In Absentia Read online

  “The case doesn’t involve drug trafficking, at least not on its face, but the client went missing down there in Pocahontas County. He has a cabin near some ski resort, and he called from there yesterday morning to let her know he was on his way back to Pittsburgh. That’s the last anyone’s heard from him. He didn’t return any of my wife’s calls, and she became concerned. Not least of all because she has a very unhappy federal judge on her hands. He told her to show up with her client on Monday morning or face the consequences.”

  Dill chuckled knowingly. All federal agents had seen a cheesed-off judge or two in their time. Leo had to imagine a DEA agent had seen more than most.

  “I understand the predicament she’s in, but I’m not sure I understand how I can help you, agent. It sounds like she should contact local law enforcement and ask them to do a welfare check. I can’t spare the manpower to do that as a favor. Not even for Hank Richardon’s guy.”

  “Agent Dill—”

  “Let me just give you some background. The Central West Virginia Drug Task Force is a joint operation between the DEA and four counties designed to allow for coordination of resources and manpower in the federally designated high-intensity drug trafficking area that includes all of Nicholas and Pocahontas Counties.”

  “Sir, I know about the HIDTA.”

  “But did you know that more than four million prescriptions for opioids pass through two local pharmacies and one bi-county hospital shared by the counties every year? This area is a diversion hot spot. My squad is busier than a one-legged man in an ass-kicking competition.”

  Leo rolled his eyes at the well-worn saying but didn’t interrupt.

  Dill went on. “In addition to investigating why were so many prescriptions for opioids are passing through, for example, a town with a population of two hundred and four, my agents are training the local medical providers and pharmacists in implementing our innovative inventory-control procedures and confirming that they’ve run all the recommended background checks on their employees. The work never ends.”

  “I understand. Believe me, I do. But there’s something going on down there. Sasha, my wife, left before sunrise this morning to check on her client and to bring him back to Pittsburgh personally. She expected to be back by now but there’s no sign of her. And just like her client, she seems to have dropped off the face of the earth. She hasn’t been in touch with me since she left and she’s not returning texts or phone calls. And she’d set up her map application so I could track her travels and see where she is remotely. Her application went offline this morning when she was just north of the Buckhannon area and has not come back online at any point. So, as you can see, something’s happened to her—and, likely, to her client as well. There’s no other explanation for the radio silence.”

  Leo had expected one of several possible responses to this distressing news. The one he got was entirely unexpected.

  “Is that all?” Agent-in-Charge Ted Dill roared with laughter and dropped his formal manner.

  “I’m afraid the humor’s lost on me, sir.”

  Dill wheezed. “Sorry, sorry. Ah, criminy, my stomach hurts from laughing. Your wife and her client have gone radio silent, as you so presciently put it, because they’re no doubt smack dab in the middle of the National Radio Quiet Zone—heck, not far from the heart, which is a little town called Green Bank. The NRQZ stretches for about thirteen thousand square miles, covering large portions of West Virginia and Virginia. But the tightest, most stringent restrictions are in parts of Nicholas and Pocahontas counties, in itty-bitty towns near the giant radio telescopes at the Green Bank Observatory. There’s no cell service because there are no cell phone towers. Heck, in certain parts of the zone, microwave ovens aren’t allowed. There can’t be anything that interferes with SETI.”

  “What?”

  “SETI. The Search for Extra-Terrestrial Intelligence. Your wife hasn’t called you because she can’t. It would interfere with the supersensitive radio astronomy equipment at the lab.”

  “Wait. You’re telling me that thousands, maybe tens of thousands of people, live without cellular service because we’re looking for intelligent life in space?”

  “No. The zone is vast, but it’s sparsely populated. Maybe a thousand people live without cell service. And no WIFI, either. Heck, you can’t wear a fitness tracker into the observatory building. Gotta put it in a Faraday box. Can you believe that?”

  Not really. “So, you have landlines?”

