We think he’s Latino. Maybe Puerto Rican or Cuban. Operates in both North and South America. Interpol thinks he’s responsible for maybe twenty or thirty assassinations, from Canada to Chile, mostly political, but we think most of the six or seven murders attributed to him in our country were Mafia hits.”
When Frye mentioned Mafia hits, a name jumped into my mind, and a second later I was dead certain I knew who was calling the shots that had killed Walt and Cecil. Ezekiel Koontz had ordered my death sure as God made little green apples. If you can’t find the diaries, kill the guy who knows where they are, right?
“But why blow up the boat?” Cal wanted to know.
I watched Frye shrug, then give an honest answer. “We don’t know. Not yet, but we’ll find out. Count on it.” He turned back to me. “Jeb, somebody wants those diaries bad. Where are they?”
“There are no diaries. I told your man Barnes that already.”
“Why do I have such a hard time believing that?”
“That’s your problem. You want me to take a polygraph?”
“I might, later on, but first things first. What to do with you right now.”
My mind was working hard. “Bury me.”
“What?”
“Bury me. Look, the killer thinks I’m dead. So does the bastard who paid for it. So let me stay dead. You’ll have a better chance of catching them that way. Besides, if they think I’m not dead, they’ll try again, and next time they won’t make any mistakes. Who were all those cops in my room?”
“The Washington P.D. ‘M’ squad. Captain Frank Kemp and his men.”
“They still in there?”
“Every man, and my forensic team. Why?”
“Can you please call Kemp in here?”
It took thirty minutes to solidify the idea I’d had. Another hour to work out the basic details. Some of it was cruel as hell. The FBI would contact Walt’s wife, tell her that Walt had been suddenly called in to work with the CIA on some hush-hush computer project out of the country, and would later become “missing in action” somewhere in Europe. His body would be kept in the morgue until then. I would hide out at Cal’s mountain cabin near the Carolina-Tennessee border for as long as it would take. Cal himself would go there for a period of personal isolation; a fishing trip, accompanied by Sammy and Pete Suggs, who were sworn on the spot to secrecy, as was Captain Kemp and his squad.
Neither Frye nor Kemp could think of a better plan. They didn’t have a lot of faith that the ruse would work for very long, but it just might, long enough to get a beachhead of progress on their joint investigation, plus it would keep me out of Frye’s hair permanently, which, I’m sure, was basically why he agreed to try it.
Both also agreed to give me time to drive the Chevy to the cabin before putting the rest of the plan in place. We sent Sammy and Pete to the ramp, along with one of Kemp’s men, to pick up the car, with instructions to take it to the “back door” of the hotel. While Frye and the Washington cop went back to my room to give their orders, Cal tried to get me to lie down and rest a while. I couldn’t.
I pantomimed writing a note. Cal nodded, fished out some hotel stationery from the side table and handed me a sheet, along with his pen. I wrote: “My room/phone was probably bugged. Yours may be, too, so don’t talk.’’
Cal Willard hadn’t acquired my “Wom” nickname for nothing. He turned the paper over, took his pen back and wrote: “Don’t trust Frye. Don’t trust anybody. Take no more chances.”
I shook my head. Then asked for the paper and pen back.
“Going to cabin via Chapel Hill.”
Cal arched one eyebrow, and nodded again. He knew as well as I did that if the plan failed, they’d go after Liz. She was Mac McCarty’s sister. Someone who might possibly know about his diaries, and dead women don’t talk any more than dead men do.
I washed my face with cold water and waited for Frye to tell me Sammy and Pete were
When Frye mentioned Mafia hits, a name jumped into my mind, and a second later I was dead certain I knew who was calling the shots that had killed Walt and Cecil. Ezekiel Koontz had ordered my death sure as God made little green apples. If you can’t find the diaries, kill the guy who knows where they are, right?
“But why blow up the boat?” Cal wanted to know.
I watched Frye shrug, then give an honest answer. “We don’t know. Not yet, but we’ll find out. Count on it.” He turned back to me. “Jeb, somebody wants those diaries bad. Where are they?”
“There are no diaries. I told your man Barnes that already.”
“Why do I have such a hard time believing that?”
“That’s your problem. You want me to take a polygraph?”
“I might, later on, but first things first. What to do with you right now.”
My mind was working hard. “Bury me.”
“What?”
“Bury me. Look, the killer thinks I’m dead. So does the bastard who paid for it. So let me stay dead. You’ll have a better chance of catching them that way. Besides, if they think I’m not dead, they’ll try again, and next time they won’t make any mistakes. Who were all those cops in my room?”
“The Washington P.D. ‘M’ squad. Captain Frank Kemp and his men.”
“They still in there?”
“Every man, and my forensic team. Why?”
“Can you please call Kemp in here?”
It took thirty minutes to solidify the idea I’d had. Another hour to work out the basic details. Some of it was cruel as hell. The FBI would contact Walt’s wife, tell her that Walt had been suddenly called in to work with the CIA on some hush-hush computer project out of the country, and would later become “missing in action” somewhere in Europe. His body would be kept in the morgue until then. I would hide out at Cal’s mountain cabin near the Carolina-Tennessee border for as long as it would take. Cal himself would go there for a period of personal isolation; a fishing trip, accompanied by Sammy and Pete Suggs, who were sworn on the spot to secrecy, as was Captain Kemp and his squad.
Neither Frye nor Kemp could think of a better plan. They didn’t have a lot of faith that the ruse would work for very long, but it just might, long enough to get a beachhead of progress on their joint investigation, plus it would keep me out of Frye’s hair permanently, which, I’m sure, was basically why he agreed to try it.
Both also agreed to give me time to drive the Chevy to the cabin before putting the rest of the plan in place. We sent Sammy and Pete to the ramp, along with one of Kemp’s men, to pick up the car, with instructions to take it to the “back door” of the hotel. While Frye and the Washington cop went back to my room to give their orders, Cal tried to get me to lie down and rest a while. I couldn’t.
I pantomimed writing a note. Cal nodded, fished out some hotel stationery from the side table and handed me a sheet, along with his pen. I wrote: “My room/phone was probably bugged. Yours may be, too, so don’t talk.’’
Cal Willard hadn’t acquired my “Wom” nickname for nothing. He turned the paper over, took his pen back and wrote: “Don’t trust Frye. Don’t trust anybody. Take no more chances.”
I shook my head. Then asked for the paper and pen back.
“Going to cabin via Chapel Hill.”
Cal arched one eyebrow, and nodded again. He knew as well as I did that if the plan failed, they’d go after Liz. She was Mac McCarty’s sister. Someone who might possibly know about his diaries, and dead women don’t talk any more than dead men do.
I washed my face with cold water and waited for Frye to tell me Sammy and Pete were
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