Heirs of Cain Read online

Collins finished the orange juice, crushed the can in his right hand, and tossed it into the wastebasket. His eyes remained fixed on the general. “I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage, General. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  The general smiled one of those fraternal smiles that says, Sure, let’s keep this between brothers, between confidants. His eyes gleamed; his smile widened. “You know, stories about you were passed around like an opium pipe. Everybody wanted some. Give us a fix. Shoot us up with the exploits of the great Cain. Tell us what you’ve heard about him lately. We couldn’t wait to hear about the midnight missions, the kills. You were the rage, I must say.”

  “Opium pipe, shooting up, fix—terrific imagery, General. Sure I can’t interest you in that Beat writers class? I think you would enjoy it. Especially Burroughs.”

  “No.”

  “Then I’m afraid you’re wasting my time. And yours. You see, I don’t know what in the hell you’re talking about.”

  “That’s precisely the response I expected,” Nichols said. “Indeed, I would have been terribly disappointed had you responded otherwise.”

  The general reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. He studied it closely for several seconds, folded it, and put it back in his pocket. “Major Collins.” He paused, a look of betrayal in his eyes. “Do you mind if I call you Major?”

  Expression unchanged, Collins said nothing.

  “Major,” Nichols continued, “an old friend of yours, Anthony Taylor, was killed sometime yesterday afternoon. Make that murdered yesterday afternoon. Before—”

  “General, I don’t know anyone named Anthony Taylor,” Collins said, his expression still stony.

  The general nodded slightly, again offering his fraternal smile. “Before Taylor died, he said something I’m sure will be of interest to you.”

  “If I don’t know Taylor, how can anything he said interest me?”

  “What Taylor said before he died was ‘fallen angels.’”

  “Fallen angels? Very poetic. This Taylor—perhaps he was a former student of mine. I’ve had so many; maybe I’ve forgotten him.”

  Collins leaned his chair back against the chalkboard, keeping his icy stare directly on Nichols. He could tell the general was becoming unsettled, unsure of his next move. Things weren’t going as expected, as rehearsed. The general’s primary plan was crumbling like a melting icecap, and apparently there was no plan B to fall back on. Collins could see the panic gather like storm clouds in the general’s eyes.

  Silence is a great weapon against the arrogant and phony tough. It’s an unwanted burden capable of identifying and crushing imposters. Collins knew it would be only a few more seconds before the general became an emotional casualty.

  Collins was wrong. It didn’t take that long. Nichols stood and began pacing the room. His cool, confident attitude was gone, replaced by a rising sense of uncertainty.

  “Fallen angels,” Nichols repeated. “You are familiar with that, aren’t you?”

  “Don’t have a clue what you’re talking about, General.”

  “I’m fully aware of your disdain for someone like me, Major,” Nichols said. “Your feelings of superiority. I can’t change that. Nor do I care to. The reality is, you have every right to feel superior to me. But you are making a mistake by not talking to me. I’m not the enemy. I’m on your side.”

  “Can’t help you, General. Sorry.”

  “If this is how you choose to play it, that’s your business,” Nichols said. “Obviously, I can’t make you talk to me. But you’d be well advised to hear me out, to be more cooperative. This is an urgent matter of grave importance. I can’t stress this point enough.”

  “You’ve got the wrong man.”

  “Okay, I’ve got the wrong man.” Nichols opened the door. “You’ll be hearing from Lucas White within the next twenty-four hours. Maybe he’ll have better luck than I had. Good evening, Major.”

  Collins sat at his desk for almost two minutes after Nichols left. Finally, he stood and scooped up the eight blue exam books. As he reached out to open the door, he looked over his shoulder and caught a glimpse of his own reflection in the darkened window.

  He smiled.

  Taylor, Phoenix Project, Armageddon, Fallen Angels, Lucas White.

  Ghosts reborn.

  Moss opened a can of Coors, grabbed a bag of Doritos, flopped down in the reclining chair, and stared blankly at the television screen. Seldom did he drink this early in the day, but last night hadn’t been a typical night. Truth was, if he had some bourbon in the apartment he wouldn’t waste his time with the Coors.

