The Reunion (9 page)

14

On its final approach to Raleigh-Durham International Airport, the American Eagle turboprop made a sharp roll to the west, affording Carolyn a brief glimpse of North Carolina's capital city backlit by an orange sunset. In the distance, a small assemblage of glass towers reached skyward in an endless backdrop of pine. Immediately below she could see factories with no smokestacks and clusters of office buildings known as the Research Triangle Park, or RTP.

She pushed the pacifier into Kenny's mouth and put a piece of gum in her own to keep their ears from popping. The baby had been a joy the entire trip. He would have sat with his nose pressed to the glass at the terminal all day if she had let him. Even the extended layover in Cincinnati turned into an adventure with chicken nuggets in the food court and a stop at the Disney Store. It was the child's total fascination with the ordinary that kept Carolyn sane.

It had been ten days since her last contact with Agent Dunlevy. Two days after she had sent him copies of the coded messages, she received a curt e-mail explaining that he had enlisted the help of a former government cryptologist and would contact her when he knew something.

While her decision to pack up the baby and hop on a plane to see Agent Dunlevy and Dr. Hudson in person seemed more than just a little impulsive to her mother, it really wasn't. It was easy to leave. Aside from Stephanie, there was nothing for her in Oklahoma City anymore.

Once on the ground, with Kenny in one arm and the diaper bag on the other, Carolyn made her way to the baggage claim area. She dumped their belongings with a skycap and stood in line at the Hertz counter. She started to ask for a compact and then thought better of it.

“How about an SUV? And a car seat, if you have one,” she asked, still unaccustomed to having the means to go first class. She accepted the reservation agent's recommendation of a burgundy Ford Explorer.

Her next stop was the bank of pay phones near the restroom. It was just after seven o'clock. She searched her purse for Dunlevy's phone number, wondering whether anyone would still be at his office.

“FBI,” snapped the voice at the other end of the line.

“Hello, Agent Dunlevy?” she asked, not sure if she had the right number.

“Yes, who is this?” he asked.

“Carolyn Baker. Remember me?”

He paused, trying to muster civility. “Yes, how are you?”

“Apparently better than you. Did I call at a bad time?”

“No, not really,” he brusquely replied. “What can I do for you?”

She hesitated. “I was curious if you found out anything about those messages I sent to you.”

“Honestly, I haven't. I've turned them over to an expert.”

“Professor Hudson?”

Dunlevy was startled. “Actually, yes.”

“He's decoding them for you?”

“No, but he knows the people who can. I expect he'll know something in a day or two. I have your phone number and e-mail address here. I'll let you know something as soon as I do. Okay?”

She hesitated. “Well, I'm not in Oklahoma.”

“Where are you?”

“Raleigh. At the airport actually.”

Dunlevy pondered this surprise for a long moment. “What are you doing here?” he asked, dumbfounded.

Carolyn grew defensive. “Actually, I was hoping to meet Professor Hudson. He makes mention of my father frequently in his book. I'm trying to learn all I can about him.”

“I can't tell you where you can and can't go, Ms. Baker,” he said, his tone softening, “but I can't offer you much in the way of answers at this point. You are right about Dr. Hudson knowing all about your father, though.”

An eyebrow went up. “How do you know that?”

“He mentioned it. I believe Hudson said he interviewed your father several times for his book. He also said he'd be in touch with you.”

The baby grew heavy in her arms. “Well, that hasn't happened yet. I'm coming to Wilmington, and hope to meet with him in the next couple of days.”

Dunlevy felt a flash of guilt for being so harsh. “Look, I've got to go out of town in the morning, but I'll call Hudson tonight and see if I can arrange a meeting for you in the morning. Would that be helpful?”

Carolyn cocked her head and smiled. “Yes, it would be,” she replied as she gingerly set Kenny on the floor. “I've rented a car and we're driving that way.”

“We?”

She looked down at Kenny, who was chewing on a large plastic ring of toy keys. “Yes, me and my son Kenny.”

The agent shook his head. “Get settled in and call my office in the morning. Is that fair enough?”

“Yes. Thank you. I look forward to meeting you.”

Carolyn was about to put the receiver back on the phone, but then thought better of it. She swiped her credit card through the slot, cradled the receiver between her ear and shoulder and started dialing. It rang just twice before someone picked up.

“Hello?” said the female voice.

“Stephanie?” she asked hesitantly. “It's Carolyn.”

