Silent Witnesses

By L. Cianci

Former FBI agent Alex Hayden's investigation into why healthy, unrelated kids have fallen into comas finds him teaming up with two unlikely partners; a University of Chicago professor and his Chinese counterpart. The trio was not prepared for what they encountered: Alex's sister was killed and he was charged with murder. Guo Ping and Malcolm discovered the true meaning of fear during their journey through the intricate and tangled web that takes them to Asia and back.

• Language: English
• Publisher: L. Cianci
• Release date: Dec 14, 2013
• ISBN: 9780991317004

L. Cianci

L. Cianci is a former journalist and columnist employed by USA Today, The Dallas Times Herald and other newspapers across the country. Over the course of her career, Cianci acquired an extensive knowledge of business and the law.Cianci moved to Shanghai, China in the late 1990s to work first as a business (expert) for the Shanghai Daily and later as as a business consultant. When SARs struck the mainland and most expats left the country and the local populace stayed inside, Cianci, always a voracious reader, saw an opportunity to do what she always wanted to do; write fiction. Silent Witnesses is the first in the Alex Hayden series.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Alex Hayden stamped the snow off his feet and rang the bell. When his sister didn’t answer, he let himself in with the key under the mat, slipped his shoes off, and dropped his briefcase beside them. The house was dark, except for a glimmer of light shining through cracks in the blinds over the dining room windows. There was no sound, only the hum of the refrigerator followed by the grumble of the heating system kicking in.

Frustration and disappointment washed over him as he glanced at his watch: five past eight. He sighed. His sister, a computer guru, had a reputation for being late. If Sharon got involved in something computer related, everything else would leave her mind. But her call earlier today! Alex, you were right. I found a couple of docs that might help you. Some of them are in Chinese and you know I can’t read Chinese very well. I have no time to talk now, but come over tonight. We’ll talk, have dinner. Love ya.

Alex padded over to the window and peered out. No one was out there, except a man who was hurrying through the dark shadows cast by snowdrifts sitting like stanchions on the curb. The guy was probably heading over to North Avenue in search of a cab. Lotsa luck!

The blizzard that had engulfed the city a few days earlier caught everyone by surprise, even those accustomed to Chicago’s unpredictable weather. The roads were still a mess. The storm had dropped more than 22 inches and just about buried Lake Shore Drive and many of the cars that had been traveling on it.

A car stopped in the middle of the street. Alex raised the blind, chuckling as a bundled figure leaped out of his car, moved a sawhorse that had been reserving the parking place onto the curb, jumped back into his car and parked. He idly scraped his fingernail across the window, creating a jagged line on the surface. Then he pressed his hand against the pane and watched his imprint appear as the frost melted away.

He clicked a lamp on and blinked against the glare. Where the hell was she? Sharon’s tardiness was always a sore subject between them. Though to be fair, it wasn’t her lateness that had him on edge. It was the case he was working on. For weeks, he had crisscrossed the country, trying to find a link between his client’s nine-year-old son, who was in a coma, and eight other kids who were also in a coma. But he had come up empty. All the kids were healthy prior to falling into a coma, they were all boys between the ages of five and ten, all the mothers had had fertility issues and all came from affluent families.

The kids’ doctors had offered no clues. They dismissed those similarities as irrelevant, chalked the cases up as anomalies, wrote them up for the medical journals, and went on to other things. So had the experts at the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention in Atlanta.

The trips had dredged up a lot of painful memories. The last time Alex had been in a hospital was when Evan, his younger brother, had been hospitalized for routine surgery for a torn Achilles’ tendon and died after a nurse inadvertently gave him a concentrated dose of potassium. That, more than anything else, was why Alex hadn’t wanted to take the case—and now couldn’t let it go.

An hour later, Sharon finally walked through the door. Now, she was comfortably ensconced on the sofa rambling on about her workmates, sipping a glass of wine. Suddenly her face clouded and she stopped talking midsentence. Damn, I forgot to fix that file, she said, grabbing for her briefcase and riffling through its contents. If I don’t do this, I’ll be in major pain tomorrow. She pecked Alex on the cheek. I’ll just be a minute. You are a great brother.

Yeah, yeah, he said. How about while you’re doing that, I’ll walk over to Twin Anchors and pick up some ribs? You haven’t eaten?

