The Final Kill

6

Eleven men and one woman—Kris Kelley—sat around an interview table in the Carmel police station. It was just before dawn.

“Pass these along, please,” said a twelfth man, who was clearly in charge. He stood at the end of the table, passing slender blue folders to the man on his right.

The lead agent was over six feet tall, with a ruddy tan and eyes like polished nickel. His taut physique was that of a man in his twenties, belying his actual age of fifty-six. The deep lines in his face and the untouched gray hair were the only telltale signs that Robert James Lessing had lived a difficult life. Those who didn’t know him might assume he belonged to a country club and played tennis every day—an incorrect assumption that served him well in his work.

He took a seat at the long table next to Ben Schaeffer. “You’ve all met Carmel’s chief of police?” he asked the assemblage.

They nodded. Every eye scanned Ben, but no one smiled. Lessing turned to Ben. “I understood the sheriff would be here, as well.”

“He will be,” Ben said. “Soon as he can. MacElroy’s putting together a tactical team.”

“All the more reason he should be here,” Lessing said with an edge.

“This is the way it’s done in Monterey County,” Ben replied coolly. He didn’t much like being here, either. “Granted, we don’t have many murders in Carmel, but this one at the Highlands seemed routine—at least, until you folks showed up. The sheriff is following standard practice in bringing together a tactical team from the various law enforcement agencies in the county.”

Lessing spoke dryly. “The murder at the Highlands Inn was anything but routine, Chief.”

“Yeah, I’ve pretty much figured that out.” Ben looked at the other agents, who were busily writing in pocket-size notebooks. “And since I’m already on the tactical team,” he continued, “maybe you’d like to tell me what the hell is going on. You’ve got agents swarming all over the place, knocking on doors in the middle of the night—”

“One specific door,” Lessing corrected sharply. “Which, aside from the fact that you’ve been kind enough to lend us your facilities, is the only reason you are privy to this conversation.”

Ben stifled his anger. This was his ground they were stomping all over, and he hadn’t loaned them his facilities willingly. The fact of the matter was, they’d commandeered them.

It only made matters worse that they had come down on Abby and the Prayer House that way.

“My hospitality—and my facilities—” he said, his brown eyes fixed on the agent with an unmistakable warning, “won’t last long if you don’t tell me what you’re really here for and what the hell you want.”

“I thought I’d made that clear,” Lessing replied. “We’re here because of the murder at the Highlands Inn. And, of course, we’d like your cooperation.”

“That still doesn’t tell me a damned thing,” Ben said. “To begin with, you’ve admitted that the murder at the Highlands was far from routine. I already knew that. If it wasn’t, you wouldn’t be here. As I understand it, the victim was a journalist for a Washington, D.C., newspaper. A Woodward-and-Bernstein type, probably digging into some sort of government secrets. My guess is he got too close to the truth about someone or something, and got his throat cut before he could write a book about it. As I hear it, that’s not exactly something new.”

Lessing sighed and glanced at Kris Kelley. “There are a few people here other than Chief Schaeffer who haven’t been filled in yet. Would you like to do the honors? I really don’t think we can wait any longer for the sheriff.”

Kris nodded and stood, smoothing her skirt. Ben knew she couldn’t have slept much all night, any more than anyone else. Yet she looked crisp and fresh in a beige suit she’d somehow managed to change into. He couldn’t help noticing it was almost the same color as her collar-length hair. He supposed she was nice looking, especially with that great tan. Abby’s dark hair and creamy complexion were just the opposite—

He shook himself mentally. What the hell am I doing?

“As some of you know,” Kris said, “the woman we’re looking for is Alicia Gerard, the wife of multimillionaire H. Palmer Gerard. So far, we’ve discovered that the victim was attempting to blackmail Ms. Gerard, and that she was seen having an angry conversation last night with him at the Pacific’s Edge restaurant in the Highlands Inn. A short time later, she was observed knocking on the door of the victim’s room, a room he’d reserved for three nights. Last night was his second night there.”

She cleared her throat and took a sip of water, then began again. “At ten-twenty or so last night, the hotel maid walked into the room and found Alicia Gerard and her fourteen-year-old daughter, Jancy, standing over the victim. He was lying in a whirlpool tub and his throat had been slashed. In fact, he was nearly beheaded. It was a brutal crime.”

She paused and swallowed hard, as if the scene she’d witnessed the night before was too dreadful to return to, even in her mind. “The minute Alicia and her daughter saw the maid they ran, but the maid later identified them from photos we found in the victim’s room—”

“Hang on,” Ben said. “Since when do maids deliver clean towels at ten-thirty at night?”

“Way ahead of you,” Lessing said. “The victim called and asked for them. Said housekeeping hadn’t cleaned the bathroom that morning. Kris?”

The agent began again. “The photos were of Alicia Gerard and her daughter, Jancy—candid shots taken on the street, at a mall, one of Jancy outside her school. Obviously taken by someone who’d been observing them over a period of time. The husband, H. P. Gerard, wasn’t in them.”

