Internal Threat Page 9

  “So she was smart,” Ashley quipped.

  Matt grinned at her, turning back to Luke who was absorbed in the story. “I walk your mom back to the base and she’s reaching out to give me a handshake goodnight when she burps.”

  “No way,” Luke said.

  “Yes way,” answered Matt. “And then she threw up all over my shoes.”

  Luke laughed. “What did you do?”

  “I did what any gentleman would do. I took her home and held her hair back while she suffered through the worst bout of food poisoning I’ve ever seen. I kept telling her, that it will all be over soon and not to worry.”

  “And by the morning she was in love with you, too,” Ashley said, looking at Matt in a way she had never done before. He nodded before looking back to his son.

  “So, Luke, I’m telling the same thing to you. This will all be over soon.”

  “Thanks, Dad. I think I’m starting to feel better now, actually.”

  “Good.” Matt turned his attention back to Ashley.

  “Let’s go,” he told her.

  “Where?”

  “Inside. We’ve got work to do.”

  Seventeen

  Detective Larsen stepped outside to take a deep inhale of breath. A decade ago, this was the moment he would have reached into his pocket and shaken out one of his Camel filtered cigarettes. There was something in the simple act of snapping the lighter to life and the first intake of tobacco hitting his lungs that gave him the clear head he needed to think through things. Of course, he had quit smoking several years ago, right after Julie had left. In the end it did not matter; all the vices that had been his curse were eventually abandoned but far too late to make a difference. Yet, he had not gone back to the cigarettes; fresh air was what he worked with now.

  Though I’d still prefer a Camel, he thought to himself.

  He shook off the regret and turned back to look at Matt Weatherly’s house. It was typical of the Hollywood Hills area, from his experience. A low-slung ranch that had most likely housed a local aerospace engineer’s family half a century ago. Since that time, it had been expanded and remodeled into the modern luxury residence that only a successful person could afford. Stepping back through the arched front doorway, he made his way through the uniformed policemen conversing in the foyer.

  “CSI done yet?” he inquired of the nearest one, whose nametag read Galpin.

  “Almost, sir.”

  “Any response from the LoJack people?”

  “Not yet, sir. We’ll let you know as soon as we hear something.”

  Larsen nodded, taking a moment to step down to the sunken hardwood floor of the home’s living room. He crossed to a banquet by the television where a group of thank you cards were displayed. Larsen spotted one in the middle and opened it. Inside, a delicate hand had written – “Thank you again for the lovely birthday present. You and Luke are like family to me! Love, Ana”.

  Larsen placed it back, spotting a cherry wood shelving system in the corner holding a cluster of framed photographs. Nearly all of them were of Weatherly with his growing son. Just when Larsen was beginning to wonder where the mother might be, he found a picture on the top shelf of Matt with his arms around an attractive brunette with short hair. Both of them wore military uniforms, he noted. He pulled out his small notepad, jotting down a reminder to have one of his team pull any military background on Weatherly.

  “Detective Larsen?” a gravelly voice came from the nearby hall. It was Nick Burns, the lead Crime Scene Investigation technician that Larsen had worked with on several cases in the past. Burns was a heavyset man with silver-stubbled cheeks who could tell you all about how a victim’s lifetime of bad eating habits had contributed to an enlarged heart but refused to change his own steady diet of coffee, chips and hamburgers.

  “All done?” Larsen asked him.

  Burns nodded, “With the preliminary, yeah.” He turned, the detective on his heels.

  As they reached the bathroom, Larsen’s stomach tensed. The body of Weatherly’s nanny, Ana, had turned ghost white from the loss of blood. A pool of congealing ruby red spread down her shirt and into the bathtub.

  “She’s only been dead for about five hours, maybe four,” Burns said, tilting his head to take a sidelong view of the corpse. “How did you say you found her?”

  “There was a shooting across town and the owner of this house, Matt Weatherly, was involved.” Larsen paused. He had learned long ago never to share everything with everybody, even someone he considered a trusted colleague. It was usually best to keep things compartmentalized. “I sent a cruiser over here to check things out and they found the front door left partially open. When they came in, they found our vic here.”

