pointed down a low hill. “That’s where Gannon Ferris killed himself.”

“Ferris?” she prodded, as though unfamiliar with the case.

“Deputy White House counsel. You would have been too young to remember.” She looked over at Sydney. “What are you? Early thirties? Well, twenty years ago, Gannon Ferris allegedly drove into this park, leaving his vehicle where mine is now, walked down that hill, and shot himself. The only problem is that nothing added up. When they found him, his car keys were not in his pocket. His car was up here, but the keys weren’t in it, either, because the people who killed him forgot that tiny little detail. And yet the keys mysteriously showed up in his pocket at the morgue after a couple of White House employees paid a visit. That never sat well with my husband, and so he started looking into it.”

“Did he say why he thought Ferris was killed?”

“Because he knew too much.”

“About what?”

“
That
is the question, isn’t it? My husband didn’t share with me what he was looking into, I think because he knew the dangers. And in the end, he told me that if anyone asked me what I knew, it was important for me to say I knew nothing. Honestly, I thought he was blowing this all up.” She crossed her arms as a breeze picked up, her blond hair blowing about her face. “The day before my husband died, he was supposed to be meeting with someone who had the answers. He said that there were tentacles reaching deep into the government, and this witness was going to blow it wide open. He was excited. He said it would make Watergate look like petty crimes in comparison.”

She gave a cynical laugh. “He was sure that this was worthy of a Pulitzer. As did every journalist after him who started looking into
his
suicide.” When she turned toward Sydney, her eyes were cold, determined. “After he died, I was like you with your father. I wanted answers. I knew he wouldn’t kill himself. Someone that excited about a story doesn’t just sit down in his motel room the next day, pull out a razor, and slice his wrists. I’ve since abandoned the notion of ever getting answers, and I have refused all requests for interviews since.”

“Why?”

“Because the law enforcement officials have wrapped it up so tightly, there is no other explanation but suicide. And the few who dared venture further into it? Their careers were ruined, and as far as I know, they’re all dead.” She reached out, touched Sydney’s arm. “If you want my advice? Do what I did. Walk away while you still can. Tuck that part of your life away and never revisit. It will only bring pain.”

“I’m not sure I can do that.”

“I wasn’t sure, either. But now that I’ve remarried, and have children, I find it much easier. I have them to think of.”

She looked up at the sky, at a bird flying past beneath a canopy of gray clouds. After several seconds of silence, she turned back to Sydney. “We should go. I promised the girls I’d take them for ice cream after their tutoring is over.”

The drive back was made in silence, and just as Sydney got out of the car, Lydia handed her an envelope. “As painful as it was to make the decision, I’ve moved on. Please don’t contact me again.”

She drove off before Sydney had a chance to thank her, or even look inside the envelope. Griffin pulled into the lot after she left.

“Where were you?” Sydney asked.

“Following Lydia. I was curious when she switched vehicles, then sat in some parking lot up the road for a while. What happened?”

“She said her husband was investigating the suicide of Gannon Ferris at that park. And then she gave me this.” Sydney opened it and found a newspaper article about a civil lawsuit against Wingman and Wingman and the U.S. government. Apparently a small IT company called CalDorTek in California allegedly designed a computer program for a law firm also located in California. The program was sold to the U.S. government as a case management system by a former employee of the law firm, who coincidentally ended up working for Wingman and Wingman, resulting in a civil suit, because the IT company believed they were owed royalties.

She gave the article to Griffin to read. “It certainly looks related to me,” she said when he’d finished. “They’re clearly talking about the SINS program.”

“Yes. Just not that Gannon’s alleged suicide was connected to the civil suit.”

“Obviously we need to contact this IT company.”

“First, we make sure it’s still in business. Last thing we need is for someone to know we’re running the name, then have the owner end up dead. Or us. But neither do I want to fly all the way out to California if they’re no longer there.”

“I’ll call Doc. If anyone knows a way to find this out without running it on a computer, he will.”

Michael “Doc” Schermer was an FBI agent who worked out of the San Francisco field office. Like Carillo, he was one of the few people who actually knew about ATLAS and the cases they worked. What made Doc the go-to man was his specialty in digging up obscure information culled from the Internet. This time, though, they’d need it searched the old-fashioned way, by hand.