Free Ride

By Edward Lackey

A contract killer is apparently traveling around the country through major airports with a string of high profile, unsolved cases in his wake. Who is the killer and how is he passing through airport security with impunity with the same weapon used in all of the hits? Special Agent Stacy Foster, the head of a special FBI task force, is working with NYPD detectives in the latest of the killings to track down this elusive and resourceful killer. As he puts three more victims on the tally sheet all in New York City, Foster solicits the help of two men who have proven useful in past FBI investigations. Billy Ray Benfield, a senior NSA analyst and David Townsend, an airline pilot and former Naval Aviator, provide insightful and resourceful aid to a very complicated and difficult case. They use "off the books" methods to get into the mind of this elusive and efficient contract killer.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Edward Lackey
• Release date: Aug 16, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476381398

Edward Lackey

Edward Lackey is a former Naval Aviator and retired corporate pilot who flew Gulfstream aircraft around the world. An avid reader, Lackey decided to try his hand at writing using his military and civilian aviation and travel experiences as a basis for his novels. He is currently working on the continuing adventures of Townsend and Benfield in his second novel. Lackey lives in the Dallas-Fort Worth area.

Book preview

Free Ride

By Edward Lackey

Copyright © 2012 Edward Lackey

Smashwords Edition

Contents

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY ONE

TWENTY TWO

TWENTY THREE

TWENTY FOUR

TWENTY FIVE

TWENTY SIX

TWENTY SEVEN

TWENTY EIGHT

TWENTY NINE

THIRTY

THIRTY ONE

THIRTY TWO

THIRTY THREE

THIRTY FOUR

THIRTY FIVE

THIRTY SIX

THIRTY SEVEN

THIRTY EIGHT

THIRTY NINE

FORTY

FORTY ONE

FORTY TWO

FORTY THREE

FORTY FOUR

FORTY FIVE

FORTY SIX

FORTY SEVEN

FORTY EIGHT

FORTY NINE

ONE

Wednesday, May 30th, 4:50 AM. Central Park, New York City

F. Preston Blankenship, III, Trip to his friends and family, was in the groove. He was better than three quarters around the reservoir on his first lap and was well ahead of his best pace. It had been one of those weeks. As he pounded the pavement he thought back to the previous five weeks and the exhausting work that had completely dominated his existence. The Mother of All Deals was finally coming together. As a junior partner in Kenwick & Barnes, one of Wall Street’s lesser known but eminently successful investment banks, Blank had been tasked with putting together a purchase package for one of their smaller accounts. When Roger Kenwick handed off the account to his up and coming star, he had no idea of the potential for the sale of the small Austin, Texas telecom company. RLG Communications, a research group with three hundred and eighty six employees, had been working on a single product for three exasperating years. The brainchild of its CEO and founder, Ronald Graves, the device that was now successfully through its Beta Test phase, would totally revolutionize mobile communications. The small—about the size of can of soda—transmitter/receiver would allow the mobile networks to provide 5G service to virtually the entire country without any blind spots or limited service. The bulky and expensive cell tower that blighted the landscape would be a thing of the past. The smaller and easier to maintain devices could be placed anywhere—from existing utility poles to the sides of buildings.

Trip wasn’t up on all of the technical mumbo jumbo but he knew a home run when he saw one and so did the major telecom manufacturers. The Fins, the French, the Canadians and, of course, the Chinese were all salivating at the chance to acquire the technology and begin production. Graves, more of an innovator than a manufacturer, decided that the best way to reap the maximum value of his invention was to get the major players in a bidding war for his prize and hired Kendrick and Barnes to conduct the auction.

Using a code name—Prairie Dog— in lieu of the actual company name, Trip had visited the CEO’s of all the major manufacturing companies with the specifics of the Beta tests. One of RLG’s leading engineers accompanied him to answer the technical questions posed by the prospective buyers as Trip haggled the price. After five weeks of shuttling literally around the world, the French had won the prize with a tender offer of almost six times the current NASDAQ price for RLGC as it was known in the market. The $30 per share price would make Graves an overnight billionaire and the majority of his employees multiple millionaires.

