Breach of Power (15 page)

J
ake had
time to study the traffic cam videos on the flight from D.C. to Charleston. Fontaine emailed the two videos to Jake after he dropped off the information packet at the Commonwealth penthouse. The entrance to the cemetery, as he was now aware, was never locked leaving access to the graveyard 24/7. The perimeter, a 6-foot high stone, masonry wall, along with several locked gates allowed for only a single point of entry and exit after regular hours. And, whether by design or not, was monitored by a traffic camera mounted at the entrance.

The City of Charleston had installed the cameras nearly three years ago when they installed the traffic signal at the entrance because of the heavy amount of traffic on the major artery leading in and out of town.

The camera didn't catch a shot of the driver as she entered the cemetery, only the vehicle and a clear shot of the tag. According to the time stamp, Ashley Regan's rented Chevy Impala entered the cemetery at 1:43 a.m. and exited at 2:29 a.m.

Forty-six minutes. Longer than he had originally thought.

It seemed to add an extra element of peculiarity to the event. First of all, who visits a relative's grave during those hours of the morning? He'd visited his own relatives' graves before and couldn't imagine staying for 46 minutes regardless of the time of day…or night. On the other hand, 46 minutes didn't seem like enough time to dig up a casket either.

Another oddity, he thought, was the fact that as she left the cemetery, the camera clearly showed two occupants in the front seat of the Impala. Two faces looking directly at the camera, eyes glowing green in the infrared picture. Both women.

Jake opened up the file Fontaine had prepared for him. Inside, a full background on Ashley Regan. He stared at the photo of her face. Then he looked at the still frame infrared shot of the two faces that the traffic cam captured through the Impala's windshield while the car was stopped at the cemetery exit traffic signal. No doubt about it, the driver of the Impala was Ashley Regan.

He flipped through the file and found Regan's address, pulled a handheld GPS unit from his backpack and loaded the address. He pulled out his Glock and a spare magazine and placed each item on the seat next to him. He slipped the GPS into his shirt pocket, stuffed the file along with his iPad inside his pack and zipped it closed.

He'd only gotten four hours of sleep, barely enough to keep him going. The last few days had kept him sleep deprived and that burning sensation in his eyes reminded him of it. He pushed himself out of the plush leather chair and walked to the galley as he heard the pilot of the Citation 750 say over the cabin speaker, "Fifteen minutes until touchdown, Mr. Pendleton."

How many times does he have to tell that man to call him Jake?
He felt embarrassed to have the man, clearly twenty years his senior, call him "sir" or "Mr. Pendleton." He poured himself a cup of coffee. No sugar. No creamer. Black and bold, just the way he liked it. On rare occasions, if it was available, a dollop of honey might find its way into his cup. And over the past few days, he'd consumed many cups to keep him going.

Jake returned to the leather seat, still warm from his body heat, and sipped on the hot coffee. Wisps of steam spread the aroma throughout the cabin. Just the aroma of fresh brewed coffee helped him relax. He thought about his next move. He'd already been to the cemetery with Francesca. He'd seen all he needed. Time to pay Ashley Regan a visit at her residence and get to the bottom of her midnight visit to her parents' graves.

As it turned out the pilot was wrong. According to the co-pilot, the weather at Charleston had dropped below landing minimums and they would have to circle in a holding pattern for a few minutes.

The weather hold was brief. They commenced an instrument approach to the Charleston airport after only 30 minutes in a holding pattern. Jake didn't care. It allowed him a few minutes to close his eyes and let his mind run through everything that had happened since he was unexpectedly and literally plucked from Kyli's arms in the Maldives.

After landing, Jake hailed a taxi, climbed in the back seat, and gave the address to the Indian driver. The Charleston airport was considered Zone 4 and the minimum ride into downtown was $35. By the time the taxi pulled in front of Ashley Regan's house, the meter had already rung up $51. Jake asked the driver to wait only to be informed that the first five minutes were free and a dollar a minute after that. Jake agreed to the terms and got out of the taxi.

He walked up the driveway of an older red brick home. It was a single story, one of only two on the block, with a two-car attached garage on his right as he faced the house. There was no walkway to the front door leaving his choices across the wet grass or up the driveway and across the front porch.

