06 Double Danger Read online

  “There is that,” she said, her voice quiet, her expression indecipherable. “But I was going to say that, in college when we were all so close, the only thing we were worried about was finding the cheapest place to buy beer. Now we’re chasing terrorists.”

  “Slightly more risk, I suppose.” Simon grinned. “But some of those bars were pretty dicey, if I’m remembering right.”

  She smiled, the gesture not quite reaching her eyes, and he felt another wave of guilt.

  “You never did say how you got into this game,” he asked. “I mean, the last time I saw you, you were—”

  “A grieving widow?” She tilted her head, the movement familiar as her hair draped over her shoulder. “Let’s just say I needed to be my own hero. I’d followed in Ryan’s and your footsteps for too damn long. It was time to stand on my own two feet. Make my own move.”

  “Yes, but Homeland Security?” He frowned.

  “Maybe I just figured what was good for the gander…” She shrugged. “Why? You don’t think I’m up to it?”

  He remembered a clear summer day. The three of them at the lake, perched high up on a cliffside. He and Ryan had been debating the best place to launch into the lake. Arguing about it, actually. J.J. had just laughed at them and jumped. Fearless. As always.

  “No.” He shook his head, fighting the urge to reach for her, angry at himself for having the need. “I’ve always thought you could do anything you set your mind to.”

  Their gazes met and held for a moment, and Simon almost forgot to breathe.

  In front of them, a tall, thin man with a scraggly goatee approached the desk, clearing his throat to announce himself, his face composed but his eyes sparking with curiosity. Bastard clearly saw way too much. “I understand you have questions about one of our guests?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” Simon said, still reeling from something he couldn’t even put a name to. Pushing aside his tumbling thoughts, he glanced down at the man’s nametag. “We’re trying to verify that Eric Wilderman is, in fact, a guest at your hotel, Mr. Kent.”

  J.J. smiled, extending the wallet with her credentials, her hand trembling slightly. At least he wasn’t alone in his confusion. Kent blinked once as he examined them and then handed them back with a flourish.

  “According to our records,” the manager said, glancing down at a computer screen embedded in the desk, “Mr. Wilderman is still registered. He checked in a week ago, for the National Insurance Convention.”

  “But the convention ended three days ago, correct?” J.J. asked, glancing down to check her notes.

  “Yes,” the man acknowledged, “but the rate is good a week before and after, as long as the days are an add-on to the convention itself. New York is a primary tourist destination, and we find it’s more enticing to people if we allow them to stay beyond their conferences.”

  “And were you, by any chance, the one to check Mr. Wilderman in?” Simon asked.

  “No.” Kent shook his head. “According to the record, it was Shannon Gates. Shannon?” The manager called over to a red-headed woman at the next terminal. “Can you spare a moment?”

  She nodded, clicked something on her computer, and then turned her attention to the three of them.

  “These people are with Homeland Security.” For obvious reasons, Simon wasn’t able to use his own credentials. Since A-Tac, for all practical purposes, didn’t actually exist, he was allowing J.J. to take the lead, using her credentials as cover. “And they’re investigating, Mr. Wilderman, one of our guests.”

  Fear flittered across the woman’s face. “Should I be concerned?”

  “No.” J.J.’s voice was reassuring, and the woman relaxed. “We’re just hoping you can identify a photograph for us.” She laid her iPad on the desk. “Is this the man?”

  Shannon studied it for a moment and then sighed. “I think I remember him. But you have to understand that we have so many people coming through here. It’s hard to remember anyone specifically.”

  “Maybe you could check with the convention people,” Kent offered. “The organizers are still here. They’re packing things up. In fact, the guy in charge is standing over there by that table.” He gestured toward a man in jeans and a sweatshirt.

  “Thank you.” J.J. smiled. “You’ve been most helpful.”

  “But before we go, we’re also going to need to check Mr. Wilderman’s room,” Simon said. “Which means we’ll need a key.”