Since RLG was a publicly traded company, Kendrick & Barnes had to be extremely circumspect with the potential sale because any information that leaked out would undoubtedly affect the market price of the stock and any recent purchasers of said stock would become instant targets for the Security and Exchange Commission’s insider trading task force. Some of Kendrick & Barnes’ existing clients actually held positions in RLGC. They would be very happy to hear there erstwhile stagnant investment was about to go through the roof. Because of the threat of insider trading investigations, it was essential to keep knowledge of the deal restricted; hence the code word treatment of the deal and the extremely limited access to the particulars of the potential sale. In fact, other than the top two executives of RLG, Trip and his two senior partners were the only persons who were cognizant of the deal and the expected generous compensation they would receive for consummating the sale removed any temptation to buy a little on the side.

As Trip neared the turn for the eastern side of the large waterway, something jogged his memory about the limited list of those aware of the pending purchase agreement. He flashed back to a noisy bar near the firm’s headquarters in which he had been entertaining two of the Prairie Dogs a couple of weeks into the RLG negotiations. After his guests had begged off and headed back to their hotel, Trip was sitting at an out of the way table near the rear of the crowded room nursing his second and final Dirty Martini with his attention now re-focused on the pending deal with RLG. He sensed the arrival of someone at his table and when he looked up he could hardly believe that his roommate and chum from B-school days at Harvard was standing there with that familiar shit eating grin plastered on his face.

It had been at least two—no, three years since he and Tommy Vance had seen each other. Tommy had been a trust fund baby who was shuffled off to Harvard to acquire the necessary skills to manage his rather large family holdings. Their friendship peaked during their two years in their dingy two bedroom flat in Brookline and had dwindled to the occasional email for the last several years. Trip was pleasantly surprised to see his old chum and was easily coaxed into having another and another Dirty Martini while they rehashed old times. That was the thing that was bothering him as he made the turn northbound paralleling the Central Park Loop. He remembered that he had begun to brag to his roomy about this big deal he was working on for the firm and how it was going to blow the walls out of Wall Street. He briefly described the small Texas firm and their revolutionary product and related that their first code word choice of Long Horn was much too obvious given the location of the company and that Prairie Dog was the more benign moniker.

Certainly he had spoken in general enough terms that the identity of the company was not compromised. Tommy was pretty sharp but he really didn’t have enough info to put it all together. Trip was still trying to convince himself of this as he observed a man in running gear sitting on one of the many park benches strategically placed along the jogging track. This was the only person in the last twenty minutes that Trip had encountered on the track. One of the reasons that he began his daily run at the ungodly hour of 4:15 AM was the virtual privacy he was afforded. It was unusual to see runners at this hour—especially one sitting on a bench reading what appeared to be an early edition of the New York Post. He eased over to the right side of the path and as he neared to within twenty feet he assumed the typical New Yorker stare and fixed his eyes straight forward in total disregard of the resting jogger.

Trip noticed that the runner was now gently folding the paper and slowly getting to his feet. Well, I guess he’s heading back to his place after his morning run. I need to get home, too and get ready for a big day in the office. I just have to put the finishing touches on the final draft of the tender offer and get it to Ron for approval……

The shooter watched as his target dropped like a sack of potatoes onto the asphalt track. Blankenship’s momentum carried him only a step before his legs folded under him and he fell face first and skidded to a bloody stop a mere six feet from where the hollow point had entered his brain. As he placed the Glock 9mm into his lap pouch, the shooter’s eyes moved right to find the ejected shell casing as it landed under the bench on which he had been patiently waiting for the last thirty minutes for his prey. He quickly bent to retrieve the casing and jogged off to the east crossing the now empty Central Park Loop and quickly crossed the three lanes of Fifth Ave ahead of the southbound line of taxis sprinting from the traffic light at 88th Street. He easily jogged—not too fast and not too slow—down the tree lined north side of 86th Street. There were other intrepid yuppie runners coming out now and the shooter blended in with the flow of the early morning Upper East Side activity. He crossed Madison and Park and as he approached Lexington he saw the entrance to the 86th Street Metro station up ahead and slowed to a brisk walk.

