The Watcher felt the blood drain from his face. He watched Jason Rodgers being led from the house, his hands cuffed behind his back. A young detective escorted him to an unmarked car and deposited him in the back seat.
His phone vibrated for the fifth time. Hussein had been demanding a status update. Not yet! He needed to focus. He did not need to cloud his mind with ranting texts and updates. He needed to act!
He had returned to the Cadillac when he heard the sirens. The gunfire must have triggered a phone call by a neighbor. He reached into his suit for the fake shield he’d used last night to rescue Rodgers after the car accident on Jefferson Avenue in the northern stretches of Newport News. The Watcher placed his hand on the lever and was about to open the car door when he hesitated.
Not a good idea, he told himself.
The thought that he could strong arm his way into the crime scene, flash the badge, and take Rodgers with him appeared at first to be an expedient method to free the pharmacist. But last night he dealt with one cop and a paramedic before others could arrive. And last night Rodgers was not in custody. The Watcher’s mind recalculated.
Now, the pharmacist had been arrested. The place swarmed with cops and detectives. If he tried to bully his way to Rodgers now, the chance that he might run into someone like John Palmer was high. The Watcher hadn’t seen Palmer arrive. For all he knew, Palmer might already be in the house. If not, he would arrive shortly. The Watcher would be exposed and even detained himself. And that he could not afford.
He would have to find another way.
His mind kicked into a gear rarely used. Quick improvisation was a must in his business. Plans always went to shit. There was no time for panic … or hesitation. Every second counted now. How he acted and the decisions he made in the next few minutes would decide the fate of at least five people. Maybe more.
Jason Rodgers was in custody. Presumably, the man in the house had been shot … and could well be dead. That meant Jason Rodgers was going to be held, interrogated, and charged with a crime up to and possibly including murder.
The Watcher recalled his one overriding directive: Make sure Jason Rodgers carries out the madwoman’s instructions.
The keys! He needed to retrieve the keys
Reaching into his suit coat pocket, he palmed the gold detective’s badge. The keys were everything. The whole operation would be bupkis if he didn’t retrieve those keys.
He pushed out a long breath. There was only one way to get the keys: he had to enter the house. He wouldn’t bully anyone. He would simply slip in the back and look like he belonged. Pulling out the badge, he exited the car, circled the block, and cut through two yards until he reached the back steps of the house.
Get the keys! Then get Rodgers!
He turned the knob, found it unlocked, and stepped inside.
Two miles to the north and thirty minutes later, Peter’s right knee jack-hammered up and down. The former marine studied his cell phone. He opened the crumpled pack of Marlboros. Only one left, he thought. He wanted one badly right now. A smoke would have to wait.
“Are you going in or not?” Tim asked.
They had been sitting in the parking lot of police headquarters for ten minutes as Peter contemplated going inside. He knew if he did there was no putting the genie back in the bottle.
The only thing on his mind was how he’d shown up at the fourth floor of the north Windsor Tower in Newport News as Jason was about to be shot by the Arab pharmacist. If he hadn’t, Jason would have been killed.
Those thoughts and images filled Peter with angst. He’d always had Jason’s back. It was not in his nature to be a bystander, especially where his brother was concerned.
Trust him! Peter told himself.
No this was a matter of life and death!
Fuck it, he told himself. Peter pulled the last cigarette from the pack, lit it, and filled the cab with smoke. He checked his watch. Just after ten in the evening. As he pushed out a blue cloud, a caravan of five police cruisers arrived at headquarters, lights ablaze. They sped through the parking lot and circled to the rear of the building. A prisoner was escorted by a phalanx of blue uniforms in the darkness. The group and the prisoner passed under a street lamp illuminating the prisoner. Peter’s heart jumped when he recognized his brother’s face.
His phone chimed out the Marine Corps Hymn. Peter dove at the device, picked it up. The caller ID said “Private.”
“Peter Rodgers!”
“You are the brother of the pharmacist!”
It was not a question.
“Who’s this?”
“A friend of your brother,” the voice said.
“I need a name!”