“Thank goodness you called. I've been trying to reach you. I thought we might have dinner, or maybe if you wanted to go out with your friends, or something, we could baby-sit for you again. Harvey and I had so much fun the last time.”

Her mother's tone made her breathe easier. “That's so nice of you, but we can't. I'm in North Carolina.”

There was a pause. “What are you doing there?”

“I have a meeting tomorrow with the author of that book I told you about, the man that interviewed my father. There were some answers I wanted to get for myself. I hope you can understand.”

“I do, I do.” Stephanie fought the tears back as hard as she could. “I don't want you to ever think that you owe me any explanations. I'm in no position to expect that.”

Carolyn's eyes were moist now. “I just wanted to check in, let you know where we were.”

“How long do you think you'll be there?”

She shrugged. “I'm not sure, probably only a couple of days. I'll call you when we leave.”

“I'd like that, thank you.”

“Okay, I'll be in touch.”

“Carolyn?” Stephanie asked, hoping she hadn't hung up.

“Yes?”

“I love you.”

15

The Stetson sat low, almost covering her eyes as she twirled seductively on the pole. Her highlighted, auburn hair was in a French braid that hung midway down her slender back. Garth crooned, “Blame it all on my roots, I showed up in boots, and ruined your black-tie affair.” She wiggled her ass and yanked off the chaps and bra to thunderous applause as the chorus hit its stride. “Cuz I got friends in low places, where the whiskey burns and beer chases my blues away…”

Joey had been to all the upscale adult entertainment centers in nearby Raleigh. The
DOLL HOUSE
was the most popular. Adult film actresses with names like Amber Lee and Tracy Mountjoy flew in for three-day appearances. They entertained the suits over the lunch hour and at the close of the business day. Clubs like these weren't considered strip bars anymore; they were, instead, popular watering holes where a quick after-hours drink had become an accepted yuppie ritual.

Joey, however, preferred both the entertainers and the clientele at
HEATHER'S
in Durham. The women there weren't beauty queens, yet they were still modestly attractive in a blue-collar kind of way. Some had tattoos and poochy bellies, and there were even a few with stretch marks in the group. It was that rawness that made him tingle.

Candy was his favorite. The flexible young dancer came right to the edge of the stage where he was sitting. She turned her back to him and touched her toes, giving him the peek he wanted. She winked and smacked her lips, looking up at him from between her own legs. It was a little trick she learned early on, knowing it was almost always rewarded with a twenty-dollar tip.

He was so engrossed he almost didn't notice when the pager started to vibrate. “Shit! What's this?” he growled as he snatched the beeper from his belt to see who was interrupting his table dance.

He glanced at the LCD readout and let out a sigh. Joey considered not answering, but then thought better of it. Ignoring the page now was not an option, especially since his cash was running low.

Joey remembered seeing a pay phone by the front door as he came in. He used a 7-Eleven phone card to make the long distance call.

Someone picked up, but didn't speak. “Hello?” Joey asked tentatively.

“Do you know what a mess you've made?” screamed the elderly voice.

“Yes,” he said, nodding sheepishly into the phone.

“That explosion didn't fool anybody. You said it would look like an accident. And they've connected it to what happened in D.C. That one was supposed to look like a robbery, remember?”

“Look, there was no guarantee, you knew that going in,” he boldly replied. “We went over all this last week, and it really doesn't matter anymore. They're all gone now.”

“Don't sass me, boy! And they're not all dead. That goddamned professor is all over the TV saying there are two more survivors!”

There was a long silence on the phone. Joey was stunned. “That's not possible. Shit! I researched this. There was only supposed to be one survivor not at the reunion, and I took care of that. This just isn't possible,” he repeated.

The stern voice wouldn't let up. “Yes, it is possible. You need to find out where those other two are, and get that professor too. Joseph, you need to finish the job you were hired to do.”

His mind raced. “Maybe there aren't two more. Maybe they're just saying that as a trick to draw me out.”

“Sonny, all I know is that final payment doesn't come until the job is completed. And as far as I'm concerned, it's not.”

“Three more? Now? Are you crazy? You can forget it,” he stated forcefully.

“Mind your manners, Joseph! You have to get this over with quickly. That professor is being real cagey about the two survivors. He won't say where they are on TV. But you can bet he knows. Look through his records. Or better yet, make him tell you. Do you understand, Joseph?”

“What about my money? Did you wire the next payment?”

