Close To Home_A Sam Prichard Mystery Page 9

  Rivers was staring at him, and all of the others were talking excitedly. One of the women stepped forward and approached Sam.

  “Mr. Prichard? I’m Senior Special Agent Natalie Andrews, from the Denver office of the FBI. May I see those papers?”

  Sam handed them over. Natalie looked at them for only a moment, then shook her head and handed them back. “I have to say you’re correct,” she said. “The fingerprints on the body definitely match those of our agent. Can I ask how you were able to identify him, since he was in an undercover operation?”

  “If you check my history,” Sam said, “you’ll find that I’ve worked with the Department of Homeland Security in the past. I can still call in the occasional favor, when I need to. Since I was able to determine that Agent Kingsley is in fact deceased, I felt it was necessary to bring that fact to the attention of the medical examiner right away.”

  She nodded. “Yes, I agree,” she said. “However, I’d like to keep this out of the press as long as I can. I did not know Agent Kingsley personally. In fact, I didn’t even know he was anywhere in the area. Unfortunately, it now falls to me to deal with the aftermath. I’ll have to find out just what kind of investigation he was involved in before any of this can become public.”

  “Well, I don’t plan on talking to the press anytime soon,” Sam said. “However, there is a Denver Police detective sitting in jail for murdering this man, and I’m sure the issue of his identity is going to come up. I can’t keep the information from her attorney.”

  “I understand that,” Natalie said. “All I’m asking is that you make it clear to that attorney that this needs to be kept quiet until the FBI can make an official announcement. We have to notify next of kin, find out if other agents were involved in the investigation, that sort of thing.”

  “I’ll tell her,” Sam said.

  Natalie thanked him and walked over to talk to Hartley, and Rivers took the opportunity to approach Sam. “You think this changes anything?” Rivers asked.

  “To me, it does,” Sam replied. “Karen wouldn’t have any reason to murder an FBI agent, now would she?”

  Rivers shrugged. “You said yourself the two men looked alike. From what our witness said, she didn’t bother to check and make sure of who she was shooting.”

  Sam chuckled. “Oh, yes, you’ve been talking to Booker, haven’t you? I spoke to him. Has it dawned on you that nothing he says makes any sense? From what I understand, the blood patterns in the apartment show clearly that both the shooter and the victim were inside when the shooting occurred. You try to put Booker on the witness stand, he’ll be torn to shreds and you’ll look like an idiot. The man’s an alcoholic, he probably only heard about it and decided to go after his own fifteen minutes of fame. I sincerely doubt he could pick Karen out of a lineup.”

  “My witnesses are my business,” Rivers said hotly. “If I catch you tampering with them…”

  “Watch it, Rivers,” Sam said suddenly. “I know my job, and there’s nothing that I’ve done that could be considered tampering. Booker was offered the chance tell me exactly what he told you, and he jumped at it. I didn’t even have to ask him about it.” He shook his head. “If it wasn’t for me, you still wouldn’t know who you had for a victim. Unlike you, I actually do my own detective work.”

  Sam turned away and walked over to where Hartley was being bombarded with questions. He waved a hand to get everyone’s attention. “Doc, you need me any further tonight?”

  Hartley shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. I just wanted to thank you for bringing all this to our attention.”

  “Okay, then,” Sam said. “I’m going home. You got my number if you need me.”

  9

  Sam called Carol Spencer on her cell and told her what he learned, then went home and spent the rest of the evening on the couch with Indie laying down on it beside him. She had her head in his lap and pulled his hand onto her bulging belly, and they both laughed every time the baby decided to kick it off.

  “Your son thinks he’s a football player,” Indie said.

  Sam grinned down at her. “What makes you think it’s a boy? Kenzie has a pretty good kick on her, too, you know.”

  “Trust me, it’s a boy. Only a boy could be tearing up my insides this way.” She fought her way to a sitting position. “I will be so glad when he decides to be born. I had completely forgotten how miserable the last month of pregnancy can be.”

  “Only a couple more weeks,” Sam said. “It’ll all be over soon enough.”