Great idea. I’m really hungry, she said, waving a flash drive as she walked down the hall. By the time you get back I’ll have this nailed. Then we can talk about those files I found for you.

Trudging through the half-shoveled walks, Alex thought about his trip to California earlier that week. As he had left an interview with one of the boys’ doctors at Children’s Hospital, a chill had run down his spine. He turned around but saw nothing. Still, his instincts were rarely wrong. Yesterday, he had been standing near the doors of the hospital after his last interview, studying the street, the sun glinting off buildings and windshields of passing vehicles. In that revealing light, he saw nothing unusual, just ordinary people coming to visit their stricken loved ones, but he still couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off.

It was 75 degrees there, and I was in a hurry to get home to this, he said now, climbing over a mound of snow outside the restaurant. I must have been out of my mind.

As he opened the door to Twin Anchors, warm air scented with barbecue sauce engulfed him, momentarily taking his mind off the headache that niggled at his brain. The premier rib place on the Near North Side was empty except for a few regulars watching a basketball game on the large-screen television behind the bar. His stomach growled as he ordered two slabs of ribs and a beer to drink while he waited. A fellow sitting on the adjacent stool turned to him. How is it out there now?

A lot of white stuff on the ground, but it stopped coming down.

Good, the man said with a sigh of relief. Hate shoveling that stuff.

Alex nodded and turned his attention to the game. When the waiter reappeared with his order, Alex drained his glass, paid the bill and headed out.

Shielding the ribs with his body to keep them warm, he trudged through the snow as fast as he could to get back to Sharon’s place. As he fished through his pocket for the key, a sharp scream pierced the silence, followed by loud banging. All thoughts of warm ribs disappeared. Alex wrestled the door open and was knocked over by a man in a dark parka and ski mask coming through. He grabbed at his foot as the man hopped over him but the guy kicked it off and was down the steps and out the gate before he could get up.

Alex rushed into the house. He found her in the computer room. She was lying near the desk, steel file drawers ripped from the gunmetal gray cabinets that were partially concealing her body. Blood leaked from her skull, oozing across the floor. He groaned as he scrambled over the stuff to get to her, shoving the desk aside, falling on his knees beside her. Her face was battered, one arm twisted in an unnatural position. Her thick blond hair was matted in blood.

His breath came in gasps. He put his hand on her neck, his heart skipping a beat when he thought he felt the thread of a weak pulse, and then nothing.

His heart sank. Tears blocked his vision as he fumbled for his phone and dialed 911.

CHAPTER TWO

Thomas Samson Horn, the county coroner, arrived at Sharon’s townhouse moments after Chicago Police Lt. Sam Washburn and his partner Andy Mathias.

Oh, Jesus, Samson said when he saw Mathias at the door. I hope this idiot isn’t in charge? Rolling his eyes at his assistant, Samson walked down the hall where Mathias was pointing.

Samson was five-eight with 145 pounds of lean muscle, tough even at the age of 52, though he still looked 40. He had a full head of dark hair graying at the temples and a crooked nose, earned while growing up as the only white kid in the slums of the Near North Side, and the apparent strength of someone who could still hold his own in a street fight. He gave no quarter to fools, even those like Mathias, who was related to the county commissioner.

Washburn was leaning over the body.

What d’ya think? Mathias asked, coming up alongside them.

I haven’t even looked at her yet, retorted Samson, catching himself before saying something he’d regret. He stepped back, stumbling against a cabinet drawer. How about giving me some space? The sound of police technicians hustling their equipment into the house drowned his sarcasm.

I’m sorry, Mathias said, a pink flush rising on his cheeks as Washburn ordered him out of the room.

Samson snorted. How do you stand the guy? he asked when Mathias had gone. He knew Washburn had no choice in the matter, but it was hard to imagine a cop of Washburn’s stature dealing with guy like Mathias on a daily basis.

___________________________________

An unattractive Irishman in his early forties, Washburn had earned a reputation for being extremely intelligent, an investigator of rock star proportions and someone not to mess with. A pale man with wavy dark brown hair combed to the side, a large round face, a bulbous nose, pockmarked cheeks, and full eyebrows that arched in the center as though they had been plucked. Though Washburn’s demeanor was gruff, he did have a softer side, though few were allowed to see it.

