CHAPTER
TWENTY

Washington, D.C.
Raptor Offices
Detective Darren Fletcher

Fletcher admired the glass-and-steel building nestled against the older, more sedate brick of the original wall of the Navy Yard. The Raptor headquarters looked inviting, but to get inside Fletcher had to travel through three security checkpoints. Defense contractors were all the same to him, hiding away inside their shiny metal boxes, fiddling with the security of the world. He preferred his criminals front and center, thank you very much, not amorphous maybes disguised in the cloaks of friends. He thought it sad that the days of gentlemen’s warfare had drawn to an abrupt close—once you have the ability to sneak up on your enemy, and the balls not to care about the consequences, war inevitably became inequitable.

Of course, being on the side of might was a good thing.

Finally inside the quiet, cool, building, Fletcher approached the reception desk. A young woman with slicked-back hair and a nice sharp jawline looked up and said, “May I help you?”

You can give me your number, sweetheart.

“Detective Darren Fletcher for Mr. Deter, please.”

“Of course. Mr. Deter is expecting you. Right this way.”

Fletcher followed the woman, admiring the view, through a set of steel-and-glass doors. She used an optical scanner to unlock the outer door. Raptor took their security seriously.

A thin, balding man met them on the other side.

“Thank you, Veronica. That will be all.”

“Of course, sir,” she said, turning and exiting through the doors. They slid closed behind her, a brief pneumatic hiss. Fletcher felt terribly secure, and somewhat sorry the lovely Veronica wouldn’t be accompanying him onward and upward.

“I’m Rod Deter. Come on in.”

Deter led Fletcher through a warren of halls, stopping briefly in front of a small stainless kitchenette. “Coffee? Soda?”

“I’m fine, thanks.”

“Good. This is us.”

Using another optical scanner, Deter unlocked a nondescript door. Fletcher was impressed; the doors along the white hallways seemed devoid of marking. Maybe he just counted his way down from the kitchen.

A standard office space spread before them, cubicles in the middle, offices along the walls. They walked east, toward the bank of silvery windows that overlooked the river.

“I take it you have some sort of news? Your people already went through Eddie’s computers—did they find anything that helps explain his death?”

“No,” Fletcher answered. “There was nothing on them that pertained to anything other than his daily work with you. I just have a few more questions.”

Deter motioned toward an open door, his gleaming office. The man took his MBA training to the max: there was nothing out of place. The desk was clean except for a single piece of paper. His schedule, no doubt. It seemed almost prosaic in this advanced building—surely they were paperless, all electronic, with their schedules printed on the insides of their arms each morning in binary code.

Fletcher settled into an elegant Eames chair, just a few strips of leather and metal defying gravity. It was surprisingly comfortable.

“When was the last time Mr. Donovan traveled to Afghanistan or Iraq?”

Deter took his seat at the desk.

“He hasn’t been in quite some time. One of the stipulations in his contract, actually. Eddie’s mandate was personal protection for our visiting dignitaries. He traveled extensively in North America, Europe sometimes, but not back to the Arabian Peninsula. The colonel told me once that it was a deal breaker for Eddie. Of course, we wanted his skill set, so we were willing to make concessions. And when we weren’t entertaining, so to speak, he had other duties. Mainly because of his medical background, he was working on several of our global health initiatives. We’re not just defense anymore. Raptor has a broad outreach into Africa and other developing countries to provide both medicines and security for Médecins Sans Frontières, and other organizations.”

“I saw that in the literature. Who’s the colonel?”

“Our CEO. Allan Culpepper. He’s retired now, of course, but that rank has a tendency to stick. He’s the one who brought Eddie to us in the first place. They are, were, very good friends.”

“May I speak with him?”

“Unfortunately, no. He’s been in Fallujah for the past two weeks, overseeing a new CLS contract we’ve just been awarded.”

“CLS?”

“Sorry. We live in a world defined by who comes up with the best acronyms. Contractor Logistics Support. We had a new global deployment team, GDT, set down last month, and they’re having issues with some of the ground vehicle systems. But that’s totally irrelevant to Eddie’s murder.”

“Nothing is irrelevant in a murder investigation. I know we talked about this before, but Mr. Donovan’s wife insists he got a call from work, and that’s where he was headed when he was killed.”

“I know. I’ve asked around, and no one here remembers calling him in. I polled everyone on our team. Veronica spoke with all of the analysts, the operators. Nothing.”

Time for a little pressure. “Our investigation showed it to be a general number here in the building.”

“That is very strange, because all of the calls out are attached to the phone the call is made from. All calls in are either direct dial or through the general number, but it’s technically impossible to call out from the main number.”

He would have to double-check that info, but from previous investigations, he knew that’s how most major corporation phone systems worked. Oh, well. It was worth a try. The call Donovan had received was a ghost number, anyway, most likely from a disposable cell. The paperwork had been started to find out its origin, but with disposables, it could take weeks, months even, to trace. There was no direct tie to Raptor’s offices. Susan Donovan had assumed the call came from Donovan’s office because of Donovan’s snap-to reaction, but they had no way to prove it without a doubt. And Hal Croswell’s phone records showed nothing that linked him to Raptor, either. But they paid Fletcher to ask …

“Have you ever employed a man named Harold Croswell?”

“Croswell, Croswell … Yes, I seem to remember that name. From a few years ago.” Deter clicked a button and his computer’s flat screen rose from inside the desk. Okay, now that was cool.