  Shannon shot a look at her boss, who was already shaking his head. “I’m afraid that’s simply not possible. We take our guests’ security very seriously.”

  “Even after they’re dead?” J.J. asked, her tone brooking no argument.

  “Oh, dear. You’re saying that Mr. Wilderman is… well, that does change things, I suppose,” Kent said, swallowing uncomfortably.

  “If there’s a problem with your superiors, they can take it up with mine.” J.J. leaned forward, tilting her head provocatively as she held Kent’s gaze. “I promise I’ll make sure they know you considered every option.” She smiled at him then, her blue eyes conspiratorial. “I can’t tell you how much your help means to me.”

  There was a beat, and Kent swallowed again. J.J.’s smile widened, and, having been on the receiving end of her beguiling entreaties many times, Simon knew that the manager was a goner.

  Kent sighed and then nodded at Shannon, his gaze still locked on J.J. The other woman slid a card through the machine and handed it to him. He in turn handed it over to J.J., his fingers lingering over the transfer. Simon bit back a smile as the two of them headed over to the table where the insurance guy was packing boxes.

  “I should have known you’d pull out the big guns,” he said when they were out of earshot.

  “What can I say? It was for a good cause.” She grinned, and for a moment, it actually seemed like old times.

  “No kidding.”

  J.J. shrugged, her smile fading as they approached the man at the table, and the sense of camaraderie vanished. They quickly introduced themselves. The man identified himself as Brian Childs, the executive director for the insurance organization sponsoring the convention.

  “We already know that Mr. Wilderman was registered for the convention,” J.J. said. “What we need now is verification that this is him.” She held out the photo on her iPad. “We figured you might be able to ID him for us.”

  “Sure,” Childs said. “That’s definitely Eric. We’ve know each other for years.”

  “And you saw him here at the convention?” Simon asked.

  “Absolutely. I had drinks with him on the first night.” The man frowned, his expression confused. “Is Eric in some kind of trouble?”

  “We’re just looking into some anomalies. Nothing for you to be concerned about,” J.J. responded, her tone dismissive. “Did you spend any more time with Mr. Wilderman?”

  “No.” Childs shook his head. “I’ve been running like crazy all week. I saw him across the room a couple of times. But I’m afraid that’s it.” A woman walked up with a teetering stack of boxes. “If that’s all?” he asked, his attention already turning to his colleague.

  J.J. nodded, and they walked toward the elevator bank. “So at least we know that the real Wilderman was at the hotel,” she said as they stepped into an open car.

  “But if he was here, who the hell was at the heliport? And where is Mr. Wilderman now?”

  “With any luck,” J.J. said, “in his room. Although if he was involved in all of this, I figure that’s pretty unlikely.”

  “Agreed.” Simon frowned as the two of them stared at the changing numbers over the door. The smell of J.J’s perfume filled the elevator, the sharp, sweet scent taking him back. It had all seemed so simple then. The three of them against the world. And then… hell, he wasn’t going to let himself go there. This was about business. The past was just that—past.

  The doors slid open, and they stepped out onto the fifth floor, J.J. thankfully oblivious to the turn of his thoughts. They walke
d in silence as they made their way down the hallway, slowing as they reached Wilderman’s door.

  “So this is it,” she said. “How do you want to handle it?”

  Simon pulled out his gun. “You armed?”

  She shook her head.

  He swallowed a grunt of dismay. “But you know how to handle a weapon?”

  “I’ve been trained. I’ve just never had any reason to carry a gun. Until the other day, my disaster scenarios were just drills.”

  “Well, you need to start carrying one now.” Simon reached down for the gun he carried at his ankle. “Until then, take this.” He held it out, and to her credit, she took it without hesitation, checking the magazine and releasing the safety. “I’m going to knock, and I want you to identify yourself as housekeeping.”

  “Packing heat,” she added, the corners of her mouth tilting up into another smile.

  “He won’t know that from your voice.” Simon returned the smile and then reached out to knock, the sound seeming overly loud in the quiet hallway.

