The Fix

by David Baldacci

  Although it was just possible that she wasn’t going to the Hoover Building at all. She might have been turning that way to go somewhere else.

  Lots of possibilities and nothing conclusive. But then most cases started out that way. The truth was always hidden on the inside, the core, Decker thought. And you had to peel away every single layer of the outside to get to that core.

  He looked up to find a sleepy-eyed Jamison dressed in gym shorts and a U2 T-shirt, staring at him.

  “You’re up early,” she said hoarsely.

  “I’m always up early. You’ll find that out now that we live together. Roomie.”

  She padded over to the coffee machine, put in a coffee pod, and slid a cup under the dispensing slot. As it did its thing she leaned against the counter and said groggily, “Any brilliant revelations in the night?”

  “Apparently Dabney had two breakfasts. I’d like to know why.”

  “Okay.”

  The coffee machine dinged and Jamison doctored her coffee with raw sugar and cream and took a sip.

  “We’re scheduled to search Dabney’s house this morning.”

  Decker drummed his fingers on the table and didn’t answer.

  “I understand some of their kids will be there,” she added.

  “A little boy and his dad.”

  “What?” she said in confusion. “Dabney had four grown daughters.”

  “The car with the plastic bag windows in the parking lot here. The gray Sentra.”

  “Oh, what about them?”

  “Who are they?”

  “Tomas Amaya and his eleven-year-old son, Danny.”

  “He goes to school nearby?”

  “Yes. Did you see them?”

  “They left before six.”

  “Tomas drops him off at the school. They have a before-school program for parents who have to go to work early. Tomas works construction and has to be at work by six-thirty.”

  “And the mother?”

  “As far as I know it’s just Tomas and Danny.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  “I told you that I met with all the tenants. I wanted to introduce myself to everyone after Melvin bought the building. I just wanted to assure them that everything would be okay. That they weren’t being evicted or anything. And I spent time with Tomas and Danny. Tomas is devoted to his son. And Danny is very bright. He draws. I’ve seen some of his sketches. The kid has talent.”

  “And all the tenants are nice?”

  “Well, that’s a relative term.”

  “Give me a relative answer.”

  “Some are nicer than others. And I get where some of them are coming from. They’re all people of color. And I’m not sure all of them are here legally. And I’m this white woman knocking on their door and telling them that an unknown investor has bought the building and I’ll be their landlord? I’d be suspicious too.”

  Decker sighed. “It’s 2017, but it doesn’t feel like it. When I was a kid they had those TV shows on about what the future would look like. Robots cleaning houses and people flying their cars to work. And instead we’ve got…this.”

  “Preaching to the choir, Decker. Hey, Melvin said he would come in soon to meet the people here and look over the property.”

  Decker perked up. “It’ll be good to see him again.”

  “I know you two really hit it off.”

  “He’s my best friend.”

  Jamison frowned slightly at this comment but didn’t respond.

  Decker’s phone buzzed. It was Bogart. Decker listened for a few moments and then clicked off.

  “Change of plan. Bogart wants us at the morgue.”

  “Why?”

  “They just completed the autopsy on Dabney.”

  “Okay, but we know what he died of. A self-inflicted gunshot wound.”

  “Yeah, but there’s something else.”

  “What?”

  “The man was apparently already dead when he shot himself.”

  CHAPTER

  11

  THE SAME MEDICAL EXAMINER, Lynne Wainwright, looked at Decker as he stared at the cut-up body of Walter Dabney, the standard V-incision stapled shut over his torso.

  Bogart stood next to him and Jamison behind them, her eyes averted from the butchered body.

  Not too long ago the man was a successful businessman with a loving family. Now he was a lifeless and violated sack of flesh and bone on a metal table.

  “And you’re sure?” said Bogart.

  Wainwright picked up an X-ray and slapped it against a light box on one wall. She pointed to a dark area.

  “A massive brain tumor, inoperable because of where it’s located and how far it had invaded vital regions. I had already taken X-rays and knew something was there. But when I pulled the brain out I couldn’t believe how bad it was.”

  “How long would he have had to live?” asked Decker.

  The ME considered this. “You’ll want to get a second opinion, but my rough estimate would be six months or less. Probably less. Because he also had a ready-to-burst aneurysm right there,” she added, pointing at another spot on the X-ray. “I’m surprised he was able to still fully function, actually.”

  “Maybe he had something left to live for,” said Decker. “Like killing Anne Berkshire.”

  Bogart said sharply, “You really believe that?”

  “I don’t disbelieve it.”

  “Do you think his wife knew?” asked Jamison. “About the tumor?”

  “Doubtful,” answered Bogart. “I mean, you would think she would have mentioned it.”

  “Maybe that was the unexpected trip he took a month ago,” said Decker. “To get the diagnosis.” He turned to the ME. “Was it possible he didn’t know about the tumor?”

  “Anything’s possible,” Wainwright said cautiously. “But there would have been outward symptoms. Some slightly impaired motor functions. Disruption in thought processes. I think a person in his position, educated, well-off, good health insurance presumably, he would have seen a doctor. A simple MRI would have confirmed the tumor’s presence. Other tests would have confirmed its true malignancy.”

  Bogart said, “I wonder why none of his business associates noticed anything amiss. They would have been with him a great deal.”

  “For that matter, why wouldn’t his wife?” noted Jamison.

  The ME said, “With this sort of cancer the end comes very swiftly. But he might have been able to work at a fairly normal level up to a certain point, until the cancer just became too widespread. By the looks of his brain, I think that time was rapidly approaching.”

  “So he might have been able to disguise his illness from his family, friends, and coworkers?” asked Decker.

  “Again, anything’s possible. He also could have been taking some medications that would help him.”

  “And the blood work will show any present in his system?” asked Bogart.