  “Me? I’m in Charleston, the state capital. It’s the biggest city in the state. It has a population of more than fifty thousand people. So, we have cell phone towers and microwaves. The whole kit and caboodle. But the part of the state your wife headed to? They have landlines. And pay phones. As soon as she runs across one or drives outside the zone and pops onto a cellular network, I’m sure she’ll give you a call.”

  Leo felt stupid. He could freely admit that, but Dill’s patronizing tone grated. Dill may have expected his condescending attitude would cause Leo to tuck his tail between his legs. But if he did, it only showed he didn’t know Leo.

  To the contrary, Leo leaned in harder. “The information about the National Radio Quiet Zone is helpful, so thanks for that. But I’m confident that Sasha would have called me by now, even without cellular service. She’s the resourceful sort. And surely her client would have picked up a landline and let her know he wasn’t coming to the hearing. No. Something happened. I understand you’re a busy man, Agent Dill. But I’m asking you for a hand here as a professional courtesy. You don’t have any information about anything unusual that’s happened in either Nicholas or Pocahontas County in the past twenty-four hours? Nothing at all?”

  Dill exhaled loudly. “Most of the drugs that flow out of the HIDTA pass through the hands of Zayed Al Sharqi. Al Sharqi buys the pills—somehow, we’re not clear on his hook up with the pharmacies and the hospital—and he distributes them throughout West Virginia, Ohio, Kentucky, and beyond. It’s a massive operation. He’s a distribution genius. And he runs a very tight ship. Everyone in his organization is a practicing Muslim. He’ll do business with anyone, but his own people, all observant Muslims. Some of them are fundamentalists, extremists, that sort of thing.”

  “Are you suggesting ties to terrorism?”

  “I’ve heard rumors, yeah. But my focus is on the drug trafficking. Wouldn’t you boys know more about the terror issues?”

  Wheels turned in Leo’s head. But he had no intention of sharing his theories, half-baked or otherwise, with A-I-C Dill. “Got it. So is something cooking with Al Sharqi this weekend?”

  “Couple things. First off, Al Sharqi has left the country. It’s not clear if he’s fled because he knows we’re getting close or if he’s just monitoring his business interests in the Middle East. Either way, he’s AWOL. About an hour and a half ago a credible source reported one of Al Sharqi’s men had shot and killed a local dealer. There were multiple parties at the shooting but it hasn’t been reported to the police and nobody’s turned up at the hospital.”

  “What’s the other thing?”

  “According to the source, a woman named Aliviyah Amini, who is some kind of distant relative, is running the show in Al Sharqi’s absence. She’s keeping a lid on whatever happened because she’s got a hit out on a second local dealer and she’s got a third guy being held hostage, working him for information. Sounds like a deal gone bad.”

  Aliviyah Amini? The woman who at one time shared an address with Bloch. There was no way this was coincidental. Leo’s concern for Sasha gained steam and exploded like a rocket.

  He focused on keeping his voice calm. “This local shooting, where did it happen?”

  “Flyspeck of a town called Tannerville. It’s basically ground zero in the HIDTA. We’re talking two hundred and four residents and zero stoplights, and all the opioids flow through Tannerville.”

  “Is your source credible?”

  “Yes.”

  Leo noted the lack of quali
fiers in Dill’s answer.

  “How far is Tannerville from the ski resort?”

  “About twenty minutes, give or take.”

  “Can you put me in touch with the chief of police?”

  “Afraid not.”

  “And why’s that?”

  “It’s Saturday.”

  “So?”

  “So Chief Clinton is probably in his undershorts, scratching his belly, and day drinking. He doesn’t work on Saturdays.”

  “What about Saturdays when there’s a murder?”

  “Those Saturdays too.”

  “Huh.”

  “And to be frank, we’re in no hurry for the local PD to open an investigation and spook Al Sharqi’s men. We’re making plans of our own to handle the situation.”

  “Oh. I see. I guess.” He didn’t. Not really. “Well, thank you for your time, Agent Dill.”

  “You’re welcome. I know you’re worried about your wife, Agent Connelly. But, I’m sure she’s just fine. Now will you do me a favor?—tell Hank Richardson I said hello.”

