Women's Murder Club [03] 3rd Degree Page 9

  There was a knock on the door. The valet, he assumed, since he had left word at the front desk to bring up a press for his suit.

  When he opened the door, he was surprised to see a young man not in a hotel uniform at all but in a black fleece jacket and a cap hiding part of his face.

  “Herr Propp?” the young man asked.

  “Yes?” Gerd pushed his glasses up on his nose. “What is it?”

  Before he could utter another word, Gerd saw an arm shoot toward him. It caught him in the throat, knocking the air out of him. Then he was shoved back onto the floor, landing hard.

  Gerd tried to shake his head clear. His glasses were no longer on his face. He felt the ooze of blood running from his nose. “My God, what is going on?”

  The young man stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. All of a sudden there was a dark metallic object in his hand. Gerd froze. His eyes were not too good, but there was no mistake. The intruder was holding a gun.

  “You’re Gerhard Propp?” the young man asked. “Chief economist of the OECD in Geneva? Don’t try to deny it.”

  “Yes,” Gerd muttered. “By what right do you barge in here and—”

  “By the right of a hundred thousand children who die annually in Ethiopia,” the man interrupted, “from diseases that could easily be prevented, if their debt repayments weren’t six times their national health care coverage.”

  “Wh-what?” Gerd stammered.

  “By the right of AIDS patients in Tanzania,” the man went on, “who the government lets rot because they’re too busy repaying the debt you and your well-heeled bastards have swamped them with.”

  “I’m just an economist,” Gerd said. What did this man think he did?

  “You are Gerhard Propp. Chief economist of the OECD, whose mission is to advance the rate by which the economically advantaged nations of the world expropriate the resources of the economically weak in order to convert them into the garbage of the rich.” He took a pillow off the bed. “You are the architect of the MAI.”

  “You’ve got it completely wrong,” Gerd said, panicked. “The agreements have brought these backward countries into the modern world. They have created jobs and an export market for nations that could have never hoped to compete.”

  “No, you are wrong!” the young man shouted at the top of his voice. He walked over and switched on the TV. “All it has brought is greed and poverty and plundering. And this TV bullshit.”

  CNN was on, the international business briefs, which seemed appropriate. Gerd’s eyes bulged as he watched the intruder kneel down next to him, at the same time hearing the TV voice announce how the Brazilian real was under pressure again.

  “What are you doing?” Gerd gasped. His eyes bugged out.

  “I’m going to do what a thousand pregnant mothers with AIDS would like to do to you, Herr Doctor.”

  “Please,” Gerd begged. “Please… you are making some kind of serious mistake.”

  The intruder smiled. He took a look at the supplies on the bed. “Ah, I see you like fishing. I can work with that.”

  Chapter 45

  I GOT IN TO THE OFFICE at seven-thirty the following morning and was surprised to find Deputy Director Molinari on the phone behind my desk. Something had happened.

  He signaled for me to close the door. From what I could make out, he was talking with his office back East, getting briefed on a case. He had a stack of folders in his lap and he jotted down the occasional note. I could make out a couple: 9mm and Itinerary.

  “What’s goin’ on?” I asked when he hung up.

  He motioned for me to sit down. “There’s been a killing in Portland. A Swiss national was shot in his hotel room. An economist. He was preparing to leave for Vancouver this morning on a fishing excursion.”

  Not to sound blasé, but we already had two national-security murder cases and the leaders of the Free World were eyeballing our every move. “I’m sorry,” I said, “this relates to us, how?”

  Molinari flipped open one of the folders he was holding, which turned out to be a set of crime photos he’d already had faxed from the scene. They showed a corpse in what looked to be a fishing vest with two bullet holes. His shirt was ripped open and his bare chest seemed to have had some letters scratched on it, MAI.

  “The victim was an economist, Lieutenant,” Molinari said, “for the OECD.” He looked at me and smiled tightly. “That makes it clear.”