“You don’t get one. Your brother needs you! You will meet him at one this morning. You need to retrieve your vehicle. Don’t be late! And don’t go to the police!”
“That’s going to be a problem. The cops just brought my brother in in cuffs.”
“I know.”
“Who are you?”
“Not important. Follow your instructions if you want to save your brother.”
“He was driving my truck. Where is it?”
“It’s on 65th Street. Go there now and retrieve it. Just be at the location on time.”
The voice recited an address. The line went dead. Peter’s anxiety ratcheted up several levels. He checked his watch. He had less than two hours.
The former marine could barely choke out his next directive.
“Change of plans, Tim. I need you to take me to get my Hummer.”
An hour and a half later, Jason’s hands were cuffed to a two-foot-long chain slipped through a hasp bolted into the steel interrogation table. His eyes were riveted on the red light on the camera mounted on the tripod in the corner over Palmer’s right shoulder. A cord snaked from the camera to a small hole in the wall.
Rodgers had been interrogated by John Palmer, the homicide cop, for the last ninety minutes. At first, Palmer was shocked at the extent of his injuries: the head wound, the shrapnel wounds in the arm and shoulder, and a swollen left eye from his fight with William Luther. Palmer asked if he needed a doctor. Jason declined. And so the questions continued.
A generic clock on the wall indicated it was one minute past eleven-thirty at night. Fatigue clung to him like a dense shroud. This was no time to be tired. Closing his eyes and sucking in quick breaths through his nose, he leaned closer to John Palmer and whispered.
“I need you to do something for me.”
Palmer’s eyes shifted to the two-way mirror on the wall. Palmer had been interrogating Jason for the past hour about the dead man in the house on 65th Street. Jason had avoided answering questions to this point, to Palmer’s obvious growing consternation.
“Jason, you’re wasting my time. You want me to do something for you. Give me something and I’ll consider your favor.”
“I’m about to ask for my lawyer. But not yet. When I do, you’ll get nothing. I know my rights, your partner read them to me. I don’t have to talk to you. That is unless you help me.”
“You’re not in a good negotiating position.”
“Time is crucial, detective. Two people have been kidnapped. The people who took them are a part of why I was at that house. Do this one favor for me and I’ll tell you everything. You need to retrieve something for me. If you don’t, two people will die.”
“Depends on what it is.” Palmer hammered the business end of his Bic on the blank yellow legal pad.
“I need you to turn off the camera.”
“Does this have anything to do with your brother calling me?”
“Probably. What did he tell you?”
“He left a message. I never called him back. Said something about Lily Zanns, aka Delilah Hussein, being alive, and she has kidnapped your son and girlfriend.”
“I’ll tell you the whole story when you turn off the camera and tell the guys behind the glass to go get a cup of coffee.”
Palmer screwed his lips into a tight pucker as he considered Jason’s request. Finally, he turned to the mirror and made a slicing motion across his throat. The light on the camera went dark. Palmer exited the room, returned two minutes later, and sat back down.
“They’ll be back in five minutes. Make it quick.”
“I’m in trouble and I need your help.”
“You are in a shitload of trouble. I don’t know if anyone can help you, least of all me.”
“Delilah Hussein is alive,” Jason said.
Palmer shook his head. “Nice try, Mr. Rodgers. She’s dead!”
“I can prove it!”
Palmer sighed, shaking his head. “I saw the photos and the bodies on the yacht. You’re gonna need a better strategy to get you out of this.”
“Hussein contacted me. She confirmed that she has Michael, my son, and Chrissie, my … fiancée. I have photographic proof. My son and my girlfriend are gone. If I don’t do exactly as she tells me, she is going to kill them. She wants to avenge the death of her daughter, the capture of her son, and her failure to kill two presidents. It’s why I was at the house with the man I shot. Hussein is calling the shots. She told me to be there.”
“Where is this photographic evidence?”
“It’s on a cell phone and a computer flash drive in my brother’s Hummer. It’s on 65th Street, parked outside the house.”
“That Hummer is probably in police custody as evidence,” Palmer declared.
Palmer lifted his cell phone and called a number. “There’s a Hummer parked on 65th Street. It’s involved in the murder there. Make sure we impound it…”
Palmer listened for twenty seconds.
