Grant Mckenzie Page 18

  ‘Ironwood?’

  ‘Hmmm, that rings a bell. Could be.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Hogan said. ‘You’ve been a help.’

  ‘Hey, no problem, it’s a strange case. If you catch Parker up there, give me a holler. He’s certainly got me puzzled.’

  Hogan thanked the detective again and hung up. He turned to Preston, but his partner was already on his feet.

  ‘I’ll get the case files,’ Preston said.

  While Preston was gone, Hogan crossed to the robbery crew and leaned his hip against the desk of Detective Freyja Flosadottir.

  Freyja was a raven-haired Icelandic beauty with a sharp face and smooth white skin. Her nickname, and one that she seemed to embrace, was Calico.

  ‘Your partner has been riding us all day about the friggin’ mall,’ Calico said.

  ‘Just thank the roster you don’t have to work with him,’ Hogan replied with an easy smile.

  ‘So what’s on your mind?’

  ‘The mall.’

  ‘Christ, not you, too.’

  ‘I just want to know what you think.’

  ‘As in who could have done it? Not that we can prove a damn thing.’

  Hogan nodded.

  Calico sighed. ‘There are only three people in town who could pull something this big. Out of the three, only two enjoy working with foreign interests. One deals mostly with the Russian mafia, so he’s a definite maybe. The other isn’t so limited. He plays with the Chinese, Russians and the Europeans. This heist was ballsy, but I wouldn’t like to guess whose are bigger.’

  ‘You got names?’ Hogan asked.

  ‘Mmmm,’ Calico teased. ‘What’s your interest?’

  ‘We’re looking at the security guard on an unrelated matter.’

  ‘Unrelated?’

  Hogan shrugged. ‘For now. The connection’s muddy.’

  ‘But if you clear it up?’

  ‘I’ll be sure to call.’

  ‘You know I stay up late.’

  Hogan broke eye contact, his throat suddenly dry. ‘The names?’

  Calico laughed. ‘I’ll dig up the e-files and send them over.’

  89

  Preston returned with a large brown envelope containing the original police reports of the 1984 rape.

  Hogan joined him at the desk. ‘Ironwood?’

  ‘Ironwood and your Viking friend.’

  ‘Christ.’

  ‘It gets better.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘The actor is mentioned, too.’

  Hogan blinked in surprise. ‘He was a suspect?’

  ‘He might not have been aware of it,’ cautioned Preston. ‘The report says they couldn’t contact him, and he was eventually cleared. The victim admitted they had consensual sex before she got shit-faced and passed out. White was never called for trial.’

  ‘But Ironwood and Toler?’

  ‘DNA was recovered that linked both of them, but this was ’eighty-four, three years before our first DNA-based conviction. That evidence was never brought to trial and they ended up taking the stand for the prosecution.’

  Hogan scratched his chin. ‘So out of three suspects, one is murdered at home, one has his skull cracked open during a robbery, and one is on the run after his house explodes.’

  ‘You’re forgetting the fourth,’ said Preston.

  ‘The fourth?’

  ‘The one who went to jail.’

  90

  Zack and Sam walked into the lobby of The R Project looking bedraggled. The short ride in the car had done little to dry out their clothes and Zack’s silk suit clung to him like wet tissue paper.

  The receptionist, a husky woman in her mid-fifties, studied them with an ungenerous smile beneath hard, suspicious eyes.

  Sam swept his fingers through his dark hair and switched on a movie-star smile.

  ‘We’re here to see Alan,’ he said. ‘Tell him it’s Zack and Sam.’

  ‘Is Mr Robertson expecting you?’

  Sam laughed, friendly. ‘No, we wanted to surprise him. We’re old friends.’ Sam jabbed his thumb over his shoulder at Zack who was pathetically trying to wring some of the water from his suit. ‘Zack just popped up from San Diego. They started the high school computer club together, which is kinda where this whole company sprang from. He’ll want to see us.’

  The woman eyed Zack distrustfully.

  ‘We got caught in the rain,’ Sam added, keeping the laughter in his voice. ‘He looks more like a drowned rat than a top surgeon now, doesn’t he?’

