Kill Plan (Ingrid Skyberg FBI Thrillers -) (2 page)

“Maybe you should get the whole building evacuated,” Ingrid told the policewoman.

“I don’t have the authority to do that.”

“Then get somebody who does. You’ve just watched a second victim get stretchered out of here. Don’t you think it’s time to call in a little help?” Ingrid looked up and down the corridor in search of Wennstein. Maybe the manager of the trading floor could close down the building for her.

A few moments later the door to the men’s restroom opened and Wennstein appeared. Ingrid strode toward him.

“We need to get this floor evacuated,” she told him.

“Stop trading? There is no way that’s going to happen.” He winced a little.

“Are you OK?”

“I’m perfectly fine.” Beads of sweat had broken out across his top lip.

“Do you know what that maintenance guy was doing here?” Ingrid asked him.

Wennstein ignored her question. He seemed distracted. “What?”

The guy the EMTs just took away—what was he doing here in the building?”

Again, he didn’t answer. He was staring at his hands. “That’s the weirdest thing.” He started to shake his hands, as if he were flicking water off them. “Hey—didn’t that guy say his hands were tingling?” There was a definite strain of panic in his voice. He balled his hands into fists then folded his arms.

“The maintenance guy?”

He blinked at her. “Servicing the hand driers in the restrooms.”

Ingrid glanced at the restroom door. Wennstein had emerged from there just a few moments ago. “What were you doing in the restroom?” she asked him.

“What do you think I was doing? Taking a crap, if you must know.”

Ingrid ran to the restroom and flung open the door. A man was standing at one of the urinals at the far end of the room.

“Get out of here—now!” she hollered.

He didn’t move.

“I said now.” She marched over to him.

“Jesus Christ—I’m mid-piss. I’m not going anywhere.”

Ingrid kicked open the doors of each of the three cubicles in the washroom. All the stalls were empty. She raced over to the wash basins just as the man was zipping his fly. “Forget about washing your hands.”

He raised his eyebrows at her. “Don’t tell my mom.”

Ingrid hurried him outside into the corridor. “I want the restroom sealed off,” she told the policewoman. “And the floor evacuated.”

“No way!” Wennstein said. He was rubbing his fingertips together. “I can’t lose a day’s trading.”

“You can’t lose any more of your employees either.”

3

Thirty minutes later the trading floor was still trading, but at least the men’s restroom had been cordoned off. Five minutes after that, the detectives emerged from an elevator, together with a half dozen CSIs already suited and booted.

The man leading the team of four detectives had a determined expression on his face. He looked like a quarterback squeezed into a suit two sizes too small. His biceps were bulging through the cheap material. Beneath a close-cropped beard, Ingrid noticed his chiseled jaw and cheekbones. The hair on his head was even shorter, no more than a black stubble against his dark skin. Ingrid hurried toward him.

“Special Agent Ingrid Skyberg, from the US embassy.” She extended her hand.

The detective glanced toward the policewoman, who was currently standing sentry outside the men’s restroom. Her colleague had gone in the ambulance with the maintenance guy. The cop pulled a face then looked down at her shoes.

“Detective Inspector Patrick Mbeke,” he said and shook Ingrid’s hand. “You’re from the embassy?”

“Standard procedure,” Ingrid said, and smiled warmly at him. “I work out of the Criminal Investigations Unit.”

“And your role here?”

“To assist in the investigation, any way I can. I report back to the embassy.”

“You don’t trust the City of London Police to get the job done?”

“It’s not like that at all. I’m just looking after the interests of American citizens.”

“And American banks?” His tone was sarcastic.

She chose to ignore it. “City of London Police? Is that part of the Met?”

“No it bloody well isn’t. The Met have no jurisdiction in the City.”

Dammit
. Why didn’t she know that already? Since she’d arrived in the Capital, four and a half months ago, she’d been aware the Met weren’t exactly the most popular police service in the country. With the public or the media. Now she’d pissed off a potential ally.

“Hey—can I use the excuse that I’m new here? Shall we back up and start over?” She smiled her broadest grin at him, hoping it might work some magic.

Two of the CSIs were moving the temporary cordon surrounding the corpse of Matthew Fuller, and had started to create a new, much larger no go zone around the body. Two more disappeared inside the men’s restroom.

