First to Kill (14 page)

Henning looked at Holly with a combined expression of revulsion and dismay.

“You could also offer them some of the cash,” Nathan said. “As compensation for their undivided cooperation tonight.”

Holly didn’t respond.

He shrugged. “What could it hurt? The money’s unofficial. Give them four grand apiece, which leaves an even three-hundred grand. A nice, round number. No one would be the wiser. It evens the score for them a little. Tell them if they say anything, you’ll deny it. It’s your word against theirs. All of this is.”

“That’s not an altogether bad idea.…”

In the dim light filtering through the trees, Henning looked like he was ready to come unglued, his mouth opening and closing as if choking on a chicken bone.

“Let’s use this time wisely,” she said. “Are you and Harvey up to giving those guys an orthopedic briefing?”

At hearing that from his boss, Henning’s jaw dropped.

The more time Nathan spent with Holly, the more he liked her. This woman was definitely with the program, aboard for the big win. “Come on, Harv.” He turned back to Holly. “Can we offer them the cash?”

She hesitated, then said, “Sure, why not.”

Three minutes later, Nathan and Harv were back.

“Well?” she asked.

“They’re A-plus students with beer money for a year,” Nathan said.

Holly’s radio came to life. She held up her hand for a few seconds, then said,  “We’ve got a burned-down structure with one BBR.”

BBR
, Nathan told himself.

Burned beyond recognition.

James Ortega.

Chapter  8

Fifteen minutes later, two FBI vehicles left the scene. Nathan, Harv, and Larry Gifford were in the lead with Bruce Henning and the Bridgestones following. Holly stayed behind with the two SWAT agents to secure the cabin until an FBI forensic team and the Sacramento County ME arrived.

It was a somber, quiet ride down a granite canyon under a red and orange sunrise. Nobody felt like talking. Back in Sacramento, Gifford took the J Street exit for the Hyatt Regency while Henning’s vehicle kept going south on I-5. Henning flashed his brake lights twice and Gifford flashed his high beams in return.

Good riddance
, thought Nathan. The Bridgestone cousins were human debris. He still couldn’t get over the condition of their farmhouse. It had been like an indoor landfill, except the garage, which he’d fully expected to be as filthy as the house.
Think, damn it
. He tried to clear his mind and concentrate on the garage, but couldn’t do it. His mind was shutting down due to sleep deprivation. Sitting next to him, Harv looked in roughly the same shape.

As if reading his thoughts, Gifford asked, “How much sleep have you guys had in the last forty-eight hours?”

“Not too much,” Nathan said.

“Do yourselves a favor and get some shut-eye at the hotel. You’re no good to anyone in your present condition. We’ll call you as soon as we know anything.”

“Thanks, Larry.”

Gifford dropped them off under the portico of the Hyatt just after nine in the morning. As the bellman retrieved their bags from the trunk, they shook hands with Gifford and waved as he pulled away. They staggered up to the counter and checked into adjoining rooms on the sixth floor overlooking Capitol Park. At their rooms, Nathan slipped the bellman a twenty, dialed the operator, and asked to have their calls forwarded to voice mail.

* * *

When Nathan awoke, the message light was blinking on the nightstand phone. He picked it up and hit the retrieve button. It was from Holly, asking for a return call. He dialed Harv’s room.

“Get any sleep?” Nathan asked.

“Four hours. You?”

“About the same. I’ve got a message to call Holly.”

“Two minutes,” Harv said.

 Nathan used the head, splashed some water on his face, and stared into the mirror. That damned garage, he’d awakened still thinking about it. For some reason he couldn’t get it out of his head. What was bugging him? The tools? The Enduro?

He answered the soft knock on the adjoining room door and Harv stepped through. Without sitting down, he punched nine, waited for the dial tone, and called Holly Simpson’s cell.

“Holly Simpson.”

“Holly, it’s Nathan. I have you on speaker. Harv’s with me.”

“The news is not good. It was James Ortega. The ME confirmed his identity from dental records. I just found out ten minutes ago. He’d been subjected to severe blunt-force trauma. Six of his fingers were missing. They found smoke residue in his lungs.” Her voice cracked. “Nathan, they burned him alive.”

He squinted and looked at his partner. Harv’s jaw started working.

“You still there?” she asked.