“Hold on,” Ben said. “H. P. Gerard’s wife is who you were looking for at the Prayer House? So this reporter guy is viciously murdered at the Highlands Inn, presumably by the wife and/or child of one of the biggest movers and shakers in this country, and all of a sudden a lightbulb goes on and you say, ‘Oh, that’s where the killers are! At a convent out in Carmel Valley.’” He laughed shortly. “Yeah, that makes a whole hell of a lot of sense.”

Agent Kelley answered him in a scathing tone. “It does if your girlfriend is one of Alicia Gerard’s oldest friends—and if your girlfriend takes in women and children on the run.”

“Which you wouldn’t even have known if I hadn’t—”

“Confirmed it for us,” she said firmly. “We knew about Abby Northrup’s work long before you decided to enlighten us, Chief Schaeffer. We hardly had to rely on you to inform us—”

“Like hell,” Ben said, interrupting angrily.

“Easy,” Lessing said quietly. “Let’s keep personalities out of this.”

“This is not about personalities,” Kris said sharply. “It’s about not having an outsider at our meetings.”

“Chief Schaeffer is hardly an outsider,” Lessing reminded her, “any more than you are. And so far he’s been cooperating fully.”

“Fully? You may think so, but—”

“I cooperated because you told me that Abby and the Prayer House were in danger,” Ben said, interrupting again. “There wasn’t even time to find out who you were after.”

It was the fear that Abby might be hurt that had made him screw up, dammit. What a fool he was, confirming their suspicions about Abby’s work with Paseo when he’d made a promise a year ago never to tell a soul. And now, because he’d thought it was his duty to do so—and that the suspect might be a danger to Abby and the Prayer House—he’d blabbed to the damned FBI.

Abby would never forgive him.

“I’ve had enough,” he said, standing. “You’re welcome to stay here until you’re done, but I’ve got work to do.”

“Chief—” Lessing raised a delaying hand.

“No. From everything you’ve said so far, this is nothing but a plain and simple homicide. If that’s the case, I sure don’t need you to help solve it. In fact, it looks to me like you’re wasting taxpayers’ money with all this hoopla, but hey, don’t let me stop you.”

He stormed out, slamming the door. Papers on the table scattered from the breeze it created.

Lessing looked at Kris Kelley. “We’ve got to tell him,” he said heavily. “Everything.”

“Oh, hell,” she sighed. “I’ll go get him.”

7

Ben didn’t have to wonder long if his bluff had worked. He had barely leaned back in his chair, boots on his desk, when Kris Kelley sailed into his office.

“Look,” she said tightly, as if saying the words might choke her, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you. We need you back in there.”

“You look,” he said, swinging his feet off the desk and planting them firmly on the ground. “This is my town. If anything bad happens to it or the people in it—”

“I know, I know,” she said irritably. “I’m trying to apologize, Chief!”

“And I appreciate that. But if you and the gang in there want any further cooperation from me, you’ll have to damn well tell me what’s really going on. You can’t expect me to sit there and listen to bunk about it being only a homicide when there’s a gaggle of government agents sitting around my conference table.”

Kris half smiled. “A gaggle?”

He didn’t smile back.

“Okay,” she said, shrugging. “You’ve got it. We’ll tell you everything. But you’ll have to swear not to repeat anything you hear in that room. Not to anyone you work with, your friends, Abby Northrup…no one.”

Ben almost told her to forget it. For a few minutes in there his pride had been hurt, and he’d wanted to force them to take him into their confidence. Now that he’d won the point, though, he’d probably be better off to walk away and wash his hands of the FBI. Tell them to get the hell out of here, and let the chips fall where they may.

The only thing that kept him from doing that was the thought that being on the inside might be the only way he could protect Abby.

Hoisting his six-foot-two frame out of the chair, he rested his hands on his hips. “Okay,” he said. “I’m in.”

Ben took the same chair he’d had before, next to Lessing, who gave him a nod as if Ben had merely excused himself a few minutes to use the restroom. Kris Kelley’s expression was noncommittal as she took her own seat.

Lessing looked at a man halfway down the table. “Agent Bollam?”

“Sir.” The agent walked over to the light switch, flicking off the overheads. Pulling a cart that held a slide projector from a corner, he positioned it behind and to the right of Agent Lessing. Pointing it toward the far wall so that everyone could see, he said, “I’d like to begin with some background.”

He brought up a photograph of two people who looked to be in their twenties or early thirties. The woman had long, curly, strawberry-blond hair that looked windblown and covered half her face. It didn’t hide her smile, though, nor her beautiful large hazel eyes. The man had black hair, and his arms were around the woman from behind, holding her tightly and smiling, his cheek against hers.