“How much have you been told already?” Ingrid asked Mbeke.

“Practically nothing—I only got the call from my DCI ten minutes ago.”

“Are you the senior investigating officer?”

“No—DCI Simmons is. She’ll be here shortly.”

Ingrid quickly got Mbeke up to speed as they both quickly pulled on protective overshoes and gloves and ventured into the restroom.

“So you think the problem is in here?” Mbeke said when Ingrid had told him everything she knew. He glanced around the bathroom. “Should we even be in here? I mean—it might not be safe.”

The two CSIs, who were busy bagging up anything that wasn’t bolted to the floor or the walls, froze and glanced at one another.

“I’m guessing we’re not dealing with an airborne pathogen, otherwise every guy who’d had a piss today would be in the hospital by now.” She raised her eyebrows at the CSIs, who got back to work. “Just as long as we don’t touch anything, I think we’ll be OK.”

“There are three casualties, is that right?”

“One fatality, one hospitalization.”

“And the third?”

“He seems OK now. At least, he refused to leave the trading floor.”

“He’s still here?”

“I get the impression he thinks he’s indispensable.”

Mbeke turned in a slow circle then headed for the door. “We’ll let them get on with it, shall we?”

Back in the corridor, Mbeke stared through the glass wall toward the busy trading floor. “It’s a bank holiday,” he said. “Don’t they get any time off?”

“It’s not a public holiday in Japan, or Hong Kong. The New York Stock Exchange will be opening in a few hours.”

“There’s a dead man in the corridor.”

“Hey—I’m with you on this one. I want to clear the whole floor. But I need you guys to authorize that for me.”

“That’s a bit above my pay grade, I’m afraid. I’ll have a word with the DCI, but I wouldn’t be surprised if Fisher Krupps won the argument. Got to keep our international corporations happy, otherwise they might just up sticks and move somewhere else.”

Ingrid thought it wise not to comment.

“You’ve been on the scene the longest. Come up with any theories?”

“Maybe some kind of anti-banking extremist? Or a disgruntled investor.”

“You think someone would go this far to make a point?”

“I’ve seen people do a lot worse, just because someone pissed them off in the post office line.”

Mbeke ran a hand over the stubble on his head. “But this would have taken some planning. I mean, how did they even get into the building?”

“You’ve sealed it off?”

“No one in or out unless I’ve personally approved it.”

Ingrid was relieved someone was taking things seriously, even if Fisher Krupps didn’t seem to be. She turned in response to the elevator doors pinging open. A woman dressed in a navy blue suit and pink shirt stepped into the corridor. She glanced left then right, spotted Mbeke and hurried toward him. “Patrick, what have you gleaned so far?” She ignored Ingrid completely.

“This is Agent Skyberg, boss. FBI, from the American embassy. Agent Skyberg this is DCI Anna Simmons.”

The woman looked at Ingrid with narrowed eyes. “I’m sure you’ve done absolutely sterling work, agent. Rest assured, we have everything under control. You can return to the embassy.”

“I’d rather stick around, assist if I can.” Ingrid glanced at the team of CSIs buzzing around Matthew Fuller’s body.

“That really won’t be necessary.” The DCI turned to Mbeke. “Do you have any business cards on you, Patrick?”

Mbeke reached into his breast pocket and handed Ingrid a card, his face a picture of apology.

“I’m sure Patrick will be in touch just as soon as we have anything to report.” DCI Simmons smiled blankly and planted her hands on her hips. “Would you like one of our uniforms to give you a lift back to the embassy?”

“Thanks for the kind offer, but that won’t be necessary, Anna.” Ingrid reluctantly made her way to the elevator. She could have chosen to hold her ground, do a little flag planting, but if her experience of working with UK cops had taught her anything, it was when to choose her battles.

4

The embassy seemed eerily quiet when Ingrid returned there from Fisher Krupps. Apart from a little congestion around the main shopping streets, traffic had been pretty much non-existent and she had made it back to the underground parking lot beneath the nine story building in Grosvenor Square in under fifteen minutes. She jogged up the emergency stairs two steps at a time, feeling the need to give her heart rate a little jolt. Since her motorcycle accident two weeks ago, Ingrid’s lack of regular training was making her body feel heavy and sluggish. Any extra exercise she could incorporate into her day was very welcome.