When Jake reached the garage, he looked in through the glass panes that extended across the top of the garage door. One car parked inside. Not Regan's car according to Fontaine's report. And not the rented Impala.

He walked across the front porch, peering through the plate glass windows as he stepped. Someone had ransacked the living room. Jake pulled out his Glock, stepped to the side of the front door, and tried the doorknob. Locked. He took one step back and kicked open the front door just below the knob. The aging wood on the doorjamb broke free and splintered pieces of wood scattered across the old hardwood floor.

Jake stepped inside the house with his gun aimed straight ahead. He heard an engine roar. He turned to see his taxi speed off, leaving him without a ride back to the airport.

He scanned the room. Lamps lay broken on the floor. Bookcases emptied, piles of books strewn in all directions. From where he stood he could tell someone had emptied the cabinets in the kitchen as well. He cautiously went from room to room. Each room in the house was ransacked. In the bedrooms, mattresses were upturned and box springs slashed open. Someone was looking for something and there was a strong possibility they hadn't found what they came looking for since every room was ravaged.

Even the garage had been pillaged. Jake holstered his gun, pulled out his cell phone, and dialed George Fontaine. He explained what he'd found. "Whatever Ms. Regan is up to, she's pissed someone off. And, by the looks of her house, she could be in danger."

"I can try to track her cell phone," Fontaine said. "Good chance she won't think to disable it."

"Do that, George. And run facial recognition on the passenger too." Jake paused. "Also, can you track all the cemeteries that Major Adams shipped remains to?"

"What are you thinking?"

"That if Ashley Regan is the one looting these graves, then she knows something we don't. And now it looks like somebody else has come to this party uninvited. If we can figure out where she's going next, we can catch her. And if she is in danger, perhaps even save her life."

"And," Fontaine said, "we can answer the bigger question…why?"

Jake didn't reply.

"I'll check on the Army records. The question is whether or not they've scanned those archives into a searchable database. Remember, that was the mid 1940s." Fontaine chuckled. "I just got a hit on Regan's cell phone. Northeast of Johnson City, Tennessee."

He said nothing.

"Jake? Did you hear me?"

Nothing.

"Jake?" Fontaine's voice now blaring through his phone.

"Oh hell. This can't be good."

"Jake? What is it?"

"Sirens."

"Maybe it's not what you think."

Jake looked out the garage door window. "No, George. It's exactly what I was afraid of. Three cop cars just pulled up." Jake walked back into the house. "George, I don't have much time. Find out what you can about Regan's whereabouts. Keep tracking her. See if you can match any of Major Adams shipments to the area. After I take care of the cops, I'll call you back."

"Will do, Jake. Be careful."

"Always am." Jake turned off his phone as three policemen burst through the front door pointing their guns in his direction. He held up his hands.

The darts hit him in the chest.

His legs collapsed. Arms wouldn't respond. Head pounded.

Cuffs tightened around his wrists.

A
bigail Love watched
the man kick in the front door. When the taxi sped off she couldn't help but smile. Perfect. She didn't know who the man was that entered Ashley Regan's house but he couldn't have been more obvious.

She had been watching the house, about to make her move, when the taxi pulled to the curb. Interesting, she thought. She hadn't made it as far as she had by acting hastily or overreacting. She knew when to resist the temptation to act on impulse. The situation warranted closer scrutiny. She had parked several houses down and on the opposite side of the street under a large live oak with a low hanging canopy.

Through the zoomed lens of her digital SLR camera, she had an unobstructed view of the house and the man entering it. He was average height, she guessed, had a muscular build, and carried himself with confidence. He was a good-looking man in his early thirties. She snapped pictures of his every move. As she sized him up she could tell he was alarmed by something he saw in the window. The drawing of the gun was her first clue. Her second clue was when he kicked in the front door. Clearly the man knew what he was doing. She inspected her camera; she'd taken 57 photos of the man since he'd arrived.

Who was this man and what was he doing at Ashley Regan's house? He didn't look like a cop. At least no cop she'd ever met. He approached the house in a tactical military style, disciplined and decisive. She recognized his gun—a Glock. What was this man's connection to Regan? More important, does he know about the blackmail attempt on the President?