In contrast, Mathias was a dolt. The chief had forced Mathias on him by threatening to put him on third shift, which would have put an end to Washburn’s newly begun social life with his girlfriend, Pam. Two weeks into the partnership, Washburn discovered that the kid’s ignorance of procedures was the least of his problems.

Did you find anything?" asked Washburn when Mathias came in.

Mathias shook his head. They’re still looking. Did you arrest that guy?

Who? Alex? Based on what?

Mathias looked incredulous. Evidence. He was the only one here. Don’t tell me you believe that story about her being attacked while he was getting food.

Washburn started to speak, and then thought better of it. Tell me how we know he did it.

True to form, Mathias put a hand on his hip, stood taller, and spoke in the irritating arrogant tone that grated on Washburn’s nerves.

It’s obvious, isn’t it? he began. He had opportunity.

I’ll give you that. What’s his motive?

I don’t know. Maybe he was pissed off at her for screwing someone else.

Washburn glared at him. His sister?

Color began to rise on Mathias’ neck and worked its way to his face. It’s his sister? That changes things.

Ya think? said Washburn, grimacing.

Still, he wouldn’t be the first one to kill his sister, Mathias said. Maybe one of them was using drugs. She could have done something that pissed him off and he beat the crap out of her.

Washburn shook his head. I’ll tell you what, Andy, why don’t you head back to the office and begin typing up your notes and theories and then we’ll go over everything and see where we are? I’ll close up here.

Samson shook his head at the absurdity of it all and directed his assistant to finish up with pictures of the scene.

CHAPTER THREE

Just a few questions, Washburn said sitting in a chair across from Alex.

Come on, Sam, how many times we have to go over this? asked Alex, frustration threatening to overflow. The two had worked together on a case last year and respected each other’s work. However, Alex couldn’t handle Washburn’s thoroughness today. I told you. I got here around eight, we were having a glass of wine and then Sharon remembered something she had to do for work. I walked over to Twin Anchors for some ribs, got back here, heard a scream and was knocked over by a guy in a ski mask.

Alex’s eyes drifted to a wet spot on Washburn’s shirt. Washburn followed his gaze. I was catching an early breakfast at Nookie’s on Wells. Took some of it with me when I got the call.

You still trying to learn how to eat like a man of the world? It isn’t going to happen, said Alex, recalling their dinner last year at Dee’s, a Chinese restaurant on Armitage Avenue. Washburn had been showing off his skill with chopsticks when a piece of broccoli drenched in soy sauce slid down the front of his Armani suit.

Washburn leaned over and put his hand on Alex’s arm. He shook it off and walked over to the window to gaze up at the still-gray sky. His eyes rested momentarily on a sparrow sitting on the deck rail, pecking at a seed. A faint smile made its way to his lips even as tears filled his eyes.

Whenever it snowed, Sharon put out seed. They’d had an argument about it once when she called him in hysterics to help her get rid of a rat that was living under her deck. He told her the rat was there because of the birdseed and she could expect more little creatures, but Sharon wouldn’t listen.

Washburn came up behind him. I’m sorry Alex. I know you and Sharon were close.

Alex appreciated Washburn’s kind words and effort to put him at ease—his gaze was direct, engaging, and sympathetic. But Sharon’s death was murder, and Washburn, like the good detective he was, would have a lot more questions now.

I know you have to do your job, said Alex, turning toward him, the pain in his head and chest implacable. So let’s get it over with. Your guys find anything in the office?

Nothing that could help us identify a suspect. But we’ll be canvassing the neighborhood as soon as it’s full light and see if anyone saw anything. Washburn took a breath and looked down at the floor. From what I could piece together, she didn’t have an easy time. She put up quite a fight.

Alex closed his eyes and took a deep breath. That’s what it looked like to me too, he said as he tried not to imagine Sharon struggling with her attacker.

Washburn took a chair and waited for Alex to sit down. Alex, what can you tell me about Sharon?

What do you want to know? Alex asked quietly.

"Background stuff. Where she was working. Friends? Male and female.’’

You already know she tracks hackers for big-name clients. Lately, she has been doing a lot of government work. State and federal.