  “I’ve already sent the samples out for processing,” said Wainwright.

  Decker looked back down at the body. “Since he was already dying, taking his own life makes more sense. He saved himself and his family months of suffering. But it doesn’t explain Berkshire’s murder.”

  “Well, to put it bluntly, I think his family would have taken months of their father suffering his final illness over what’s happened now,” countered Jamison.

  “Which means he must have had a really compelling reason,” retorted Decker. “And we have to find out what that was.”

  He headed out.

  “Where are you going, Decker?” Jamison called after him.

  “To get a cup of coffee.”

  * * *

  The coffee shop that Dabney had visited before killing Berkshire was just down the street from the FBI building. It was part of a chain and the interior was open, light-filled, and furnished with comfy chairs and tables where people could work. Power-charging stations were dotted along the walls.

  Decker and Jamison walked up to the c
ounter—Bogart had stayed behind to talk to the medical examiner and to make some phone calls—and Decker flashed his FBI creds to the young woman working there. She was in her early twenties, with brown hair tied back with an elastic band. She had on white pants and a black polo with the store’s logo. Round glasses fronted her face.

  After ordering coffee Decker said, “Did you work yesterday?”

  The woman nodded.

  Decker held up a photo of Walter Dabney. “Street cameras confirm that he entered here at ten o’clock and left about fifty minutes later.”

  “Is he the guy who shot the woman? I saw it on the news.”

  “He is. Did you see him here? Did you take his order?”

  “Both.”

  “What did he have?”

  The woman thought a moment. “Hot tea and a blackberry scone. At least I think. I serve a lot of food and drinks during the course of a day.”

  “How did he appear to you? Nervous?”

  “Not particularly, no. He seemed, well, normal.”

  “Where did he sit?”

  She pointed at a table over by the front window.

  Decker looked around the space and memorized the location of all the tables. “Was the place full when he came in?”

  “No, the morning rush was over by then. There were maybe two tables occupied.”

  “Which ones?”

  She pointed them out. They were near the counter.

  Decker said, “Did you notice whether anyone came over to him? Spoke with him?”

  “I was fairly busy with some inventory work, so I can’t say for sure. I remember I looked over once and he was just sitting there alone staring out the window.”

  “Anyone else who works here who might have seen anything?”

  “Billy was on duty yesterday too, but he’s not in today. He might have seen something. He was delivering orders and bussing tables.”

  Jamison handed her a couple of cards. “Tell Billy to give us a call. And if you remember anything else, give us a ring.”

  While she’d been speaking, Decker sat down at the table that Dabney had occupied. “This chair?” he asked.

  The woman looked over. “No, the one to the left of you.”

  Decker changed chairs and looked around as Jamison walked over to him and sat down in the chair he’d vacated.

  “What are you thinking?”

  Decker gazed out the window. From here he could see the FBI building. And the guard shack. There was someone inside, but he couldn’t tell if it was the same guard as before.

  He said, “This place was empty, so he had his pick of tables. He walked past a bunch of empty ones to get to this one. It gives the clearest field of view toward the FBI building. So did he come here to observe something? Or to meet with someone? Or was there another reason?”

  “How will we find out which one?”

  “We keep asking questions.”

  Decker’s phone buzzed. He listened for a few moments and then said, “We’ll be there as soon as we can.” He clicked off and said to Jamison, “That was Bogart. Dabney’s daughter Jules has something to tell us.”

  “What?”

  “Something her father told her a week ago.”

  CHAPTER

  12

  WALTER DABNEY HAD done well for himself.

  Decker was standing right in the middle of it all.

  The house in McLean was easily worth four or five million bucks. The grounds were extensive and professionally landscaped and maintained. A crew was outside right then trimming bushes, cutting the broad, plush lawns, and generally sprucing up the outdoor space. Another crew was working on the Olympic-size heated pool. And there was a poolhouse that was about the size of a normal home. The cost of merely maintaining this place each year was probably far more than Decker was paid by the FBI.

  He turned from the window to stare over at Jules Dabney. She was an interesting mixture of her parents. Tall and athletically built like her mother, she had her father’s jawline, long forehead, and pale green eyes. Her blonde hair hung straight down and skimmed the tops of her shoulders.

  Her manner was brisk, businesslike even, and she hadn’t shed a tear since Decker and the others arrived. Her mother, she told them, was in her bedroom, heavily sedated.

  Translation: She’s not talking to you.

  Jules instantly struck Decker as a micromanager and able handler of adverse situations. He wondered if that was going to help or hinder their investigation.

  They were in the library, three walls of books clearly proclaiming the purpose of the room. Bogart sat in a comfy leather recliner, Jamison in an upholstered settee, and Jules in what looked like an antique wing chair. Decker stood in the center of the room.

  Bogart said, “I can appreciate how difficult this is for you, Ms. Dabney.”

  Jules waved this off. “It’s not difficult, it’s impossible. But we have to get through it, and so we will.”

  “Where did you come in from?” Decker asked her.

  She looked at him as though bewildered why this held any relevance.

  “Palm Beach, why?”

  “What do you do there?”

  She frowned. “Is that important? Or pertinent?”

  “It’s hard to say since you haven’t told us yet.”

  Her lips pursed, she said, “I have my own company. Health care consulting.”

  Jamison said, “I would imagine Florida is a good place for that. What with the large retired population.”

  “Most of them are on Medicare, of course, but there’s a great deal of wealth down there and people have supplemental insurance. Health care is complicated. It’s hard for people to navigate it. And we advise businesses too. In fact, that’s where most of our revenue comes from. We have twenty employees and are growing double digits every year.”

  “That’s very impressive,” said Decker. “When I was your age, I could barely take care of myself.”

  She said curtly, “My father instilled an excellent work ethic