  “I will.”

  He would. Leo planned to show up on Hank’s doorstep with the twins, their sleeping bags, and Agent Dill’s warmest regards.

  A murder in a town of two hundred and four people. The alleged involvement of Aliviyah Amini, a woman with possible ties to Sasha’s missing client. Radio silence from Sasha.

  He’d been married to Sasha long enough to know that she was most likely up to her neck in trouble.

  18

  7:30 p.m.

  * * *

  Sasha was feigning sleep. The last time she’d checked the clock on her cell phone, which Omar had inexplicably missed tucked in her bra during his cursory pat down, it had been more than seven hours since Omar had captured her and dragged her into the shack.

  Or maybe he’d felt the phone but realized it was essentially useless except as a clock—or she supposed, a door stop. Maybe she could throw it at him? But it was worthless in its primary role as a device used to communicate.

  She opened her eyes to slits, adjusted to the dim light, and clocked Youssef’s position. Omar had helped him into the small house hours ago and had gotten him settled in a sleeping bag that was already set up against the wall. Based on the Pittsburgh Steelers logos, she figured it for Jamie’s. He’d been wearing a Steelers t-shirt when he took off after Youssef shot Donny.

  At the moment, Youssef was curled onto his left side, panting in his sleep. Unless he was also faking. She considered him more carefully through her slitted eyes. No, he was really asleep. But she anticipated a retaliatory attack. Assuming he wasn’t slowly bleeding to death, he would probably come for her later, after midnight, when the shack would be pitch black and he’d expect her to be slowed by sleep and disorientated when she awoke. That’s the way she’d do it, at any rate. Unfortunately for any revenge plans he might be formulating in his sleep, she had no intention of staying here much longer.

  Judging by the steady scraping sounds coming from outside, Omar was using the cover of night to dig a grave for Donny. Her recollection of the yard was that it was mostly broken pavement, but she supposed he could dig up the scraggly hedge row. As long as he tired himself out, she didn’t care what he was doing out there.

  She turned her attention to Clive. He was staring listlessly at a spot on the floor. His eyes had been fixed on the same location every time she checked on him. She was pretty sure his mental condition was deteriorating rapidly.

  She needed to get her rescue plan underway before Clive slipped into a catatonic state. Or before Omar grew tired of repeatedly asking him where Al Sharqi’s money was and receiving no response. If history was a guide, eventually, a man like Omar would turn to torture to get the information he wanted.

  And that would definitely break Clive—or what was left of him, at any rate.

  She wriggled her wrists. She’d been flexing them discreetly throughout the day and the duct tape had loosened some. Now she inched her back up the wall, slowly and silently, one vertebra at a time as if she were doing some sort of reverse yoga pose.

  When she was on her feet, she stretched her arms up and out in front of her then drove her arms back toward her chest, fanning her elbows to her sides. The explosive motion looked a bit as if she were committing seppuku or harakiri. When her wrists banged into her torso, the force sheered the tape and it split apart. She left it dangling while she reached up and removed the tape from her mouth.

  All the movement managed to capture Clive’s attention. He stared at her. She did the finger to the mouth thing again, and then she pointed at Youssef to remind Clive to be quiet. She was pleasantly surprised when he nodded his understanding.

  She removed the heavy bejeweled hair pin from her hair and used the sharp saw-toothed end to saw through the tape around her ankles. After massaging the feeling back into her feet, she crept to Clive’s chair. She gently lifted the tape from his mouth first.

  “There’s a knife in that drawer by the door,” he whispered.

  She didn’t want to risk walking past Youssef, so she shook off the suggestion and used the hairpin to loosen the knots at Clive’s wrists and feet. She helped him stand, and then she twisted her hair back into a knot and jabbed the hairpin through the center of it.

  She led him to the back door and motioned for him to wait by the wall. She peered outside. Omar was shoveling, his back to the door, his head bent, as he worked on a patch of grass behind the shed. She pulled her head back inside and pressed her mouth beside Clive’s ear.

