Kill and Tell cs-1 Read online

  His brown hair was neatly cut and combed, his white oxford shirt neatly pressed, his slacks unwrinkled. He wore a pair of wire-frame glasses to ease eye strain from working at the computer for so many hours. He had a manicure, for God's sake. He could be any Ivy Leaguer, any lawyer or banker, or an investment broker, the guy next door.

  But he wasn't. His long fingers danced over the keyboard, agile testimony to his complete familiarity with computers and their workings. McPherson was competent, but John was a master at ferreting out information.

  He was also the most dangerous man McPherson had ever known.

  He loved John like a son, but he knew no one knew him completely. It was anyone's guess what went on behind those calm eyes, the thoughtful manner. No, it wasn't just a manner; John really was thoughtful. Most people saw only the surface; John saw multiple layers and intuitively knew how to manipulate those layers so people reacted the way he wanted, causing certain events to unfold. He also knew how to kill in more ways than most people knew even existed. He had trained with the Navy SEALs, going through the rigorous physical conditioning as well as the classroom stuff. He had learned about computers from some legendary techno-wizard. He could fly a plane, sail a ship, set a bone, and probably sew a dress.

  The CIA gathered information on roughly a hundred and fifty countries. John Medina had been in all of them.

  He had been married once, in his early twenties. The young woman had died. Rumor had it she was a double agent and John had killed her himself rather than let her compromise a highly placed mole in the Kremlin. McPherson never met the young woman, and he didn't necessarily believe the rumor, because there were other ways to prevent her from passing along information, and John didn't kill unnecessarily; nevertheless, he admitted John was capable of the action.

  The computer screen blurred again, and McPherson leaned back in his chair, stretching his legs out and yawning. "Damn, whoever would have thought they would know so many of the same people?"

  "They were in Vietnam," John murmured, his fingers skimming the keys. "Hundreds of thousands of troops were over there at any one time. Dad was in and out of the country several times, multiplying the possibilities. Whitlaw did multiple tours of duty. They met a lot of people, not necessarily at the same time."

  "Jesus, some of these people have been dead over twenty years. Can't you weed out the dead guys, shorten the list a little?"

  "Sure." John tapped some keys, then paused with his finger poised over the mouse. He typed in another command. A hard copy began spitting out of the laser printer beside McPherson.

  "What's this?" McPherson reached over and picked up the first sheet lying in the tray.

  "A list of the dead guys."

  Squinting at the names, McPherson said, "Why?"

  "Because the answer may be in someone who's already dead. Maybe Dad and Whitlaw were just next on someone's list." John shrugged to show the endless possibilities. "The wider the search area, the more likely I am to see a pattern."

  "So you're looking for people who have recently died."

  "I'm looking for anything. If I see anything interesting, then I'll run a match to see if any of the people on the deceased list also knew any of the people on the present list. There has to be a link." The printer stopped printing. McPherson gathered up the sheets and handed them to John, who tilted back in his chair and began scanning the list of names and the dates of their deaths. Ten minutes later, he paused, his gaze returning to one name, and he stared at it thoughtfully for a moment. Then he leaned

  forward, pulled up another file on the screen, and typed in a name.

  "Hmm."

  "Did you find something?"

  "Maybe. It's… interesting. I'll check further."

  McPherson rolled his chair over beside John's and read the information on the computer screen. "Huh."

  "Did you know him?"

  "No, but we sure as hell know his brother, don't we?"

  "Wake up, honey." Marc smoothed his hand over Karen's shoulder, cupping his palm over the smooth, cool ball of the joint. "Here's a cup of coffee."

  She blinked sleepily. "What time is it?" she mumbled.

  "Not late. Seven-thirty."

  "Then why are you up? You said you don't have to go to work." She pushed herself up in bed, yawning as she reached for the cup of steaming, fragrant coffee. The sheet slid to her waist, and Marc's hand almost automatically went to her bare breasts, stroking, rubbing her nipples. Karen leaned against him and nestled her head on his shoulder as she sipped the coffee, enjoying his fondling.

  "I don't, but we do have to go to Columbus. I called the airline and got two seats on the ten-thirty flight." She was silent, a little frightened at the thought of returning to the city she had fled in fear only the day before. It had to be done, though. Marc could go alone, but she didn't want to be separated from him, and he seemed to feel the same way.

  He tilted her head up and kissed her, long and slow. She was amazed at how relaxed she felt with him, how comfortable and secure. It didn't bother her that she was naked and he was clothed. They had just spent roughly eighteen hours in bed together, making love, dozing, making love. He had let her get up only to go to the bathroom. When she got hungry, he brought food to her. The pampering had worked. She felt much better than she had the day before, not nearly as sore. She was well rested, and she was happy. She felt guilty for being so happy, because her father had been murdered a week before and her own situation was serious, but the giddy, light hearted sensation that filled her chest was undoubtedly happiness.

  After all her anxious, uncertain over-analyzing before, she felt calm now, and confident. They had committed to each other, and she trusted him. She had no doubt they would soon be getting married; otherwise, he would never have made love to her without using birth control, no matter how good the lack of barrier felt or how tempted he was. Marc was infinitely responsible and reliable. He had shown her that in a hundred small, different ways from the moment she first met him. For the rest of his life, he would be there.

  The strong coffee hit her system with a jolt of caffeine, stirring her brain to activity. She needed to shower and wash her hair; she wanted to put down the coffee cup and pull Marc down on the bed with her again, but she wasn't certain they had enough time. She slid her hand up his thigh to check out the situation.

  ''You're wasting your time," he said ruefully. "After last night, I couldn't get a hard-on now if my life depended on it."

  "Are you certain?" She found what she was looking for and began stroking him.

  "Not one hundred percent certain, but fairly confident." He grinned. "Trust me, the two nights we've spent together are aberrations."

  Tilting her head back against his shoulder, Karen smiled at him. "So what is your usual—ah—level of performance?"

  He laughed. "Twice a day is plenty. Once is normal."

  " Every day?"

  "If I say yes, are you going to hold me to that?"

  "Rain or shine."

  "In that case, yes. But if I'm tired, you'll have to do the work."

  "Oh, all right, if I have to." She stopped teasing him and took her hand away. "I'd better get ready. Want to shower with me?"

  "I have breakfast ready. Eat first, then we'll shower."

  After breakfast, he called Shannon to let him know where they were going. "I'm going to let McPherson know, too," he said.

  "Are you on to something?"

  "Karen remembers getting a box in the mail from her father. We're going to see what's in it."

  "When will you be back?"

  "Tonight, if we can get a flight. I didn't book a return ticket because I don't know how long this will take. Tomorrow for sure."

  "Okay. I'll keep an eye on your house while you're gone, in case any suspicious characters start nosing around." He paused. "Watch your ass."

  "I will. I'll let you know when we get back."

  Then he called the number McPherson had given him, having decided to go with his