Kill and Tell Read online

  The second way, the dumb way, the risky way, was to find the senator's records and destroy them.

  That would be a job. Hayes hoped to hell the senator didn't have the records in his congressional office; that was the most dangerous place to keep them, where they were most likely to be turned up by accident.

  In his Georgetown townhouse? Possible. His estate in Minnesota was more likely; it was larger, more hiding places, plus the senator had grown up there. He knew the house, the grounds, intimately. Then there was the summer house in Cape Cod, but the senator hadn't been there this summer, so Hayes thought he could dismiss that possibility.

  If he had stashed the records in a safe deposit box somewhere, which was what Hayes had done, then they were beyond reach. He would have to find out which bank and what name the box was rented under, get the key, and learn how to copy the senator's signature. Hayes had a lot of talents, but forgery wasn't among them. Then there was the possibility that rather than deposit the papers himself and take the chance of being recognized, the senator had had his wife do it under her name. Mrs. Lake was a sweet, cheerful, uninquisitive person, and she adored her husband. She would do whatever he told her.

  The possibilities were endless. The one place the records wouldn't be was in a computer. The senator was computer-illiterate; hell, he had never even learned to type. From birth, he had been surrounded by wealth, and if he wanted to send a letter, he simply dictated it to a secretary or scrawled it by hand if he wanted it to be personal. From the beginning, Hayes had been relieved to know that; his personal opinion was that if you wanted sensitive information to get out, you put it in a computer. They were notoriously unconfidential. He wondered how many people would use accounting programs in their online computers if they knew the information could be accessed. Using the bank account number, a thief could then wipe out the account.

  Bank accounts. Something about bank accounts niggled at him. Something he should have thought about days ago.

  Suddenly, he knew what it was, and he wanted to kick his own ass. He had overlooked something so obvious that he shook his head in disgust.

  He had been thinking only about covering his ass when Vinay came looking, so the DDO wouldn't link him to Rick Medina's death. Instead, now he was pretty sure he had figured out how to find the book.

  He had wondered about the damn book, wondered exactly what was in it that the senator wanted kept quiet. Wouldn't it be a bitch for the senator if the man he sent after it kept it and used it against him the way Whitlaw had done?

  Hayes almost laughed aloud. He didn't like Senator Lake, and he sure as hell didn't trust the lying, sanctimonious, murderous bastard. On the other hand, he definitely liked the idea of a neat little double-cross. Why, it made him glad all over.

  If Whitlaw had hidden the book somewhere that only he knew, then the book was gone. Hell, maybe he had buried it somewhere. At any rate, under those circumstances, the senator was reasonably safe, because what were the odds it would turn up during his lifetime?

  On the other hand, if Whitlaw had sent the book to his wife or daughter…

  The wife had died in January. She and the daughter had lived together; the daughter would have her mother's effects. Then, only a couple of months later, the daughter had moved, from a house into an apartment. She would have been pushed for space. Where would the excess stuff go?

  Into storage.

  Columbus was a city of about six hundred thousand people. A city that size would have hundreds of storage companies, but there was a simple way to narrow the search: canceled checks.

  She would pay the monthly storage fee with a check. She might even write the unit number on the check, but if she didn't, that wasn't a big obstacle. All he would have to do would be to break into the company's office and locate her name in their files, then break into the unit. Most people just put small padlocks on the things anyway; bolt cutters would clip them right off.

  She was in hiding; no one would be at her apartment. The police would have it sealed off with crime-scene tape anyway, until they finished their internal investigation into Clancy's death. Any IA investigation could take days, even one as cut-and-dried as this one.

  All he had to do was find her bank statement and go through the canceled checks. Even if she only got photocopies from the bank, he would have the information he needed.

  Hayes chuckled, feeling very pleased with himself. In the morning, he would make a phone call to the senator to tell him he had a lead on the book, to calm him down, and then he was going on a little trip to Ohio.

  Jess McPherson was tired. It was four-thirty in the morning. His eyes burned, and every time he blinked, a pound of sand scratched across his eyeballs. The lines of data on the computer screen kept blurring, and he kept blinking. He had personally drunk two pots of coffee, and his stomach was burning worse than his eyes. He needed to take a piss, and he needed to sleep, in that order.

  He wondered how John held up the way he did. The stamina, the absolute concentration, amazed McPherson, and he wasn't a man who was easily impressed. But the younger man had been sitting in front of a computer screen even longer than McPherson had, so totally focused he scarcely blinked. He had flown thousands of miles, crossed about eight time zones, and dealt with his father's funeral. He had to be both jet-lagged and stressed out, but none of that showed in his face. Looking at him, no one would suspect what he was.

  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.