“I never worry too much about motive. If a man kills his wife, it doesn’t really matter to the jury if it was because she served him a burned steak or he wants her insurance money. Murder’s murder. It’ll become a lot less soap opera when we link Kellogg to the others who’ve been killed.”
Dance told him about the other deaths, the suspicious takedown in Chicago last week, and others, in Fort Worth and New York. The suicide in L.A. and one in Oregon. One particularly troubling case was in Florida, where Kellogg had gone to assist Dade County deputies investigating charges of kidnapping earlier in the year. A Miami man had a communal house on the outskirts of the city. The Latino certainly had a devoted following, some of them quite fanatical. Kellogg shot him when he’d apparently lunged for a weapon during a raid. But it was later discovered that the commune also ran a soup kitchen and a respected Bible study class and was raising funds for a day-care center for children of working single parents in the neighborhood. The kidnapping charges turned out to be bogus, leveled by his ex-wife.
The local papers were still questioning the circumstances of his death.
“Interesting, but I’m not sure any of that would be admissible,” her boss offered. “What about forensics from the beach?”
Dance felt a pang that Michael O’Neil wasn’t here to go through the technical side of the case. (Why wasn’t he calling back?)
“They found the slug that Kellogg fired at Kathryn,” TJ said. “It conclusively matches his SIG.”
Overby grunted. “Accidental discharge…Relax, Kathryn, somebody’s got to be the devil’s advocate here.”
“The shell casings from Pell’s gun on the beach were found closer to Kellogg’s position than Pell’s.
Kellogg probably fired Pell’s weapon himself to make it look like self-defense. Oh, and the lab found sand in Kellogg’s handcuffs. That means Kellogg—”
“Suggests,” Overby corrected.
“Suggeststhat Kellogg disarmed Pell, got him into the open, tossed the cuffs down and, when Pell went to pick them up, killed him.”
Dance said, “Look, Charles, I’m not saying it’ll be a shoo-in, but Sandoval can win it. I can testify that Pell wasn’t a threat when he was shot. The pose of the body’s clear.”
Overby’s eyes scanned his desk and settled on yet another framed fish picture. “Motive?”
Hadn’t he paid attention earlier? Probably not.
“Well, his daughter. He’s killing anybody who’s connected—”
The CBI chief looked up and his eyes were sharp and probing. “No, not Kellogg’s motive for killing him. Our motive. For bringing the case.”
Ah. Right. He meant, of course,her motive. Was it retribution because she’d been betrayed by Kellogg?
“It’ll come up, you know. We’ll need a response.”
Her boss was on a roll today.
But so was she. “Because Winston Kellogg murdered someone within our jurisdiction.”
Overby’s phone rang. He stared at it for four trills then answered.
TJ whispered, “That’s a good motive. Better than he served you a lousy steak.”
The CBI chief hung up, staring at the picture of the salmon. “We’ve got visitors.” He straightened his tie.
“The FBI’s here.”
“Charles, Kathryn…”
Amy Grabe took the coffee cup that was offered by Overby’s assistant and sat. She gave a nod to TJ.
Dance chose an upright chair near the attractive but no-nonsense special agent in charge of the San Francisco field office. Dance didn’t go for the more comfortable but lower couch across from the woman; sitting even an inch below someone puts you at a psychological disadvantage. Dance proceeded to tell the FBI agent the latest details about Kellogg and Nimue.
Grabe knew some, but not all, of the tale. She frowned as she listened, motionless, unlike fidgety Overby. Her right hand rested on the opposite sleeve of her stylish burgundy suit.
Dance made her case. “He’s an active duty agent killing these people, Amy. He lied to us. He staged a dynamic entry when there was no need to. He nearly got a dozen people hurt. Some could’ve been killed.”
Overby’s pen bounced like a drumstick, and TJ’s kinesics read: Okay, now,this is an awkward moment.
Grabe’s eyes, beneath perfect brows, scanned everyone in the room as she said, “It’s all very complicated and difficult. I understand that. But whatever happened, I’ve gotten a call. They’d like him released.”
“They—Ninth Street?”
She nodded. “And higher. Kellogg’s a star. Great collar record. Saved hundreds of people from these cults. And he’s going to be taking on fundamentalist cases. I mean terrorists. Now, if it makes you feel any better, I talked to them, and they’ll have an inquiry. Look into the takedowns, see if he used excessive force.”
“The most powerful handgun known to man,” TJ recited, then fell silent under his boss’s withering glance.
“Look into it?” Dance asked, her voice incredulous. “We’re talking questionable deaths—fake suicides, Amy. Oh, please. It’s a vendetta. Pure and simple. Jesus, even Pell was above revenge. And who knows what else Kellogg’s done.”
“Kathryn,” her boss warned.
The FBI agent said, “The fact is he’s a federal agent investigating crimes in which the perps are particularly dangerous and smart. In some instances they’ve been killed resisting. Happens all the time.”
“Pellwasn’t resisting. I can testify to that—as an expert witness. He was murdered.”
Overby was tapping a pencil on his immaculate blotter. The man was a knotted ball of stress.
“Kellogg has arrested—hehas arrested, you know—a lot of dangerous individuals. A few have been killed.”
“Fine, Amy, we can go on and on about this for hours. My concern isn’t anything other than presenting a single homicide case to Sandy Sandoval, whether Washington likes it or not.”
“Federalism at work,” TJ said.
Tap, tap…The pencil bounced and Overby cleared his throat.
“It’s not even a great case,” the SAC pointed out. She’d apparently read all the details on the trip to the Peninsula.
“It doesn’t have to be a slam dunk. Sandy can still win it.”