Scott Matthews - The Assassin's list

“Were you able to find out where the hundred thousand came from?”

Carson took a drink of cappuccino and looked out the window.

“Not yet. Looks like the money came from some offshore account. I’ll admit it’s a little troublesome the money was deposited after the secretary was killed. Just to humor you, let’s say Newman’s suspicions are true, why would the security company be involved?”

“I don’t know. We know the security system was turned off. Only two people had the code to do that, Sam Newman and ISIS. Newman’s dead, and I don’t believe he committed suicide. I can’t rule ISIS out, can you?”

Carson took another drink of cappuccino. When their eyes met, Drake could see Carson was considering what he was saying and didn’t like where it might take him.

“I’ll see what I can find out about the ISIS guards, the hundred thousand and sit on my report for now. You find anything that’ll support your suspicions, let me know. Thanks for the coffee,” Carson said as he stood and walked out.

Drake watched him walk to his unmarked Crown Victoria. He didn’t think Carson was convinced that Newman hadn’t committed suicide, but at least he seemed to be willing to dig a little more. It will be interesting, Drake thought, to see if he has the same impression of the ISIS manager. Carson’s bullying manner should allow him to see the man’s true colors, given what Drake had seen of Kaamil’s arrogance.

It was ten after two in the afternoon and Kaamil hadn’t heard anything about Sam Newman’s unfortunate suicide from his source in the police department. His source at KOIN, the CBS Portland affiliate, hadn’t heard anything either.

Kaamil stopped pacing in front of his office window, returned to his desk, and picked up his phone.

“Get me that detective out in Hillsboro, Carson, I think. Tell them it’s about the Martin Research investigation and don’t let them tell you they’ll give him the message. I need to talk with him today.”

He didn’t have time to play phone tag with the police. He had to report to Malik that he had the situation covered, or he would have to send a team to take care of the nosey attorney. If the man wanted to stick his nose where it didn’t belong, he was all too happy to cut it off, along with the rest of his head.

“Sir, Detective Carson’s on line one.”

“Detective Carson, Kaamil Sayf. I’m the regional manager of ISIS. I wanted to check in and see if you needed anything from me for your Martin Research investigation. I know you probably want to wrap that up as quickly as possible.”

“I think I have most of it worked out, Mr. Sayf. I am curious about one thing, though. As I understand it, there are two people who have the code to turn off the security system at Martin Research, you and Sam Newman. Is there anyone else who might have access to that code?”

“We have the code, certainly, we installed their system. There are several of my employees who have access to the Martin Research system codes in case there’s a need to get into their system for some reason, but it’s not something that’s just lying around in our office. Why do you ask?”

“The system was turned off the night Mr. Martin’s secretary was killed. I’ll need the names of your employees who have access to those codes.”

“You’re wasting your time if you think someone here turned off that system. How about Sam Newman? What’s he saying?”

“Unfortunately, he isn’t saying anything. He’s dead.”

“How unfortunate.”

“You knew the man, you know any reason someone would want to see him dead?” Detective Carson asked.

“You think someone killed him?”

“Could be. You going to give me the names of your employees with access to that security code, or do I need to get a court order?”

“Don’t threaten me, Carson. Do your job. Stop looking for some nigger to pin this on,” Kaamil said, and slammed down the phone.

Damn it, he thought, if the police weren’t buying Newman’s suicide, he’d just have to give the lazy cop a little more evidence to convince him. And now, there was clearly a need to take care of the attorney. Even if his death raised suspicion, they were too close to be stopped now by some snoopy counselor who wouldn’t let well enough alone.

Drake was tired. Since his drive to the coast two days ago, it felt like a week had been crammed into the last forty-eight hours. After a tedious morning and most of the afternoon, he decided to head home early.

He relaxed a little as he drove toward home, settling into the slow flow of traffic. On the weekends, traffic from the city to the winery tasting rooms was becoming so heavy the state was considering building a bypass and putting a toll booth on the old highway to take advantage of the area’s attraction. Drake hated the idea. The charm of the place wouldn’t last long if it became as accessible as a shopping mall.

The red hills around Dundee and Carlton had vineyards before the Prohibition years forced farmers to switch to crops they could sell. The region flourished again after a couple of UC Davis pioneers re-discovered the area in the 1970s. Since then, the valley running south for a hundred miles was home to over two hundred vineyards growing pinot noir, pinot gris and chardonnay grapes that wine lovers couldn’t seem to get enough of.

When he reached the old farming town of Dundee and drove past the tasting rooms flanking the two-lane highway, the fire station, and the lone store, he turned off on Worden Hill Road and followed it past the old red barn at the Maresh vineyard. His twenty acres were just around the bend. They rose above the road on a southeasterly sloping tract that caught both the morning sun and the ripening warmth of afternoon rays. Perfect for growing grapes, as soon as the old vines were pulled out and new ones planted.

A sigh of relief escaped his lips as he slowed and turned left up the long gravel driveway of his property. Midway, an old barn hunkered down near a stand of oak trees. Beyond it, the driveway ended in a turnaround below the front of the old stone farmhouse.

Behind the house was a building that had been originally built to house a small winery. There were steps leading down from it to a wine cellar that connected the winery building to the main house. Drake used the winery building to garage the 993 and Kay’s Land Rover LR3, but he didn’t keep wine around long enough to need a wine cellar. The wine cellar had proven, however, to be a handy way to make it to the house when it was raining hard.

As he stepped out of the car, Drake heard Lancer charging toward him from the back porch of the house.

“Hello Lancer,” he said, reaching down to scratch behind his ears. “How was your day? Run off any of those pesky deer trying to eat our grape vines?”

Standing with his head almost to the tips of Drake’s fingers, Lancer stood still except for his tail. Bred to be a world-class personal protection dog, and with rigorous training for Schutzhund competition, he was the perfect home security system. Pity the poor intruder who mistook his calm manner and underestimated his violent capabilities.

“Come on boy, let’s get you some dinner.”

After changing into an old pair of jeans and a dark blue polo, Drake filled a dog dish with the high energy food Lancer favored and poured a glass of 2001 Beaux Freres pinot for himself. Watching Lancer devour his meal, he settled into his dark brown leather chair next to the river rock fireplace in the kitchen and thought about dinner. Maybe broil a salmon steak, steam some rice, and make a salad sounded about right, if he could muster the energy to get up and fix it.