  “Housekeeping,” J.J. called. There was no answer, so Simon knocked again. “I don’t think there’s anyone here,” she said, lowering her weapon as Simon slid the key down the lock, his gun still at the ready. Motioning her to stay behind him, he opened the door and swung inside, his gaze moving over the empty room.

  “Looks clear,” he called as he moved to check the closet and bathroom, then lowered his gun.

  “I was right,” J.J. said. “He’s gone.”

  “At least for now. But there’s still luggage. Most of it unpacked.”

  “So maybe he wanted us to believe he hadn’t left.” J.J. bent to look through the open suitcase.

  “Or maybe he’s just out in the city somewhere playing tourist. Totally oblivious to the fact that someone has been using his name.”

  “Except that they had his watch.” J.J. frowned, biting her lower lip. It was a habit he remembered well. Something she did when she was thinking. “Remember the coroner said that it had his initials.”

  “Could have been a plant,” Simon said, rifling through the clothes hanging in the closet. “Neiman also said that the guy was wearing an expensive suit. Most of this stuff looks like it was bought right off the rack.”

  “In the old days, you wouldn’t have known Armani from Men’s Wearhouse.” She looked up at him, her gaze teasing.

  “I still don’t.” He laughed. “But the label on this sports coat says Sears. And even I know that doesn’t qualify as high-end.”

  “So we’ve got a guy who presents himself as Wilderman but doesn’t actually make an effort to look like the guy. Physically or economically. Doesn’t make a lot of sense.”

  “Probably didn’t have to.” Simon shrugged as he walked over to check out the nightstand. “I mean, Neiman only has to verify the identity of his passengers. If there’s nothing suspicious, he’d certainly have no reason to dig further.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” J.J. said. “And since most of Neiman’s customers are well-heeled, our pseudo-Wilderman would have wanted to look the part. Maybe you’re right, and the real Wilderman was clueless. His computer is still here.” She motioned to a laptop sitting open on the room’s small desk.

  “Doesn’t make sense that he’d have left it behind if he was trying to hide something.”

  “Unless it was on purpose,” she said as she hit a button to turn it on. The machine whirred to life and then stopped, presenting the blue screen of death. “What the hell?” She frowned at the screen and hit one key and then another. “There’s nothing here. This machine has been wiped clean.”

  Simon walked over to have a look. “Well that’s weird.”

  “Yeah, and, unfortunately, it puts the spotlight clearly back on the possibility that Wilderman had some kind of active role in all of this.”

  “Didn’t you say that he booked the tour online?” Simon asked.

  “Right. Your guy, Harrison, was working to try to trace it back to an IP. But I’m guessing we’re looking at it.”

  “Wouldn’t it be easier to take the thing with you rather than go to the trouble of wiping the hard drive and leaving it behind?”

  “Maybe Wilderman’s trying to mess with our heads,” she said, her attention shifting to something by the edge of the bed.

  “Well, it’s working.” Simon walked over to the window and pushed back the draperies to look out the window. “Not exactly a room with a view.” Directly across the way, maybe seven or eight feet away, was a crumbling brick wall. And below, a rubbish-strewn walkway complete with an overloaded Dumpster directly beneath the window.

  “Simon,” J.J. said, pulling his attention back to the room. “Come look at this.”

  He crossed over to where she was kneeling beside the bed, using a hotel pen to lift the nap of the carpet. “What have you got?” he asked, bending down for a better look.

  “I’m pretty sure it’s blood,” she said. “And it looks like there might be more over there.” She nodded toward the floor by the window and a small brown stain on the carpet.

  “Son of a bitch,” he mumbled as he knelt to examine the new discovery. “I think you’re right.” Frowning, he stood up, examining the window more carefully. “There’s another spot here on the curtains.”

  She joined him, pulling out the fabric for closer inspection. “There’s more here.” She pointed to a spot higher up. “But there’s no cast-off. And nothing to indicate a struggle. So what the hell happened?”

  “God’s truth, it could be from anyone,” Simon said. “I mean, we have no way of knowing how old it is. Or even if it is, in fact, blood.”