  “Do you know how to use a gun?”

  He looked at her wide-eyed and shook his head ‘no.’

  “That’s okay, neither do I. But they don’t know that. I’ll be right back.” She pointed out the door toward the brick pile and back to herself.

  He nodded.

  “Keep an eye on Youssef. Yell if he gets up.”

  She darted out to the yard and beelined for the mound of rubble. She yanked out the metal rod and started digging two-handed through the pile of bricks. She tossed aside brick after brick, waiting for her fingers to hit cool metal, but they never did. She rocked back on her haunches and stared down at the bare earth in the center of the brick pile.

  Somebody moved the gun. And that somebody could only be Omar.

  Her initial dismay gave way to a much more sinister realization. Her prints were on that gun. All he had to do was fire it into Donny’s corpse, and he and Youssef could frame her for murder.

  Her heart thudded. She gestured for Clive to join her.

  “We have to go now. Quietly. The gun’s not where I hid it, so Omar must have it. Whatever you do, don’t make any noise. We’ll run on the count of three.”

  He nodded, terror-stricken.

  She led him to the fence at the edge of the yard. She watched the steady rhythm of the space rising and falling as Omar dug.

  She held up one finger. One.

  The shovel rose.

  Two.

  The shovel fell and plunged into the hard earth.

  Three.

  They ran.

  Omar paused in his labor and wiped his brow. He straightened to stretch his tight back. He groaned and twisted at the waist, loosening the muscles. As he turned to the other side, he noted the brick pile twenty yards away.

  Although he had put it back exactly as he’d found it after he’d removed Donny’s gun, the mound was now disturbed, as if someone had dug through the rubble in a desperate attempt to find something she’d hidden there. Which meant Sasha McCandless-Connelly and Clive Bloch were long gone.

  A foot chase was pointless. He’d never catch them at this point. Besides, he had a dead guy to bury and a possibly dying guy to care for until Dill showed up with medical care, courtesy of the federal prison system.

  The assignment Aliviyah Amini had given him was in shambles. He was likely to be killed if he ever again set foot on the grounds of the compound. And while his cover wasn’t blown—yet—he was sure Dill would extract him
at the first opportunity.

  He pounded the shovel into the cracked pavement in frustration. And the tip snapped.

  “Sonofa—” he snarled and flung the busted shovel across the yard. It smashed into the chain-link fence and fell to the ground with a thud.

  Great. Just great. Now how was he supposed to bury Donny?

  The bleak moment that veteran agents had told him to watch out for hit him squarely. He was identifying as his cover. He staggered backward and struggled to reset.

  You’re not actually a drug distributor, Omar. Nor are you a terrorist or an extremist of any flavor. You didn’t graduate from Georgetown Law so you could dig graves for small-time drug dealers and set cars on fire. This isn’t who you are. It’s what you’re doing at the moment. It’s the job. Nothing more.

  He waited until his breathing had returned to normal, and then he checked on Youssef. Al Sharqi’s most valued torturer and assassin looked nearly angelic in sleep—a fact that did nothing to quell Omar’s urge to strangle him where he lay.

  Get a grip. Call Amini. Call Dill again. Move forward.

  He left a bottle of water within Youssef’s reach and hurried across the street to the use the pay phone outside the deli.

  He dropped a handful of quarters into the slot and dialed the number Aliviyah had given him.

  A male voice answered the phone and placed Omar on hold.

  When Aliviyah came to the phone, she wasted no time on pleasantries. “Did he tell you what he did with the money?”

  “He claims not to know anything about the missing money, sister.”

  “You tell him I’m not playing around! There’s eight million dollars missing!” Her voice was loud, shrill, and tight with fury.

  Eight million dollars? There was no way Clive Bloch stole eight million dollars from Zayed Al Sharqi. Not a chance.

  “I’m afraid that’s not all that’s missing. A woman, she says her name is Sasha McCandless-Connelly and that Clive Bloch is her cousin, showed up. She beat Youssef with a shovel—he’s badly injured, possibly gravely injured.”