The Metro station in this affluent part of town was not overly crowded at this time of the morning and the shooter moved without delay through the turnstiles using his month old pass for just the third time. He had a brief respite as he waited for the southbound Number 6 train to arrive. There were a few early morning commuters waiting patiently for the train to arrive. A sleepy Transit Authority Cop walked slowly up the stairs to the platform with his eyes on a homeless man scrounging in an overflowing waste can. With a whoosh of stale, warm air preceding it, the Number 6 train screeched into the station and the waiting passengers shuffled aboard. The shooter grabbed the overhead rod and swayed to the rhythm of the crowded car through the next five stops exiting at Grand Central with the majority of his fellow sardines.

It was only one level to reach the Number 7 platform and he waited with a gaggle of immigrant workers fresh off the overnight cleaning details for the ride back to Queens. They were too tired to notice their fellow travelers and the shooter found a seat in the rear of the third car where he rode in anonymity for the thirteen stops to the 90th Street-Elmhurst Station where he exited with a family of five with enough baggage for a small circus. As the family looked for the shuttle to La Guardia, the shooter jogged up 90th Street toward the airport. After an easy mile through the residential neighborhood he reached his hotel on the southeast corner of 90th and Ditmars. He entered the lobby and walked easily to the elevator bank to the right of the reception desk where the two frazzled clerks were busy with check out for the early morning departures for LGA. In three minutes he was in his room where he stripped off his clothes, shoes and socks and deposited them in a white trash bag that he retrieved from his suitcase. The lap pouch that still contained his weapon and empty shell casing was thrown casually on the bed—he would clean the weapon and replace the spent cartridge after his shower. There really was no big hurry, his pick up wasn’t until 9:30 so he had plenty of time to shower, dress and have a light breakfast before he headed off to the airport. He would be out of town well before the police were even beginning to sort out the Homicide in Central Park—he just knew that that would be the headline in the Post to grab the attention of the readers.

TWO

Wednesday, May 30th, 8:20 AM. Central Park, Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis Reservoir

Detective 2nd Grade Danielle Gregory negotiated the busy intersection at 85th and Fifth Ave easily and entered the park via the 86th Street Traverse. As she turned the battered dark blue Crown Victoria onto the Loop her partner, Detective 1st Grade Horace Grover Cleveland began to unbuckle his seat belt. Up ahead, as the Loop turned north he could see that the left hand side of the street and the adjacent bike path were blocked by numerous NYPD vehicles. Yellow crime scene tape was strung around the thick oaks that separated the asphalt jogging track from the Loop securing the area where white clad CSI techs were busily cataloging the scene. As Cleveland stretched his six foot two, two hundred thirty pounds out of the car, his partner reached behind him to pull her crime scene bag from the fast food wrapper cluttered rear floorboard.

The drive up Madison from their mid-town HQ had been typically quiet. Cleveland spent the twenty five minute Grand Prix reading the preliminary report provided by the first responding patrol officers. A jogger found the body on the track and used his cell phone to call 911 and the ball got rolling from there. When the EMT’s arrived they found two patrol officers talking to the unlucky jogger and they quickly determined that their casualty wouldn’t need a fast dash to the ER.

Danielle, Danni, Gregory was known as a frustrated race car driver and her flagrant disregard for the traffic laws of the city was overlooked by her partner due mainly to the trust that he had developed over the three and a half years that she had been chauffeuring him around Manhattan. She was tall, five feet eleven inches, and a hundred twenty five pounds of solid muscle. Dirty blond hair cut in a short pixie shag framed a face that could have been described as pretty if the owner had applied any time and effort to its enhancement. Gregory’s idea of ‘make up was a tube of lip gloss. She quickly overcame the initial assessment by her male counterparts as a plain Jane" with exceptional skill and professionalism. She and her partner—odd couple at best—had one of the best closing percentages in the Manhattan District. Placing the strap of the dark blue canvas bag over her shoulder, she fell into step beside her partner as he lumbered off toward the small circle of activity surrounding what was certainly the body in question.

As they approached the scene she noted that her partner slowed his pace and his head moved to the left and right taking in the immediate surroundings: the huge body of water to the left, the large oak canopy over the body, the busy southbound traffic on Fifth Ave. She knew from experience that he was getting into the mind of the shooter to formulate possible scenarios to account for the dead body that they now saw sprawled on the dark asphalt.

