Scott Matthews - The Assassin's list

When the connection was made, he sat forward in his chair and prepared to report on last night’s event.

“Kaamil, my brother, I am worried. I thought I would hear from you last night.”

“I’m sorry, Malik. I wanted to make sure of something before I called,” Kaamil explained.

“Like how close the police are to finding out who killed that woman? Is that what you wanted to make sure of before you called me? Or were you hoping I wouldn’t hear of your failure before you worked out your excuses?”

“Malik, please, killing the woman was a mistake, but it couldn’t be avoided. I had no way of knowing she’d return that evening.”

“Did you consider having someone outside, to warn you? Of course not, or you wouldn’t have been surprised. Is there any evidence you were there?”

“No. I wore surgical gloves, and the surveillance system was turned off. There’s nothing that could identify me. I took precautions.”

“Except for posting a lookout. Were you able to verify the current password?”

“Yes, nothing has changed in the security system at the depot. We’re okay.”

“Make sure that we are. Also, make sure the investigation of the woman’s murder doesn’t get close to you. A third mistake would be your last,” Malik said, ending the call.

Kaamil wiped off his fingerprints and dropped the cell phone in his briefcase to be thrown away. If Malik counted two mistakes against him already, he couldn’t afford another. His old football coach used to say, “Son, if you can’t carry the ball without losing it, I’ll find someone who can.” In the game he was playing now, benching would be more permanent than the old coach ever contemplated.

Drake opened his eyes at five o’clock with Lancer, his five-year-old German shepherd, licking his face. It was time for their morning run. He threw his arm around the neck of his companion. Time to get back to their old routine. He had to meet Richard Martin, and a good run would get his blood flowing for the day.

“Lancer, old buddy, I know you think I’m going to be an easy mark this morning, but I might surprise you. If I do, you get dried dog food and I get breakfast out. How about that?” he asked his tail-wagging dog.

He pulled on his running gear, laced up his Nikes, and followed his dog. Lancer had been trained for protection dog competition since he was six months old, and was the best in Oregon. One-hundred-ten pounds of obedient aggression, Lancer was a perfect companion. Except on early mornings when Lancer was ready to run and he wasn’t.

“All right you masochist, let’s get it on,” Drake said, opening the laundry room door onto the back porch.

Stepping off the porch, Drake stretched his hamstrings, breathed deeply, and began jogging along the brick walkway to the unfinished winery parking area behind his house. Tall fir trees stood behind the winery building that now served as a shop and garage for Drake’s Porsche and Kay’s Range Rover LR3. The surrounding vineyards filled the air with the scent of green lushness. Early in the morning, you could even smell summer lavender.

From the paved parking area, he followed Lancer down the long gravel driveway that ran along the southern border of the farm, down to Worden Road. At the bottom of the driveway, they turned north for two miles of steady uphill climbing before heading east toward the small city of Newberg. Then they ran downhill, past farmland not yet planted and young vineyards still maturing, until they reached Worden Road again and headed back to the farm.

Drake ran sluggishly after his dog, a tan reminder of better morning runs. It looked like breakfast was on him again, he thought, as they turned back up the driveway of his farm. Time to get back in shape.

Fixing breakfast for Lancer was easy. The dog enjoyed anything Drake fed him. His own breakfast was more of a problem. Nothing he fixed lately had any taste. The usual scrambled eggs with bacon, marmalade and toast tasted like sawdust. Maybe it was time to pay a visit to his friend at the Black Walnut Inn to see if their gourmet breakfast offerings would taste better.

After a quick protein drink, shower, and shave, Drake left for Martin Research, driving north. The sound of the Porsche’s restrained whine begged him to unleash the car’s power, but he didn’t need another speeding ticket to distract him before meeting his new client.

The thought of a new client reminded him to call his secretary. Punching the speed dial on his dash-mounted cell phone, he waited to see what mood she was in this morning.

“Law office. Wondered when you’d call. Kind of got used to you keeping in touch and all. When I didn’t hear from you yesterday, I assumed you were dead. So, I accepted a job with your enemy, that guy from the Public Defender’s office. He wants to pay me big money to learn the secret of your past wins. Back when you were an attorney that gave a damn, and had some wins. How are you this morning, boss?”

Drake resigned himself to her mood. She was the person closest to him, next to his wife, and he hadn’t told her where he was going yesterday.

“Good morning, Margo. Thought I called the wrong number and got someone’s secretary dealing with a bad case of PMS. Until I recognized your voice, and realized you must be upset because there weren’t any billable hours yesterday.”

Drake heard her swallow her anger, almost.

“That wasn’t my concern, and you know it. I was worried about you. You’re not the only one who knew what yesterday was. I’m mad that you didn’t call and say you needed time away. You think I had a party here myself?” Margo asked.

“Sorry, I wasn’t thinking right yesterday. I just called to say I’m headed to Hillsboro to meet with a new client. Thought that would make you happy. I should be back shortly after lunch. I’ll explain things then, okay?”

“Sure, new clients are good, right? Means maybe we’ll be able to pay the bills this month.”

She wasn’t mad. They’d been through too much together over the years for either of them to misread the other’s mood. Drake knew Margo was just worried about him. Hell, he had to admit he was worried too.

“Margo, before you hang up, do me one favor and call your husband. Find out what he’s heard about the murder of the secretary at Martin Research in Hillsboro. That’s where I’m headed, that’s our new client. I know it’s out of his jurisdiction, but senior detectives hear things. Anything I can learn about this will be helpful. Could you also check into the security company Martin Research uses? It’s ISIS, or something like that. Call me right away if Paul knows anything, and tell him lunch is on me.”

“Do I get to come along, or is this a guy thing?”

“Depends on how well he comes through, so I guess it’s up to you. Call me.”

The city of Hillsboro, where Drake headed, was west of Portland on the Sunset Highway. The city grew, along with Oregon’s metropolis, when the high-tech boom exploded. Intel and other Silicon Valley firms expanded there, and the area was dubbed the Silicon Forest. But with the tech bust in the nineties, satellite offices downsized, leaving a lot of Porsches and BMWs on the dealer’s pre-owned lots. The tough survived, and Martin Research had been one of the survivors.

Twenty minutes after talking with his secretary, Drake pulled off the freeway. He followed 185 thAve. for a block or two, then turned west onto a parkway lined with sweeping lawns and modern sculptures. He was driving past these modern monuments to art, when his cell phone buzzed.

“Paul talked with the head of detectives in Hillsboro. They’re sort of friends. They don’t think much of the burglary motive. The surveillance system was turned off, and they can’t find fingerprints or any physical evidence. Burglars aren’t that careful. That’s all they know at this point,” Margo relayed.