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“So that’s how you were able to escape.” Mohern stopped, as if suddenly realizing what he was admitting, and then shrugged. “Jack was really pissed off about you getting away that day.”
“Why?”
“Because he got his ass kicked by the big man.”
So it was Sethanon who’d wanted him that day. Interesting. As was the fact that they’d been heading up to the Dandenongs. Surely that would mean their enemy had a compound up in those mountains somewhere, yet the many searches since had turned up nothing. “How’d you get paid for that job?”
“Cash.”
“Who were the other two men?”
Mohern shrugged again. “They were there to deliver the cash and collect the body. When you appeared on the scene, we were asked to help stop you.”
“Who asked? The two men, or someone else?”
“The voice on the phone. He said it would take more than two to stop you.” He paused. “You broke Frank’s nose, you know.”
“Frank was lucky I didn’t break his damn neck.” Not that it would have mattered. Frank died not long after, probably killed by the man they’d both trusted.
“So, if you didn’t see this man at either event, why are you so sure that he’s behind both Wetherton’s kidnapping and Douglass’s murder?”
“Because I’ve got ears. The voice of the man who gave us the job was the same voice in the murdered chick’s apartment.”
No wonder Sethanon wanted this man dead—Mohern could identify him by voice, and had seen at least two of his identities. As the sound of a footstep carried on the wind, he glanced around and saw Agent Briggs and three other SIU officers—one of them a medic—making their way through the muck. He pointed to his still-living captive, and then returned his attention to Mohern. “Are you sure about all this?”
Mohern nodded. “I was in the apartment when she was killed.”
“So you didn’t actually see her murder?”
“Didn’t have to. I heard the screams, and saw what was left of her after.” He sniffed. “She was a pretty thing.”
A pretty thing who’d ignored Sethanon’s warnings, and had paid the price. “So how were you able to get into a secure building, and how come you weren’t caught?”
He grinned. “A mate of mine was working the night watch. He gave me the codes for a share of the profits. I only took little things, things that were valuable but weren’t likely to be immediately missed. It’s quite a profitable scam in a building like that.” He stopped, as if suddenly remembering he was talking to a man who was basically a cop. He cleared his throat and shrugged. “As to how I escaped detection, I think it was pure dumb luck. My mate called me when Douglass entered the building, so I had time to hide. No one expected me to be there, so no one bothered checking for intruders.”
“So how did you see the murderer moving about?”
“I was hiding in the guest bathroom. I saw him through the crack between the door and the frame.”
“Give me a description.”
Mohern did. Gabriel wasn’t surprised to discover that the identity he used to gain entrance to the apartment matched the description of one General Blaine. But it was nasty to discover that the second identity was that of a scruffy man with brown hair so thick and scraggly that his face couldn’t be seen, giving him the appearance of someone more bear than human. Only he was a bear who walked with military precision.
That was almost the exact description Sam had given of the man she knew as Joe. So the man she seemed to place so much trust in, the man who seemed to hold so many answers about her past, was not only a murderer, but he might very well be the man they’d been hunting for so many years. The man who had vowed to subjugate or destroy the human race.
Sethanon.
—
Sam crossed her arms and leaned back against the wall. The flocked wallpaper scratched at her back even through her sweater. Impossible, she knew, given the thickness of her sweater, and yet still her skin itched. Maybe it was just uneasiness, the growing sensation that something was very, very wrong.
She frowned and scanned the theater’s foyer for the umpteenth time. The only ones out here were the usher, the pacing Wetherton and herself. Everyone else had gone inside to watch the opera. And the usher didn’t appear threatening—he was just a gray-haired old guy wearing a crisp blue suit and a bored expression.
There wasn’t even a tingle along the psychic lines—no crawling knowledge that something was here that shouldn’t be here.
And yet something was.
Or rather, someone was.
