Free The Guise of Another by Allen Eskens Page A

player; hate the game,” she said, walking into an interview room with a file under her arm. As they sat down at a table, another cop stuck his head in the door and said, “Hey, Billie, we got the DNA back on the Fulton case. No hit. Sorry.”
    “Thanks, Don.” The man closed the door to the interview room, and Detective Rider started thumbing through the file.
    “‘Billie’?” Alexander said.
    “Yep.”
    “I thought your name was Louise.”
    “It is,” she said.
    Alexander raised an eyebrow and waited for an explanation.
    She saw the look, smiled, and said, “When I was still on patrol, I was in this little grocery store, off duty, wearing my civvies, and this tweeker comes in with a baseball bat and tries to rob the place. He takes a swing at this little female clerk, just grazes her, but the bat flies out of his hands. Then the idiot starts climbing over the counter to go after her. I wasn't thinking straight and I jumped on his back.”
    “You had no weapon?”
    “Not even a stick. It went against training, I know, but I jumped on the fucker's back. Well, he starts bucking and twisting like his ass was on fire, slamming me into shelves and walls, breaking all kinds of things, including two of my ribs. Luckily, there was a squad in the area, and help got there fast. The whole thing was caught on surveillance video. When I came back from medical leave, they'd taped up pictures all over the precinct with me riding that dude's back and the name ‘Bronco Billie’ written on them. I act like I don't give a shit about the name, but truth is, I love it.”
    “Okay, Billie,” Alexander said with a smile. “What do you got on my guy, Jericho Pope?”
    “He's been dead quite a while now,” she said. “A little dusty, don't you think?”
    “Would be, except that he died again last month,” Alexander said. “His Porsche lost a fight with a Lexus in Minneapolis.” Alexander opened his briefcase and pulled out a picture of Jericho Pope and laid it on the table. Billie pulled a photo out of her file—a picture taken of Pope for his job with the yacht company—and laid it beside Alexander's.
    “Looks like we have a match,” she said.
    “What can you tell me about the original investigation?”
    “I wasn't at the Tenth back then, but I took a look at the file. You've heard of Patrio International, haven't you?”
    “Who hasn't?” Alexander said. “An ex-marine buddy of mine, with two tours in Afghanistan, told me that Patrio moved around in the shadows, convincing some of the reluctant chieftains to join our side. They used…well, let's call them ‘unauthorized tactics’ to achieve results. He said that if the CIA were spooks, then Patrio should be banshees.”
    “Banshees?”
    “Banshees only come out when someone is about to die.”
    “It's amazing what kind of hired help you can find these days,” Billie said. “Well, back in ’01, the two leaders of those banshees leased a yacht called the Domuscuta and took it for a spin out into the Lower Bay. Around one in the morning, the Coast Guard gets a Mayday call; there's been an accident. A couple guys are in the water, missing—a passenger named Richard Ashton and the first mate, Jericho Pope. Coast Guard went out and searched for hours—found nothing.”
    “Besides Pope and Ashton, who was on board?”
    The captain and two passengers: a Mr. Wayne Garland—that was Ashton's business partner, and this guy named John Prather. It says he worked for Patrio as a security consultant.”
    “A security consultant for a defense contractor, huh?”
    “One of the banshees?” Billie raised an eyebrow. “According to the reports, they think Ashton decided to go to shore, so he woke Pope up to drive the dinghy. The captain said he woke up when he heard the dinghy start.”
    “Did the captain see the explosion?”
    “No, but Wayne Garland claimed to have seen it. He told the investigator that he and Prather were watching the dinghy make its way toward