“I’m really sorry, Holly.”

“We wouldn’t have found him this quickly without your help. I never thanked you guys last night.”

“I kept hoping we’d find him alive, dehydrated and hungry, but alive.”

“Me too.”

“We’ll tell the family.”

“I appreciate it. I have to go. It’s a real mess over here. Call me later?”

“I will.” He hung up and looked at Harv. No words were necessary.

The situation had just turned personal.
This isn’t over, you lousy shit birds. This isn’t over at
all, not by a long shot
. He knew their call to Frank Ortega was going to be an emotional train wreck. Although Frank had suspected his grandson was dead, having it confirmed was another matter. Until you had absolute proof, there was always a glimmer of hope, however small. Now there was none. James Ortega, third-generation FBI, was dead, killed in the line of duty. No, not just killed. Tortured, humiliated, and burned alive by two cold-blooded thugs. It made Nathan sick to his stomach thinking about what James Ortega must have gone through. Wasn’t there even the tiniest speck of humanity left in the Bridgestones? They could’ve easily killed him first. A hard blow to the head. A bullet to the temple. A slit throat. A plastic bag over his head. Anything. Why burn him alive? Why? It was a message. Loud and clear, with no chance of being misunderstood: Mess with us and you’ll die badly.

Nathan looked at Harv. “We should call Ortega. Want me to do it?”

“No.” Harv reached into his pocket and pulled out a small piece of paper. He stared at the phone number.

“Harv?”

“I’m okay.”

But Nathan knew his friend wasn’t okay. Far from it. Nathan walked into the bathroom and looked in the mirror. Dark blue eyes stared back. With his teeth clenched, he balled his hands into fists so tight they hurt from the pressure. Had James Ortega pleaded at the end? Had he begged to be killed first? Had they looked at each other in mock sympathy and then laughed at the request before tossing the match? Had they stayed and listened to his screams of agony?

He drove his fist into the mirror.

It shattered into a thousand pieces.

He staggered back and sat on the edge of the tub. Damn those assholes.

Harv appeared at the bathroom door. “Lemme see that hand.”

Like an automaton, Nathan held it up, allowing Harv to remove the small shards of glass from his flesh. Blood was already running down his fingers and dripping onto the marble floor. Harv wet a washcloth and dabbed the damaged skin before wiping the blood from the floor. “We’d better get you a couple bandages. You okay?”

Nathan nodded.

“Sit tight.”

From the bathroom, Nathan listened as Harv called the front desk and reported an accident. He asked for a first-aid kit and maintenance man for the broken mirror.

“Come on,” Harv said. “Let’s get some chow in you. We haven’t eaten in over eighteen hours. I’ll order room service. The usual? Various hors d’oeuvres?”

Nathan nodded. “Sorry about the mirror.”

Harv forced a smile. “You beat me to it.” He sat Nathan down on the bed and wrapped the washcloth around the damaged knuckles.

“We have to get these guys, Harv. No matter what it takes.”

“Count on it. Any ideas where we should start?”

“Yeah, I’m thinking we follow the money, the cash we didn’t already find. We’ll start with the visitation logs from the Castle. I want to know who visited Ernie Bridgestone.”

“An old girlfriend?”

“Maybe. Let’s also work on getting the names of people Leonard knew in northern Iraq. On the drive up to the cabin, I told Holly he might even have someone on the inside of a financial institution to launder their money. We’ll be looking for someone who’s living beyond his means. Someone who’s living within a one-day drive, maybe Reno or Vegas. Somewhere where large cash deposits are fairly common.”

“This will be a lot easier with some inside help,” Harvey said. “Let’s call General Hawthorne in the Pentagon, see if he’ll help.”

General Robert “Thorny” Hawthorne was the Marine Corps Commandant, the top man in the Corps, one of four Joint Chiefs of Staff. Hawthorne had been their commanding officer during their operations in Nicaragua and their successful missions had helped boost Thorny’s career by a star.

“Good thought,” Nathan said. “I’ll call first thing in the morning.”

“Think he’ll help us?”

“Yeah, I do. He won’t have time to do it personally, but he’ll assign us a liaison officer to dig into the DOD computers.”

