CHAPTER TWENTY
When deciding on a design for their new corporate headquarters, Brendan Lennix had wanted something that would make headlines. He wanted to show the world that the company
’
s previous financial challenges were over, that they were now one of the premier pharmaceutical research powers in the world. The Lennix Building twisted into the sky like a natural honeycomb spire. Complex lattice bracings clad in white Corian panels—a substance normally found in kitchen countertops, bathroom vanities, and showers—surrounded a concrete core. The unique building had graced the covers of several newspapers and architectural magazines, just as he had hoped. To the outside world, Lennix Pharmaceuticals was at the top of its game.
Brendan’
s penthouse office occupied the entire fifteenth floor. And why not? It was called the Lennix Building, after all. He stared out over the city of Bethesda like a king admiring his domain. He sipped a glass of Macallan 1939, a $10,000 a bottle scotch, and wondered where everything had gone wrong.
The situation was far out of control. He had never wanted anyone to get hurt. In fact, his goal had always been to help people, to make the world a better place. But doing so, of course, while turning a large profit for the company his father had founded. Unfortunately, since his father
’
s death and his rise to the seat of power, he had made a long string of bad business decisions that had sent them teetering on the verge of bankruptcy.
It was at that point that he had sold his soul to the devil.
It had seemed so perfect at the time, so serendipitous. His chief of security, a former Spec Ops soldier turned mercenary named Oliver Pike, had offered him a way to pull the company back from the edge of oblivion. Pike had done some work for a wealthy organization in Mexico that invested the money necessary to keep Lennix Pharmaceuticals afloat. Then fate had dropped Wyatt Randall into his lap with a breakthrough that could literally change the world.
They had immediately approached the Defense Department about financing the drug, and they would eventually have the rights to release it to the general public. They would make billions upon billions. But that was when everything started to unravel.
His phone vibrated in the holster on his belt. Recognizing Almeida
’
s burner cell phone number, he said, “Tell me you have good news.”
“I have news. I
’
ll let you decide how you feel about it. I
’
ve found Randall. He
’
s told me everything. He gave the stolen files to General Easton.”
Lennix threw the glass of Macallan 1939 across the room. The shards rained down on the dark hardwood floor, and the exorbitantly priced liquid slid down the wall. “You said that you and Pike searched his files and questioned Easton about this.”
“The missing files were not on his computer or in his office. He must have hidden them or given them to someone else. As I
’
ve told you, we didn
’
t have time for a proper interrogation, and the Commandant was not a man who frightened easily. He was a soldier. Like me.”
“You
’
re not a soldier, Almeida. You
’
re just a psychopath with delusions of grandeur. Normally, I wouldn
’
t care about that, but since you seem unable to do your job, it
’
s becoming a problem.”
“Mr. Lennix, I understand that you are under a terrible amount of stress, and so I will not hold your comments against you. But insulting me serves little purpose.”
Almeida
’
s calm tone and measured reply made Lennix
’
s blood boil even more. He fought to maintain his composure. After a moment, Lennix said, “I do have one idea of who Easton may have given the files to. A DCIS investigator named Deacon Munroe showed up to pay a visit to John Corrigan. He was also at Easton
’
s crime scene. I ordered the two men stationed in Leavenworth to eliminate him. They killed his partner, but Munroe survived.”
“That was very stupid,” Almeida said. “If this Deacon Munroe really did have full access to the files, he wouldn
’
t be visiting Corrigan. He
’
d be taking this to the DOD, and they
’
d be busting your door down. And Corrigan probably didn
’
t share anything with him. It might have ended there. The trail may have dried up. Munroe may have let the investigation drop, but now that you
’
ve attacked him and killed his partner, he
’
ll keep pushing. Once again, I will need to step in and clean up your mess, Mr. Lennix.”
“My mess! Why you son of a—”
“
I don’
t have time to contend with your ignorance. Tell me everything that you know about Deacon Munroe.”
“I know that one of the people on his team has been asking around about Wyatt Randall. So apparently he knows more than you think.”
“Perhaps. Either way, we can use his knowledge of Wyatt Randall to our advantage. Do you have anything else that you
’
d like me to ask Mr. Randall or anything that you
’
d like me to tell him?”
“Why?”
“Because, unfortunately, I
’
m going to have to kill him now.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The Washington, DC NCIS field office resided inside the Forge Building at the back of the Washington Navy Yard. Munroe had crossed paths and swords with the NCIS on many occasions. It was often difficult enough for governmental organizations to establish who had jurisdiction on cases. FBI, NCIS, Homeland Security, and others were always fighting for control when the lines blurred. Then there was Deacon Munroe, the resident wildcard. His cases often stepped on the toes of other agencies, but there was little they could do since he was typically on special order from the Joint Chiefs or DOD. In this instance, however, he was on his own. Luckily, NCIS Special Agent Dean Markham knew that in the same way that normal people had hobbies or collected knickknacks, Deacon Munroe collected favors. Markham was a practical man and realized that it was far simpler to give Munroe limited access rather than fight him on the issue. When they arrived, Markham led Munroe and Black past the buzz of cubicles to a bank of elevators leading to the autopsy room.