  He had spent the past two hours at the police station, answering basically the same questions he had last night. Why it had taken so long was a mystery to him. What he had to say hadn’t taken more than ten minutes. There was one consolation, however. He hadn’t needed to deal with that asshole McIntosh. Moss had told his story to a Detective Connors, who was, all things considered, a nice enough young fellow.

  Moss looked at the TV screen—Judge Judy was scolding some poor mutt for damaging his neighbor’s car—but the images and sounds failed to make much of an impression. His thoughts were on Taylor. Poor Taylor.

  Of all the residents living at Pinewood Estates, Taylor had been Moss’s favorite. Perhaps that was because Taylor wasn’t like the rest. Not spoiled or selfish or self-absorbed. He wasn’t arrogant, either. Taylor would take the time to talk, ask how things were going, inquire about your life. He seemed genuinely interested, too. The others … they wouldn’t give you the time of day. If they did speak, it was usually to bark an order or complain about some petty annoyance disrupting their tranquil universe. In their eyes, a poor night watchman didn’t exist. It’s hard for a person to speak when his nose is aimed straight up in the air, and upturned noses were a fact of life at Pinewood Estates.

  Perhaps loneliness was another reason Taylor acted so friendly. Not counting the widows and widowers, he was the only single resident, and unmistakably the most solitary. There were no women in his life, or at least none Moss was aware of. Seldom did he entertain visitors. Save for the two or three times Taylor had his card-playing group over, Moss couldn’t remember ever seeing anyone visit the bungalow.

  Moss smiled sadly.

  Fallen angels. He wondered what that could possibly mean. It meant something important: this much he was sure of. A dying man’s final words always mean something important.

  Poor Taylor. Poor friggin’ Taylor.

  Moss flashed back to a morning last fall, to the day when Taylor unexpectedly appeared at the guard shack dressed in shorts, a tank top, and tennis shoes. Moss remembered thinking how Taylor, who was sixty-three at the time, had held up so well physically. Wide shoulders, trim waist, not an ounce of fat or flab on him. And strong-looking, too, like a former athlete who hadn’t let himself go. But what really caught Moss’s attention were Taylor’s arms. Big, powerful arms easing down into hands that looked equally powerful. Moss had seen his share of tough men in his lifetime, and Taylor was a tough man. It didn’t take Sherlock Holmes to deduce that Taylor was not someone to tangle with.

  Taylor had stopped at the guard shack that morning and asked Moss if he’d be interested in joining him for a walk along the beach. It was the first time anyone at Pinewood Estates included him in anything. Moss, who had finished his shift, quickly said yes. The two men walked for nearly an hour as the reddish-orange sun sprang from the ocean with majesty and splendor.

  Only now did Moss realize how little was said during that walk. A couple of times Taylor had remarked about how much he loved the ocean. “It’s so free,” he’d said. “So restless and free. Not even God himself can tame the ocean.” But beyond that, there were few exchanges between the two men. Only silence.

  During their walk, Taylor did make a couple of remarks that perhaps provided a glimpse into his past. One, in particular, had stayed with Moss. Taylor said he had spent a great deal of time in the military doin
g some things that were “nasty but necessary.” The phrase had haunted Moss like a bad dream.

  “Nasty but necessary.” What the hell could it mean? Moss now wondered.

  At police headquarters, Moss had asked Detective Connors for permission to look through Taylor’s file. Connors gave his okay, adding almost apologetically that there really wasn’t much to see and wouldn’t be until Taylor’s full military records arrived later in the day.

  Moss learned Taylor had been born and raised in St. Louis, joined the Army at age eighteen, served three hitches in Vietnam, earned a battlefield promotion to first lieutenant, and eventually risen to the rank of captain. He retired in 1990 after twenty-seven years of active duty.