Washburn cleared his throat and settled back in the chair.

From the expression on Washburn’s face, Alex could see he was trying to reign in his natural tendency to demand answers.

We were not just siblings; we were friends. We even worked together for a while at Twinmark. That was when I was with the FBI, said Alex, thinking back to that time. Then, it seemed like every man who met Sharon was instantly in love. She wore her hair in a long bob that danced on her shoulders when she got excited and her eyes were intense, deep set and sea green, tinged with a touch of sadness. Alex could see why men were attracted to her. She had a way of talking to people that made them feel special—as if there was no one else in the world. Twinmark. That the company the SEC was after too? asked Washburn.

That’s the one, he said, a small smile involuntarily making its way to his lips. We didn’t have an easy time of it because she was worried about loyalty and not biting the hand that fed her.

Was she seeing anyone?

Not that I’m aware of. She had been dating a guy for a while, but it didn’t work out. She said he was too controlling.

Got a name?

Jeremy Fletcher. Nice guy. Works at the stock exchange. Don’t think he had anything to do with this.

We have to talk to him.

I know.

The street was quiet, though in a few hours it would be buzzing with activity as neighbors left their houses to walk dogs, take morning jogs, or grab the morning papers before heading off to work.

None of this makes much sense, Sam, Alex said, as Washburn joined him at the window.

Does it ever?

You know what I mean. It had to be a random burglary gone bad—and yet . . .

Have you checked to see if anything is missing?

Not really. Certainly nothing obvious, Alex said looking around the room and then walking down the hall, checking out the bedrooms. Except for that mess in the office, it looks like everything is here, but that doesn’t mean nothing is missing.

Alex didn’t mention the files Sharon found for him because he didn’t know if she had brought them home. Besides, it made him uneasy to think that Sharon had found the files on the company mainframe only the day before this happened.

Did she bring work home? asked Washburn, breaking into Alex’s thoughts again.

No. Yes. Sometimes.

There was a flurry of activity at the door as another officer checked in.

When the cop disappeared into the office, Washburn turned his attention back to Alex. Is it possible someone got in before you arrived?

I didn’t check the house when I let myself in, but I don’t think so. Unless they broke in through the patio doors. Did you check them?

No sign of a break-in. Alex, you’re understandably upset and not thinking straight, but I need your take on all of this, Washburn said, standing beside him and putting a hand on his shoulder again.

Alex shook his head and walked back to the office. That’s just it. I don’t have one. The condition of the office makes me think that the killer was looking for something.

He looked questioningly at Washburn, his hand hovering over the mouse on the computer table.

Go ahead, Washburn said. It’s already been dusted.

Alex clicked and pointed until he found the history file. The last activity recorded was a copy of the disk drive—made at nine p.m., right about the time he was getting the ribs. He opened the document file and a dozen company-designated folders popped up on the screen. He scanned the list. The only names he recognized were Twinmark and EBM.

Find anything?

Yes and no, Alex said. Looks like whoever killed her copied the disk drive, but that doesn’t tell us what he was looking for—or even if he found it.

When Washburn finally left, Alex collapsed in one of the chairs by the fireplace and stared out the patio doors. It had to be a burglary gone bad. Still, niggling at the back of his brain was why? Sharon didn’t have a lot of expensive things; a few antiques acquired in China and Europe. And from what he could see, they were not taken. It had to be work related. What if Sharon had been killed because of him? Because he asked her to use her computer skills to find information about his case? Then he dismissed the idea as too remote. Still. . .

The gray light of dawn had at last given way to the vivid colors of morning as he tried to recall something Sharon said about her work. Then it struck him. She would have backed up whatever she found on a flash drive and stored it at the law firm where she had secure office space in exchange for keeping its computers running. That was the perfect way to prove her murder had nothing to do with his request.

He slid open the screen on his smart phone and pressed the call button.

CHAPTER FOUR

The springs in Jason’s chair squeaked as he leaned back, complaining again that it needed repair. Until Jason had met Sharon, all the computer specialists he had known were men. He didn’t really understand how computers worked and was impressed by those who did. Sharon had not fit his stereotype of computer geek. There was nothing geeky about her. She was not only intelligent and talented, but also attractive and personable. He wondered what kind of jam her brother was in that required the services of a criminal lawyer.