  “Yes, but look at the window. It’s unlatched. And unless I’m seeing things, there’s another stain here on the sill.” She pointed to a streak of what appeared to be dried blood.

  Simon looked down at the Dumpster, his mind suddenly moving into high gear. “We need to check the passageway between the buildings.”

  “I’m not following,” she said, sliding open the window and leaning out for a better view below.

  “I’m saying that if I had a dead body in a hotel room and a Dumpster right beneath the window…” he trailed off as she pulled back inside, spinning around to face him.

  “You think Wilderman, the real Wilderman, is down there? In the Dumpster?”

  The walkway between the hotel and the building next door smelled like dead fish… or something even worse. Trash was scattered everywhere, a derelict cardboard box pushed behind an empty crate a sign of someone’s home away from home. Jillian could hear rustling in the refuse as they moved. Rats, most likely. She suppressed a shudder, following Simon as they made their way toward the Dumpster.

  As they drew nearer, Simon waved her back, and despite being annoyed at his efforts to protect her, she had to admit that she was grateful for the reprieve. Uncovering the body of a missing man wasn’t exactly on her list of fun-time activities. Still, she’d meant what she’d said earlier—she’d damn well play her own hero.

  And it was that thought that spurred her forward.

  “So, any sign of him?” she asked, fervently hoping for a negative answer.

  “Unfortunately, yeah,” Simon said, his mouth tightening. “And it’s not pretty.”

  She took a step backward, and then forced herself to advance again, rising on her tiptoes to see inside. Simon was right. The bin was half covered, which had shielded their view from above, but from this angle, the man was in plain sight, his body sprawled across the Dumpster, eyes open.

  “Looks like a single shot to the head,” Simon said, pointing to a black ringed hole near Wilderman’s temple. “Execution style. I’m guessing, from the size of the hole, it was small-caliber gun. So either he knew his killer, or the guy was a pro. Either way the killer knew what he was doing.”

  “Then why not dispose of the body in a less public place?”

  “What’s easier than a Dumpster? The trash is emptied through a chute.” He pointed to the metal-rimmed
opening through the brick wall. “So no one from the hotel is going to be checking. There’s no traffic in this passageway, except maybe for the homeless, and even if they found him, they most likely wouldn’t have called it in. And the thing is emptied mechanically, probably twice a week.”

  “Which means he hasn’t been dead more than a few days.”

  “Seems probable, but the ME will be able to narrow that down.”

  “So Wilderman would have ended up in a landfill somewhere. But still, there was at least a small chance someone would find him and call the authorities.”

  “Maybe they didn’t care. Or maybe they figured that, by the time someone found him, it would have been harder to identify him.” Using a stick, Simon carefully lifted one of Wilderman’s hands.

  “Oh, God.” Jillian fought for control as her stomach threatened revolt. The ends of the man’s fingers were ragged and torn, bite marks already obscuring his prints.

  “Between the rats and decomp, IDing him would have been difficult at best. Especially if no one was looking for the guy.”

  “But surely…” she started, and then stopped, remembering Wilderman’s dossier. “He didn’t have any family.” She blew out a breath, her eyes falling to the dead man’s face. “There was no one to miss him.”

  “Makes him an ideal target.” Simon shrugged.

  “So, what, you think that someone used his computer to book the helicopter trip, and then stole his identity to make the flight? But that doesn’t fit with the idea that Captain Essex was flying the helicopter and that the fake Wilderman was already dead.”

  “I’ll admit there are a hell of a lot of unanswered questions. But there’s no doubt that this is Wilderman. And the fact that he’s dead seems to support the idea that he’s involved somehow.”

  Jillian nodded and pushed up for a closer look, steeling herself as she studied the body. “Look at his wrist,” she said, nodding toward Wilderman’s left arm. “There’s a tan line.”

  Simon moved closer, squinting as his gaze followed hers. “From a watch. I’ll be damned. So the watch we found was probably his.”