Candidate for Murder Page 15

  Chapter Thirteen

  The closest veterinarian offering emergency services was at Pineview Veterinary Hospital, which was several miles away from Deep Creek Lake. Bogie knew the doctor in charge and asked her to meet Storm at the hospital when David and Dallas arrived, which was in a matter of minutes. While Dallas hugged the bleeding dog in the back of the cruiser, David sped to the hospital with the sirens and lights going.

  After taking his daughter home, Sheriff Turow had set up a command center at David’s house with every on-duty and off-duty officer available to search for the mountain lion who had attacked Storm and for Gnarly, who had still not returned. It was more than a simple search for a lost dog. The mountain lion had been hunting in a residential community on the lake. He could have very well attacked David’s neighbors while they were sitting on their docks enjoying the pleasant night air.

  Cursing his pneumonia, which still had him feeling as weak as a baby, Mac could do nothing but wait by the phone for news about his dog, who was frequently a pain in the butt. He was a pain to which he had grown quite accustomed. He couldn’t take his mind off of Gnarly.

  Dallas had called while Murphy had been bringing up Gnarly’s military file on his tablet, a specially configured device on which he could access classified information. Upon hearing the news that Storm had been attacked and that Gnarly had taken off in pursuit of a mountain lion, Murphy had shut it down and volunteered to join the search.

  At the dining room table, which was where they were working, Mac turned on the tablet again. “How about if you log in and bring up the file so that I can go through it while you’re gone?”

  “No,” Murphy said after kissing Jessica good-bye.

  “But—”

  Murphy picked up the tablet and handed it to Jessica. “I’ll go through it with you when I get back.”

  Mac turned to Jessica, hoping that she would reason with her husband.

  “Don’t waste your time, Dad. Murphy doesn’t budge when it comes to national security.”

  “Sorry, Mac, but those files are classified, and you don’t have the authority to look at them,” Murphy said. “Nothing personal. I trust you, and I know that you aren’t going to go out and sell the information. But…I signed an agreement on my first day at the naval academy and took an oath. I did it again on the day I became a Phantom. Both times I swore that I wouldn’t share classified information with anyone, and if I do, I’ll be charged with espionage, which is a felony.”

  “There was a case a couple of years ago where a marine in Afghanistan was charged with and convicted of espionage because he’d texted a warning about a possible ambush to his unit,” Jessica said. “One text that contained classified information about his unit’s location. He had no other way to warn them about it. He saved their lives. But since he used an unsecured cell phone, the classified information could have been accessed by anyone.”

  “He violated the security agreement that he signed on the day he was sworn in, which spelled it out in plain language,” Murphy said. “Now, that marine didn’t get any jail time, but he did receive a dishonorable discharge.” He patted Mac on the back. “My CO did clear me to go over the case files with you, but first I need to filter out any classified material that’s irrelevant to the case.”

  After giving Jessica one last kiss and giving Archie a hug, Murphy jogged out the door and climbed into Sheriff Turow’s cruiser. After seeing the taillights of their car disappear into the night, Jessica turned away from the living-room window and offered to make Mac a cup of tea.

  “I’d rather have a cognac,” he said in a sulking tone. He was reminded of when he had a broken leg as a six-year-old and had been stuck on his family’s front porch, watching his friends play football.

  “You’re not drinking with all of the drugs you’re on,” Archie said in a firm tone that dared him to argue with her.

  “Then make a pot of coffee,” Mac said to Jessica before turning to Archie. “Where are you and Dallas on the Sandy Burr case?”

  “What’s the Sandy Burr case?” Jessica asked.

  “Sandy Burr was an investigative journalist who was murdered,” Mac said. “The last person he was seen with was Nancy Braxton.”

  “The wacky candidate who claimed that she landed in Somalia under sniper fire?” Jessica said, recalling the outrageous story with a laugh.

  “Whose team dug up Gnarly’s past, spun it around into a complete lie, and gave it to that so-called journalist, ruining his reputation,” Mac said, biting off each word.