  She turned and glared at him. “Soon enough for you doesn’t mean soon enough for me. You’re not the one who has to jump and run for the bathroom every time this kid kicks your bladder. You’re not the one whose back is hurting every night from carrying this baby hippo around.”

  “I’m sorry, babe,” Sam said, “you’re right. Want a backrub?”

  A short time later, when they finally went to bed, she got one.

  Sam was at the kitchen table the following morning, drinking a cup of coffee, when his phone rang. He picked it up to look at the caller ID and his eyebrows shot upward. “It’s Harry,” he mouthed to Indie, across the table.

  “Harry,” he said, “how have you been?”

  “I’m doing well, Sam,” the old man said, “and Kathy sends her love.” Harry was a retired secret agent who had recruited Sam into helping with America’s counterterrorism operations on a couple of occasions. Months earlier, Sam had helped him find and reunite with his wife, whom he had thought was dead for more than thirty years. “I’m calling because you have fallen into that proverbial bucket again, and I’ve been handed the task of bringing you up-to-date.”

  “It’s funny,” Sam said. “Last night, I was on the verge of calling you, and I bet it’s on the same subject. Are we talking about the dead FBI agent at the local morgue?”

  “Indeed we are, Sam, boy,” Harry said. “I’ve just gotten off the phone with one of those young brats I trained twenty years ago who is now working for the FBI and in a management capacity. He briefed me on the situation and asked me to give you a call and do the same. Are you sitting down comfy?”

  “Kitchen table, coffee in hand, beautiful wife sitting across from me, daughter safely off to school. About as comfy as I can get.”

  “Very good. Now, let us visit the life and times of one Alex Kingsley, until yesterday one of the FBI’s brightest and best. The information I’m about to share with you is considered top-secret, but in light of some of the things Uncle Sam has asked of you in the past, you have already been granted a security clearance considerably higher than that.” He cleared his throat.

  “Special Agent Kingsley has been involved in several deep cover operations during his career. He has infiltrated several organizations that presented a threat either to national security or to the American way over the years, but his most recent mission was undoubtedly the most dangerous, as well. I don’t say that simply because he ended up dead, but because he was involved in an attempt to identify certain individuals who have been known to facilitate the movement of terrorists and their matériel into the United States. He entered deep cover almost 3 years ago, taking on the persona of a Greek street thug under the name you discovered, Zeno Markakis. The reason he chose that identity was because there is a mounting pile of evidence indicating that these facilitators are connected to the Greek Mafia and some of the Greek-American criminal organizations here in the U.S. Greek underlings tend to be promoted above any other ethnic groups that get involved in their operations.”

  “That makes sense,” Sam said. “He’d be trying to put himself in the path of promotion so that he can learn more about the upper echelon.”

  “Exactly. A few months ago, about the time you and I were taking our little jaunt to Florida, Kingsley reported to his superiors that he had found a potential inroad, a way to get a bit more entrenched with the people. What he had to do was get close to a man named Daniel Samara, who had been working the last few years with the
Los Angeles Greek mob. Samara had set up sort of an underground railroad, picking up foreign terrorists in Arizona and New Mexico and bringing them to L.A., San Francisco, Salt Lake City, and Denver. Kingsley managed to meet up with him somewhere along the line and the two of them hit it off. For the last eight months, they were just about inseparable.”

  “Harry, was there any mention of the fact that they looked a lot alike? Same build, same hair, roughly the same age. The people I ran into that had seen Kingsley made a point of mentioning that there were a lot of similarities between the two of them.”

  “Actually, yes,” Harry said. “Kingsley and Samara were occasionally referred to as ‘the twins,’ and the more they worked together, the more interchangeable they seemed to be. Just a week ago, Kingsley was sent by Samara to meet with John Prokos, who seems to be the guy in charge of this whole thing. He’s based in Los Angeles, and all the arrangements for bringing terrorists and their toys into the country go through him. Kingsley had never met him before, but Prokos had heard so many good things about him that he requested the meeting. Kingsley picked up fifty thousand dollars in cash while he was there, and a list of times and places where he and Samara would be picking up people and items to bring in.”