  Connors had said there wasn’t much to discern from the file. Moss frowned. How wrong. How very wrong. The one page detailing Taylor’s military career spoke volumes about a man who had dedicated his entire adult life to serving his country. Connors, a cop, should have seen that. He should also appreciate it better than most. If he couldn’t, then maybe he should take another look at the section detailing the awards and commendations Taylor had earned along the way. Silver Star, Bronze Star, Purple Heart (three times), Medal of Freedom, special citations from Presidents Johnson, Nixon, and Ford, etc., etc. Connors had to be blind to miss all that.

  “Looks to me like Taylor was a helluva soldier,” Moss had said. “A real warrior.”

  “Yeah, looks like it,” Connors answered, not turning his attention away from the form he was filling out.

  Now, as Judge Judy laid down her ruling, Moss sat sipping beer, thinking how little he knew about Taylor and how he wished he’d taken the time to really get to know him. But isn’t that the standard lament when someone dies? We wait too long, and then it’s too late and we end up racked with regrets for what wasn’t done or said. How sad, Moss thought. How very sad.

  Of one thing Moss felt certain: when Connors and that asshole McIntosh did finally receive the full military records, they would see that what was written on the single sheet of paper wouldn’t qualify as much more than the tip of the iceberg.

  They would learn Taylor—Captain Anthony Leon Taylor, United States Army (Ret.)—had been in deeper shit than most of us could begin to imagine.

  Frances Casey was nervous.

  She wasn’t used to having foreign dignitaries in her restaurant. For that matter, she wasn’t used to having dignitaries from anywhere outside the D.C. area in her restaurant. And most of the D.C. crowd? Well, she didn’t consider them to be all that dignified, despite the high opinion they had of themselves. But this … this situation, with real foreigners and big-shot government folks—well, it wasn’t her cup of tea.

  Frances went to the front window and looked outside, the rising sun hitting her directly in the eyes. She lowered the blinds and closed them. Turning, she looked at the clock: 7:45. Her guests were scheduled to arrive in less than four hours.

  She’d already been at it for two hours despite the promise she’d made to herself to keep things simple, as always, and to basically stick with the regular menu. The food that had earned her place its great reputation. Lasagna and veal parmesan and those big Caesar salads. Those were her specialties. Still, she felt the need to do something out of the ordinary. But what? What do people from Saudi Arabia eat? She couldn’t serve someone from that country a hamburger and french fries. And she certainly didn’t want to risk offending them by serving something that went against their religious beliefs. Again she looked up at the big clock: 7:50. “Come on, girl,” she muttered under her breath, “get your ass in gear.”

  Frances went into the kitchen, filled three huge pans with water, and put them on the stove. She opened the walk-in freezer and was about to go inside when she heard the bell above the front door ring. It startled her. She was positive she had locked the door when she’d arrived that morning. The restaurant didn’t open for business until promptly at ten, and she never unlocked the front door until she heard the chimes from the old grandfather clock in the corner. That was a tradition her late husband, Harold, had followed for more than thirty years. And Frances believed in upholding tradition.

  Feeling somewhat apprehensive, she peered over the swinging door separating the dining area from the kitchen. Standing just inside the front door was a well-built man of medium height with coal black hair and deeply tanned skin. He was dressed in an expensive, blue pinstriped suit, white shirt, red tie, and black shoes. In his right hand, he held a black attaché case. His eyes, which Frances guessed would be as dark as his hair, were hidden behind Armani sunglasses. Her quick inventory revealed one final detail: in her sixty-four years, she had never laid eyes on a more handsome or distinguished-looking man.

  “You’re a little on the early side. We don’t open for another two hours.” She moved behind the counter. “Wasn’t the front door locked? I’m sure it was.”

  “No, it was unlocked,” he said, his voice deep yet soft.

  “Well, I must be slipping in my old age.” She came out from behind the counter and extended her right hand. “I’m Frances Casey. I own the place.”

  “And I’m—”

  “Oh, I know who you are,” she interrupted. “From the way you’re dressed, you’re either a lawyer or a government man of some sort. My guess is government.”

  “Very good. My name is George Armstrong. I’m with the FBI, and I’m here to—”

  “Check out the security,” Frances said. She held up both hands in a forgive-me gesture. “That’s twice I’ve interrupted you. How ill-mannered. If my daddy were here, he’d swat my behind real hard. I’m truly sorry.”