“We’re going to need some help up here for the legwork. There’s no way we can do everything. I’ll pull two of our guys up from San Diego. We’ll set up our base of operations here. We’ll need a secure fax line to send and receive transmissions. I’ll make sure Lewey sets our guys up with an encrypted cell phone connected to a fax. Thorny will want assurances we’re using secure lines for the data transfer back and forth.”

Nathan was already feeling better. It felt good to be doing something, to have a plan and work toward a goal. And it was a worthy goal. The Bridgestones were going to be hunted down like the rabid dogs they were. A reckoning was coming, coming like a freight train with its engine roaring and horn blaring. Those two turds had no idea of the wrath they’d brought upon themselves.

Harv ordered room service and asked for it to be delivered next door in Nathan’s room. A few minutes later, Harv answered a soft knock at the door. Carrying a first-aid kit, the maintenance man strode into the room, tools hanging from his belt. At the bathroom door, he looked at the broken glass covering the countertop and floor, looked at Nathan sitting on the bed, looked at the bloody hand and the damaged face it belonged to, and decided silence was the best course of action. He handed the first-aid kit to Harvey.

“How long do you need?” Harvey asked.

The maintenance man shrugged. “Maybe an hour.”

Harvey pulled a couple of butterfly bandages out of the kit and applied them to Nathan’s knuckles. He wrapped a couple layers of gauze around the wound and secured it with white tape on the palm side, opposite the cuts.

“Thanks,” Nathan said.

“Think nothing of it.”

With the maintenance man in the bathroom, Harv transferred their duffel bag containing their Sig Sauer pistol belts, night-vision visors, and other tools into Nathan’s room through the adjoining door.

After Harv returned, Nathan said, “We’d better make that call to Ortega. The longer we wait, the harder it’ll be.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“How do you do it, Harv? Keep your cool.”

“Like I said, you beat me to it. That mirror was doomed from the day it was installed.”

“I’ve never seen you break anything.”

“That’s just it, you’ve never seen it. I once beat the living daylights out of a lawn mower with an aluminum bat. It was brand new and gassed up. But the damned thing wouldn’t start. I must have pulled that cord a hundred times before I took the bat to it. Candace came out to the lawn and without saying a word, handed me the instruction manual. She reached down and turned the gas shutoff valve to the on position, winked at me, and then walked away.”

“Yeah, that sounds like Candace.”

“I have to admit, it felt great smashing that mower. Come on, let’s get this call over with.”

“Harv, I’ll make the call to Ortega.”

“No. I should do it. You’re in no shape to talk to Ortega right now. Honestly, it’s my responsibility. I got us into this, I’ll make the call.”

After Harv left the room, he tried to clear his mind of the red fog blanketing his thoughts. He needed to focus, to see the situation from a calm perspective. He concentrated on the FBI’s role in all of this. The farmhouse had been under surveillance before the raid. Okay, why? They obviously thought the Bridgestones might show up there. Still, no one had known about the tunnel at Freedom’s Echo, or else the FBI would’ve been waiting at the other end to grab them. Did Holly Simpson truly believe he and Harv represented the FBI’s best chance of collaring the Bridgestones? It seemed unlikely and overly risky. Maybe Frank Ortega had insisted they remain involved. That seemed more reasonable, but that scenario assumed Ortega had a level of influence with Director Lansing he’d denied during their initial meeting in San Diego. So what was the truth? Nathan wasn’t so sure anymore.

Setting that thought aside, he again envisioned the farmhouse. Immediately his thoughts returned to the garage. Something about it had been odd. He closed his eyes and pictured it in his head. Okay, it had a workbench on one side, tools on the other. The toolboxes were stacked against the far wall. There was a new Enduro motorcycle in the corner. Red, with a luggage rack. What does something like that cost? Four, maybe five grand? They didn’t seem like the type of guys able to afford something like that. It had looked fairly new and well maintained. Everything in that garage had looked new. He pictured the wall of tools above the workbench, everything organized by type and use and hung on neatly organized eye rings and hooks. And the power tools on the opposite side of the garage were also well maintained and arranged by use and type. He remembered the empty power-tool boxes. Who saves the empty boxes?

And why would a pair of losers need a trip wire on their front porch? How many people did that? He pictured the rigged stack of beer bottles. Were they just paranoid? Maybe they thought Leonard and Ernie were going to drop by. Could they have anticipated the authorities’ interest in them?