Puzzle by Nora Phoenix
22
Branson had always thought he was disciplined in the things that mattered. He’d definitely considered himself as a man who had self-control, but that iron resolve was crumbling when working side by side with Ryder every day. He wanted him. God, he wanted him. His whole body reacted to Ryder every time he stepped into the room. Like a homing beacon that recognized it was close to what it craved, what it needed.
It made no sense. Yes, he and Ryder were highly compatible, sexually speaking. He’d finally found someone who’d topped his experiences with Seth—no easy feat. But phenomenal sex alone shouldn’t be enough for him to think about Ryder this much. Although…hadn’t he done the same with Seth? Granted, his mild infatuation with Seth hadn’t developed until they’d hooked up a few times, but still. He’d wanted more with him, and that hadn’t turned out well. Maybe he was imagining things again, seeing an attraction that was more than physical where there was none.
Regardless, he had to stop thinking about Ryder. They were at a crucial phase in the investigation, and they both needed their heads in the game. So when Ryder walked in with his laptop under his arm, Branson shoved down the happiness that bubbled up inside him and plastered a more neutral expression on his face. “Hey.”
“Hey.”
They stared at each other. Wow, award-winning conversation they had going there. “How have you been?”
Ryder’s eyes twinkled. “Since two hours ago when we last spoke, you mean?”
Branson rolled his eyes, though more at himself. “I’m trying here. I deserve points for that.”
“Totally. Bonus points awarded.”
“Thank you. Glad you agree this isn’t easy to navigate. Anyway, what can I do for you?”
“You asked me to stop by when I was done with the Kingmakers spreadsheet.”
“Right. Sorry. I need to switch gears for a moment.” Yes, because he’d been thinking about how spectacular Ryder’s ass was, but he’d better not mention that.
“No worries. So what’s up?” Ryder dropped in the seat next to Branson’s desk.
“Coulson has a theory, and he’s asked me to look into it on our end. Remember Laurence Paskewich? He was a guard at the federal prison where the three bombers died.”
“Right, the guy who quit shortly after and who had worked for Kingmakers before.”
“He popped back up on Kingmakers’ payroll a couple of months after the bombing, working some off jobs in between. He’s still working for them.”
“Okay,” Ryder said slowly. “What about him?”
“Coulson’s reasoning is that the core group of people who know everything has to be small. Basil King, Kurt Barrow, Steve Duron…and he thinks Paskewich is part of that inner circle. He’s former Army, and he’s worked for Kingmakers since, except for his brief stint as a prison guard. They have evidence that suggests he was the guy Seth and Coulson ran into when they visited Mrs. Markinson, the man who had been watching her, and he may have been one of the men who approached White House staffers.”
“Oh, wow. So he’s not afraid to get his hands dirty.”
“Now Coulson has asked us for possible proof of any activities the guy might’ve carried out outside the US.”
“Such as?”
“Such as the murder of Muhammed Bhat in Islamabad, which has never been solved. Our agent there has built a good rapport with the Pakistani cops, and they agree his death was staged to look like a suicide. Another agent managed to get close enough to Bhat’s parents to ask some questions, and they gave him the address of the safe house in Islamabad Bhat had been told to go to. They also described the American who checked in on them a few days after Bhat had left for Islamabad, the one who gave them money again. He fits Paskewich's description.”
“So you want me to look for a money trail that leads to him?”
Branson nodded. “The idea is that Kingmakers paid him extra for that murder. I mean, not exactly the kind of thing a normal salary covers, right?”
“One would hope not.” Ryder bumped Branson’s shoulder, and he got the hint and scooted as far to the right as he could, making room for Ryder at his desk. Ryder flipped open his laptop, hit a few keys, then cracked his knuckles. “Okay, let’s see what we can find. When do we suspect that murder took place?”
“November 24 or 25, we think. We were informed on the twenty-seventh, but Bhat had been dead for a while then.”
“Hmm, okay.”
Ryder’s hands flew over his keyboard, and the mother of all Excel sheets popped up. Good god, that monster was a thing of beauty, all color-coded and organized. Ryder’s mind was a scary entity.
“Was it a last-minute flight?” Ryder asked Branson.
“I don't think so. Bhat had been back in Kashmir and walking around since early July, so it doesn’t look like they were in an awful hurry to get to him. He disappeared early September, but if his parents told the truth, he went to a safe house provided by Kingmakers, so they knew where he was. It would’ve been a straightforward job for Paskewich, since Bhat would have been expecting him.”
“Was there a specific reason for them to kill him? I mean, like something that triggered them?”
“Not that we can think of. It looks like they were tying up loose ends.”
“Okay. That gives me an idea of the date and price range I need to search in. I’m assuming he made a stop in Qatar to meet up with El Sewedy?”
Oh my god. Branson had never even thought of that, but he should have. It made total sense for anyone from Kingmakers to connect with El Sewedy when they were in the area, so to speak. “That seems logical, but I never even looked into that. That’s something for me to check.”
And so they worked side by side, their shoulders brushing whenever one of them moved, Ryder’s subtle smell invading Branson’s senses. Only it didn’t arouse him this time, but it did somehow comforted him, like a reminder of the friendship and companionship they shared. He glanced sideways every now and then, but Ryder was lost to the world, murmuring something to himself occasionally before bursting out in another staccato attack on his keyboard, pulling up more spreadsheets, different files, comparing them, followed by more mumbling.