“What do you mean it’s not there?”
Palmer sighed and hung up. “It seems your brother was able to retrieve the Hummer before they catalogued it. They didn’t realize it was part of the investigation.”
“So, Peter has the cell phone and the laptop.”
“I’ll call him and he can bring it to me,” Palmer replied. “If I’m convinced, maybe … I’ll help you.”
Jason nodded. “You’ll be convinced. Here’s what I need.”
“You want me to do what!?” Palmer demanded. Jason had just finished
explaining about the keys, the miniature coffins, the video file, and the audio recording. Palmer removed the toothpick lodged in the corner of his mouth, inspected it, and then replaced it on the other side. The aging detective shook his head.
“If I don’t get those keys and report back to her, she’ll kill them.”
“Where are the keys?”
“They were on the floor in the living room at the address when I was arrested. Where would they be now?”
“The crime scene unit probably scooped them up. If so, they’re in the evidence room.”
“Will you get them for me?”
“Do you realize what you’re asking me to do?”
“I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t a matter of life and death.”
“I don’t know … What the hell am I saying … No …”
Jason felt his body shrink. Palmer’s eyes searched his.
“Even if I get them for you, how are you going to drive? You’re in custody. And there is no way in hell … you’re not going anywhere. Don’t even think about asking me to release you.”
“I’ll figure something out. I need those keys. I’ll get my brother to make the trip.”
Palmer closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. “Those keys are evidence.”
“Detective Palmer … John, if you were sitting where I am you’d be asking the same thing.”
Palmer opened his eyes and studied his prisoner. “I want to see the video on the flash drive, see the images and hear the recording on the cell phone. If I am impressed by what I hear, we’ll see.”
Ten minutes later, Peter Rodgers’s cell phone pealed the Marine Corps Hymn.
Driving up Warwick Boulevard, he had just passed the intersection with J. Clyde Morris Boulevard. Tim, his employee, had dropped him off and waited while Rodgers provided the OnStar representative with the necessary password to unlock his vehicle doors and remotely start his car. His car keys had been in Jason’s possession, and right now, he guessed, were somewhere in Newport News Police Headquarters. He had an alternate set at home. There was no time to get them.
Fortunately, the Hummer had been ignored.
Jason had parked the Hummer a hundred yards short of the house where he was arrested. A gaggle of police vehicles were parked outside the residence. A yellow band of plastic crime-scene tape had been strung around the perimeter of the yard. A crime-scene technical truck, its rear doors swung wide, exposed a plethora of evidence-gathering equipment and supplies. Two cruisers, their lights flashing, were parked on the street.
Peter assumed that the Hummer had not been identified as the vehicle driven by Jason, or they simply hadn’t gotten to it. He had wasted no time dispatching Tim after the Hummer’s engine came to life. Thirty minutes ago, he had jerked it into gear and driven slowly past the house and the police presence. The front door of the house was wide open, every window ablaze. Cops and technicians bandied about as flashes from the photographer’s camera strobed through the edifice.
The former marine did not recognize the number. He hesitated then pressed the icon to take the call.
“Peter Rodgers.”
“This is Detective John Palmer of the Newport News Police Department.”
“You have Jason in custody?”
“That’s correct.”
“What do you want from me?”
“Your brother says that you have evidence that …” Palmer hesitated, lowering his voice. “ … that Delilah Hussein is alive. A phone and a file with a message and video file showing captives. Is this true?”
“That’s right.”
“Can you send them to me?”
“Are you going to release my brother?”
“That’s not possible. He’s a suspect in another murder.”
The word murder sent a sharp pain through Peter’s gut. “Then why do you need it?”
“It may help your brother … and help us find his girlfriend and his son … your nephew. Bring the phone and flash drive to police headquarters.”
Peter glanced down at the cell phone emblazoned with the number two in grease paint and the flash drive. The laptop lay on the passenger-side floorboard. He didn’t want to end up in custody beside Jason. It would not help Michael and Chrissie’s cause.
“Negative. Give me your phone number and I’ll send them to you.”