“No. And I'm not going to either. Transferring funds is too dangerous now. I'm not stupid enough to leave a paper trail. Take care of business down there and come home. I'll have it all in cash for you here.”

Joey was turning red now. “That wasn't part of our arrangement,” he said angrily. “I need money. I'm almost out of cash.”

The tone softened. “Joseph, do you really think I would swindle you? Haven't I always taken care of you? Didn't I take you into my home when your own mother and father didn't want anything to do with you?”

He shrugged his shoulders and relented. “Yes.”

“You've never let me down before. I know it's been hard, that's why there's an extra fifty thousand dollars in it for you. Be a good boy, Joseph.”

“Can you please wire another five thousand?” he pleaded. “I'm down to five hundred dollars. That's not even enough money for me to get back.”

“Okay, five thousand dollars to that same account, but this is the last time. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“You won't let me down, will you, Joseph?”

“No, I promise.”

“Hurry home, Joseph. You're needed here.”

16

Carolyn stepped off the elevator and lifted the front wheels of Kenny's stroller to bridge him over the hump. She checked her watch: ten thirty, right on time. She glanced at the men filtering through the lobby until her eyes riveted on the tall, gangly man with unruly hair and a rumpled suit. He may as well have had the words “law enforcement” tattooed on his forehead.

He looked to be in his mid to late forties, a big man, a former athlete maybe, but now on the cusp of middle-aged spread. His features were unremarkable. Still, there was something boyishly handsome about him, not what she was expecting at all.

She strode past the front desk and approached the FBI agent, positioning the stroller between them. “Carolyn Baker,” she said, extending her hand.

Her long flaxen hair was pulled back tightly in a ponytail. She wore no makeup. Both her sweatshirt and blue denim shorts were baggy, yet not baggy enough to conceal the sensuous curves underneath. Oddly, Dunlevy's first observation was not her irrefutable beauty;
Germanic
was the first word to pop into his mind. She was telling the truth. The bright eyes, high cheekbones, and sharp jaw line lent credence to her claim that she was in fact the daughter of Dr. Klaus Baerwaldt.

Dunlevy blinked, staring hard into her green eyes for a second too long before clasping her hand. “Hello, nice to meet you,” he said, trying not let on how taken he was with her beauty. “Martin Dunlevy.”

She smiled, instantly sensing a surprising warmth about him. He didn't seem anything like the gruff voice on the phone.

“Thank you for meeting me on such short notice. I know this must seem impulsive to you, me just popping up here in North Carolina. I'm trying to learn about my father now, while I have the time and the resources.”

Dunlevy raised his hands. “No need to explain. I just don't have much information. And quite honestly, I don't know that I will. You may have traveled a long way for nothing,” he said almost apologetically.

Carolyn turned her gaze toward Kenny. “Well, even if I can just talk face to face with Dr. Hudson I've accomplished something. You mentioned he told you that he had several conversations with my father?”

Dunlevy drew a blank for a moment, then blushed. “Yes, he did. And I did manage to get you about an hour of his time this afternoon. The agent reached into his breast pocket and removed a sheet of paper, which dropped into Kenny's lap. Like everything else within his reach, the baby instinctively placed it in his mouth.

Carolyn let out a giggle. This middle-aged man who had been so intimidating on the phone was more like an awkward adolescent.

“Let me,” she said as she squatted by the boy's side to retrieve it. “Hey, little man. Can I have that back?”

He pulled at the paper, sensing it was going to be taken from him, but Carolyn was able to coax it from his tiny fist. She looked at the crumpled paper. “Directions?” she asked.

Dunlevy moved to her side to see if his scribbling was still legible. “Yeah. His house is pretty easy to find. He's not keeping office hours on campus these days.”

Standing so close, she noticed how tall he was. She looked up. “That's fine. I'm pretty good with navigation.”

“I'm afraid he can't see you until about four thirty this afternoon though.” He pointed to the phone number at the bottom of the paper. “I told him you'd call ahead and confirm.”

“Thank you. I will.”

“Will you be in town long?”

She gave him a wary look. “I'm not sure yet. As long as it takes, I guess. Why do you ask?”

Again Dunlevy was caught off-guard by her directness. “Well, actually, we may have some questions for you too. I have a helicopter to catch, but I'll be back tonight. How about I call you in the morning?”

She grinned. “I look forward to it. Thanks again.”