She reached her floor and carried on up until the pleasant burn in her legs was matched by the one in her lungs. Rather than turn around and go straight back down again, Ingrid took the opportunity, seeing as the building was emptier than usual, to take a peek at the view from the top floor. She’d only made it halfway down the dark wood-paneled corridor before a woman’s voice called after her.

“Hello there. You drew one of the short straws, huh?”

Ingrid spun on her heels and found herself face to face with none other than the US Ambassador. “Yes, ma’am. I mean… I guess…” Ingrid doubted she’d have been more tongue-tied if the president himself had stopped her in the corridor.

The ambassador took pity on her. “It’s such a lovely day to be cooped up inside.”

“Actually, ma’am, I just got back. I’ve been working on a new case. I came up here to take a look at the view.”

“I find myself staring out of the window all the time. Especially during particularly tedious teleconferences!” Smiling, she walked toward Ingrid. Then straight past her to the end of the corridor. “Well come on then, if you want to take a look at the view.”

Ingrid hurried to the window.

“And you are?”

“Special Agent Ingrid Skyberg, ma’am. Criminal Investigation Unit.”

“Ah yes—you pretty much hold the fort all by yourself, I hear.”

“I work with a great team.”

“That’s very loyal of you. I meant you’re the only investigating agent.”

“Yes, ma’am. I like to keep busy.” Ingrid was surprised the ambassador had the first clue about her role.

“And what is this new case of yours?”

Ingrid wasn’t sure how to respond. Right now she didn’t know exactly what she was dealing with. “Sudden death of a young trader in the City.”

“Oh dear. Do the police suspect foul play?”

“Yes, ma’am. It’s possible that Fisher Krupps bank has been targeted by some extremist organization.”

“Oh my.” She stared directly into Ingrid’s face, her clear, brown eyes filled with concern. Up close the woman looked more like Jackie O than Ingrid had noticed before. “I suppose the police have notified other major investment banks in the City?”

Although Ingrid was tempted to explain how she’d been thrown out of the bank, and didn’t know if it had even occurred to the investigating team to inform the other banks, she knew it would be totally inappropriate, not to mention unprofessional, to complain about the City of London Police’s obstructive attitude. She gave the ambassador a non-committal nod.

“How young is the victim?”

Ingrid hadn’t gotten chance to see Matthew Fuller’s personnel records before she’d been dismissed. “Late twenties,” she said, hoping she didn’t sound too vague.

“Tragic.” The ambassador turned toward the window. “His poor family.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Ingrid stared through the glass. She’d only seen the view once before—on her second week at the embassy, when Sol Franklin, her boss, had finally gotten around to giving her the guided tour. It was so clear today she could see all the way across town to the City, where she’d just been.

“I mustn’t keep you from your work. It was lovely meeting you, Ingrid.” The ambassador held out a small, pale hand. Ingrid was careful not too squeeze it too hard.

“The honor is all mine, ma’am.” She trapped the ambassador’s fingers inside hers for a fraction of a second too long and awkwardly pulled her hand away.

Goddammit
.

Ingrid turned and moved as fast as she could down the corridor without actually breaking into a run. Her hands were sweating and her heart was beating hard and fast. When she reached the stairway she silently cursed herself for being such a klutz. She’d been even worse with the Secretary of State a few months ago. The memory of her clumsy interactions with her sent a shiver across her shoulders.

Jogging down the stairs, she managed to shake a little of the tension from her limbs. She was thirty-one years old, for God’s sake. What was she doing feeling like a tween at their first pop concert?

She reached the office a little flushed and forced herself to take a couple of deep breaths before opening the door. Jennifer, the Bureau’s civilian administrative clerk, was at her desk, speaking animatedly to someone on the phone.

“I know, I know! She was so nice to me! Said I was making a big difference. Said US citizens could sleep a little easier in their beds with me here to support them. Can you imagine that?” She glanced up and finally spotted Ingrid. “Listen, mom, I gotta go.” She gave Ingrid an embarrassed smile. “No, of course I didn’t ask for her autograph! I’ll call you later, when I get home.” She slammed the phone down. “Hey! Can I get you anything? Coffee maybe?”