“These are Alicia Gerard’s parents,” Bollam said, “Pat and Bridget Devlin.” Behind them was a sign that read Dublin Automotive Services, and in one of the open bays was a dark blue car that Ben, a classic-car nut, recognized as an Irish-built MG Midget, circa 1960s.

“That photo was taken about forty years ago,” Bollam said. “Pat and Bridget Devlin would be in their sixties now.”

He changed the slide to one that depicted the scene of an accident. There were police cars, ambulances and a crowd gathered along a highway with a steep cliff on one side. At the bottom of a ravine was wreckage.

“Some of you might recall hearing about a school bus being blown off the road in Ireland in the seventies. Twenty-eight out of the twenty-nine children aboard were killed.”

A few of the agents nodded.

“Pat Devlin was—is,” he corrected himself, “a brilliant man, a scientist with ties to the IRA. His specialty, in those days, was building explosive devices. After the school bus attack, fragments of the bomb were found, as were certain ‘fingerprints,’ as they say—details in its construction that led straight to Pat Devlin.”

“My God,” Ben said. “H. P. Gerard’s father-in-law? He blew up that bus?”

“Long before Alicia ever met H. P., of course. She would have been around five at the time. And while Pat Devlin did build the bomb the IRA used, he may not have known precisely what it was about to be used for. Reportedly, he was so sickened by the deaths of those children, he tried to get out of the IRA. As the country’s top expert in explosives, however, Devlin was too useful to them. They threatened his family if he tried to leave.”

“But he did leave,” one of the agents pointed out.

Lessing nodded. “He somehow got false papers for his family and fled Ireland overnight with Bridget and Alicia, leaving their home just as it was—food on the table, mail in the box, cat in the yard.”

“Incredible,” Ben said. “How do you know all this?”

“I can’t reveal our sources,” Lessing answered. “Sorry. But let me get to the point. We have solid information—not just chatter—that a splinter group of the IRA calling themselves The Candlelights are using Pat Devlin again. This time, he’s in America, and he’s building the most devastating explosive device this country has ever seen. The Candlelights plan to use it on the fourteenth of this month—exactly one week from today.”

He paused, and his mouth twisted slightly. “Unfortunately, we’ve had no luck finding The Candlelights, and we don’t know where they plan to attack. Our mission, therefore, is to find Pat Devlin. That bomb must never be completed.”

Good God, Ben thought, be careful what you ask for. All I wanted was a little more action, and now…

Lessing’s cell phone rang, and he left the table for a few minutes to take the call. When he returned, Bollam began again.

“As I was saying, Pat, Bridget and Alicia Devlin left Ireland rather abruptly when Alicia was five, using false papers to enter the United States. That would be thirty-five years ago. We know they lived under different assumed names in Philadelphia for a while, then Miami and Los Angeles. We also know the Irish police spent three years looking for them without success, before moving on to what they called ‘more important’ matters. Meantime, this splinter group of the IRA, The Candlelights, was also looking for the Devlins. Every time anyone thought they’d caught up with them, however, they’d find an empty apartment or house. The Devlins apparently knew, somehow, when they were about to be caught.”

Ben spoke up. “So you think someone was helping them out.”

“We have to assume that was the case,” Bollam said.

One of the agents at the table asked, “Do we know where this group, The Candlelights, came from? What’s their agenda?”

“As I understand it,” Bollam said, “in the early days of the Troubles, as they call it, women in Ireland used to leave a candle burning in a window every night, to welcome the men home after their ‘activities.’ We don’t know why, but the name seems to have been picked up by this new splinter group. As to their agenda, it’s the same as all terrorist groups—to throw people into fear and create chaos.”

He flipped the slides to show two plain, inexpensive-looking cottages and an apartment house. “The Devlins’ cottages were in Philadelphia and Miami. The apartment house is on Crenshaw in L.A. This is all we have on them. Over the years, the Irish police and the IRA apparently gave up hunting for them. There’s been little interest, until recently, in finding Pat Devlin.”

He stopped to take a sip from his glass of water, then pulled out a handkerchief to wipe his chin and tie where the water had dribbled.

“Ah, geez, Joe,” a pink-faced agent with bright red hair said. “You were looking so professional up there till now.”

There was mild laughter from the other agents, and a smile from Bollam. “Just don’t forget I’m your senior,” he said.

“In age, maybe,” the first agent came back with.

“We don’t have much time,” Lessing reminded them.

Everyone quieted down and Bollam continued. “As I was saying, no agency with an interest was ever able to find Pat and Bridget Devlin. There’s no record of them having become naturalized citizens, so if they’re still in this country, they’re here illegally. Unfortunately, it seems they’ve changed their names and identity papers every time they’ve moved, so they’re living as much underground as if they were in a witness protection program.”

“Is that a possibility?” Ben asked.

“Not that we know of—and presumably, we would. To hide out the way they have, there must have been someone helping them. Especially recently, given the new technologies we have for finding terrorists—” he paused and looked around the table “—it must be someone with experience at hiding people, someone who can provide false identities and money.”

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