He typed a few words. “Yes, here it is. Harold Croswell, First Sergeant, U.S. Army, retired. Employed as a freelance contractor … Oh.”

“Oh?”

Click, click, click.

“Mr. Croswell was on one of our quick-reaction global deployment teams.” At Fletcher’s blank look, Deter continued, “He was part of one of our private security forces.”

“A mercenary, you mean.”

“Private security. Which means private. But he separated from the company over two years ago. Inadequate performance reviews. It happens, sadly too often. These poor men and women come back from war, we hire them, but they are gripped by their time in the service. Psychologically gripped, if you understand my meaning.”

“What you’re saying is he had severe psychological issues that forced you to fire him.”

Deter smiled, a thin smirk. “Something like that.”

“Let’s get back to Mr. Donovan. Any enemies? People around here who disliked him, resented him? Did he get someone else’s promotion? Screw someone else’s wife?”

Deter laughed. “You don’t know Mr. Donovan very well. He was universally liked. A dedicated member of the Raptor family. And very much in love with his own wife. I have to say, Detective, there’s nothing here that indicated a problem. Just like I told you before.”

Fletcher knew when he was being dismissed. He wasn’t accustomed to people he was interrogating blowing him off. “One last thing. How did you feel about Mr. Donovan?”

Deter smiled sadly, and this time, the look seemed genuine. “I’ll miss him very much. He was an excellent operator. I thought the world of him. He’s truly irreplaceable.”

“You can say that again,” a voice boomed from the doorway. Fletcher turned to see a tall, silver-haired man step into Deter’s office with a single stride, effectively sucking all the air from the room. “Allan Culpepper, at your service.”

Deter had jumped to his feet. “Colonel, hello. We didn’t expect you back until next week.”

“I know. Caught a ride with Hassanal Bolkiah.”

“The Sultan of Brunei,” Deter explained to Fletcher, pride ringing in his voice.

“That’s right. He was coming over to check on his new plane. Offered me a lift. I wanted to be at Eddie’s funeral. Owed it to him. To Susan. You’re the detective working his case?”

“Yes, sir. Darren Fletcher.” He nearly saluted. God, Hart would laugh him out of the bar tonight for that one. He couldn’t help himself, though. Culpepper’s very air commanded respect.

“You know who killed him yet?”

“No, sir. I’m working on that right now. We’ve had an additional murder we believe may be tied to him. The victim’s name is Harold Croswell. Used to work here.”

“Hal’s been murdered, too?”

Culpepper looked startled, then his face dropped. “Oh, that’s terrible. Just terrible. Rod, why didn’t you let me know?”

“I wasn’t aware of it until just this minute, sir.”

“Have we done anything for his family?”

“Not yet, sir, but I’m on it.”

“Good man. I’ll head over there tonight and talk to them personally. Hal Croswell was one of my men, just like Donovan. We take care of our own. That’s just horrid news. Detective, if you’re done with Mr. Deter, walk with me.”

He turned and stalked from the room. Fletcher nodded at Deter. “Thanks for your time. If you think of anything …” He left his card on Deter’s desk and followed the old soldier out into the hall.

Fletcher caught up with Culpepper at the kitchen. The man had already poured a cup of coffee. Fletcher imagined working with him was something like constantly guzzling 5-hour ENERGY shots—he seemed a man always on the go. Despite that, Fletcher couldn’t help himself, he liked him. He always respected people who knew how to get things done, didn’t just talk about it. Separated the amateurs from the professionals, that did.

Tossing back the remains of the cup, Culpepper dropped his voice and asked, “You really don’t have any leads?”

“A few. But it’s early. With Mr. Croswell’s death …”

“And they’re definitely linked?”

“They seem to be, sir.”

Culpepper rubbed his forehead, blue eyes cloudy with sorrow. “Donovan was one of the finest soldiers I’ve ever had the privilege of knowing. His FitRep said it all—he was a natural leader, fearless, smart, able to think on his feet. I recruited him hard for this job, because I knew he’d bring that same commitment to Raptor. And I was right. He was the one who fired Croswell. He didn’t think he was pulling his weight. That’s what I mean about his leadership. Sometimes, it’s about making the hard decisions, the right decisions. But he made sure Croswell was taken care of, gave him a severance package that allowed him some real freedom.”

Culpepper got quiet, as if deciding something.

“That’s neither here nor there. There’s two things—one, I’d like to put up a reward for information leading to the arrest of whoever killed Eddie and Hal. Will twenty-five thousand dollars do?”

“Yes, sir, that’s fine. Very generous of you.”

“Good, good. Also, I’m starting a scholarship in Eddie’s name. Worked it all out on the plane. When they told me he’d been killed …” The man’s voice became gruff with unshed tears. He cleared his throat, a great wet rip. “Boy was like a son to me. Find who did this, Detective. I don’t care if you have to tear down the walls here to do it. Anything you need. Do you understand?’’

“I do.”

“Good. I appreciate it. And now, if there’s nothing else you need from me, I must go see Susan Donovan.”

Culpepper walked Fletcher to the front doors. “I’m heading back over tomorrow night after the funeral. Until then, here’s my private number. Call me if you need anything. Or if you find anything out. Okay?”

“Sure.” Fletcher took the card and shook the man’s hand. As he left the building, he wondered if there was anyone in the world who thought as highly of him as Culpepper did of Donovan.

He had a sneaking suspicion the answer to that was no.