Covenant (53 page)

Tyrell, slumped on his knees against the wall in the corridor, looked up at Powell.

“Jesus, am I glad to see you,” he managed to rasp.

In one fluid motion that seemed to take an age, Tyrell watched as Powell stood and swung one heavy boot deep into his belly like a freight train through a balloon. Tyrell felt the remainder of the air in his lungs expelled in a great rush that surged through him, his vision melting into a milieu of swirling colors.

Tyrell collapsed onto his side with his back against the wall, his mouth wide open in a silent scream, eyes bulging and skin sheened with a cold, clammy sweat. He tried to speak but no sound came forth. The pulsing agony in his chest reached a new and excruciating plateau that forced a strangled cry of anguish from somewhere deep in his throat.

Captain Powell squatted down alongside him, his face taut with regret.

“You should’ve left this one alone, Lucas. I gave you every chance that I could,” he said softly. “Another twenty-four hours and this would all have disappeared, but you just couldn’t leave it alone.”

Tyrell tried to speak, but no sound issued forth from his tortured lungs.

Powell shook his head slowly.

“You and Lopez have turned yourselves into liabilities and there’s nothing more I can do for you. Believe me, if there was any other way I would take it, but I’m sure as hell not giving up my share of Patterson’s fortune or going to jail for either of you.”

Powell reached down and shoved his gloved hand across Tyrell’s bloodied face, leaning his weight behind it.

Tyrell gagged for air and struggled ineffectually against Powell’s grip until the last remaining strength seemed to vanish from his body. His lungs burned and tears filled his eyes, a melancholy as vast as the universe weighing him down as he felt Powell force the still-smoking pistol into his helpless hand. In dismay Tyrell recognized the weapon as his own, taken from him barely an hour before by the captain himself.

Tyrell, entrapped in a throbbing crucible of agony, felt a sudden release from the pain.

And then the blackness finally enveloped him as Powell stood and vanished into the night.

FIRST DISTRICT STATION
M STREET SW, WASHINGTON DC

I
still can’t reach him.”

Lopez put her cell phone back in her pocket and looked at Larry Pitt, who pointed at the screen of his computer terminal.

“Here you go, Casey Jeffs is listed at 1216 Juventus Place, on the corner of K Street and Potomac Avenue, near the docks.”

Lopez turned abruptly away from the terminal and walked out of the office. She was surprised to see Kaczynski hurrying toward her, his features strained.

“I just tried to call you,” she said, and then caught the look on his face. “What is it?”

“I was speaking to Emergency Services.”

“Don’t tell me they’ve been called down to K Street.”

Kaczynski looked at Lopez as though she’d grown horns. “How the hell did you know that?”

“Is Tyrell okay?”

Kaczynski snapped out of it. “I don’t know. I’m on my way down there.”

She didn’t wait for Kaczynski to offer her a ride, dashing past him toward the exit.

K Street SE, Washington DC

The sight of the squad cars amid a blaze of hazard lights beside apartment blocks on the corner of K Street and Potomac Avenue sent a shiver down Lopez’s spine. She sat in silence as Kaczynski pulled the car in alongside one of the beat cops guarding the scene. He flashed a badge through his open window at the cop.

Lopez was out of the car before it had stopped moving, hitting her stride fluidly as she crossed to where an ambulance sat idle, paramedics standing in silence around the vehicle.
Jesus, no. Please, no.

“Where is he?” she asked one of the paramedics.

The man gestured to the open front door of the ground-floor apartment opposite them. Lopez felt a flush of hot tears scald her cheeks as she saw Lucas Tyrell lying slumped against a wall, his eyes staring vacantly out of the open door. One arm was pinned uselessly behind him, the other resting on the carpet as though caressing it, a pistol in his grasp. Farther down the hall Casey Jeffs lay in the corridor, his features a lifeless mask. The lights gently flickering against the Anacostia River nearby made the scene seem almost serene.

Bailey, Tyrell’s dog, must have gotten out of the car. The little dachshund lay curled up against his master’s lifeless body.