  As I sat down, my stomach sank. Immediately clear. Murder number three. I studied the crime shots more closely. Shots to the chest and a coup de grâce to the forehead. A large fisherman’s hook in an evidence bag. The letters scratched into the victim’s chest. MAI. “These letters mean anything to you?”

  “Yeah,” Molinari said, nodding. He got up. “I’ll tell you about it on the plane.”

  Chapter 46

  THE “PLANE” Molinari had arranged for us was a Gulfstream G-3 with a red, white, and blue crest on the fuselage and the words GOVERNMENT OF THE UNITED STATES. The deputy director was definitely up there on the food chain.

  It was my first time climbing aboard a private jet in the private section of SFI. As the doors closed behind us and the engines started up as soon as we hit our seats, I couldn’t deny a thrill shooting through me. “This is definitely the way to travel,” I said to Molinari. He didn’t disagree with me.

  The flight up to Portland was a little over an hour. Molinari was on the phone for the first few minutes. When he got off, I wanted to talk.

  I laid out the crime photos. “You were going to tell me what this meant. MAI?”

  “The MAI was a secret trade agreement,” he explained, “negotiated a few years back by the wealthy countries of the WTO. It extended to large corporations rights that sometimes superseded those of governments. Some people think it created an open hunting season on smaller economies. It was defeated in 1998 by a worldwide grass-roots campaign, but I’m told the OECD, which Propp worked for, was redrafting it and testing the waters again. Any ideas where?”

  “The G-8 meeting next week?”

  “Yeah… By the way”—he opened his briefcase—“I think you might get some use out of these.” He handed me folders that turned out to be the intel jackets from Seattle I had requested. Each was stamped CONFIDENTIAL, PROPERTY OF THE FBI.

  “Keep them close,” the deputy director said with a wink. “Might prove a little embarrassing to me if they got out.”

  I skimmed through the records from Seattle. A few had prior records—everything from inciting a riot to resisting arrest and unlawful possession of a firearm. Others appeared to be students caught up in the cause. Robert Alan Rich had an Interpol file for inciting violence at the World Economic Forum meeting in Gstaad. Terri Ann Gates had been bagged for arson. A gaunt-faced Reed College dropout with tied-back hair named Stephen Hardaway had committed a bank robbery in Spokane.

  “Remote-triggered bombs, ricin,” I said, thinking aloud. “The technology is pretty advanced. Any of these connected enough to pull off the strikes?”

  Molinari shrugged. “Somebody could’ve teamed up with an established terror cell. The technology’s for sale. Or we could be dealing with a white rabbit.”

  “White rabbit? Like the Jefferson Airplane?”

  “It’s the name we give someone who’s been hiding for a long time. Like the Weathermen from the sixties. Most of them have fit into society again. They have families, straight jobs. But there are a few still out there who haven’t given up the cause.”

  A cabin door opened and the copilot said that we were starting our descent. I stuffed the files in my briefcase, impressed with how quickly Molinari had followed up on my request.

  “Any last questions?” he asked, tightening his seat belt. “There’s usually a squadron of FBI officials who latch on to me when we land.”

  “Just one.” I smiled. “How do you like to be addressed? Deputy director sounds like someone who runs a hydroelectric factory in the Ukraine.”

&nbs
p; He laughed. “In the field, generally ‘sir’ comes with the territory. But out of the field, what usually works for me is ‘Joe.’”

  He tossed me a smile. “That make it any easier for you, Lieutenant?”

  “We’ll see, sir.”

  Chapter 47

  WE WERE WHISKED by police escort from the private airfield outside Portland to the Governor Hotel in the center of town. The Governor was an old restored Western, and this was the worst thing that had ever happened there.

  While Molinari conferred with the head of the regional FBI office, I got up to date with Hannah Wood, a local homicide inspector, and her partner, Rob Stone.

  Molinari gave me time to go over the crime scene, which was definitely grisly. Clearly Propp had let his assailant in. The economist had been shot three times—twice in the chest and a clean-through to the head, the bullet lodging in the floor. But Propp had also been slashed several times, probably with a serrated knife that still lay on the floor.