  “Well, looks like a professional job to me. Throat cut above the larynx so she couldn’t scream even if she wanted to.”

  “Hell of a way to go,” Larsen shook his head. He sighed, lowering himself to Ana’s eye-level. Instinctively, he crossed himself and whispered a quick prayer.

  “You know you do that every time?” Burns asked, watching him.

  “It’s called respect for the dead, Nick. Maybe if a few of my colleagues did it, we’d have more solved cases instead of open ones.” He rose back up to standing. “Any ideas on the weapon?”

  “Probably a KA-BAR but don’t hold me to it.”

  Larsen nodded, processing the information. The knife Burns suspected was commonly used by all the branches of the armed forces. “Makes sense,” he mumbled. “Weatherly is ex-military.”

  “Sounds like you got a pretty open and shut case then,” Burns offered.

  “Maybe.” Larsen had that strange jangly feeling his nerves got when facts refused to add up. Cases often presented their solutions much like an arithmetic problem: obvious motive + opportunity = murder. So far, none of the elements fit into that equation. He thought of the thank you card in the living room.

  Larsen spoke his thoughts aloud, “Weatherly gives his longtime nanny a birthday gift, trusts his only son with her every day, then coldly cuts her throat?”

  Burns shrugged, “It’s a crazy world.”

  “I think something is off here,” Larsen quietly countered.

  “That’s why you’re the detective and I just tell you how they died.”

  “And yet your pay grade is higher than mine.”

  “Like I said,” Burns smiled, “it’s a crazy world.”

  Larsen glanced at the floor again, kneeling down for a closer inspection.

  “Whatcha looking for?” asked Burns, hovering over the detective’s shoulder.

  “Arterial spray.” The detective knew that if Ana’s throat had been sliced, then her artery would have pumped out a decent-sized burst of blood somewhere.

  “Over here,” said Burns, pulling back the shower curtain. A spread of red dots covered its plastic surface.

  “So she was killed in the bathtub then,” Larsen said, turning over the thoughts in his head. An idea occurred to him. “When you run the full autopsy, let me know the results of the toxicology test.”

  “Sure. Anything in particular I should be looking for?”

  “Chloroform or ether. My guess is she was knocked out, dragged in here, then killed.”

  Burns nodded, running a hand over his chin. “Sounds like a good theory. I’ll let you know what I find.”

  “Thanks, Nick,” Larsen clapped the man on the back and exited the bathroom. He flagged down Officer Galpin again. “Expand the background search on Matt Weatherly to include military service. I want to know everything in his file, not just dates and rank.”

  “You got it, detective,” the officer replied before hurrying off.

  Larsen headed back out the front door, pausing to look at the small crowd of neighbors that had gathered beyond the bright yellow police tape strung across the foot of the driveway. Curious eyes attempted to catch glimpses of what was going on behind the curtains of the Weatherly house. A couple of bored uniforms kept them behind the line.
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  Suddenly, there was an out of breath voice at his shoulder. “Sir!”

  Larsen turned to see Galpin nearly barrel into him as the officer ran out of the front door.

  “What is it?” Larsen asked.

  “You were right. Weatherly did have a LoJack installed on his Porsche. They finally activated it.”

  “And?” the detective pressed.

  “We got a location. Someplace west of Sunset Boulevard. The Wertheimer Building.”

  Larsen was already sprinting towards his car. The address was less than fifteen minutes away and, if the rest of tonight was any indication, he had to move fast before things spun any further out of control.

  Eighteen

  It had been many years since Matt had stepped on to a field of battle, but his body had not forgotten the unique rhythms that accompanied it. His breath slowed into shallow increments that matched in time to his heartbeat. The world trickled down to slow motion, allowing his eyes to snatch every detail from the surrounding landscape. Previously, the terrain had been on the scorched sands of Iraq and Afghanistan. Now, it was on this neatly-swept sidewalk in the heart of Hollywood.