  ‘Indeed,’ said the woman. ‘Let me see if Mr Robertson is available.’

  ‘Thank you. We sure appreciate it.’ He flashed the woman another Hollywood smile, but she was invulnerable to its charm.

  The lobby shouted cutting-edge with a hi-tech nautical design in sweeping glass and mirrored steel. The floor glistened in black marble, seamless and smooth, yet to Sam’s amazement, green Zeros and Ones swam just beneath its reflective surface.

  Sam pointed it out to Zack who immediately grinned.

  ‘It’s binary,’ Zack said. ‘Knowing Alan, if you had time to recognize the pattern, it spells out a message.’

  ‘Huh,’ Sam grunted. ‘I thought they were little green fish.’

  Sam’s eyes were drawn to a glass office overlooking the lobby. Inside, a trim businessman, his sleeves rolled up and his tie slightly askew, sat behind an eight-inch-thick glass desk. He was talking on the phone. His face looked tight and drawn.

  ‘That’s Alan,’ Zack said.

  The receptionist cleared her throat. ‘I’m sorry, but Mr Robertson is still on the phone.’

  ‘Yeah, we can see that,’ Sam said absently.

  The receptionist flashed a genuine smile. ‘Mr Robertson likes to be in plain view. He believes that as president of the company, people should see that he works just as hard, if not harder, than what he expects from his employees.’

  ‘Very admirable,’ Sam said dismissively. He felt his pent-up anger escaping as he wondered if this was the monster who had kidnapped his wife and daughter.

  The receptionist crinkled her forehead at his tone. ‘Mr Robertson is a very admirable man.’

  Sam studied the man on the phone, the details of his narrow face: pinched nostrils, large ears, eyes spaced too close together. His hair was limp and so blond it was practically transparent.

  ‘Did he used to wear glasses?’ Sam asked.

  ‘Yeah,’ Zack replied. ‘Elvis Costello frames.’

  Sam mentally attached a pair of thick, round-framed glasses, but it didn’t make any difference. The face meant nothing to him. Alan Robertson was a complete stranger.

  As Sam watched, Alan placed the handset on his desk, lifted a black briefcase off the floor on to his lap, and opened it. He reached inside and pulled out a letter-sized memo pad and a gold pen. The pen flashed in the light as he jotted a quick note and placed the memo on top of his desk.

  He took an extra moment to align the pad in the exact centre of his workspace and then placed the pen beside it. Once he was satisfied with its placement, he lifted his head and glanced down at the lobby.

  Sam saw recognition bloom as Alan met Zack’s eye and the tiniest flicker of a sad smile crossed his lips. He nodded as though they were friends passing in a hallway. Then he returned to his briefcase where—

  He pulled out a small, chrome-plated revolver with a two-inch barrel.

  The receptionist screamed as Sam rushed past her and tore up the stairs, taking them two at a time.

  Zack remained where he was, unable to move, his eyes locked on Alan – brightest member of the high school computer club, the one who always rode shotgun in the Mustang, top down, still nerds, but uncaring – as he pressed the gun against the side of his head.

  On the landing above, he heard Sam bellow in frustration as he yanked open the office door and charged inside.

  Too late.

  Alan Robertson lay on the floor beside his desk, dead eyes locked open in shock. A thin bi
llow of smoke curled from a tiny charred hole, no larger than the diameter of a pencil, which dotted his right temple.

  The left side of his head was flat, and Sam knew the exit wound would be the size of his fist. The glass wall that should have been splashed by blood and brain had shattered outwards as the bullet continued its destructive path, leaving the death scene virtually pristine.

  Sam crossed to the body and touched two fingers to its neck, but it was the hopeless gesture of a desperate man.

  As Zack entered the room, his breathing ragged, Sam stepped around the body and moved to the desk. Written on the perfectly aligned memo pad were three words: For my family.

  Sam’s heart hammered in his chest. He closed his eyes and tried to regulate it, but his ears became plugged as if he had suddenly plunged from a great height.

  After a second, he felt his ears pop and then he heard an anguished voice, small and distant. For a moment, he thought it was Hannah, calling out for him, but then he realized that the voice was calling, ‘Alan . . . Alan.’