  “I think I’m starting to get it,” Sam said. “Did Samara have a little jealousy problem?”

  “I suspected you might catch that. Yes, the trip caused a lot of friction between the two of them. Up until now, it was Samara who always got the cash and the orders. Letting Kingsley, or Markakis as he knew him, suddenly take the lead didn’t sit well with Samara. Kingsley reported two days ago that it was causing a rift that might interfere with his mission. Unfortunately, his report proved rather prophetic, but the big issue is that Kingsley was never more than a mule. He would often go to pick up the people and things they were bringing in, but he was never allowed to see where they were taken. Samara always handled that alone.”

  “What about Samara, now? Does the FBI have any idea where he might be?”

  “I’m afraid not. In fact, I was informed this morning that the FBI is going to sit back for right now and see how you handle the situation. Uncle Sam has learned to trust you, Sam, and I was told that orders came down all the way from the Director’s office that the Bureau is to stay out of your way. If you need anything from them, you can call me and I’ll relay it, but of course, you and I know that lovely wife of yours can get you just about anything they’ve got, anyway. Any idea what you’ll do next?”

  Sam took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I think my next move will be to let Melinda Davis know her father is still alive. After that, I’m going downtown to see if the DA is going to use any common sense. I don’t think he will, simply because Kingsley turning out to be undercover FBI is only going to make this case look even worse. I expect he’ll go right ahead and pursue charges against Karen Parks on the assumption that she shot the wrong man while planning to murder Samara.”

  “Sounds like a typical government weasel,” Harry said. “Just let me know if there’s anything I can do for you, Sam, boy.”

  “I will, Harry, and thanks.” The line was already dead by the time Sam finished speaking, so he only grinned and dropped the phone into his pocket. He looked up at Indie. “Did you catch all that?”

  She nodded. “Most of it, anyway. So, once again you get dragged into the world of terrorists. Sam, do you believe in fate?”

  Sam grinned at her. “I believe in us,” he said. “Fate can wait until I’m not so busy.” He leaned forward and started to reach for her, but she pushed his hands away.

  “Behave yourself,” she said. “You’ve got work to do and the baby would only throw a fit, anyway. I think you’re right, you should let Melinda know right away, then go find out what’s happening with Karen. Call me let me know, okay?”

  Sam let out a sigh and got to his feet. He leaned down and kissed her, promised to call as soon as he knew anything, and headed out to the garage.

  Sam pulled up in front of Melinda Davis’ house a half-hour later, and walked up to knock on her door. It opened a moment later, and she smiled at him.

  “Mr. Prichard,” she said. “Please come in.”

  Sam stepped inside and accepted the chair she offered, but the look on his face must have told her that he didn’t come bearing good news.

  “Is something wrong?” she asked.

  “Well,” Sam said, “I do have some news, and it’s not good. I found out last night that the man who was killed is not your father.”

  Melinda’s face instantly showed panic. “Oh, my God,” she said. “Are you telling me he’s still alive?”

  “I’m afraid so. In fact, right now I consider him a prime suspect. The man who was killed, it turns out, was actually an undercover FBI agent who was investigating your father’s involvement in some very serious illegal activity. If he found out about that, it’s quite possible he took advantage of Detective Parks’ arrival yesterday to kill him. The only question is how he got hold of her gun.”

  “Oh, dear God. I’ve, I’ve got to call my husband.” She picked up her cell phone from the coffee table and dialed a number quickly. “Tom? Tom, I need you to come home. I just found out my father isn’t dead.”

  She listened for a couple of seconds, then said she’d be waiting. She disconnected and put the phone down again, then sat on the couch and looked at Sam. “If he’s still alive,” she said, “he’s going to be looking for me. Oh, God, what am I going to do?”

  “Melinda, he probably doesn’t even know you’re in the city,” Sam said. “Why do you think he’ll come looking for you?”