  Archie lifted one of her eyebrows. The corners of her lips curled with pleasure.

  “Daddy,” Jessica said in a chastising tone, “wasn’t it you who used to tell me that when seeking revenge, you should dig two graves—one for yourself?”

  “That witch didn’t just expose Gnarly’s past,” Mac said, “that wouldn’t have been enough for her. She lied about it, too. Turow said that Gnarly didn’t kill his handler.”

  “Now that the lie is out there, no one is going to believe the real story,” Archie said. “There will always be people out there who will believe that he’s a killer.”

  “She buried Gnarly for political gain,” Mac said. “I’m going to bury her the best way I know how. We’re going to reopen Sandy Burr’s murder case, and we’re going to prove that she killed him.”

  “It’s Dallas’ case,” Archie said. “And right now she and David are on their way to the emergency room with Storm. I don’t think she’s in the mood to go over the case with you tonight, and she may resent our taking it over while her back’s turned.”

  “Wasn’t Sandy Burr investigating Braxton Charities?” With a groan, Mac rubbed his face. “Let’s get a list of all of the charities that fall under their umbrella.”

  Archie’s emerald eyes were dancing. “Taking a page from your mother’s book, I’ll see if I can hack into its bank records to see who it distributes funds to. If Braxton Charities is really a money laundromat, we may be able to locate the phony charities that way.” She ran downstairs to the study to get her laptop.

  “What do you want me to do?” Jessica asked.

  “Make a big pot of coffee,” Mac said. “We’re not going to rest until Nancy Braxton’s political career is dead and buried. And maybe bring back some of those special brownies with the white chocolate chunks in them, too?”

  “Sure. Coffee and brownies it is.” Pausing at the kitchen door, Jessica noticed that a hint of color had returned to her father’s face. Nothing made him happier than having a murder case to focus on.

  “Someone’s on your tail,” Bogie said to Murphy in a loud whisper as they made their way through the thick, dark woods.

  Unfamiliar with the area, Murphy had been paired with the deputy chief, and together they were climbing the steep ridge up Spencer Mountain. With LED flashlights, they were sweeping the brush in front of them for fallen branches, trees, and assorted critters.

  All around them, near and far, police officers were calling Gnarly’s name.

  Bogie’s warning made Murphy turn around in search of a creature sneaking up on him.

  “Dallas Walker.” With a chuckle, Bogie resumed his climb up the steep mountain.

  “David’s girlfriend?” Six feet to the older man’s left, Murphy was slowly trekking up the slope and sweeping the ground in front of him for freshly broken branches or dog tracks that would indicate that Gnarly had been there. “Why would she be on my tail? She’s with David, and she knows I’m married.”

  “She’s an investigative journalist.”

  Murphy stopped in midstride.

  Several feet above him, Bogie stopped and turned around, careful not to shine his flashlight in Murphy’s face and blind him with the beam from the LED light. Although he was unable to see Bogie’s face, Murphy could hear him laughing. “You said or did something to get on her radar, and knowing Dallas,
she won’t let up until she gets your story. You know who her mother was?”

  “Her father was Buddy Walker,” Murphy said. “The late Texas billionaire. Her brother, Phil, is the president of the family’s billion-dollar conglomerate.”

  “Her mother was Audra Walker, the award-winning journalist who was like a dog with a bone when she was on a story. Dallas takes after her. She doesn’t seem to have much interest in the family’s oil business.”

  Murphy’s voice fell to a whisper. “You didn’t tell her about the Phantoms, did you? The only reason you guys know about them is because of that terrorist threat last year.”

  Bogie’s whisper matched his. “Of course I didn’t tell her. That’s why I’m warning you.” Turning around, he resumed his climb up the hill.

  “Maybe I’ll just tell her I’m a SEAL.”

  “I already told her that you’re stationed at the Pentagon.”

