Enigma (FBI Thriller #21)(72)
“What was that all about?”
“That was Connie Butler, CARD team. That GPS tracker I put on Vaughn’s car—we’ve been monitoring where she goes. It hadn’t led to much more than grocery stores and gas stations, but she drove her Jaguar out to a really posh area a little while ago, in Anne Arundel County. She stopped at one of the big enclosed compounds, called the Willows, entered through the private gate. Connie said the property is owned by Mr. Beau Breckenridge Maddox, the founder of Gen-Core Technologies.”
Savich gave the Porsche a nudge with his foot and they leaped forward past a classic black Corvette. The woman driver gave him a huge grin and a thumbs-up.
“Yeah, yeah, stop your baby flirting with that coldhearted Corvette and listen to what Connie sent me. B. B. Maddox is seventy-eight years old now, retired from the leadership of Gen-Core Technologies for the past fifteen years. The current CEO is his only child, Lister Evelyn Maddox. I wonder why he saddled his son with such weird names. Lister is pushing fifty, married twice, divorced twice, no children. Up until fifteen years ago, the father, B.B., was a mover and shaker in the industry and a big social animal, but then overnight, he became a recluse. He never leaves his home now, sees hardly anyone. There are rumors he has some sort of debilitating illness, like a stroke, or dementia.”
She looked up. “There’s lots more here, but the question is, why would Sylvie Vaughn, a women’s fashion blogger and YouTube phenom, visit the reclusive founder of Gen-Core Technologies?”
“Should I get MAX involved?”
“Maybe later, yes. Let me see what we’ve got here first.” She hunkered down and worked until Savich pulled into the FBI garage. He took her hand, pulled her in for a quick kiss. “I remember the name Gen-Core Technologies now from my research on the drug John Doe was given—one of their subsidiaries is a smaller pharmaceutical, Badecker-Ziotec. We’ll put them at the top of our list, find out if they ever did research on a drug in the same chemical class as sirolimus.”
Sherlock nodded. “Dillon, I keep wondering where all this is headed. And how is John Doe involved? It gets curiouser and curiouser.”
47
CAU
HOOVER BUILDING
WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON
MAX found a small cabin near Lake Ginger in western Maryland, the owner listed as Renée Altman, Mrs. Bowler’s maiden name. Savich sat back, shook his head. “Do you really think you’re safe hunkered down out of state, Mr. Bowler?”
He called in Ruth and Ollie. “I think MAX may have found Bowler,” he said and gave them the GPS coordinates of the Lake Ginger cabin under Mrs. Bowler’s maiden name. “I think Bowler’s the linchpin, so it’s important to keep him alive if you find him there. Lake Ginger’s a forty-five-minute drive. Keep me informed, and don’t forget, Bowler’s got a gun and he’s already killed once, doesn’t matter that it was in self-defense. He’s used it now and he’ll use it again, so take care.”
Savich could feel the electricity in the air as Ollie and Ruth grabbed their FBI jackets and left the unit. Now he could focus on finding the helicopter. He walked over to Agent Lucy McKnight’s desk, leaned down, and looked at her monitor. She was studying video feeds.
Lucy said, “I’ve checked out the owners of all the Robinson R66 helicopters registered in the D.C. area, verified they’re all legitimate. That left local air shuttles and helicopter charter services. Most of them have a Robinson R66 in their fleet, and most of those wanted to see a warrant if I wanted information about any flight plans filed for locations near the Daniel Boone National Forest yesterday. I told them in confidence the man who may have been picked up by one of their helicopters was an escaped murderer and lives were at stake.” Lucy grinned up at him. “Turns out I talk a good game. It also turns out none of them had any flight plans for trips outside the D.C. area.
“Of course the pilot could be on someone else’s payroll besides the charter service and covered up the trip, so I asked them to lend us their security video feeds. This is Beleen Air, flies out of Manassas Regional Airport, near the Dulles corridor. They have three white Robinson R66s in their fleet of nine helicopters. Unlike the others I’ve looked at, Beleen is really security-conscious—good quality recordings, and they keep the security videos for six weeks.
“I think we hit pay dirt, Dillon. We know the tail number on our Robinson was fake when it picked up Manta Ray and his buddies, and that means the pilot had to change it back again without anyone seeing him do it. So I’ve been comparing tail numbers from all their videos, morning to evening when all the helicopters were returned, hoping at some point to find a discrepancy. I think I’ve found it.”
Lucy panned a row of seven helicopters lined up on their helipads, zoomed in on one of the tail numbers—N43785X. “That was yesterday morning. Now look at what it was last night when it first landed back from a rental to”—she read from the copy of the flight manifest—“Leesburg, Virginia.” It took a moment to forward the video, but they saw the Robinson setting back down at 5:05 the previous evening, only its tail number was now N38257X. Lucy grinned up at Jack and Cam, now crowding in. “N38257X—that’s the tail number you guys saw yesterday at the national forest, right?”
Jack Cabot leaned down and kissed her on the mouth. “Indeed it is, at least the N382 part. Lucy, you’re brilliant.”