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Book: Black Flagged (The Black Flagged Technothriller Series) by Steven Konkoly
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Authors: Steven Konkoly
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passed to get a look at the commotion. They were both dressed in skintight athletic gear, sporting long, thin athletic bodies. He started to fantasize about having a threesome with these women on the patio of a house like Mr. Ghani's, but a sudden idea interrupted his daydream, which was a rarity for Edwards. Once he focused in on a woman, or two women, it usually took more than a random thought to pull him back to reality. The thought was work related, oddly connected to the women he just witnessed running by the house. Maybe the killer simply jogged onto the grounds as Ghani's car passed through the gate.
"D'Angelo!" he yelled.
She turned around, already halfway to the forensics van and several officers drinking Dunkin' Donuts coffee. He could use some coffee, he thought, but not that stuff. The officer that D'Angelo had sent to pick him up at Portland's Jetport didn't seem to know where to find coffee other than at Dunkin' Donuts and was of no help to Edwards in his search for a proper cappuccino. He should have grabbed one in Portland's sad excuse for an airport, but the line at the small Starbucks kiosk was eight deep, and the workers behind the counter didn't look like the Starbucks A-team, so he'd passed.
"What?"
"What was Boudreau's estimation for Ghani's time of death?" he yelled.
"6 p.m., roughly," she yelled back.
"Thanks," he said.
A broad daylight killing took some nerve. He glanced at the gate again and wondered if the killer hadn't just jogged in behind the Mercedes and stabbed him. He'd counted six joggers already, and that was in the morning, during the workday. There would be twice as many in the evening, after work. Not a bad cover to slip onto the estate. He turned back to the body, wondering if Ghani had an espresso machine.
Chapter Nine
11:22 a.m.
Portland, Maine
Petrovich steered his BMW over Woodford Street's faded median line and onto Lawn Avenue, barely squeezing his car in front of a battered green Chevy Caprice Classic. He could still hear the Caprice's horn two driveways down Lawn Avenue. His speed drew disapproving stares from a pair of perfectly-manicured stroller pushers, causing him to ease off the gas and nod an apology in their direction. Still pushing the speed limit of his neighborhood, he rolled cautiously through two stop signs before arriving at his house. The top of his sedan barely cleared the garage door as it lurched into the darkness.
He wasted little time inside the house. Upon returning to his office, after what seemed like an interminable amount of time spent watching Power Point presentations, Daniel found a message, handwritten by one of his assistants on a Zenith memo pad.
"From Jeff Hill, VP, Sanderson Resources: Have further business proposition. Would like to meet and discuss recent acquisition of Newport based assets. Acquisition of Portland assets likely in very near future. My schedule is clear to meet tonight or early tomorrow."
The message was clear. Somehow the feds had nabbed Sanderson's Newport shooter, and the general wanted him out of town immediately. He had stared at the handwritten note, trying to rationalize any way he could stay, but it served no purpose. He had known since yesterday that their time in Portland might be drawing to a close. The reality started to sink in as he had watched the local news with Jessica earlier that morning.
While sipping coffee and making small talk with his wife during breakfast, he had begun to formulate a rough plan for their disappearance. Unfortunately, Jess would have to stay in Portland for a few days. If the FBI actually found a link to Daniel, then he would need her here to distract law enforcement to buy him as much time as possible. Vanishing would require more than a few plane tickets and their passports.
He passed through the kitchen and scrambled into the basement, fumbling to turn on the lights. The cool, moist air entered his lungs as he reached the bottom of the stairs
"D'Angelo!" he yelled.
She turned around, already halfway to the forensics van and several officers drinking Dunkin' Donuts coffee. He could use some coffee, he thought, but not that stuff. The officer that D'Angelo had sent to pick him up at Portland's Jetport didn't seem to know where to find coffee other than at Dunkin' Donuts and was of no help to Edwards in his search for a proper cappuccino. He should have grabbed one in Portland's sad excuse for an airport, but the line at the small Starbucks kiosk was eight deep, and the workers behind the counter didn't look like the Starbucks A-team, so he'd passed.
"What?"
"What was Boudreau's estimation for Ghani's time of death?" he yelled.
"6 p.m., roughly," she yelled back.
"Thanks," he said.
A broad daylight killing took some nerve. He glanced at the gate again and wondered if the killer hadn't just jogged in behind the Mercedes and stabbed him. He'd counted six joggers already, and that was in the morning, during the workday. There would be twice as many in the evening, after work. Not a bad cover to slip onto the estate. He turned back to the body, wondering if Ghani had an espresso machine.
Chapter Nine
11:22 a.m.
Portland, Maine
Petrovich steered his BMW over Woodford Street's faded median line and onto Lawn Avenue, barely squeezing his car in front of a battered green Chevy Caprice Classic. He could still hear the Caprice's horn two driveways down Lawn Avenue. His speed drew disapproving stares from a pair of perfectly-manicured stroller pushers, causing him to ease off the gas and nod an apology in their direction. Still pushing the speed limit of his neighborhood, he rolled cautiously through two stop signs before arriving at his house. The top of his sedan barely cleared the garage door as it lurched into the darkness.
He wasted little time inside the house. Upon returning to his office, after what seemed like an interminable amount of time spent watching Power Point presentations, Daniel found a message, handwritten by one of his assistants on a Zenith memo pad.
"From Jeff Hill, VP, Sanderson Resources: Have further business proposition. Would like to meet and discuss recent acquisition of Newport based assets. Acquisition of Portland assets likely in very near future. My schedule is clear to meet tonight or early tomorrow."
The message was clear. Somehow the feds had nabbed Sanderson's Newport shooter, and the general wanted him out of town immediately. He had stared at the handwritten note, trying to rationalize any way he could stay, but it served no purpose. He had known since yesterday that their time in Portland might be drawing to a close. The reality started to sink in as he had watched the local news with Jessica earlier that morning.
While sipping coffee and making small talk with his wife during breakfast, he had begun to formulate a rough plan for their disappearance. Unfortunately, Jess would have to stay in Portland for a few days. If the FBI actually found a link to Daniel, then he would need her here to distract law enforcement to buy him as much time as possible. Vanishing would require more than a few plane tickets and their passports.
He passed through the kitchen and scrambled into the basement, fumbling to turn on the lights. The cool, moist air entered his lungs as he reached the bottom of the stairs
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