“Then there are the cameras. Most of the seasonal properties up here have them in case of burglary or vandalism. This house has four and should have showed us anyone coming or going.”
“But?”
“We can’t review any of the footage.”
“Why not?”
“It was recorded to a DVR in a crawl space above the front hall closet. It has been smashed, and the hard drive is missing.”
Before he had even landed, there was no doubt in McGee’s mind that this was a professional hit. His two most pressing questions at this point were Who was the hitter? and Where was Harvath?
“How about the adjoining properties?” he asked. “How many of them have cameras?”
“Several,” the Chief answered. “I already have officers working on accessing the footage.”
“How soon will your team start in on hair, prints, and fibers?” asked Militante.
“All of that gets handled by the AG and the State Police. Our job is to secure the crime scene and preserve all possible evidence.”
“If there’s any assistance the FBI can give, all you have to do is ask.”
“Thank you,” Tullis responded. “I’m sure the Major Crime Unit will appreciate that.”
While McGee knew that forensics were often key in solving homicides, they didn’t have that kind of time. Whoever did this already had a big head start. In fact, if it was a professional, he or she was probably already out of the country. Time and distance were two of their biggest impediments—and those would only grow.
“What else have you found?” he asked.
“The shooter,” the Chief stated as he held up another evidence bag, “appears to have policed up all of the brass, except for one.”
McGee accepted the bag from him and, along with Militante, studied the shell casing.
“Nine millimeter,” the FBI Director concluded. “Popular round. Likely consistent with the gunshot wounds of the victims.”
The CIA Director nodded and handed the bag back to Tullis, who set it back on the table.
“Now it’s your turn,” replied the Chief.
Militante knew the police officer wasn’t speaking to him. He glanced at McGee, who had turned away and was staring out the window at the flat, gray lake.
“This was supposed to be a safe house,” the DCI revealed.
Tullis wasn’t surprised. With what he knew of the CIA, anything was possible. “Who were you keeping safe?”
“The man in the hospital bed.”
“Who was he?”
“One of the best our business ever saw.”
It was evident from his voice that the DCI held the man in high esteem. Out of respect, the Chief allowed a moment of silence to pass before continuing. “What was his name?”
McGee turned to face the den, and with it, the hospital bed. “Reed Carlton.”
“Was he CIA?”
“He was. Served decades as a case officer, ran stations around the world, and helped establish the Counter Terrorism Center. They broke the mold with him. No mission was ever too tough or too dangerous.”
Tullis looked at the body lying in the hospital bed. “Whom were you protecting him from?”
The DCI grinned. “Everyone.”
The Chief raised an eyebrow. “So he had enemies.”
“Lots of them.”
“Why the hospital bed? What was wrong with him?”
“He had Alzheimer’s.”
“My mother had Alzheimer’s,” Tullis responded. “It’s a terrible disease. Why wasn’t he in a hospital or an assisted living situation?”
“Part of the disease,” the CIA Director explained, “can involve the brakes coming off. Patients can say things they shouldn’t.”
Remembering his own ordeal, the Chief mused, “Tell me about it.”
“Reed had a lot of very sensitive information stored in his head. Some of those things, if they fell into the wrong hands, could have been harmful to the United States.”
“The CIA could have hidden him anywhere in the world, though. Why Governors Island?”
It was a reasonable question, but it hadn’t been the CIA’s call. It had been Harvath’s. He had been not only Reed Carlton’s protégé but also his heir apparent and in charge of all of his affairs.
“Reed summered here as a boy,” the DCI recounted. “His grandparents had a cottage on the island. The hope was that he’d be comfortable here—maybe even relive some of his oldest memories.”
“I wish you had let us know,” said Tullis, the compassion evident in his voice. “We could have looked in on him. Added extra patrols. My officers would have taken a lot of pride in helping to protect a man like Mr. Carlton.”
The DCI turned to face him. “I don’t doubt it. Thank you. In the end, we felt the fewer people that knew he was here, the better. It’s how we do things.”
“In secret.”
McGee nodded.
Chief Tullis regretted causing more pain, but he needed additional information. “I know it’s difficult, but what can you tell me about the other victims?”
The knot in McGee’s stomach hadn’t gone. In fact, it had only tightened. “Lydia Ryan worked for me at the CIA. She was one of the best field operatives I have ever known.”
“Any idea what was she was doing here?”
“She worked for Reed.”
“As in used to work for him? Back at the CIA?” Tullis asked.
McGee shook his head. “When the time came, Reed retired from the CIA. He gave it a good try. He played golf, took a couple of cruises, even joined a group of ex–case officers who got together weekly for lunch, but the lifestyle didn’t agree with him. He missed being in the game.
“By the time he tried to come back, though, the things he disliked about the Agency—particularly the bureaucracy—had only gotten worse. So, he decided to see what he could do from the outside and started his own company, The Carlton Group.
“Things went well for several years until he was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. When that happened, he recruited Lydia to become the company’s new director.”
“What kind of company was it?”
“It’s a private intelligence agency.”
The Chief looked at him. “Is that like private contracting?”
“Kind of,” the DCI acknowledged. “They hire ex-intelligence and ex–special operations people to assist CIA missions.”
Tullis was intrigued. “What kind of missions?”
“I’m not able to discuss that.”
“Why not?”
“The operations that The Carlton Group were involved with are classified.”
That didn’t surprise the Chief. “What can you tell me about the other two victims?”
Gesturing toward the male corpse, McGee said, “Navy Corpsman. He was part of a rotating team. There was always someone in the house with medical expertise, keeping an eye on Reed.”
“Were they always armed?”
“Just in case.”
Tullis made a mental note of that and then, gesturing toward the final victim, inquired, “Do you recognize her?”
“I do. Her name was Lara Cordero.”