Both detectives stopped four feet from the body and waited for the white clad Medical Examiner to finish her preliminary examination. They both noted with pleasure that the ME was one of their favorites. Dr. Vladma Gupta was one of the best the ME office had to offer. With slightly over 14 years under her belt, she had seen just about everything violent death had to offer and was known for her thorough examinations both at the scene and later in the lab. She had never been overturned and was a dynamite witness on the stand. Exceptionally professional and with a crisp BBC British accent, she had juries mesmerized as she led them through the goriest details of the violent termination of human life.

Standing and taking a step back from the body she noted the arrival of the homicide detectives and smiled as she removed the blue nitrile gloves protecting the crime scene and her hands from contamination. Good morning detectives, I am sorry to get you both out at this early hour.

Detective Cleveland offered a slight twitch of his lip—the closest thing to a smile that the good doctor had ever seen and asked, What do we have Doc?

Putting on her professional face Dr. Gupta began, White male, 31 years of age according to his driver’s license. She paused and handed Detective Gregory the license. Gregory had her ubiquitous iPad out and ready to run the vic’s name to get his vitals while the ME continued. Single gun shot wound to the head—left temple—just above the sweet spot. Wound looks to be compatible with a 9mm or possibly a .38 caliber. Oddly, no exit wound.

At this revelation, Cleveland looked to the left. They appeared to be approximately thirty feet from the edge of the reservoir. The distance to the other side of the water appeared to be about two thousand yards. Not an unreasonably difficult shot for a professionally trained military sniper but much too long for a hand held pistol.

Dr. Gupta watched as Detective Cleveland came to the same conclusion that she had arrived at earlier. More than likely the shooter was on this side of the water and fairly close to the victim. She turned and pointed to the body, He was running at a pretty good clip. As you can see, his nose and lower mandible show significant abrasions that are likely due to his collapse upon the bullet entering his cranium. His arms are straight by his side—no attempt to break his fall. He was likely dead before he hit the ground. The round certainly caused catastrophic damage to the brain as it bounced around inside the skull. Normally you see this type of damage in small caliber GSWs, like a .22 or .25, where there isn’t enough force for the bullet to exit the skull.

Cleveland nodded as he finished her thought, Unusual for a 9mm not to exit. Could be a dud round. He turned and yelled over to the lead CSI tech who was talking with one of the responding cops. Any of you guys find a shell casing? Cleveland acknowledged the anticipated shake of the head from them all.

Dr. Gupta continued, The victim is in what appears to be excellent physical condition. From the looks of him, this was not his first turn around the circuit. He looks like a four or five day a week man. His trainers are worn and his leg muscles are void of fat.

Detective Gregory entered the discussion with an obvious observation, The fact that he still has his watch—a Patek Philippe by the looks of it—and his fanny pack with his license and money and cell phone suggests this was not a mugging. This has all the earmarks of a professional hit. I’m just getting some of the info on our guy now. His residence is at 160 East 88th. His wife’s name is Samantha and there is no mention of children. He works at an investment banking firm down on Wall Street—Kenwick & Barnes. He’s a junior partner. How about I upload what we have so far onto VICAP. We can see if there are any other homicides with a similar MO. Receiving a nod of approval from Cleveland, she logged onto the FBI web site to enter the particulars in their Violent Criminal Apprehension Program. This would immediately bring to law enforcement authorities across the country the details that they have so far and, hopefully, get some feed back with regard to similar crimes.

While Gregory was delivering this dissertation, Cleveland walked over to the park bench some eight feet to the left. He squatted down—not without considerable effort due to his size and bulk—and closely examined the bench. He stood and waved the CSI supervisor over and said, Have one of your guys dust this bench for prints.

The tech nodded and bent over to check the seat closely. Detective, it looks like the dew pattern on this part of the bench is slightly different from the rest of it. Could be the shooter was sitting here. See this part here, about eighteen inches wide, just about right for an average butt. We’ll see if we can get prints and/or DNA from this area. We’ll also dust the asphalt right in front of the bench. Sometimes we can bring up sole prints from running shoes just like we bring up latent prints. We’re experimenting with a new compound that we’ve had some success with. I’ll let you know what we find.

Cleveland nodded his thanks and returned to the body. Doc, when do you think you will get to the autopsy?

I’m ready for the crew to transport now. I have to finish up a PM that I started last night and should be finished about lunch time. Why don’t we say 1:00 PM? Will you both be there?