  “Crime team dug this out.” Hannah showed me a bag containing a flattened 9mm bullet. A large gaff hook in a Baggie was also being held for us.

  “Prints?” I asked.

  “Partials off the inside doorknob. Probably Propp’s. The Swiss consulate’s contacted Propp’s family back home,” Hannah said. “He had dinner with a friend scheduled last night, then a seven A.M. flight to Vancouver. Other than that, no calls or visitors.”

  I put on a pair of gloves, flipped open the briefcase on Propp’s bed, and shuffled through his notes. A few books were scattered about, mostly academic stuff.

  I went into the bathroom. Propp’s toilet case was laid out on the counter. Not much else to go on. Nothing seemed to have been disturbed.

  “Be easier if you could tell us what we’re looking for, Lieutenant,” Stone said.

  I couldn’t. The name August Spies hadn’t been released yet. I focused on prints of the crime scene photos that were taped to the mirror. It was an ugly, horrible scene. Blood everywhere. Then the warning: MAI.

  The murderers were doing their homework, I was thinking. They wanted a soapbox. They had it. So where the hell was the speech?

  “Listen, Lieutenant,” Hannah said uncomfortably, “it’s not too hard to figure out what you and the deputy director are doing up here. That horrible stuff going on in San Francisco? This is connected, isn’t it?”

  Before I could answer, Molinari came in with Special Agent Thompson. “Seen enough?” he asked me.

  “If there are no objections, sir”—the FBI man pulled out his cell phone—“I’ll advise the antiterror desk in Quantico that the killer is on the move.”

  “You okay with that, Lieutenant?” Molinari looked toward me.

  I shook my head. “No. I don’t think so.”

  The FBI man shot me a double take. “Run that by me again, Lieutenant?”

  “I think you should wait.” I gave weight to each word. “I don’t think this murder is related to the others. I’m almost sure of it now.”

  Chapter 48

  THE ROOM ABOVE might have just crashed through our ceiling, the way the FBI man blinked. To his credit, Molinari didn’t react one way or the other. He seemed ready to hear what I had to say.

  “You are aware of what Gerhard Propp did for a living? And why he was in this country in the first place?” Special Agent Thompson asked.

  “I’m aware,” I answered.

  “And where he was scheduled to present next week?”

  “I was briefed,” I said. “Just like you were.”

  Thompson aimed a smug smile toward Molinari. “So this is some other homicidal maniac who just happens to be targeting the G-8?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “That’s exactly what I think.”

  Thompson laughed and flipped open his phone. He started to punch in his speed dial.

  Molinari held his arm. “I’d like to hear what the lieutenant has to say.”

  “Okay… The first thing is, this crime scene is completely different from the others. One, this perp is probably male; that’s clear from the force used to knock Propp to the ground. But that’s not what I’m referring to. It’s the physical condition of the body.

  “The first two murders were detached.” I pointed to the crime scene photo taped to the mirror. “This is emotional. Personal. Look at the cuts. The killer defaced the body. He used a handgun and a knife.”

  “You’re saying there’s a difference between blowing someone up, or pouring Drno down their throat, and this?” Thompson said.

  “Have you ever pulled a trigger on the job, Special Agent?”

  He shrugged, but his face went red. “No… So?”

  I took down the photo of Propp’s body. “Could you do this?”

  The FBI man seemed to hesitate.

  “Different killers, different temperaments,” Molinari cut in. “This one could be a sadistic maniac.”

  “All right, then there’s the timing. The message yesterday indicated that there would be another victim every three days. That’d be Sunday. Too soon.”

  “More likely, the guy was available,” the FBI man said. “You can’t be saying you’re holding a terrorist killer to his word?”

  “I’m saying precisely that,” I said. “I’ve been around pattern killers enough to understand them. There’s a bond they make with us. If we can’t take them at their word, why would we believe any of their messages? How would we confirm it’s the same group behind their actions? They have to have total credibility.”