“Christ’s sake,” Lopez uttered, turning away.

Kaczynski spoke so softly that he was barely audible.

“Paramedics say he suffered a heart attack. His car’s parked around the corner. Looks like he shot Casey in self-defense but was too far gone to call for help …”

Lopez saw Kaczynski hold up a sealed plastic bag in which lay Tyrell’s cell phone, switched on but unused. She could see alerts to her missed calls on the screen. Lopez looked away, trying to blink back her tears but in the end swiping them angrily away with her sleeve.

“He was checked in to see a specialist tomorrow morning,” she said. “Took me three years to get the fat asshole to book an appointment.”

Lopez felt as though the world had weighed in upon her shoulders. Her legs quivered and she slumped down onto the dusty sidewalk.

Kaczynski squatted down beside her and placed a hand around her shoulder.

“There’s nothing more you could have done, Lopez. It was his choice not to seek medical attention. We all knew that.”

Lopez thumped her thigh with a clenched fist. “Stupid asshole.”

Kaczynski managed a feeble smile. “An epitaph he would have agreed with entirely.”

Kaczynski stood, calling out to the paramedics.

“Okay, let’s get him out of here.”

Lopez looked out at the twinkling sea of lights rippling on the surface of the Anacostia. A tiny, muted thought infiltrated the veil of her grief. She got up.

“Wait.”

“What?” Kaczynski asked.

Lopez turned to the medics as they approached with the gurney.

“Any of you guys touched him?”

The senior medic shook his head. “He’s been gone for a while, ma’am,” he said respectfully. “CPR or defib wouldn’t have saved him.”

“I want him checked over,” Lopez said to Kaczynski.

“His number was up, Lopez. There isn’t anything to find here.”

“Then there’s no harm in having him checked out,” she pointed out. “I want ballistics out here too. How soon can we get a forensic team?”

“Right away”—Kaczynski shrugged—“but why would you think he’d need that?”

“Lucas just wasn’t the type to shoot,” she said softly. “I don’t think he drew his weapon in thirty years of service. He was proud of that.”

“You don’t think he got whacked?”

“I’d put my salary on it,” Lopez said. “Only other witness that we had committed suicide five hours ago in a secure and guarded room. That’s two deaths in one day connected to Lucas’s work on this case.”

“Why?” Kaczynski asked, looking at Casey Jeff’s body. “What the hell’s this guy got to do with the case?”

Lopez’s features hardened.

“Casey Jeffs was born as Casey Stone, the brother of Byron and the son of Bradley Stone, founder of a security company called MACE that’s run out of Maryland.”

“How the hell would you know that?” Kaczynksi asked.

“Blood,” Lopez said quickly. “Casey had a history of mental disorders. His blood was taken regularly during his treatment, and matches that of his father, Bradley Stone.”

“Why? How would this guy’s history link him in with all of this?”

“Tyrell had found links between MACE and the American Evangelical Alliance’s activities in Washington and Israel. That’s what he was questioning Senator Black about when the Capitol police busted him. Casey Stone had a history of violence and psychosis and was employed by the Evangelical Alliance at the hospital.”

Kaczynski stared at her silently for a long beat.

“That’s a weak link, Lopez. You’re starting to sound too much like Tyrell did.”

“Maybe that’s not such a bad thing,” Lopez said tartly. “We need to find out if Tyrell fired the gun that’s in his hand.”

“Ballistics could take days or even weeks to confirm.”

Lopez said nothing. Kaczynski stood for a moment longer and then glanced at Tyrell’s corpse. He exhaled softly.

“Guess we owe him this much.”

Lopez produced her notebook and tore off a page.

“This is the name of a guy who works for the DIA who I spoke to a half hour ago. He’s linked several homicides in Israel to ours in Washington with medical evidence from the autopsies. Tyrell was right. You need to speak to this guy as soon as you can and he’ll confirm what I’m telling you.”

Kaczynski took the number. “What the hell am I supposed to do then?”