  “If she knows I’m at the Pentagon, I can’t tell her I’m a SEAL. There are no SEALS at the Pentagon. Why did you tell her I’m at the Pentagon?”

  “She asked.” Bogie shone his flashlight down at his feet.

  “Just because she asked didn’t mean you had to answer her.”

  Murphy joined him at a level portion of the mountainside. Without offering a reply, Bogie squatted down to observe the furry object lying in the dead leaves. Upon seeing the bloody tan fur in the light beam, Murphy caught his breath and squatted across from the deputy chief. He swept his flashlight across the animal in search of distinguishing characteristics. He was looking for a tail, paws, or a head that would determine whether it was a cat or a dog. It seemed to take him forever to search through the bloody corpse, and then he located one of its paws.

  A cat paw.

  Then their flashlights illuminated its neck, which had been ripped open, and its giant head. Murphy and Bogie let out sighs of relief.

  “Looks like Gnarly came out the winner in this fight.” Bogie grabbed his radio to share the news.

  “He could still be hurt—and hurt bad.” Murphy rose to his feet and searched the trees around them. “Gnarly, where are you?”

  For the second time in fewer than twenty-four hours, David was sitting in a hospital’s waiting room comforting someone he loved while someone she loved was being treated.

  At one o’clock in the morning, the animal hospital was deserted, except for the vet and her assistant, who were in the operating room treating Storm. She had suffered deep scratches from her head to her tail and had bite marks where the mountain lion had tried to snap her neck.

  Praying for her dog, Dallas fought the tears of fright that kept fighting their way to the surface. She alternated between pacing the cold and empty room and allowing David to hold her on the thin, worn sofa.

  “I’m never allowin’ her outside ’lone again,” she said with a sigh. “Mountain lions? I never thought there’d be mountain lions here. We have them in Texas, but here?”

  “It’s been years since I heard of a mountain lion attacking a dog,” David said. “Storm is up on all of her shots, right?”

  “Of course,” she said. “How ’bout Gnarly?”

  “Archie is always all over that,” David said while taking his vibrating phone out of its case on his hip. The caller ID indicated that it was Sheriff Turow.

  “How’s Storm?” the sheriff asked at the same time that the vet came out of the operating room. Dallas sprang off of the sofa to meet her.

  Taking in the relief that had crossed Dallas’ face and the hug that she was giving the veterinarian, David concluded that the news was good so far. “Did you find Gnarly?” he asked after bracing himself.

  “Still haven’t found him,” the sheriff said. “But Bogie and Murphy found the mountain lion. Looks like Gnarly gave him some serious payback for hurting his girl. Tore him apart.”

  “I don’t believe that,” David said. “I have never heard of a dog taking down a mountain lion on his own.”

  “Neither have I,” Sheriff Turow said. “I once heard of a pack of dogs taking down one mountain lion—six on one—and all of those dogs needed stitches.”

  “Then—”

  “You don’t know Gnarly very well, do you, O’Callaghan?” Sheriff Turow said. “That dog was trained by the best—my wife. He’s not just brave—he’s also smart and calculating. He took down two armed terrorists single-pawed. He could put together a plan to take down a mountain lion and walk away.”

  “Or he took him down and got so badly injured in the fight that he’s bleeding out somewhere alone on that mountain,” David said.

  After assuring David that they would find Gnarly and that he’d be fine, Sheriff Turow disconnected the call. Putting on a brave face, David turned and saw Dallas smiling with tears of relief in her eyes. He took her into his arms and held her tight. “Storm is okay?”

  Dallas nodded her head. Sniffling, she said, “She got a lot of stitches, especially on the back of the neck. The doctor said that it’s a good thing that she has thick fur. Mostly, the cat was getting mouthfuls of fur. If she were a Doberman, she’d be dead. She’s all patched up, and we can take her home in the mornin’.” She let out a shuddering breath. “How’s Gnarly? Did they find him?”