  Sam snapped open his eyes. On the base of the phone, one of the buttons was glowing. He picked up the discarded handset and held it to his ear.

  ‘Alan,’ said a woman’s panicked voice. ‘They let us go. The kids are OK. Are you there? Alan?’

  ‘Who let you go?’

  The woman gasped. ‘Who is this? Where is my husband?’

  ‘Who let you go?’ Sam repeated.

  The woman’s breath caught, and then she broke into a sob. ‘The men who came to our house. They wore masks. I never saw their faces. I swear. Where’s my husband?’

  ‘I need to see you,’ Sam said urgently. ‘Right away.’

  ‘What about my husband?’

  ‘I can tell you when we meet,’ Sam pressed. ‘It’s important that I get the details while they’re fresh in your mind. We have to catch these bastards.’

  ‘I just want my husband. They’re gone now. I didn’t . . . I didn’t see anything.’

  ‘Are you at home?’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘Stay there. I’m on my way.’

  ‘Are you the police?’

  ‘Yes,’ Sam lied. ‘Don’t leave the house and don’t call anyone until I get there.’

  Sam pushed the off button and placed the handset back in its base. As he did, his arm brushed the cordless computer mouse and Alan’s monitor powered out of sleep mode.

  Sam gawped at the screen and then turned to Zack who was still rooted in the middle of the office, his attention arrested by Alan’s unblinking stare.

  Sam snapped his fingers, breaking Zack’s trance, and motioned him over.

  Displayed on the screen were three news stories. One from the Oregonian detailed the explosion and recovery of two unidentified bodies from Sam’s suburban home. The second, published in the San Diego Union-Tribune, was headlined DR RAPE ON THE RUN and featured a smiling mugshot of a prosperous, less-skeletal Zack scanned from one of his office brochures.

  A third story, set over one column and much shorter than the other two, was headlined LOCAL SURGEON TO BE HONOURED FOR CHILD AID. It featured a blurrier thumbnail of a smiling Zack. It was dated seven days before the ‘Dr Rape’ story broke.

  ‘Alan’s not our guy,’ Sam said bitterly. ‘He’s just another bloody pawn like us.’

  A noticeable shiver ran down Zack’s spine and the blood drained from his face. He sank to his knees as Sam quickly handed him a metal waste-basket and grabbed his shoulders. Zack groaned and bent double.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Sam said. ‘He didn’t deserve this.’

  Zack raised his face from the bucket. ‘Christ, Sam,’ he gasped. ‘This has got to stop. I can’t hate this much.’

  ‘When we first met . . .’ Sam struggled to keep his voice calm. ‘You told me this was a game, remember?’

  Zack nodded. ‘A sick, sick game.’

  ‘Well, this is just another play. Only this time, we may have forced it.’

  Zack’s eyes widened in horror.

  Sam continued, ‘How did he know we would be here to witness this? It can’t be a coincidence that Alan received that call just as we’re about to talk to him.’

  ‘We’re being followed,’ Zack reasoned.

  Sam walked to the window and looked outside. Even in the pouring rain, he spotted a half-dozen bicycle messengers darting in and out of traffic. ‘But this also means we’re getting closer to the truth. We’re not just chasing our tails, we’re hunting.’

  ‘But Alan—’

  ‘We didn’t make him pull the trigger,’ Sam said forcefully. ‘We’re not to blame. This bastard is playing us. We have to focus on the next step. Alan is dead. Your daughter is dead. My family could be next. Someone has to pay.’

  ‘Where do we look?’ he croaked.

  ‘Do you know where Alan lives?’

  ‘Jasmine and I went for dinner about four years back. I think I remember it.’

  ‘Alan’s wife is waiting for us.’

  Zack glanced down at the body. ‘Does she know?’

  Sam looked away. ‘Not yet.’

  A security guard in a pristine dark blue uniform, complete with razor-sharp creases and starched collar, pushed through the stunned crowd gathered outside the office door.

  ‘Who the hell are you two?’ he demanded. His eyes wavered between the men behind the desk and the body of his employer. He reached for his gun.

  ‘We’re just leaving.’ Sam came around the desk with his hands held high to show they were empty, and started to advance.