  “No problem.”

  “Now, go on. You’re here to do what? Make sure everything is safe for our guests?”

  “An excellent observation. You should be in my line of work.”

  “No, thanks. It’s all I can do to come up with something decent enough for those folks to eat.”

  “From what I hear, you do that just fine.”

  Frances smiled. She liked this man. And not only because he was quick with a smile or a compliment. There was something genuine about him. Something real, solid. He certainly didn’t seem to be at all like the legions of standard-issue government officials and Yuppie lawyers she usually came in contact with. This one was a different breed altogether—a breed she much preferred.

  “Whatever it is you have to do, you just go right ahead,” she said. “Consider the place yours. I’ll do my best to stay out of your way. If you do have any questions or need any help, give me a yell.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Would you care for a cup of coffee before you get started?”

  “No, thank you. Never drink the stuff.”

  “My God, man, I don’t see how anyone can function without a minimum of two cups of coffee first thing in the morning.”

  “Coffee just isn’t my cup of tea.”

  “Now, that’s clever.” She laughed.

  Frances occasionally cast a discreet glance at the man as he went about his business. He was thorough; that was for sure—much more so than the men who were in there the day before. He inspected every corner, every crevice, every forgotten cranny, including several she would rather he left alone. As Frances watched him, she reminded herself to give the kitchen area an extra-good cleaning on Sunday.

  “It’s a good thing you’re not from the health department,” she said, laughing. “You’ve looked into some places I didn’t know existed. I apologize for any mess you find.”

  The man removed his Armanis, revealing eyes even darker than she suspected. He was, she surmised, a Native American and, most likely, a full-blooded one at that. Also, she judged him to be even more handsome without the glasses.

  “No problem at all,” he said, looking behind the oven. “Actually, the place appears to be in tip-top shape from a security standpoint.” He folded his sunglasses and put them into his shirt pocket. “Where are your restrooms? Better not forget them.”

  “Right thi
s way,” Frances said, leading him back into the dining area and down a small hallway. “Would you like me to tidy up the ladies’ room a little before you go in?”

  “That won’t be necessary.”

  Frances returned to the kitchen, leaving the handsome, dark-eyed man alone to do his business. She simply had to get on with her cooking. Time was fleeting; the big shots would be here before she knew it. She had to get hopping.

  More than thirty minutes passed before it dawned on Frances that she hadn’t heard a peep from the man. She put down the knife she was using to peel potatoes and went into the dining area, then on to the restrooms.

  Tapping on the door to the ladies’ room, Frances said, “Mr. Armstrong, you in there?” No answer. She opened the door and looked inside. Empty. She repeated the same routine at the men’s room, again getting the same results. The man was gone. Peculiar, Frances thought, him leaving without saying goodbye.

  She walked to the front door. It was locked. Nice gesture on his part. No, he wasn’t at all like the usual self-absorbed, always-in-a-hurry hot shots who are too busy to show kindness or gratitude. And what a damn fine-looking man. Handsome in every sense of the word. A real hunk. Frances smiled. Oh, to be a few years younger.

  Standing alone, Frances was struck by a strange sensation, a feeling that the past hour had been a dream, the Indian hadn’t really been there, and the front door had been locked from the beginning.

  She frowned and shook her head. “You’re going bananas, girl; that’s all there is to it.”

  Everything had gone smoothly, perhaps a little too smoothly, and that had Frances worried. She didn’t trust good times any more than she trusted a used car salesman. That was especially true when the situation presented so many possibilities for disaster. But so far, knock on wood, there hadn’t even been the slightest hint of trouble, of the disaster she feared.

  Two things stood out: how much her guests appeared to be enjoying the food and how little they appeared to be concerned about security. The last part probably surprised her the most. After all, the guest list was heavy-duty: Sheik Abdul-Nahir, the number two man in Saudi Arabia; Ambassador Richard Froning; two U.S. Army generals; and a deputy chief of staff. For all this combined importance, they were behaving like regular folks out for an afternoon picnic.