Cleveland nodded, Yeah, we’ll head over to the residence and talk to the wife then we’ll head back to the office to start the book on this one. We’ll see you at one.

Gupta gave him a sad smile and said, I don’t envy you that visit. That must be one of the hardest parts of your job.

Yeah, but a necessary one. Sometimes we learn a great deal from talking to the next of kin. Thanks, Doc. With a slight lift of his arm as a goodbye wave he turned to head back to their car.

On the short drive up and around the one way street system to get on East 88th Street, Cleveland and Gregory recapitulated the details that had presented themselves thus far. Gregory turned left off of Fifth onto 88th and said, So, this has all the earmarks of a pro: little or no forensics, accurate kill shot, clean egress, no witnesses. We got zip!

Cleveland yawned as he looked out the window at the folks hustling up and down the trendy street. This wasn’t anything like his neighborhood in Queens. There people looked normal, knew each other, walked at a more leisurely pace. Here they worked their asses off just to live in these high price digs—for what??

Cleveland’s reverie about social behavior was interrupted as Gregory pulled up in front of a white stone building with an enormous blue awning reaching from the double door entry all the way to the curb. The spot immediately in front of the awning was obviously left vacant for limousines and taxis. This fact was confirmed as soon as Danni brought the vehicle to a stop when a liveried doorman rushed out to the curb to confront the interlopers.

In a comically decorated light blue uniform, the doorman looked like a refugee from the Nutcracker. Hey, you can’t park here. This spot’s for pickup only. Pull down the block.

Gregory slowly turned off the ignition, placed the gear shift in Park and reached behind her to grab the bag that was as much a fixture as a normal woman’s purse. Before the irate doorman could continue his tirade, Cleveland climbed out of the right side of the vehicle causing a speeding taxi to swerve into the right lane; a blaring horn announcing his annoyance. Unperturbed, Cleveland flashed his shield and joined his partner as she headed for the entry.

Hey, wait a minute. You can’t go in unannounced. I need to call up to whoever it is you want to see. The doorman was running to get in front of the determined duo.

Planting himself firmly in front of the two detectives the doorman hoped to present a formidable obstacle.

Cleveland’s voice was so low that the doorman physically had to lean toward the intruder in order to hear. Listen, asshole. If you don’t get out of our way I’m gonna put the cuffs on you and haul your fat ass down town for obstruction of justice, interfering with a police officer in the performance of his duty and, by the looks of that stupid uniform you’re wearing, public lewdness.

Now fully intimidated, the doorman tried to resurrect his dignity, Please, detectives, allow me to help you. Who is it that you wish to see? I’ll call upstairs to see if they’re at home.

Gregory took over to lower the intensity level a few notches, That’s all right, sir. We know the apartment number and floor. We would prefer that we arrive unannounced. We have just a few questions and then we will be on our way. Keep an eye on our car, will ya? She winked at Cleveland as they made their way into the polished granite entryway.

Gregory pushed the up button between the two stainless steel elevators and as they waited for a car she asked, How do you want to play this Grover. There’s no telling how the lady will react to this kind of news.

Yeah, I know. Let’s just start out like it’s a normal notification of next of kin. Then we can play it from there. I’ll be the straight man and you pick up the pieces. Just then the elevator arrived with an almost inaudible chime and the doors opened with a bare whisper. The interior of the car was fitted out like some drawing room in a manor house—all mahogany and glass with carpet that seemed to go up to mid-shin level.

Gregory voiced their collective opinion, Mr. Blankenship sure seems to be doin’ okay for himself.

When they reached the seventh floor the doors opened onto a lobby area with corridors leading off to four separate apartments. When Danni ran the background on the Blankenships she discovered that the building had gone co-op quite a few years ago and the couple had purchased the six room flat for a cool $3.4 million a year and a half ago.

When they rang the bell for 703 they had to wait several minutes before they heard the sound of multiple dead bolts being undone. Both of them had their shields clipped to their outer garments so that they were readily visible to the inquiring eye at the darkened peep hole.

The door opened half way to reveal a thirty something blonde woman wearing a warm up suit identical to the one still covering her now dead husband. But whereas his was well worn and soiled, hers looked as new as if it was straight out of the shopping bag. She had obviously been enjoying her morning coffee as she still had the half full cup and saucer in her hand. Gregory accurately pegged the pattern as Lenox.