  “Because that’s what he does,” she said vehemently. “Whenever he’s in trouble, he goes looking for someone he can use, and if he’s got even the slightest idea that I might be around here, he’ll be looking for me. When Tom gets home, we’re leaving town. We got to go somewhere else, that’s all there is to it. I could not bear it if he found me, I could not stand the thought of him being around me or my baby! He’s a monster, you don’t understand, he destroys everything he touches.”

  “If you think that would be best, then I’d say go ahead and go. Just do me a favor and keep my number. If you hear anything, please call me.” He stood to his feet. “I’ve got to go downtown, I’m still working on this case. Believe me when I tell you I’m doing everything I can to find him, because he’s undoubtedly the key to proving Detective Parks is not a murderer. When I find him, I’ll let you know.”

  Melinda sat there staring at the coffee table, but she nodded her understanding. Sam got up and let himself out, then got into his car and headed for the DA’s office.

  The drive didn’t take long and he parked in the courthouse parking lot. When he entered the DA’s office, the receptionist looked up and smiled.

  “Hi,” she said. “Sam Prichard, right?”

  Sam grinned at her. “Are you going to tell me my reputation has preceded me?”

  “Oh, I’d know you anywhere,” she said. “I follow your wife’s blog, and she has a lot of pictures up there.”

  Sam grimaced. “One of these days, I’ve just got to read that thing. Seems like everywhere I go, I run into someone who knows more about it than I do.”

  “Oh, don’t be a sour puss,” the girl said. “She’s like Doctor Watson to your Sherlock Holmes. Anyway, what can I do for you?”

  “Is Will Burton in?” Sam asked.

  “He is, and if you go through that door, you’ll find him in the third office on the right. I’ll let him know you’re coming.” She picked up the phone, and Sam went through the door she’d indicated.

  A moment later, the door he was about to knock on opened suddenly and Burton extended a hand. “Sam, come on in,” he said. “I just found out this morning about the victim being an FBI agent. I’m dying to know how you figured that out, can you tell me?”

  Sam thought about how Burton would react if he knew Indie was a master hacker. “Sorry, Will, but it involves some of my governm
ent sources that I’m not allowed to reveal. I just wanted to check with you and see where we stand on Karen Parks.”

  Burton sucked on his teeth. “Well, I can’t say that anything has actually changed. The evidence still points to her being the shooter, and the report that I got this morning says that this Kingsley looked a lot like Mr. Samara, so we’re going with the assumption that it was a case of mistaken identity. That doesn’t change the fact that she seems to have gone there with the intention of committing murder, however, so the fact that the victim was a federal agent only makes this worse for her.”

  Sam shook his head in disgust. “Will, you know Karen Parks better than that,” he said. “She’s a decorated officer, and she’s done an incredible job as a detective for the city. Yes, she thought Samara was a piece of crap, but she went there to try to bring him in, not to kill him. She’s already explained that her gun was stolen from her, and the only witness you’ve got is an alcoholic and a liar. How can you possibly believe she is guilty?”

  Burton leaned back in his chair and looked at Sam with sadness in his eyes. “I don’t,” he said. “Unfortunately, I don’t get the luxury of deciding whether or not to prosecute. That’s my boss’s decision, and he is determined to show this city that we take even the hint of police brutality seriously. He handed me the job of prosecuting her, and I have to do it to the best of my ability regardless of what I personally may believe.” He leaned forward again suddenly. “That’s why I’m looking at you, Sam Prichard. I need you to find evidence that will get me off this hook, because I’m pretty damned good at what I do. The last thing in the world I want to do is send a good cop to prison, but unless some good, solid evidence that clears her comes my way, I’m going to have no choice but to do everything I possibly can to accomplish just that. Can you put yourself in my shoes for one damned minute?”

  Sam glared at him, but a part of him was starting to understand Burton’s position. As a prosecutor, he had a job to do whether he liked it or not, and Sam had known many who didn’t like it at all. Still, it was an important part of the American justice system, and any lawyer in that position had no choice but to do the job to the best of their ability. After a few seconds, he softened.