Lopez kept her tone neutral, controlling her grief and setting herself a course upon which she could rely, one based on evidence.

“According to the DIA, this whole thing has something to do with fossils being shipped from Israel to DC tonight.”

“Fossils?” Kaczynski repeated in confusion.

“My first suggestion would be to go to the Interpol Bureau in the District and request a Red Notice for the extradition of one Damon Sheviz. The district attorney should back the move if it comes from the FBI, and it’ll let us intercept the MACE jet that’s on its way right now from Israel and find out what the hell’s on it. If it does connect Kelvin Patterson to events in Israel, then we have a real reason to apprehend him.”

“The Bureau can broadcast an international all points bulletin to law enforcement agencies in nearly two hundred countries and the Interpol general secretariat in Lyon, France,” Kaczynski agreed, “but we’ll need a national security letter as well, and only the agent in charge of the Bureau field office can issue one. Boarding that jet without it is a crime, and there’s no way Axel Cain’s going to go for it.”

Lopez nodded, well aware that to search private premises, documents, and bank accounts would need the contentious letter, designed specifically to override the need for judicial overview and accountability.

“Homicide is a crime too, Terry. Offer whatever you can to Axel Cain to get it.”

“What about Powell? He’ll have to clear this.”

Lopez, gambling that Kaczynski was just too damned straight to have climbed up Powell’s ass, took a chance.

“The only link between the events here in DC and what’s happened in Israel is Powell himself.”

Kaczynski thought for a moment, looked at Tyrell’s corpse, and then began shaking his head.

“No way, Lopez. Don’t even go there. It’s so insane even Tyrell would have walked away from it.”

“Would he?”

“Don’t be an ass, Lopez,” Kaczynski pleaded. “Let’s talk about it in the morning. You’re not thinking straight after what’s happened, and—”

Lopez turned and strode to the car, retrieving the file that Larry Pitt had handed her at the office. She stormed back across to Kaczynski, opening the file to the second page.

“Homicide trial, San Antonio, Texas, back in 1984. Perp’s name was Casey Jeffs, who we now know as Casey Stone.”

“So he’s a convicted felon too?” Kaczynski asked.

“No. Casey Jeffs was on the stand for the suspected homicide of a prostitute who’d apparently overdosed and who, it turned out, was Casey’s mother. Prosecution reckoned he’d planned her murder to look like a suicide, while the defense held that he wasn’t smart enough to premeditate the crime. But the defense was gettin’ screwed because on the witness stand Casey just couldn’t handle the stress and kept slipping up during questioning. He was looking at twenty to life when next thing you know, he’s off after a late witness testimony gives him a cast-iron alibi. Now, look at the investigating officers listed here, and the officer who supposedly found the witness.”

Kaczynski looked at the list of officers at the bottom of the page, and stopped at one.

“Sergeant Louis Powell,” he whispered as he read the name.

“Ring any bells?” Lopez asked. “A body found by Casey Jeffs, a locked-room homicide, an overdose? Tyrell must have worked this all out after he was suspended. Casey Jeffs is the bastard son of Bradley Stone. Bradley must have been paying Casey’s hooker mom off for years to keep her silent and avoid a scandal, and MACE has paid for Casey’s hospitalization and treatment both then and ever since. Somewhere along the line the hooker gets too greedy, someone decides that enough is enough and has her iced. What if Tyrell worked it all out, but it’s not Casey who’s planned this and he’s just the fall guy?”

“Patterson,” Kaczynski guessed, “or Byron Stone. And you linked Casey to his dead mother through the blood taken at the scene of the homicide?”

“Exactly, and to his father, through genetic profiling that wasn’t available when this homicide case went to trial. Powell must have been in Byron Stone’s pocket for decades, ever since this case put a black mark on his career. It’s no wonder nobody’s picked up on these suspicious overdoses in the District before now if Powell’s been sweeping them under the carpet. He’s covering for either MACE or the Evangelical Alliance, maybe even both. You know he’s retiring soon, got himself that nice condo down in Florida? Think it’s worth finding out how he paid for it?”