Wildfire (56 page)

"But instead you played with him."

"You mean the silhouette?"

She nodded.

"I wanted to distract him, and I wanted to be sure."

"That he killed the Crowley boy?"

"Yes."

"So, in a manner of speaking, you did set him up."

Lightstone stared into the cool eyes of the prosecuting attorney for a long moment.

"How much of a retainer fee do you usually charge?" he finally asked.

"A beer will do fine."

"You've got yourself a client." And then, after a moment: "And yes, you're right, in a manner of speaking, I probably did set him up."

"You set the stage, but then you gave him a chance to surrender, correct?"

"It was there if he wanted it."

"But he didn't?"

"Either that or he didn't think he could lose," Lightstone said, remembering the chilling expression on the huge man's face when he realized that his beautiful young assistant had changed sides at the last second.

"You said his name was Riser?"

"That's what Maas called him."

"Has anybody figured out how he got involved in all this?"

"Best guess is that he was a hired gun. The question is, for whom? And speaking of which," Lightstone said, looking to change the subject, "who's the guy in the bathrobe?"

"Some hot-shot industrialist named Samuel Tisbury, the CEO of Cyanosphere VIII."

"Cyanosphere? What's that?"

"I don't know, some kind of big international mining outfit." Fletcher shrugged.

"So where does
he
fit into all this?"

"He
claims he doesn't," Fletcher said with an irritated shake of her head. "Or at least not directly. From what I've heard so far, he and his father and some of their wealthy industrialist friends like to meet out here at the family villa every now and then, for some fishing, card playing, and general relaxation. He admits that Alfred Bloom was a part of that group, but he claims to have no idea why anyone would want to kill his father or his son, or any of the others, for that matter."

"So why'd he run?"

"Because at the time, he believed that whoever it was who shot and killed his son would try to kill him too. Which, I suppose, is a reasonable concern, when you stop to think about it," the deputy U.S. attorney added. "He mentioned you guys too. He has no idea why you followed him and his son back to the villa."

"Is he blaming us for the shooting?"

"No, not really, just that he's confused and doesn't understand what's going on."

"Well, if he was so confused, why didn't he stop running—or flying, for that matter—when he saw the FBI choppers?"

"Basically, the same answer. He claims he was trying to keep from being killed and never saw the magnetic signs on the helicopters that said FBI in eighteen-inch-high letters."

"Do you believe that?"

"No, not really. But it's not a question of what I believe," Theresa Fletcher reminded, "it's what I can get a jury to believe. Especially if we're going to try to charge a wealthy industrialist with conspiracy to murder a number of federal agents in a situation where both his father
and
his son were murdered by people intent on killing those same agents."

"It does sound complicated," Lightstone admitted.

"Yes, it does."

"What about Maas and Chareaux? And Operation Counter Wrench?"

"He claims to have no idea what we're talking about."

"Really? Then how did he explain Walter Crane's being here?"

"He says Crane flew out here to meet with Alfred Bloom, who never did show up. He has no idea what their meeting was going to be about, but he does admit to knowing Crane. He also indicated that he and his father have used Little, Warren, Nobles & Kole to represent them in some civil matters."

"So what it all comes down to is that we still have to find Bloom if we're going to make any sense out of all this," Lightstone said glumly.

Theresa Fletcher gave Lightstone a strange look. "Oh, that's right, you don't know about Bloom, do you?"

"Know what?"

"He's dead," the federal prosecutor said.

Henry Lighthouse sagged in the chair.

"How?" he asked.

"Some fisherman found him about a mile off the Hawk's Nest inlet early yesterday morning. According to the Bahamian Defense Force official who responded, it appeared as though Bloom, and a female employee from his yacht dealership named Anne-Marie Sawyers, got their prop caught up in a net, tried to cut it loose, got tangled up themselves, and drowned."

"Hell of a coincidence," Henry Lightstone muttered, numbed and frustrated by the realization that their one solid link to the people who set Operation Counter Wrench into motion had just disappeared.

"Yes, it is. Especially when one of the bodies appears to have been frozen recently and not entirely thawed."