***

Within fifteen minutes Dunlevy and Franklin were over water, following the coastline north. From the air, the half-million-dollar beach homes appeared more like matchboxes raised above the encroaching tide on flimsy sticks. Every ten years or so, the ocean offered up proof of their fragility with a hurricane or a strong nor-easter.

The beach was dotted with families with small children and their pastel-colored buckets for crafting their make-believe fortresses in the sand. The ocean was still too chilly for bathers, but every few miles a black wet suit on a surfboard could be spotted in the waves.

The call came late yesterday that a blue Ford F-10 pickup had been found abandoned in the parking lot of the Sheraton Hotel in Atlantic Beach. The town was seven miles south of Beaufort on a small barrier island connected to the mainland by two bridges on either end of the twenty-eight-mile strip of sand.

The clumsy forensic team with the Carteret County Sheriff's Department had already taken bits of trace evidence and dusted for prints before realizing the truck was the same make and model that witnesses reported at the explosion scene. When the sheriff finally did call with news of his find, Dunlevy left strict orders for the car to be left right where it was and its contents sealed.

Colonel Robert Haney, the Chief of Police in Atlantic Beach, was one of the few local lawmen in eastern North Carolina with a solid reputation among the feds. He was ex-military, a no-bullshit officer, and a good investigator. He instructed Dunlevy to set down the chopper behind
JUNGLELAND
, where he promised to be waiting. The colonel's directions puzzled the agent, but he didn't question them. He passed the information along to the pilot, who seemed to understand.

The sky was clear but the wind was brisk and the chopper ride unusually bumpy. Dunlevy looked over at Franklin. He wore his shades and that shit-eatin' “let's go get 'em” grin on his face. “The kid must have an iron stomach,” he mumbled to himself as his own belly did flips.

The voice in the headset shook Dunlevy out of his daze. “We're about three minutes out, sir,” the pilot said as he made a low, sweeping pass over land. Dunlevy looked out and let go with a bellowing laugh only he could hear over the roar of the rotors. A menacing plaster gorilla stood watch over a kidney-shaped plot of Astro-turf. A zebra, two lions, and a clan of acrylic monkeys adorned the miniature golf course. He hit the call button on the cord attached to his headset.

“I'm only guessing here, but I've got a feeling that just might be
JUNGLELAND
.”

“Yes sir,” the pilot replied without cracking a smile. The highway patrolmen had no sense of humor, but Dunlevy did appreciate the use of their Bell JetRanger when he had to get somewhere fast.

As promised, Colonel Haney was waiting in his squad car, even though the Sheraton was just a short walk away.

The pickup was parked not ten feet from the building. It had a small dent on the front driver's side panel, but otherwise was in good condition. Carteret detectives had confirmed it stolen in Virginia. They later traced the plates to a junkyard about a hundred fifty miles away in Rocky Mount.

Dunlevy pulled out his handkerchief to pop open the passenger side door. He could see the thin coat of fingerprint dust covering the dash and seats. A green windbreaker with a cream-colored cotton lining had been balled up and tossed onto the passenger side floorboard.

“Did they check this jacket?” Dunlevy asked.

“Yeah, they pulled a few fibers and a little hair from the lining,” the colonel replied.

Since the jacket had already been processed, Dunlevy grabbed it by hand and held it up to the light. “Get me some tape,” he snapped at Franklin. “There's still some hair on the collar.”

The colonel came over to get a better look. “Short, white hair. Maybe you've got a senior citizen on your hands,” he said matter-of-factly.

Dunlevy placed the wide strip of clear tape on the cotton lining and yanked it off forcefully, collecting the follicles and other scraps of potential fiber evidence.

“Colonel, what about fingerprints?”

He smirked. “Hell, no! Them Carteret boys tried, but the interior of that little pickup is that cheap vinyl—too smooth. They picked up a few partial latents, but nothing good. I have a feeling that, when they get back, they'll find those prints are from one of their own officers.”

“That stupid, huh?” muttered the agent. “You help them out?”

“They didn't ask and I didn't offer,” he replied. “Not my jurisdiction.”

Dunlevy smiled. “Got any ideas?” he asked, knowing full well that he did. Colonel Haney had twenty years in the Marines under his belt, stationed much of that time just down the road at Camp Lejeune. The colonel had been a top-notch military investigator. He only accepted the position as Chief of Police in Atlantic Beach to finance his extravagant hobby, deep-sea fishing.

