Ryne Pearson - Capitol Punishment

“The money was hers, not Monte’s,” Omar reported. “He had the business, but she had the family fortune tucked away. We ran down her accounts and found withdrawal after withdrawal, all cash. And remember those cash bundles in the desk drawer? Those match exactly in amount with several withdrawals.”

“And who — need I ask — did the actual withdrawing?” Lou wondered needlessly.

“Mrs. Royce’s signature on the papers, Monte Royce’s hands on the cash. She’d okay it, he’d go pick it up.” Omar shrugged. “From him it somehow got to Barrish and Kostin and whoever else she was supporting. But we do know it totaled over fifteen million from the time she met Barrish.”

“Fifteen million?” The A-SAC slid back in his seat at the head of the table. “That’s a lot of mad money.”

“Hate money,” Art corrected the emotion.

Lou Hidalgo nodded. “So Mrs. Royce bankrolled Barrish because she liked him.” His face screwed into a frown.

“That, and some of the nostalgic connections,” Frankie expanded. “Remember what she said about Trent? That’s Felix Trent.”

“The guy Barrish put on a pedestal?” Hidalgo said, leafing through the thick mental file devoted to the AVO leader.

“The same one,” Frankie confirmed. “Mrs. Royce’s father was a friend of Trent’s. In a way she thought of her connection with Barrish as a sort of divine signal.” She paused, feeling a connection herself to Mrs. Royce. But it was only gender, and that was grossly insufficient to allow understanding of her actions. “The stupid old woman.”

“What else do we know?” Hidalgo asked.

“The minivan the Barrishes used was found at a shopping center in Palmdale,” Art reported. “Their house was deserted.”

“What about the Mankowitz and Royce hits?” That was something Hidalgo was puzzled about.

“Royce and his mother were hit sometime between five and eight,” Art answered.

“That was the coroner’s finding,” Frankie added. “But some things at the house point to a more concrete time. Royce was up, dressed, and in the kitchen. The nurse said he usually got up at six. Give him half an hour to dress and make his tea, and that puts it back to six-thirty. And the alarm was manually turned off at seven-fifteen. The security company that monitors their system records the times the systems are active for liability purposes.”

“So whether Royce or someone else turned off the alarm, we have them getting hit at the earliest at seven-fifteen,” Art said. “Mankowitz we know was hit at one minute after eight from the nine-one-one calls reporting glass breaking and strange sounds. They used silencers, we’re certain, otherwise it would have been a ‘shots fired’ call. All the callers were hearing was the sound of the rounds hitting Mankowitz’s Mercedes.”

“Forty-five minutes apart and different calibers,” Hidalgo observed.

“Three-eighty on the Royces, and forty-fives on Mankowitz,” Lightman said. “And two forty-fives on World Center’s plant manager. All the spent casings were clean. Wiped before they were loaded. Smooth prints. Pro-like.”

“The only people we know of that Barrish had to work with him are his family,” Art said. “A wife and two sons. No record on any of them.”

“This is a lot of work for four people,” Hidalgo commented. “The Royces, Mankowitz, the World Center. All within an hour and fifteen minutes.”

Art had no answer for that obvious and very correct observation. But there had to be one, and he would find it.

A single tap on the conference room door preceded Special Agent Dan Burlingame. His expression told those gathered to drop what they were doing. “KMOC just got a call from some group claiming the World Center as their work.”

“We have a hundred claims, Dan,” Art reminded him.

“Did any of those others know that the cylinder of nerve gas was in the A/C ducts on Seventy-four?”

The silence after Dan’s revelation of the message’s most important part was brief, just long enough for looks to be exchanged.

“I have a team going over for a copy of it,” Burlingame said.

“Who made the claim?” Art asked.

“Some group called the New Africa Liberation Front.”

Art’s eyes narrowed. New Africa? What in the hell was going on?

“I made a quick check on this group,” Burlingame reported. “We have them listed only as a matter of record, but LAPD has a file on them.”

“They’re an actual group?” Art asked skeptically.

Burlingame nodded. “I’ve got the address LAPD has on them.”

“Liberation Front?” Espinosa said. “Sounds like a revolutionary bunch.”

“That’s what LAPD said,” Burlingame confirmed.

“Are you saying this is a black group?”

Burlingame nodded to Art. He knew it wasn’t the answer desired. But it was a fact. “Black revolutionaries. That’s what LAPD called them.”

Damn . Art looked to the A-SAC and stood. “We’ll check it out.”

Hidalgo stood, too. “Fast.”

Art gave a crisp nod and turned to Burlingame. “The address?”

“On my desk.”

“Let’s do it.”

Cars were like fingerprints, but infinitely more simple to dispose of. Activities and people could be traced to, or through, a car, and the Oldsmobile Cutlass involved in the shooting of Utah Highway Patrol Trooper Fitzroy made it only as far as Orem, Utah. There it was left burning in an empty parking space of a large apartment complex in favor of a Volkswagen van with a rickety box trailer attached whose owner would be needing it no more. That lasted the rest of their journey to Baltimore, then it, too, had to be done away with in favor of “clean” transportation. And more transportation.

Darian eased the just-purchased ‘84 Volvo sedan into the space to the right of the later-model Ford van. Its door slid open as he stopped.

“Brother Darian,” Roger said, sitting in the van’s first bench seat and running a hand over his newly shaved head. “Like my new doo?”

Mustafa leaned forward and looked from the front window. “We all need to look different.”

Darian nodded agreement, though they’d have to retain some individuality. “As long as we’re not four bald black guys running around together. And lose the hat, Brother.”

Mustafa reached up and slid the brimless NALF cap off.

“Where’d you ditch the Volkswagen?” Darian asked.

“In the river back off Ninety-five,” Mustafa answered, turning back to Roger. “What was the name of the place?”

“Laurel, wasn’t it?” the smooth-headed revolutionary responded without surety.

Mustafa shrugged. “Anyway, it’s nowhere near here.”

Roger bent down and looked past Darian to the passenger seat. “Brother Moises. How goes it?”

“It goes, Brother Roger.” Moises ran a hand over his still intact buzz cut. “But I’ll keep my doo, if you don’t mind.”

“Better put some whiskers on that baby face, then,” Roger ribbed. “Make that boy look full-grown, Brother Darian.”

The NALF leader ignored the joking and looked to his number two. “I made the call.”

“Good.” Let them know that the black man knows how to strike back, Mustafa thought.

“Did you find a place?” Darian asked.

“A little apartment over by Mercy Hospital. You and Brother Moises?”

“We’re going to look now.”

Mustafa removed a piece of paper and handed it to Darian. “This is the phone booth across the street from our place.”

“Okay. Settle in and lay low. We’ll call you a week from today.”

Mustafa nodded. “Next Monday.”

“Two in the afternoon,” Darian said, putting the cream-colored Volvo in reverse. “Don’t be late.”