After about an hour, Branson grabbed two bottles of cold water, happy when Ryder guzzled his down almost instantly. He’d discovered Ryder preferred salty snacks in the afternoon, and so he’d stocked up on little bags of pretzels. They were perfect, since they hardly resulted in crumbs and didn’t leave your fingers all greasy. And indeed, Ryder wolfed those down, his eyes never even leaving his screen.
Two hours later, he looked up, then blinked and rubbed his eyes. “Welcome back,” Branson said with a wink.
“Thanks. Also for the water and the pretzels that I only now realize you must’ve provided, since I still haven’t mastered teleportation.”
Branson chuckled. “You’re welcome. What did you find?”
“Proof that Paskewich was in Qatar and Islamabad. Assuming he intended to travel to Pakistan legally, he’d need not only a plane ticket but a visa as well. I’d noticed before that Kingmakers uses a visa service for that called Visas Express, so I searched for any payment to them in that time frame between the bombing and late November. A few popped up, and it was an easy cross-check. They applied for a business visa for Paskewich on August 15, and it was granted September 3.”
“A business visa?”
“Yes. According to the documents they supplied, he was invited by the Pakistani government as a consultant on anti-terrorism.”
Branson let that sink in. “You’re telling me that the Pakistani government invited a man who shared responsibility for two domestic attacks on US soil and possibly a couple of murders to teach them about anti-terrorism? A man who most likely used that same trip to kill a terrorist…on behalf of another terrorist?”
Ryder pushed his glasses back up his nose. “The irony is rather thick.”
“I’ll say.”
“Anyway, he booked his flight on September 3, so immediately after hearing his visa had been granted, and he flew to Islamabad on November 23…from Doha, where he spent twenty hours. He left Dulles on the twenty-first, arrived in Doha on the twenty-second because of the time difference, and then spent twenty hours there before catching his next flight to Islamabad. His return flight was December 1, again through Doha, but now with only two hours between the flights. Both tickets were paid for by Kingmakers, as was the visa. On December 2, which was a Sunday, three cash withdrawals of five thousand dollars each from three known Kingmakers’ accounts were made at an ATM in Georgetown, two blocks away from where Basil King lives.”
Branson whistled between his teeth. “You’re thinking that’s the cash bonus.”
“Paskewich returns and asks for the money. Wouldn’t you? He did his job, so he wants to get paid. So Basil King walks over to the nearest ATM and withdraws. But the max is five thousand per ATM per card, so he has to use three different accounts. I checked, and all three were funded only days before, so he knew this withdrawal was coming.”
“Wow. That’s great work.”
“There’s more.”
“There is?”
Ryder nodded. “I figured that if Paskewich had done more assignments like that for them, he would’ve been paid cash as well, so I tracked all large cash withdrawals. None of them match the crucial data we have. So I went through his personnel records and the W2 forms Kingmakers provided him with over the last years. They showed bonuses that were paid out, so I traced those. It turns out he got a fifteen-thousand-dollar bonus in December 2015, with the first paycheck he received after working for Kingmakers again after the Pride Bombing.”
Branson immediately made the connection. “That had to be for the supposed suicide of the three bombers.”
“That’s what I suspect. The timing seems suspicious. But he received another bonus in that same year, another fifteen thousand dollars…with the last paycheck of June, right around the Pride Bombing. And that while Kingmakers had sold a lot and had downsized, laying people off.”
“Shit.” Branson’s head was spinning. “So he was involved directly with that.”
“The only other employee who earned a bonus that year was Steve Duron, who was paid twenty-five thousand…also in June.”
“Those two are their executioners, their henchmen, so to speak.”
“There’s one more payment to Paskewich…a Christmas bonus of ten thousand dollars, but it wasn’t paid out until January.”
Branson let that sink in, but then he snapped his fingers. “Mrs. Markinson. He was one of the divers.”
“I can’t confirm that, but again, the timing is suspicious to say the least.”
“Let me check on something real quick.” Branson turned back to his computer and pulled up the file on Laurence Paskewich. He speed-read through their information until he found what he’d been looking for. “Paskewich was trained as an Army diver and specialized in underwater demolition and salvage and reconnaissance.”
“Army diver? Why does that sound familiar?”
Branson slapped his forehead. “We found another connection. Remember Coulson said they’d traced back where the boat had entered the water and had found the truck that pulled it? The owner of the truck was a guy named Dwayne Gable…and he was a former Army diver as well. How much do you want to bet he and Paskewich knew each other?”
“Another piece of the puzzle.” Ryder pumped his fist.
Branson leaned back in his chair again. “It amazes me they didn’t even try to keep those bonuses secret…except for that payment to Paskewich. Why did they pay one out in cash?”
“I suspect because another fifteen thousand would’ve put Paskewich in another tax bracket and would’ve ended up costing him more than it was worth. That’s probably also why they didn’t pay him his Christmas bonus until January. We’re dealing with tax-savvy criminals here. And they had no reason to be secretive about those bonuses. Both Paskewich and Gable were and are on their payroll, so the timing and amount of those bonuses wouldn’t have raised any flags in any normal audit. Not if the auditors didn’t know the significance of those dates.”
“Jesus, just when you think you’ve seen it all.”
Ryder stretched, yawning, and Branson smiled as he watched him. Ryder could be so uninhibited in his expressions and reactions. He’d sure as fuck been in bed. Even the thought of how Ryder had responded to his every touch made Branson swallow and look away.
He cleared his throat. “It’s past seven. Why don’t we grab a quick bite to eat before you drive home? I don’t want you to crash because you’re too hungry to drive.”
