The Escape (John Puller, #3)(112)

“Yeah, it’s the reason I’m here. I’m investigating his murder.”

The guard glanced at Puller’s creds again. “But you’re Army, he was Air Force.”

“He was also involved in a multiplatform intelligence operation that cut across all branches.” He paused and inclined his head toward the man. “Sensitive national security parameters,” he added quietly.

The guard looked anxiously toward the elevator bank. “Then maybe I shouldn’t have let him up there.”

“Who?” Puller asked sharply.

“General Daughtrey’s friend.”

“This friend have a name?”

“Charles Abernathy.”

“And what is he doing up there?”

“Getting some things.”

Puller looked incredulous. “I’m not understanding this. Why let a friend up there if you’re giving me a hard time?”

“Well, he actually lives there, sometimes. With General Daughtrey.”

“I thought Daughtrey owned the condo.”

“It’s actually held in the name of a corporation, and Mr. Abernathy is an officer of the corporation and entitled to come and go. At least that’s what my paperwork tells me. It’s all authorized and everything. He’s been here more than General Daughtrey, actually.”

Puller glanced toward the elevator bank and then gazed down at the guard’s nameplate. “Look, Officer Haynes.”

“I’m not a real cop, just a rental. Call me Haynie.”

“Okay, Haynie. I’m not looking to get anybody in trouble. But an Air Force general was murdered under very suspicious circumstances. There’s a friend up in his apartment doing God knows what. I’m not sure that should be allowed.”

Haynes was looking more and more nervous.

Puller continued, “I need to get up there, see what this man is doing, and try to preserve any evidence. Have the police been here yet?”

“They might have come while I wasn’t here. We’re supposed to write it down, but some of the guards don’t give a crap. They’re just collecting a paycheck.”

“Which makes it all the more critical that I get up there. We are talking national security, Haynie. This is not a game. So what are you going to do?”

Haynie snatched a key off a hook behind his console. “Follow me, sir.”

He led Puller over to the elevator bank and used his key card to engage one of the cars. He handed Puller the key.

“His condo is 945. This is a master key. It’ll open it right up.”

Puller took the key. “Thanks.”

“Yes sir.” Haynes gave Puller an awkward salute just before the doors closed.

Puller reached the ninth floor and sped down the hall toward Daughtrey’s condo. He held the door key in one hand and kept his other hand on the butt of his holstered M11. He reached the door of the apartment, glanced up and down the length of the hall, and found it clear. He put his ear to the door and listened. He couldn’t hear anything other than the hum of the air-conditioning.

He slipped the key into the lock and turned it, easing the door open as quietly as possible and drawing out his pistol at the same time. He closed the door behind him, bent low, and listened again.

Nothing.

He looked around. The condo was large and the tastefulness of the decoration and how everything just seemed to go together surprised him. He didn’t think a hard-charging career-oriented general would have had the time to fill a space out like that.

He moved forward, keeping low. He had thought about announcing himself, but something in his gut told him that would not be a good idea. If this guy was in on the plot with Daughtrey, he might panic and open fire like Macri had done with Knox. Puller didn’t mind using his weapon. But he liked not using his weapon better, just like any soldier.

He passed through the kitchen, which looked like a place where a five-star chef would feel right at home cutting up vegetables. His feet sank into thick carpet and his eye was caught by unique pieces of art on the wall and equally imaginative sculptures resting on tables and pedestals.

There were leather-bound books lining floor-to-ceiling mahogany bookcases. The furnishings looked relatively new unless they were obviously antiques, and the finishes—wood, chrome, stone, and bronze—looked very expensive. Too expensive maybe for even a one-star’s pocketbook. Had Daughtrey done it, like Reynolds, for the money?

He ducked lower when he heard the sound, training his gun’s muzzle down the hallway from where the noise was coming. He scooted forward, keeping low and at an angle to the door he was heading toward.

As he approached the room, the noise took on a more distinctive quality, like a garbled transmission becoming clearer as the frequency grew stronger.

He reached the doorway and decided to do a quick peek in.

It was a bedroom, his fast glance told him. And there was apparently someone in there.

A second look confirmed that the room was indeed occupied.

The man sat on the bed. His head was bowed. He was holding something in his hands.

And the sound Puller had heard was quite clear now.

The man was crying.

No, actually he was sobbing.

Puller eased into the room, confirmed that the man was not armed, and then holstered his pistol.

“Mr. Abernathy?” he called out, his hand still on the butt of his weapon.