  Ashley stood next to him, watching with fascination as her competitor narrowed his eyes. Abruptly, he turned to her.

  “I don’t want anyone to die.”

  “Um…okay, that’s a good start,” she replied, nonplussed.

  His eyes swiveled back to the double doors that were the entrance of the building. “I’m capable of it, you know. That’s the scary part. Being aware that you’re only a hair’s breadth away from ending a human being’s life.”

  “Matt, I’ll be honest here - you’re completely freaking me out,” Ashley admitted.

  He released a breath, following it with a thin smile. “Sorry, forgot where I was for a second.” His gaze found hers again. “We have about eleven minutes to enter this building, get past the multiple guards and disable the servers that my top-notch security system protects. That means I’m going to have to do some things that will probably freak you out even more.”

  Ashley nodded. Her own mind was still whirling, playing catch up to the impossible situation she had been plunged into. Time and again, though, she would arrive back at the same conclusion: millions of lives are at stake. “Do what you need to do,” she finally said.

  “As I recall, there are two guards at the front desk,” Matt started, his mind’s eye roving over the interior of the building. “They’re both armed, mainly because this place also houses servers for the state’s criminal DNA databases. If we get past them, we’ve still got one more guy who stands directly in front of the cage.”

  “Why am I coming with you again?” she asked.

  “Because if anything happens to me, you need to keep going. I’m counting on you, Ashley. Luke is counting on you now, too.”

  “You can do that,” she assured him.

  Matt started walking, calling over his shoulder, “Stay behind me. No matter what happens.”

  In a few quick strides, he was at the glass doors and pulling them open. Across the polished tile floor rested a waist-high lobby desk, a lone guard sitting behind it. Facts about the young man scrolled through Matt’s head.

  Name: Tim.

  Graduated UC Santa Barbara and spent nearly a year fruitlessly searching for a job in marketing.

  Has been a security guard for six months.

  Was on the rowing team in college.

  Slight weakness in his left knee where a stray oar clipped him two years ago.

  To the guard’s left was an empty office chair, slightly spinning. That told Matt that Tim’s partner had recently vacated the seat, most likely for a quick bathroom break since he knew that they were supposed to be on duty together at all times. Tim’s eyes lit up with recognition as Matt entered. Ashley entered behind him as the front door swung shut.

  “Mr. Weatherly,” Tim smiled. “Nice to see you. Anything I can help you with?”

  Matt kept moving forward, taking the floor in large strides. He kept his face open and friendly. “Hi, Tim. I was wondering-”

  By the end of his sentence, he was at the desk. Before the guard could react, Matt leapt on to its surface, kicking the desk phone away from Tim’s reach. Bewilderment spread across the young man’s face as he stood up, fumbling for his fastened gun holster. Matt hopped down and crouched, swinging his leg around and connecting with the back of Tim’s left knee. The guard cried out in pain, instinctively grabbing his injured leg. Matt sprang up, planting himself behind Tim and wrapping his forearm around the guard’s neck.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered as Tim struggled. After several seconds, the security guard’s eyes drooped and Matt felt his body slacken. As Tim’s head slumped, Matt’s view was cleared to see Ashley standing in open-mouth shock in front of the desk.

  “My God, you killed him,” she sputtered.

  Matt shook his head. “Sleeper hold. He’s alive. Although the headache he’ll have tomorrow will make him wish he wasn’t.”

  “That’s awful. Should we leave him some money or something?”

  “I’m not sure what the protocol is for tipping on this, Ashley.”

  Matt’s eyes ticked to a door at the far end of the hallway. Exiting through it was a burly man in his forties wearing a uniform that matched Tim’s, glancing down to make sure his pants were completely zipped. When he looked up, his eyes took in the lobby, trying to make sense of the scene before him. He quickly reached for his gun but Matt was already unsnapping the holster on Tim’s belt as the young man’s body fell to the floor, whipping up the gun to level it at the guard’s chest while thumbing the safety off.