  “They found the mountain lion—dead. But no sign of Gnarly. No one knows where he is or if he’s seriously hurt—”

  She placed her fingertips on David’s lips. “You gave me strength while I was waitin’ for word about Storm. Now it’s my turn.”

  They sat down on the sofa and held each other for the rest of the night.

  After an hour of studying everything she could find on the Internet about Braxton Charities, Archie had managed to break into Hugh Vance’s e-mail account. From there, she’d been able to get the password for the charity’s accounting program, which had provided her with a list of donors and the nonprofits to which they’d contributed.

  While looking over the list of donors, many of whom were influential and powerful figures in Washington, DC, Jessica said, “Let me make sure I have this straight. These people make big contributions to Braxton Charities, which then turns around and gives the money to various charities under its umbrella.”

  “Minus twenty percent for administrative costs,” Mac said.

  “Including Nancy Braxton’s limousine, chauffer, mansion, summer estate in Deep Creek Lake, servants, and executive assistants,” Archie said, “to name a few.”

  “So some billionaire is looking for a tax break,” Mac said, “and he gives one million dollars to Braxton Charities, which has been designated a nonprofit by the IRS. The billionaire gets the tax break. Braxton keeps twenty percent.”

  “Which is two hundred thousand,” Jessica said after doing some quick calculations while refilling their coffee mugs.

  “And then eight hundred thousand goes to the actual charities under the umbrella,” Mac said.

  “Or back to the billionaire via his offshore account,” Archie said while searching through the accounting data on her screen. “Most of these charities are legit, but I am finding quite a few listed in Hugh Vance’s records that aren’t on Braxton Charities’ website—and don’t have an online presence. So far, the bank accounts listed for each one are located outside the United States.”

  “What a scam.” Jessica took a brownie from the plate she had set in the middle of the dining room table.

  “It’s exactly like what Robin wrote in her book,” Archie said.

  “What did Robin write in her book?” Jessica asked.

  “An organized-crime syndicate sets up a charitable foundation and has it designated as a nonprofit by bribing the head of the IRS. The mobsters launder the money they make off of drugs and prostitutes and extorting people through this foundation. The dirty money comes out clean on the other side, and the mobsters get a tax deduction, too,” Archie said. “I honestly don’t see Nancy Braxt
on rubbing elbows with the mob.”

  “How about with political movers and shakers?” Mac asked. “Who’s on that list of donors?’

  Placing her fingertip on the monitor, Archie scrolled through the list while Mac rested his chin on her shoulder. Jessica moved around the table to read the list with her. They pressed their heads together to study the names, taking note of the extensive list of members of congress, senators, judges, and presidential-cabinet members.

  Jessica let out a laugh when she saw that one of the donors to Braxton Charities was the director of the Internal Revenue Service. “I wonder how much red tape he tied up Braxton Charities with before approving its application to be a nonprofit.”

  “My dear daughter,” Mac said with a sideways glance in her direction. “I’m thinking that you inherited my suspicious mind.”

  There was a scratch at the door leading out to the deck.

  “George Ward!” Mac said to Archie, ordering her to scroll back up the list.

  “Who’s George Ward?” Jessica asked.

  “He’s the state leader for Nancy Braxton’s political party,” Mac said. “He’s basically been shoving her down our throats.”

  “He donated seventy-five thousand dollars to Braxton Charities,” Archie said.

  There was another scratch at the door. It was louder that time and was paired with a low bark.

  “The state party chair is an appointed position,” Archie said. “He’s a lawyer in Annapolis. Has some big-name clients.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, Jessica noticed rapid movements in the direction of the deck. Once again, there was a low bark at the door.

  “Hold your horses, Gnarly!” Mac said with impatience in his tone. “I’ll be there in a minute!” Looking back at the screen of the laptop, he muttered, “Why is he so damn demanding?” He turned to Archie. “It’s your fault for spoiling him.”

  There was a long silence during which they realized why they had been up all night.