The NCIS medical examiner
’
s space had a cold sterile feel. The hum of refrigeration units and an industrial strength ventilation system filled the space, reverberating off the tile of the floor and stainless steel of the examination tables. Contrary to popular belief, a properly-run autopsy room didn
’
t smell of rotting flesh or decay. The staff washed it thoroughly and meticulously and systems were in place to keep the smells of death at bay. Still, beneath it all, Munroe could detect a hint of the wet and almost sickeningly sweet smell of human remains.
“Dr. Stapleton,” Munroe said, extending his right hand, “Wonderful to see you again. I trust that you are as lovely as ever.”
She took his hand, and as he typically did, he wrapped his left hand around her forearm. With the small gesture, he could feel the rough, wrinkled skin, but she had kept her figure. The wrists and forearms were thin and muscular. Munroe had known Dr. Terry Stapleton for a long time and also knew that she was past the age of retirement and had been fighting being put out to pasture for the past year.
Stapleton laughed.
“Deacon, I appreciate the flattery, but it almost hurts my feelings that the only one I hear things like that from these days is a blind man.”
“All the others are just too intimated to speak in the presence of such radiance.”
This earned another chuckle, but then after a moment of silence, her voice grew solemn. “I heard about Gerald. I
’
m really sorry.”
Munroe pushed down his feelings and replied, “I
’
m sorry as well, but where are my manners? This is Jonas Black. He
’
s going to be assisting me on this case.”
“Pleasure to meet you.”
“Ma
’
am,” Black said in his deep gravelly voice.
“How
’
s Annabelle holding up?” Stapleton said, but Munroe heard Markham sigh.
All business, Special Agent Markham said, “I
’
m sorry, Dr. Stapleton, Agent Munroe, but I do have other matters to attend to. Can we go ahead and get started?”
“Of course,” Stapleton said, switching into professional mode. “I
’
ll cut to the chase. I
’
m sure that you were hoping for something more, Deacon, but I haven
’
t found anything unusual with the bodies. The wife died of blunt force trauma to the face and head. The wound patterns are consistent with the husband
’
s fists. Lacerations on General Easton
’
s face and neck match the size of the wife
’
s fingernails, and I found his DNA beneath her nails. Based on the powder burns on his temple and GSR on his hands, I can say almost certainly that he held the gun and shot himself.”
“Could someone have forced him to do it?”
“Physically, I don
’
t think so. He was still in great shape for his age, and there was no bruising on the limbs to indicate that he was restrained in any way. I hate to say it, Deacon, but he beat her to death and then shot himself.”
“What about the toxicology report?”
Munroe asked.
“All negative. The only odd thing we found was elevated levels of certain monatomic metals.”
“Could that have caused some kind of hysteria?”
“No, there are several supplements on the market that contain monatomic metals that make all kinds of wild claims. Nothing really substantiated, but they
’
re readily available. My guess is that he was trying one of those supplements. Either way, the metals are inert. Their presence wouldn
’
t cause any adverse effects. Certainly nothing that would cause a sane man to go crazy.”
“Markham, have your techs found anything else out of the ordinary at the scene? Any trace evidence that
’
s out of place?”
“No, nothing concrete. There wasn
’
t any blood on the gun case or shell casings, but we
’
re operating under the assumption that he loaded the gun before he killed her.”
“Then why not just shoot her?”
“
We don’
t know. Maybe he was going to kill himself, and she walked in and tried to stop him.”
“But why would a man like Easton kill himself?”
“Why do people do anything? We did pull traces of…” Munroe heard the shuffling of more papers and guessed that Markham was checking the file. “Marine clay, brick dust, plaster, insulation, and glass particles from the floor. We also found traces of…chlorpyrifos. But all that could have been tracked in by anyone.”
Munroe asked,
“And what exactly is chlorpyrifos?”
“Says here that it
’
s a pesticide. EPA banned it in 2000 for household use, but it is still commonly used on golf courses, treated wood, and for agriculture. Easton was a golfer, so that
’
s probably where it came from.”
“In what part of the room were those traces found?”
“Along the periphery. Maybe from some subordinate.”
“What about his computer files, phone records, financial statements?”
Markham sighed.
“You
’
re welcome to
look
…I mean,
go
through everything yourself, but trust me, my people have been over it all. There
’
s nothing there. Sometimes people just do things that can
’
t be explained. I know he was your friend, but people surprise me everyday.”
“What about the men that killed Gerald and attacked me? I suppose that
’
s just a coincidence? They were mercenaries.”