When Alex arrived, Jason motioned for him to sit in one of the twin wing chairs in front of his desk. He asked his assistant to bring some coffee. Alex, have you got ten dollars?

I’m not sure I need to hire a lawyer, but just in case, Alex said as he dug into his wallet to pull out a bill. He knew the payment was just a legal formality, but it guaranteed that everything he said to Jason remained confidential.

Jason took the bill and slid a copy of the firm’s one-page contract across the desk. When Alex signed it and slid the sheet back across the desk, Jason smiled. Thank you. Now, what’s going on?

Jason was dressed in lawyer garb blue pinstripe suit, pale-blue shirt, blue-striped tie. Alex didn’t like lawyers.

Sharon was killed last night.

Jason gasped. How?

Alex grimaced, shaking his head slightly in an apparent effort to reign in his emotions. He focused on the sun streaming through the windows, dust mites floating in its rays. Beaten to death, he finally choked out.

Jason stared at Alex for several moments, and then shook his head in disbelief. I can’t believe it. I just saw her a couple of days ago. What can I do? he asked, getting up and walking around the desk.

I was there before and after it happened, Alex said. I was the one who called the police, and I think at least one of the detectives thinks I might be involved.

I see. Well, fortunately they didn’t arrest you and that’s a good thing. Still, as you know you probably do need a lawyer if only to navigate the system while the cops investigate. But I gather that isn’t the only reason you came here?

No, it isn’t. I wanted to find out if Sharon was in yesterday, and if she was, I wanted to check to see if she left any files in her office, Alex said. There’s probably nothing to it, but I have this nagging feeling that her murder might be related to some files she found for me It’s possible she may have stumbled onto something the company was hiding, and someone discovered she found it.

And you want to make sure that is not the case. I understand, and that’s easy enough to do, Jason said lifting the phone and talking to his secretary. A few moments later, he had the answer. She came in around four in the afternoon and stayed about forty-five minutes.

Alex nodded. If I could check her office—

Jason held up his hand. It’s not that easy, Alex. Our deal with Sharon is twenty-four-seven security. I can’t let anyone go into her office.

I’m not just anyone.

I know that, but still. . . listen, I can look and see if anything is there.

CHAPTER FIVE

Dan Kennedy leaned against the tired building across the street from the police station, wondering how much longer he would have to stay there. With his gloved hand, he swiped away snot leaking from his reconfigured nose. The heavy top coat he wore and the grimy brown flapped cap did little to keep the cold out when the temperature was below zero. The clay on his chin and nose made them itch, but he resisted the urge to scratch so as to not dislodge it. Kennedy’s reddish brown hair was hard to detect, because the few strands escaping the hat he wore were plastered against his oily face.

He wanted out of there, but didn’t dare leave. Good thing, too, because the guy from the picture he had been given emerged from a cab with another guy a few minutes later. He had missed Alex Hayden at the house and had been sent to the cop shop on State Street to watch for him. He had no idea who the guy with him was.

Truth is, he had no idea who Hayden was either, and all during the long wait in the cold, that question had been slamming around his head.

When the call from Ralph Reardon woke him at midnight, he had jumped to attention. His boss rarely acknowledged him, much less called his home. When Kennedy heard what he wanted him to do, however, he was less enthusiastic, but headed to the office anyway

When Reardon told him he had to dress in a disguise and follow someone around, Kennedy was even less enthused, especially after getting a whiff of the clothes he was expected to wear. In fact, he thought the idea was crazy. He argued that he knew nothing about surveillance other than what he had read in mystery books and saw in the movies. Reardon had scowled when he suggested using EBM’s security forces or hiring a private detective. A ripple of fear had run down Kennedy’s back.

Kennedy didn’t play in the big leagues at EBM. He was an android in the company, which most definitely did not convey membership in the executive suites. No, the reason the boss had ordered him to follow Hayden was exactly because he was a cipher and would follow orders, no questions asked, to protect his job. And Reardon was partially correct, based on the war being waged in Kennedy’s head. He needed his job, but Reardon had made one mistake. Though it was true that two-plus years of unemployment had made Kennedy protective of the job he had finally landed, he didn’t need it bad enough to do something illegal. Yet right now he felt like he was doing exactly that.