Cleveland made the introductions, Mrs. Blankenship? I’m Detective Cleveland and this is my partner Detective Gregory. Do you mind if we come in? We need to visit with you for a few minutes if you don’t mind. This benign opening seemed to put the young woman more at ease and abated the initial concern at seeing two detectives at her door at 8:45 in the morning. Declining coffee they followed her into the apartment.

Samantha Blankenship led the two detectives into the living room where she invited them to sit on a comfortable three place white leather sofa that fronted floor to ceiling windows offering a dazzling view of lower Manhattan to the south. The floors were dark hardwood with expensive Persian rugs strategically placed to soften the mood. A functional fireplace was on the wall to their right and promised warm cozy evenings in the long New York winters. Various bric a brac were perched on end tables and shelves thoughtfully placed around the room. If the rest of the home was decorated as this room, it would be professionally and expensively done. Gregory had no doubt that it was the case.

As Mrs. Blankenship looked from one detective to the other waiting to hear the reason for this incredibly early call, Gregory quickly sized up the lady of the house. Here was a woman rousted from her morning coffee, fresh out of bed with not a lick of makeup on and her hair barely brushed; the woman was absolutely stunning! She could only imagine what this lady would look like all made up and dressed to the nines. Now it was up to Grover to see if she had anything to do with the death of her husband.

Mrs. Blankenship, there really is no easy way to do this. We are terribly sorry to have to tell you that your husband was just found dead on the jogging track in Central Park.

Both homicide detectives had conducted numerous such announcements in their time and it was now that their eyes were locked on the subject. Mrs. Blankenship’s mouth dropped open like the tail gate of an old farm pick up truck. Gregory smoothly took the cup and saucer from the now trembling hand before the contents were spilled on the expensive Persian rug. Their subject’s eyes had opened to the size of the saucer that Gregory now gently placed on the glass coffee table in front of them.

Mrs. Blankenship looked from one detective to the other and finally found the words to say, Dead? But that’s impossible. Did he have a heart attack? But he’s as strong as a horse. He does bloody marathons. How did this happen. She was hanging on but barely.

It appears that he was shot while jogging around the Reservoir at about five o’clock this morning. Did your husband normally go out there at that time of the morning?

Yes. Every morning like clockwork, she sobbed. He gets up at four and heads over there to run—normally about four, sometimes five miles each day. On odd days he goes around counter clockwise and on even days he goes clockwise. Was he mugged? I told him it wasn’t safe in the park at that time of the morning, what with all of the homeless and derelicts messing about. He’s normally home and off for work long before this time of the morning. I was beginning to get worried.

Gregory replied, No ma’am. His money, watch and cell phone were untouched. Do you know if your husband had any enemies, anyone that he has had an altercation with recently?

Through the tears, Mrs. Blankenship reacted violently to the accusation, What, that’s crazy. Everyone loved Trip. He worked like a slave at his firm and made them a ton of money. For the last month he has been involved in some sort of secret project that has monopolized his time. But no, there isn’t anyone that I can think of who would want to hurt him. At that point she succumbed to the grief and tears began to flow unabated.

Gregory asked, Mrs. Blankenship. Is there anyone we could call for you? Someone who could sit with you? Help you through this thing.

She looked puzzled for a few seconds and then pointed to the kitchen table. On my phone, under contacts, Carol. She lives two floors above us. We do yoga together. She’s the closest thing to a best friend I’ve ever had.

Gregory rose and asked, May I call her for you? Seeing the nod she left to make the call.

Cleveland pressed on, Mrs. Blankenship, has your husband received any odd calls or emails recently—anything of a threatening nature?

I don’t think so. He would have mentioned it if he had, I’m sure. He keeps a lap top in his den. But all of his work related stuff is on his office computer. He is very discrete about his job. He explained to me early in our relationship how sensitive the information was.

Gregory re-entered the room and nodded briefly to Cleveland. Your friend will be down shortly. I gave her just the bare facts so she could be prepared. You can fill her in on as much as you feel comfortable. She placed a box of tissues on the table in front of the distraught woman and Cleveland continued the questioning.

Mrs. Blankenship, do you mind if my partner looks in your husband’s study, maybe check out the computer to see if there is any threatening correspondence lying about?

"Of course;