  Thompson looked to Molinari for help. Molinari’s eyes were on me. “You’ve still got the floor, Lieutenant.”

  “The most important thing,” I said, “there’s no signature. Both San Francisco killings were signed. He wants us to know it’s him. You almost have to admire the ingenuity. A knapsack posing as a secondary bomb left outside the town house. Bengosian’s own business form stuffed in his mouth.”

  I shrugged at Molinari. “You can get every Ph.D. or forensic expert in the FBI or the National Security Council up here for all I care… but you brought me here. And I’m telling you, this ain’t him.”

  Chapter 49

  “I’M READY to make that call.” The FBI man nodded to Molinari, completely ignoring everything I’d just said. That really burned me.

  “I just want to be clear, Lieutenant,” Molinari said, focusing on me. “You think there’s another killer, a copycat, at work here.”

  “It could be a copycat. It could be some sort of splinter group, too. Believe me, I wish I could say it was murder number three, because now we’re left with a bigger problem.”

  “I don’t understand.” The deputy director finally blinked.

  “If it isn’t the same killer,” I said, “then the terror has started to spread. I think that’s exactly what’s happened.”

  Molinari nodded slowly. “I’m going to advise the Bureau, Agent Thompson, to treat these cases as independent actions. At least for the time being.”

  Agent Thompson sighed.

  “In the meantime, we still have a murder to solve. The man’s dead here,” the deputy director snapped. He looked around the room, his gaze ending up on Thompson. “Anyone have a problem with that?”

  “No, sir,” Thompson said, flipping his phone back into his jacket pocket.

  I was stunned. Molinari had backed me up. Even Hannah Wood mooned her eyes in his direction.

  We spent the rest of the day at the FBI regional office in Portland. We interviewed the person Propp was meeting in Vancouver and his economist friend at Portland State. Molinari also brought me in on two calls back to senior investigators at his home office in D.C., backing up my theory that this was a copycat crime and that the terror might be spreading.

  About five, it dawned on me that I couldn’t stay up there much longer. There were a couple of fairly prominent cases that needed my attention back home. Brenda informed me there was a Southwest flight back to San Francisco at 6:30.

  I knocked on the gray, carpet-covered cubicle M
olinari was using for an office. “If you don’t need me up here anymore, I thought I’d head home. It was fun being ‘Fed for a Day.’”

  Molinari smiled. “Look, I was hoping you might stay a couple of hours. Have dinner with me.”

  Standing there, I did my best to pretend that it didn’t matter hearing those words, but my general rule about Feds notwithstanding, I was curious. Who wouldn’t be?

  But a few reasons why I shouldn’t be popped into my head as well. Like the murder cases on my board. And the fact that Molinari was the second most powerful law-enforcement figure in the country. And unless I was mis-reading the little tingle bubbling up my spine, knocking down the old Chinese wall in the middle of a high-profile murder investigation wasn’t exactly the best protocol.

  “There’s an eleven o’clock back to San Francisco,” Molinari said. “I promise I’ll have you to the airport in plenty of time. C’mon, Lindsay.”

  When I hesitated one more time, he stood up. “Hey, if you can’t trust Homeland Security… who can you trust?”

  “Two conditions,” I said.

  “Okay,” the deputy director agreed. “If I can.”

  “Seafood,” I said.

  Molinari showed the outline of a smile. “I think I know just the place….”

  “And no FBI agents.”

  Molinari’s head went back in a laugh. “That’s the one thing I can definitely guarantee.”

  Chapter 50

  “JUST THE PLACE” turned out to be a café called Catch, down on Vine Street, which was like Union Street back home, filled with trendy restaurants and cutesy boutiques. The maître d’ led us to a quiet table way in the back.

  Molinari asked if he could handle the wine, ordering a pinot noir from Oregon. He called himself a “closet foodie” and said what he missed most about a normal life was just staying home and puttering around the kitchen.