Michelle Gagnon - The Gatekeeper

Rodriguez held up a finger. “That’s where things get interesting. That dive bar has a paper trail a mile long. Dead-ends at a shell company.”

“Really?”

“I got a friend at the IRS to do some legwork for me. If you sort through all the subsidiaries and parent companies, there’s one corporation at the top. Hard to find since it was registered offshore, but what can I say, my friend owed me a favor. And we got lucky.”

“So who owns it?”

He plowed on. “The Acme Lounge was initially bought by a group called Lion’s Share. Shell company, there’s nothing else there.” Clearly Rodriguez had done a lot of work on this, and wanted to present every detail so that fact was not lost on her. Kelly repressed the urge to sigh. “Lion’s Share is owned by Diamond Tooth, which is a division of Fiddle and Flute…”

“Fiddle and Flute?”

Rodriguez held up a hand. “Wait, it gets better. Anyway, five or six other dummy corps, then I got to the pièce de résistance.” He held up the notepad.

Kelly leaned in to read it, then shook her head. “Omega? Never heard of it.”

“Really?” He looked startled. “Not a fan of the business section, huh?”

“Why would I read the business section?” Kelly furrowed her brow.

“Because you can’t retire on what the Bureau pays you, that’s for sure. Gotta invest on your own.” Rodriguez shook his head, then winced again. “Damn, I can’t blink without hurting. Omega is one of the largest corporations in Arizona. They own a big chunk of the Southwest, everything from communications to mining. And guess who the CEO is?”

“I haven’t a clue.”

“Jackson Burke. One of Duke Morris’s closest friends and a major contributor to every campaign run by an immigration reform candidate. He personally footed the bill for that proposition in Texas that would have mandated immediate deportation for anyone without a green card.”

Kelly vaguely remembered something about that, but to be honest she didn’t follow the news closely unless it related directly to her cases. “So you’re suggesting that Burke had Morris killed, and pinned the blame on a Salvadoran street gang?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

“But why? Especially if they were friends? It sounds crazy.”

Rodriguez shrugged. “Maybe he is crazy. Or maybe when that proposition failed, he decided to try a different approach. Flame public sentiment against illegals, try to force a bill through that way. I hear the Senate resuscitated that immigration reform measure today.”

“Still. It’s hard to see the head of a major corporation ordering executions.”

Rodriguez snorted. “You kidding? Those guys are ruthless. The Iraq War was all about Blackwater and the oil companies. They got the government to do their dirty work for them.”

Kelly didn’t answer. She was never one for conspiracy theories, and there were a lot of holes in what Rodriguez was postulating. But it might warrant more investigation.

“I almost forgot to mention.” He tapped his pen down the names on the list. “Featherwoods, The Sackett Corporation…a lot of these terms are associated with white supremacists.”

“Seriously?” Kelly frowned. “Why be so obvious?”

“Probably a little inside joke, an offshore bank wouldn’t examine the documents closely. And like I said, these companies don’t actually do anything, they only exist to shift money around.”

Kelly crossed her arms, thinking. After a minute she said, “So can we get a line on what else those companies are involved with? Buildings they own, that sort of thing.”

Rodriguez cocked his head to the side. “Good idea. Maybe we find something else that proves they’re dirty.”

“Exactly. Because this is all good work, Rodriguez.” He appeared to flush at her praise, but it was hard to tell with the bruises. “But for us to accuse a CEO of murdering a senator, we’re going to need a hell of a lot more.”

“Yeah, I got you.” Rodriguez glanced back at his pad. “So I’ll call my friend back, see if she can find everything filed under these companies.”

“Perfect. I’m going to take another crack at your buddies from the bar.”

“Give them my best.” He smiled tightly. “And by that I mean if you get a chance, kick the shit out of them.”

“That’s not really my thing, Rodriguez.” Kelly smiled wryly and stood, awkwardly patting his leg. “Get some rest. You look terrible.”

“Gee, thanks.” He leaned back against the pillows and closed his eyes. “Maybe I will take a nap.”

She was almost at the door when he called out, “Hey, Jones?”

“Yes?”

“Finally feels like I have a partner.”

She opened her mouth to reply, but he was already snoring.

Randall lay on his side, hands tied behind his back, ankles knotted together. He had no idea where he was. They’d placed a sack over his head that smelled terrible, like it used to hold dead animals. Initially he’d gagged and almost vomited, but caught himself. These guys probably wouldn’t keep him from drowning in his own puke. They’d knocked him out with an injection, and when he came to, the distinctive white noise of a plane surrounded him. Now he jostled from side to side. Had to be in a car, or maybe a truck, since the floor felt rough beneath him.

Still, he was alive, that was saying something. Randall wondered what the hell they wanted. He’d already given them everything they’d asked for, and obviously couldn’t provide information from outside the facility.

And Madison -what had they done with her? Probably already dead, he thought with a sinking in his gut. He’d failed her. He should have gone to the FBI as soon as she was taken, told them the truth and suffered the consequences. Now he’d condemned them both.

He started crying, sobs muffled by the sack. The sound of a truck panel sliding up stopped him. Light seeped through the coarse material, and he squinted.

Someone barked a command and Randall was dragged to his feet. They lowered him roughly to the ground and he landed hard on one knee. He yelped as someone yanked him up by the elbow. The sack was ripped away.

“Hope you had a nice ride.” It was the guy with the shaved head who had initially recruited him, wearing that same smug grin.

“What the hell is going on?” Randall demanded, voice quavering. He was in an enormous warehouse the size of an airplane hangar. A few feet away he saw a makeshift laboratory, complete with a glove box and remote control panel. A dozen yards farther, three large flatbeds lined up as if in formation. A group of men encircled him, all huge, bald and menacing.

“Got another job for you, Grant.”

“Fuck you.” Randall said. Despite his fury, it came out sounding weak. “I’m done helping you.”

The man’s bushy eyebrows shot up. “We still have your daughter.”

“You’ve probably already killed her.”

“Why would we do that when we still need her?” The man cocked his head to the side. He had an unnerving smile, as if he was wondering how Randall would taste.

“So show me some proof.” A glimmer of something behind the man’s eyes. Randall stood taller. “I said, you want my help, prove that my daughter is still alive.”

The man’s eyes narrowed. One of the other thugs lurched forward, but stopped when the first raised his hand. “Sure, why not. Meanwhile, you can get acquainted with our little project.”

“Food first. I haven’t eaten since you grabbed me. And I’ve got to take a piss,” Randall said, emboldened by their concession.

The man examined him for another moment, as if amused by the show of bravado. After a minute he said, “Hulk, take him to the head.”

A blond guy with a ridiculous handlebar moustache shoved Randall forward. His eyes locked on something clipped to Hulk’s belt: a dosimeter, used to measure radiation levels. The first circle was tinted, showing a measurement of 5 rads-still in the normal range. As Randall was marched toward a small door, he swept his gaze across the trucks, realization suddenly dawning. Dear God, they wanted him to help build a dirty bomb. And he was the one who had provided the radioactive materials. If handled correctly, there was enough iridium to render a major city uninhabitable for years. Hell, more than years-decades.