  “Put your hands up,” Matt ordered. The guard hesitated. “Now! Before you make me use this!”

  The guard glared at him, then slowly put his hands in the air.

  “Ashley,” Matt said, surprising her. “Get his gun and the zip cuffs on the back of his belt.”

  “Me?” she asked in stunned disbelief.

  “Yes, you. My hands are a little full at the moment.”

  She hesitated, steeling herself before finally taking the steps across the lobby. The guard’s eyes tracked her movement. She spotted the gun in its holster, the leather top unsnapped. Her palms were suddenly slick with nervous sweat. Wiping them on her skirt, she gingerly withdrew the gun using her fingers. It was heavier than she thought it would be and she wondered briefly how Matt was able to hold his with such ease. Trying to move it into the palm of her other hand, it slipped out of her grip and banged on to the floor.

  “I’m sorry,” she said to Matt.

  “It’s fine,” he replied through gritted teeth. “Kick it over to me.”

  “I’ll just pick it up-” She knelt down just as Matt cried out.

  “No!” Matt shouted.

  Too late. Before she could react, the guard had grabbed the back of her collar and snatched her back up to standing. The blade of a knife grabbed from an ankle holster was pressed against her neck.

  “Drop the gun, Mr. Weatherly,” the guard growled.

  “Larry, I know this is hard for you to understand. And I know you wouldn’t want to harm Ms. Kane-”

  “Stop talking and drop your gun,” Larry interrupted. “I don’t give a damn why you’re here but you’re not leaving. Now,” he pressed the blade further in, causing Ashley to emit a hushed scream, “put it down.”

  Matt weighed his options but none presented themselves. At last, he lowered the gun and let it tumble from his fingers.

  Ashley felt the knife slip away from her neck as the guard slightly loosened his hold on her. She knew it was her only chance. Balling her left hand into a fist, she swung it out in front of her to gain momentum, then back behind with all her strength. Larry cried out as the blow struck him between the legs, causing him to double over. As he did, Ashley’s other hand was there to crack an uppercut across his jaw. He stumbled backwards, crashing into the wall.

  Matt materialized next to her, the gun back
in his possession. He snatched the plastic zip cuffs off of Larry’s belt and trussed his hands.

  “Where did you learn that?” he asked Ashley, clearly impressed.

  “I had a couple of fight scenes in Encino Girl. Never thought they would work in real life.”

  A glance at his watch caused Matt to wince. “We’ve only got about five minutes.”

  Ashley grabbed Larry’s gun from the floor. “Then we’d better get going,” she said.

  Entering the elevator, Matt moved towards a small keypad embedded below the glowing buttons for the floors. He punched in a seven digit code from memory as the doors closed and the car glided upwards.

  “Keep that out,” he nodded at Ashley’s gun.

  “I don’t know how to use it.”

  “Pretend that you do. Just like the stage fighting.” A smile crept up on him.

  “What?” she asked, noticing the grin.

  “I never knew you used to be an actress.”

  “Funny time to start sharing our war stories, Matt. Literally, in your case.”

  Without warning, John’s voice appeared in Matt’s ear. “Time is being wasted. Step it up.”

  “Doing the best I can,” Matt hissed, earning a look from Ashley.

  “Do better. The police are on their way,” John said.

  The breath left Matt’s lungs. Any amount of time he believed was on their side had just vanished.

  He watched as the floor lights pinged in ascending order, nearly to the top. “As I recall, the guard up here doesn’t have a monitor that watches the lobby,” Matt told Ashley. “We’ve probably got about thirty seconds before he realizes that he hasn’t gotten the usual check in from lobby security. We need to make them count.”

  Ashley nodded in agreement as a loud buzz indicated that they had reached their destination. The doors slid apart to reveal a polished cement floor stretching outwards, bisected by a floor-to-ceiling cage fence. In front of it stood a man in a security uniform punching the keys of a black computer. He glanced up, taking in Ashley and Matt. Immediately, he reached for the gun at his side.