Lightstone turned to the prosecuting attorney, his eyebrows wrinkled in confusion. "What?"

"The girl," Fletcher said. "The coroner's investigator got suspicious when he saw a lot of fresh bruising on Bloom's hands and arms, where it appeared he'd been struggling with the nets, but no such bruising on his companion, even though she was just as badly entangled."

"Suggesting that someone killed her early on, put somebody else on the boat, and then switched back after they did in Bloom," Lightstone nodded thoughtfully.

"You think that's what happened?"

"It's not only likely, but I think I know who the substitute was."

Theresa Fletcher was quiet for a moment, then her head came up.

"You mean the young woman out at the hangar?"

"It would make sense, all the way around," Lightstone nodded.

"Be nice if
something
about this whole deal started making sense," the prosecutor said, "because it gets a whole lot more confusing when you toss in the bodies of four deputy U.S. marshals, and Jason Bascomb . . ."

"Bascomb? What does
he
have to do with all this?"

"Boy, you really
have
been out of things, haven't you?" Theresa Fletcher said, and then began to explain.

A few minutes later Henry Lightstone found himself staring out at the ocean again.

"So this Tisbury character is pretty much our last hope of figuring this whole mess out, isn't he?" he said finally.

"It looks that way." The federal prosecutor nodded.

"Has
he
asked for a lawyer yet?"

"No, amazingly, he hasn't. As a matter of fact, he's been rather insistent in making sure we understand that he wants to cooperate in any way he can, to help us track down and prosecute the people who killed his son and father."

"Of course it's a lot easier being cooperative
and
keeping your story straight if you're the only surviving witness," Lightstone said sarcastically.

"Typical, suspicious-cop attitude."

"Yeah, I know, but I can't help thinking that phone call his son made at the courthouse
must
have had something to do with all this. It's just too much of a coincidence otherwise."

"I have no idea what you're talking about. What phone call?"

Lightstone was halfway through his description of how he'd run into Tisbury's son in the basement of the Arlington courthouse when he realized that Theresa Fletcher had a stunned look on her face.

"That was the phone call I got before you showed up late at my office," she said, blinking her eyes and shaking her head in confusion. "I remember him saying the word
Wildfire,
and also something to the effect that I shouldn't forget I heard it from him first, but what—"

At that moment Mike Takahara came out onto the deck with a big cardboard box in his arms.

"You folks want to hear an interesting story?" he asked, a satisfied expression appearing on his face.

Ten minutes later deputy U.S. Attorney Theresa Fletcher walked back into the living room with the two wildlife agents in her wake. After getting a go-ahead nod from FBI Agent Al Grynard, she approached the living room area where Sam Tisbury and the four supervisory wildlife and FBI agents were sitting.

"Mr. Tisbury," she said, "would you mind if I asked you a few more questions?"

"No, not at all," Tisbury said, gesturing with his hand to one of the empty chairs. "As I've said before, I'll be happy to cooperate with the U.S. Attorney's Office in any way I can."

"Thank you, we appreciate that," the federal prosecutor said as she settled herself down in one of the chairs and then gestured to the two agents. "Mr. Tisbury, this is Henry Lightstone and Mike Takahara. Henry and Mike are Special Agents for the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service."

"Oh, really?" Sam Tisbury said, managing to look appropriately confused. "But I thought—"

"That he and the other two men ran a charter fishing boat? That was a cover they were using as a part of their investigation."

"I see." The industrialist nodded with a neutral expression on his face.

"There are some things we've collected here at the villa as evidence that we'd like to show you," Theresa Fletcher went on, and then nodded to Mike Takahara, who reached into the cardboard box.

"I found this nylon bag in the back bedroom," Takahara said, holding up the bright, distinctively colored bag, "and I was wondering if you knew whom it belonged to."

"No, I'm sorry, but I don't believe I've ever seen it before," Sam Tisbury said, shaking his head.

Mike Takahara nodded as if he had expected that answer. "Presumably it was brought to the villa by one of the men involved in the shootings," the tech agent said. "Some of the contents are fairly interesting." He reached into the back and brought out what appeared to be five short pieces of chrome steel pipe wired together, with manila tags on each piece.