  ‘The police are on their way.’ The guard fumbled nervously with his brand-new holster, but couldn’t get it unsnapped. ‘You better wait.’

  ‘Can’t do that, bud. Come on, Zack.’

  As Sam quickly closed the gap, the guard abandoned his holster and reached out to grab him by the shoulder. But Sam was prepared. Without breaking stride, he snared the man’s wrist, bent it to the breaking point, and twisted – hard. The guard yelped in surprise as his body spun to avoid a dislocation. Then his feet were suddenly swept away and he was thrown to the floor.

  ‘Stay down,’ Sam hissed.

  Embarrassed, the guard ignored the warning and reached for his holster again. Sam didn’t hesitate. He spun on one foot and kicked the guard in the face with such force he loosened teeth. This time, the guard stayed down.

  ‘Move it, Zack.’ Sam pushed aside the shocked crowd and headed for the stairs.

  In the lobby, the floor was littered with tiny squares of broken glass that glistened red upon the undulating green ripples of binary code.

  91

  After a rolling stop at the motel to grab Sam’s guard uniform, the Mercedes headed north-east to Alameda Ridge.

  Alameda was a turn-of-the-century neighbourhood, which boasted wide roads lined with mature trees, stunning views of the Willamette River and downtown skyline, trendy restaurants and ubiquitous, over-priced coffee shops.

  Sam settled back into his seat as he finished changing out of his jeans and into his badly wrinkled uniform.

  ‘What do you think?’ He tucked in his shirt and straightened his tie. ‘Do I look like a cop?’

  ‘A sloppy cop, maybe,’ Zack said testily. ‘What’s all that yellow crap on your shirt?’

  ‘Paint,’ said Sam. ‘There was an incident at the mall before . . . well, before all this began.’

  ‘At least it’s not red,’ Zack snapped.

  ‘Look, I know you don’t like this,’ Sam snapped back, ‘but we need to talk to her. She might have an idea about who’s been setting us up. They must have done the same to Alan.’

  ‘Or he was only ever given one assignment,’ Zack said. His eyes never drifted from the road. ‘And we watched him do it.’

  ‘I thought you said this guy wants more than our lives. He wants to destroy us first.’

  ‘That’s us,’ Zack said through tight lips. ‘Maybe he decided to let Alan off easy.’

  ‘Why?’ Sam asked.

  ‘
Hell if I know.’

  As the road climbed towards Alameda Ridge, the homes became grander. When Zack turned on to Klickitat Street, Sam watched the enormous Barnes mansion flash by his window.

  Further down the block, they parked in front of a pretty Victorian home in green and white with carved gingerbread in the peaks.

  ‘This is it.’

  Sam looked over. ‘You coming in?’

  Zack shook his head. ‘I’m tired of delivering bad news.’

  ‘It might help to hear it from a friend.’

  Zack shook his head again. ‘Nothing helps that kind of news.’

  Sam knocked on the front door and self-consciously tried to cover the paintball stains on his shirt by crossing his arms.

  ‘Who’s there?’ asked a metallic voice to his left.

  Sam turned to see a small two-way intercom affixed to the wall. Someone had tried to make it look more Victorian by surrounding it with a wooden frame.

  ‘It’s Officer White, Mrs Robertson. We talked on the phone. I was at your husband’s office.’

  ‘You hung up on me.’

  ‘Yes, I did, Mrs Robertson, but only so I could get here as soon as possible.’

  ‘I didn’t see a police car.’

  ‘No, I used an unmarked car. I thought it best not to alert your neighbours. I know how quickly gossip spreads.’

  There was an audible click.

  ‘Come in.’

  Sam opened the door and walked into the entrance hall. Directly in front of him, a short hallway led to the kitchen, which had patio windows and a large deck that overlooked the ridge and the city skyline below. On days when it wasn’t grey with rain, Sam guessed the view would be spectacular.

  To his right, he glimpsed a small library behind elegant French doors. Alan’s widow waited in the room to his left.

  Although it might once have been stiff and elegant, now the room had a casual, lived-in feel with toys scattered on the floor and an air of relaxed contentment. But that bliss had recently been shattered, the evidence plain on the face of the woman who sat rigid on the sofa.