“Yeah, mercenaries with long criminal records. We
’
ve followed up on that too. But as I
’
m sure you
’
ve found as well, there
’
s no link between them and General Easton. Let
’
s face it. The list of people who wouldn
’
t mind if you ended up dead is not a short one. It
’
s probably a grudge from one of your old cases. Someone could have hired them from prison. Who knows? Just let it go.”
Munroe
’
s hand snapped out to where he estimated Markham
’
s tie to be. He overshot and grabbed a handful of his shirt instead. Jerking Markham close, Munroe said through gritted teeth, “Let it go? My best friend is dead, and I
’
m going to find out why if I have to turn over every rock in this city and step on whatever slithers out.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The disappointment in himself still stung like a thorn in Munroe
’
s mind. He had always been able to keep his emotions in check. When other people became flustered and flew off the handle, he maintained his composure and his dignity. But whenever he thought of Gerald, the anger was more than he could contain. He was intimately familiar with the five stages of grief—denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. He suffered through the stages after losing his sight and essentially dealing with the death of the man he had been, the death of his old way of life. He endured them again when his wife passed away.
The thing that people often misunderstood was that there wasn
’
t a clear cut transition between each step. He didn
’
t just reach acceptance and stay there. He bounced around between all the different phases, sometimes experiencing every step in the same day. But more than anything else right now, he felt anger, and he was going to harness that fury and guide it like a missile toward the people responsible for Gerald
’
s death.
Black led him clumsily to a booth at a local restaurant. With Gerald, he had never needed to use his collapsible white guide cane. Gerald knew how to use small movements of his arm to alert Munroe when steps or obstacles were in their path. They had an almost psychic symbiosis that made Munroe feel like he could actually see the path in front of him. Black still struggled with the basic concepts, and so he had broken his old guide cane out of retirement to use it in tandem with the big man
’
s arm. Once finding the booth, he collapsed the cane and placed it on the table top.
On their way back, he had told Black to choose a place for lunch. By the strong smell of grease mixed with body odor and the sizzling of burners, his new partner had chosen some hole-in-the-wall greasy-spoon diner. The customers were loud, and the place was abuzz with conversation and the clattering of silverware on plates.
A waitress said, “Hey, sweetie. Can I get you handsome men something to drink? Oh…I
’
m sorry. What does your friend want?” She whispered the question to Black.
She had obviously just noticed the cane and dark glasses. Munroe wasn
’
t in the mood. Normally, he took such moments in stride with a calm smile. After all, people were just trying to be considerate in their own misguided way, but he wasn
’
t sure if he would be able to suffer the indignity in his present state of mind.
Black replied, “
I don’
t know. Why don
’
t you ask him?”
Munroe could feel the woman lean down in his face. She smelled of too much hairspray and had bathed in perfume. He recognized the scent. It was an expensive brand. With her voice raised nearly to the level of a shout, she said, “WHAT WOULD YOU LIKE TO DRINK?”
Putting on his best smile, he said, “May I see your left hand, ma
’
am?”
She paused a moment, clearly wondering if this was some weird blind thing. “Umm, okay,” she replied.
He opened his palm, and she placed her hand on top of his. He ran his fingers over her ring finger and asked, “You
’
ve been having problems in your marriage lately, haven
’
t you? Is your husband cheating?”
“Excuse me?”
“I just noticed the way that you
’
re being overly flirtatious with your customers. You
’
ve also spent a lot of time on your hair. I can smell the hairspray from here. Your perfume is a rather expensive brand, which doesn
’
t make sense working in a place like this where the smell of grease will overpower that scent in a short amount of time. I doubt that you could afford to use that perfume daily for an extended period, so your marital issues must be fairly recent. Then there
’
s your wedding ring. You removed it right before your shift. The skin is soft there and still indented from where the ring was. Maybe you just wanted to keep it from getting dirty, but when considering all the factors as a whole, I suspect that your husband has been cheating, and now you
’
re either looking for a new man or a way to get back at him.”
Munroe let the waitress
’
s shocked silence hang in the air a moment.
“And I
’
ll have coffee. Thank you. Two sugars.”
He heard her gasp and scurry off. Black said, “I could have just punched her in the gut for you.”
“I
’
ll keep that in mind for next time.”
He felt his phone vibrate against his thigh. The accompanying ringtone told him that it was Joey. “What have you found?” he said into the phone.
“I just got a major hit on the name Wyatt Randall, but you
’
re not going to like it.”
“Something is always better than nothing.”
“Police in Annapolis found a body at a small house in the country earlier today. But the weird thing is that someone called 911 from the house and told the cops where to find the body and who the dead guy was.”
“Let me guess, Wyatt Randall.”
“Does that make any sense to you?”
“No, Joey, it does not. I need you to get in contact with the detective in charge. Have him meet me at the scene in an hour. Tell him that it
’
s regarding national security, that always gets the locals moving. Then find out everything you can about the recently deceased Mr. Randall.”