"As best I can tell right now," Takahara said, "these are replacement barrels for a 10mm Model 1076 Smith & Wesson semiautomatic pistol, which is the duty weapon issued to special agents of the Federal Bureau of Investigation
and
the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service. My suspicion is that these gun barrels—all of which, by the way, appear to have gunpowder residues in the bores—were used to kill a number of people and then intended to be placed in the weapons of the agents named on the manila tags. Those names being"—Takahara held up the ring so that he could read the tags—"Paxton, Lightstone, Takahara, Stoner . . . and Grynard," he added with a slight smile as he looked over at the seemingly startled FBI agent.

"I don't understand what this has to do with anything here," Sam Tisbury said, looking just as confused and puzzled as Grynard, "other than the fairly obvious fact that these criminals, whoever they are, were planning on making it appear that—uh—you and your fellow agents and, I guess, agent Grynard here were involved in the killings."

"Exactly." Mike Takahara nodded. "Then I found this."

He reached into the bag again and brought out a small portable computer.

"A computer?" Tisbury said.

"Actually a very special computer/' the tech agent said. He turned the computer on its side, carefully removed a small square piece of clear plastic from one of the connecting ports, and then held it up for everyone to see.

"What's that?" Grynard asked.

"It's the end of a connecting cord for a modem," Takahara said. "And if I send it to the Boston crime lab, I think there's a pretty decent chance that they're going to be able to match it up with a broken connector cord that agent Lightstone and I found in a hotel room where a young man named William Devonshire Crowley was murdered. Which ought to make your buddy Rico pretty happy," Takahara added, looking over at Lightstone.

"Yeah, I expect it will." Lightstone nodded, watching Tisbury's face closely now.

Mike Takahara turned his attention back to the still puzzled industrialist.

"Apparently this William Devonshire Crowley and your son Eric knew each other," the tech agent said. "Or at least we can assume that, based on a twelve-hundred-and-thirteen byte E-mail message that Crowley apparendy tried to send to an Eric Tisbury, but apparently hit the wrong key and saved the message in this computer's hard drive instead of sending it. I'm assuming
that
too, based upon the fact that when I checked with the network that the computer was programmed to use, the system operators informed me that a twelve-hundred-and-thirteen byte message has never been sent through that account.

"Oh, I suppose I should explain," Takahara added, "that based on the way this computer was programmed, it's pretty obvious that Crowley didn't know much about computers or computer programs."

"So one of Eric's friends was murdered too, and his computer was stolen," Tisbury said, still looking puzzled. "I'm afraid I still don't understand—"

Then the industrialist blinked as the tech agent lifted something else from the cardboard box.

"What are you doing with that?" he demanded.

"Actually, I was about to ask you the same question," the tech agent said as he carefully held up a polished and hinged wooden box that was about eight inches square and sixteen inches long.

Placing it on the coffee table, he opened the box and cautiously removed a metal cylinder approximately six inches in diameter and twelve inches long, with extended one-inch knobs at both ends. The entire cylinder was covered with a chemically etched brown-and-green camouflage pattern.

"You took that out of my room."

"Yes, that's right." Mike Takahara nodded, meeting the industrialist's accusing glare.

Tisbury turned to Al Grynard. "I'm not sure that I like—" he started to say, but the supervisory FBI agent held up a cautionary hand.

"Mr. Tisbury," he said in a professionally controlled manner, "with all due respect to your father and your son, several people were murdered in this villa, which, as far as I'm concerned, makes this entire residence a crime scene."

"Yes, I realize that, and I don't mean this the way I'm sure it sounds, but surely the FBI has no jurisdiction to investigate a homicide in the Bahamas," Tisbury said.

"No, of course not." Grynard nodded. "However, the FBI
does
have a mutual assistance agreement with the Royal Bahamas Defense Force, and as a result of that agreement, the FBI has a special task force working in the area. Special Agent Hal Owens over here"—Grynard nodded toward the supervisory agent—"is in charge of that task force. Which, as I understand the agreement, fully authorizes agent Owens and any federal agents under his command to take suspects into custody and preserve evidence until a Bahamian officer can arrive at the scene."