Then she remembered that Evan Makley told her President Rudd was sending someone to Charleston. Maybe this was that man.

She'd found two good photos of the man's face and emailed them to Evan Makley along with a short message. After the man had been inside for ten minutes she started getting curious. Was he questioning Regan? If he was, then she stood to lose a lot of money. Evan Makley's money. She reached under her seat and pulled out her Smith and Wesson M & P .40 caliber Shield subcompact pistol. It was lightweight with a smaller grip than its Glock counterpart. She double-checked her pistol to ensure a round was chambered and tucked it in the small of her back. Time to see what the man inside was up to.

Just as she cracked open her car door she heard the sirens. Flashing lights from police cruisers rounded the street corners. Two in front, one from behind, all stopping in front of Regan's house.

One armor-vested cop from each car ran toward the house while the other cops stood behind car doors pointing their weapons at the residence.

Love closed the car door and melted into the leather seat. She removed the gun from her waist and slipped it back under the seat. This was an unfortunate turn of events. She could only assume the taxi driver called the cops. In less than a minute, the police brought out the blond haired man shackled in handcuffs, pushed him into the backseat of one of the cruisers, and drove off. He was out of the picture, for now, but it left her with a conundrum. Follow the cruiser to the police station or wait and try to gain access to the house after the police left.

From the nonchalant posture of the Charleston Police she reasoned they had no intention of leaving the scene anytime soon. Which meant an investigative team was on the way. The house would be sealed off and guarded for quite a while and her only lead was just hauled away in the cruiser.

She chose to follow the cruiser. She started her black BMW 750 Li, pulled away from the curb avoiding a van parked next to the curb, and accelerated around the corner in pursuit of the police car.

H
e watched
the commotion in front of him with amusement. When the man entered the home, Scott Katzer called 9-1-1 and reported seeing the break-in. The police hauled the man from the house in handcuffs and all three officers that went in came back outside leaving no explanation other than Ashley Regan wasn't at home. No way would they have left her alone. Alive or dead.

The young man was evidently in search of one of two things, Ashley Regan or the book. Perhaps both. Something they shared in common. Now Katzer had a lead. All he had to do was follow and wait. Sooner or later the man would be released from jail. It wouldn't take long before the cops figured out that the man hadn't had time to ransack the house between the 9-1-1 call and the time they arrived at the scene.

Katzer was familiar with police procedure. Over the course of his forty years in the funeral home business, he'd been summoned on numerous occasions to crime scenes to remove dead bodies. Not so often anymore. Crime scene procedures were more sophisticated these days with an ever-increasing emphasis on forensics.

As soon as he saw the taxi let the man out, Katzer knew another party must be interested in the book. He'd already ascertained that Regan had the book and kept it a secret from her roommate. Mistaken identity had cost her her life. Needlessly, in his opinion. His mother had acted irrationally. The woman didn't need to be killed. And in the end, it was all for naught. He was no closer to obtaining the book now than he was before. Maybe even further, as Samantha Connors could've been used as a bargaining chip to get the book from Regan. That chip was gone.

Connors admitted that Regan was staying with a friend, but his mother had been too hasty trying to extract the information and the woman died before revealing the identity. Which is what brought him back to her house. He wanted to go through Regan's belongings to find something that might suggest who her friend might be. Now, with the presence of the Charleston Police, that wasn't going to happen either.

He put the van in gear and started to pull out to follow the police cruiser when the black BMW parked behind him pulled out cutting him off. He slammed on the brakes to avoid a collision. After the BMW passed him, he pulled into the street and proceeded to stay far enough behind the police cruiser to avoid being detected.

Two blocks before the police station, Katzer realized something odd, the other car was still in front of him. At the police station, the cruiser pulled into the secured lot. The black BMW parked in front of the station.

Keeping several parked cars between them, he parked the van close enough to allow optimal viewing of the police station and the mystery car and hopefully far enough away not to be noticed. Now he knew there were at least two other parties interested in the book, the man in the police station and whoever was in the BMW. He also knew he had to get to it first.