“We'd have to round up some supplies,” said the colonel. “But there is one little trick we could try.”

“I'm in no hurry,” said Dunlevy. “What do you have in mind?”

“Cyano-acrylate fuming.”

Dunlevy shook his head and laughed. “You military guys. I've read about it. That's for real, huh?”

“Shit yeah, boy.”

The colonel reached for his billfold, pulled out a twenty, and handed it to his young subordinate with a military haircut. “I need you to run across the street to the Scotchman and get me a one-liter plastic bottle of Mountain Dew. Make sure it has a metal cap. We'll also need one tube of superglue.”

Dunlevy made eye contact with Franklin.

“We'll also need a coffee cup warmer, an extension cord, and a wet hand towel,” the colonel continued. “See if the hotel manager can help you out.”

Fifteen minutes later, the shopping list had been filled and Colonel Haney was ready to start the show. Haney twisted off the cap of the plastic soda bottle and poured the Mountain Dew onto the ground.

“This shit'll kill ya,” he said as he bit off the tip of the superglue tube and squeezed the contents into the soda cap.

Franklin's eyes grew wide. “What in the hell are you doing?”

Dunlevy tapped his arm. “It's an old military intelligence trick,” he whispered. “He's turning the cab of the truck into a big fuming chamber. It's called the cyano-acrylate fuming method. The Marines invented it.”

Franklin shook his head. “This is bullshit,” he mumbled.

Dunlevy stared forward. “Watch and learn,” he deadpanned.

Franklin watched carefully as the colonel placed the coffee mug warmer on the dash. He adjusted the thermostat to the highest setting and then placed the cap of glue directly on the heat. It took two extension cords to reach from the car to the outside plug by the front door of the hotel. The colonel ran the cord through the window and rolled it up as high as it would go without damaging the cord. He then used the wet towel to seal the small space in between.

Haney turned to the men. “When the glue reaches its boiling point,” the colonel said, pointing to the hotplate, “the cyano-acrylate in the superglue will become a sticky gas. It'll attach itself to any traces of amino acids, fatty acids, or proteins, all the components of latent fingerprints.”

Franklin was amazed. “And we'll see these prints with the naked eye?” he asked.

Haney grinned. “Hell, yeah. It'll start with a visible, white sticky material forming along the edge of the print. After about forty-five minutes we should see any latent prints in their entirety.”

The officers had time to kill before they would know if their experiment had worked. The younger men stood watch at the truck as the senior investigators strolled to the fishing pier behind the Sheraton.

“Has the sheriff's department shared any of the particulars of this case with you?” Dunlevy asked.

Haney looked startled. “You know better. I don't pee in their Fruit Loops, they don't pee in mine. I know what I read in the paper and what I see on the TV. That's about it. Things are pretty jurisdictional around here, but I like it that way.”

“So what do you think?” the agent asked as he wiped the cold ocean mist from his face.

“Who knows?” he replied. The colonel turned his back to the wind, reached down for a tall blade of beach grass, and lifted it to his mouth. “You've got a professional hit on your hands, is what I think. And I wouldn't be so sure those old German fellas were even the target. What if your perp missed his target?”

Dunlevy gave that some thought. “Yeah, but look who walked away, a TV crew, a college professor, and some kitchen staff. And there were crewmen from the Coast Guard cutter that sank the sub. We've done background checks on all of them, but none appear to be victim material. No unusual bills, no strange business dealings, no real enemies. The Germans were the target.”

“What about that squirrelly little professor? Maybe somebody's after his ass. He had me pissed off after just watchin' him a few minutes on Larry King.”

Dunlevy scoffed. “He's no stranger than any other college professor I've ever met—a little emotional but, other than that, a pretty normal guy. Plus, I just can't see a motive.”

The colonel looked past Dunlevy to the commotion in the parking lot. “Well, you can ask the son-of-bitch when you catch him. Looks like your boy over there has got him some fingerprints.”

Franklin had opened both doors of the pickup and had the contents of his forensic kit spilled across the hood. In just twenty minutes time, useable prints had appeared on the dash, steering column, and seat.

The junior agent did the dirty work. He taped and processed the prints. With his laptop, Franklin scanned and uploaded the print images to the FBI's Automated Fingerprint Identification System, the most comprehensive fingerprint database in the world. If their perp had a criminal record anywhere in the continental United States, it was a safe bet AFIS would find a match.