He reached into his pocket for the bottle nestled there and took a swig of the lukewarm liquid, grimacing at the taste of cold coffee and wondering again how long Hayden would be inside. Shivering anew, he looked up at the sky. Clouds floated in front of the sun, which until then had provided a small measure of relief from the icy temperature. He clapped his hands together to warm them, speculating on how long it would take to drive to the Starbucks he had spotted a few blocks away. Makes no sense to wait out here in the cold, he mumbled, then ambled down the street and around the corner to his car. He wondered what he would tell his wife, Mindy, when he got home.

CHAPTER SIX

The police station was just a mile or two south of downtown, but it was a world away, economically speaking. The bright sun belied how cold it was. As Alex got out of the cab, he spotted a drunk swigging from a bottle, shivering against the building. Something about the guy was out of sync. He poked Jason with his elbow, a what-do-you-think look in his eyes. Jason followed Alex’s gaze but shrugged his shoulders.

As they headed into the station, laughter from a group of colorfully bundled up black boys jiving with a cop caught their attention. The kids studiously ignored a bag lady, who was muttering quietly to herself while maneuvering a shopping cart piled high with personal effects. Alex watched her struggle through the accumulated snow, glancing down at the stuff beneath his own feet. Shoveling was obviously not a high priority in this section of the city.

It had been Jason’s idea for them to go down to the station to give a formal statement before they reviewed any files Sharon had stashed away in her clandestine office, insisting sooner was better than later. He also suggested that it would take some pressure off Alex and give them time to find out if those files had any bearing on the killing.

A cop escorted them through a door that separated the police from the public they protected, and down a hall to one of the small, dreary interrogation rooms at the rear of the building. The room reeked of stale coffee, tobacco and sour body odors. They took seats at the long oak table that dominated the space. Alex glanced at the mirror along the outside wall, picturing Mathias and Washburn standing there, watching them. He wondered how long Washburn would keep them waiting. He needn’t have worried, because a few minutes later Washburn walked briskly through the door.

Alex, I see you brought a prolocutor with you, Washburn said, ignoring Jason but looking at him with hooded eyes. Good, too, according to courtroom gossip, but I don’t understand why you thought you needed him.

Good word, said Jason, flashing his most pleasant smile. But please, let’s not read anything into my being here. There’s nothing wrong with a person asking a lawyer to accompany him to give a statement. Keeps everyone honest.

Right. Speaking of honesty, Alex why didn’t you tell me you are no longer with the SEC?

You didn’t ask, Alex said, looking him directly in the eye, daring him to challenge his words. Besides, I still work for them as a contractor.

Washburn glared at Alex, as if letting the anticipation gather weight. Hardly the same as being a federal employee.

Why? Same security clearances and responsibilities.

True, but it’s not the same, and you know it.

The room got suddenly warmer and smaller. The fetid air made Alex feel claustrophobic.

Washburn grunted, but before he could say anything there was a knock on the door.

The stenographer, announced Washburn. He motioned a homely, sandy-haired man over to the table. The guy hooked up a tape recorder. Don will take down your statement and type it up for your signature.

Washburn studied Alex for several moments, then took him through the events of the prior evening and morning. I know we went over this ground before, but I need to get it on the record, Washburn said, knitting his eyebrows together.

Alex braced himself. Based on the change in Washburn’s demeanor, Alex figured the questions were to satisfy Mathias, watching on the other side of the mirror.

Let me see. Washburn began quickly running through the sequence of events from the night before. That about it?

Alex nodded.

Did Sharon have any enemies?

.I told you. Not that I am aware of, Alex said.

After a few more questions, Washburn stood abruptly and reminded Alex that he should remain in the area until further notice.

He’ll make himself available, Jason said, standing and shaking his hand. Let us know when you need him.

Washburn nodded and left the room. They hung around for a few more minutes to sign the statement then left. Alex scanned the street for the drunk who had been hanging around earlier, wondering if anyone else was watching. But there was no one around.

They rode in relative silence back to the office. When they were inside, Jason called his wife, Peggy, who was also his partner, and asked her to join them.

I think that drunk outside the station was no drunk, Alex said looking first at Jason and then Peggy.

Why would you think that? Jason asked.

"I don’t know, but