The Bishop

by Steven James

  Acting, acting, always acting.

  The good little girl.

  But now.

  Now.

  She was no longer the frightened little child who’d trembled under the bed and lost her faith in the Almighty on a cool night in May. Now she was a woman, strong and confident and self-assured, everything people expected from someone in her highly respected, much sought after position.

  Something about the memory of that night when she found her father began to chew away at the anger and disappointment she’d felt toward her man last night.

  After all, he hadn’t deviated far from the plan. Yes, he’d made a few mistakes, but those were forgivable.

  She glanced at her reflection in the mirror. She was showing some, had put on a little weight, but Brad hadn’t seemed to notice.

  A child.

  A baby growing inside her.

  She hadn’t felt the baby kick yet, but soon, soon the evidence of her life, or his, would come.

  The more she thought about her own father and the father of her child, the more she considered telling him about the baby.

  Maybe it was time.

  According to the plan, she would go to work today, Brad would get the plates and the car, then pay a visit to FBI Executive Assistant Director Wellington’s home, and tonight, after the explosion, they would swing by the FBI Academy to leave a little surprise. And then this game would be over. Then they would move on.

  So for now.

  Watch.

  Watch and see.

  Keep an eye on him and only if necessary put him in the freezer and close the door.

  Only if absolutely necessary.

  9:48 a.m.

  Margaret Wellington did not like the feeling that something had gotten by her, so after the press conference, rather than go directly to the task force command post at police headquarters, she returned to the Lincoln Towers to see if there was anything the officers might have missed in their search for Mollie Fischer.

  She spent twenty-five minutes retracing the route Bowers had taken as he chased the killers through the hotel, looking for any place they might have found to hide a body.

  Nothing.

  Now, she scanned the lobby.

  The atrium extended up all twelve floors, with terraced gardens and a narrow waterfall that spilled out of a faux rock wall on her left. The water tumbled into a goldfish stream that meandered along the ground beneath a network of bridges and walkways.

  She still believed that somehow the killers had managed to get Mollie Fischer out of the building, perhaps through the parking garage, which might explain the glove that had been left behind.

  Or maybe they’d found another way.

  Or maybe she was wrong and Mollie was still here somewhere.

  Margaret rubbed her head.

  Room 809, the room in which they’d found the wheelchair, was still sealed of course, but the rest of the hotel was open. Last night Agent Cassidy and the new transfer from St. Louis, Natasha Farraday, had cleared it.

  Still no news about the laptop or the duffel bag that the Rainey boy had seen the man and woman carrying when they left the alley and climbed into the taxicab.

  And, honestly, Margaret had no idea where else to look for Mollie.

  A different perspective might be helpful, a fresh set of eyes, so with Hawkins and Bowers out of the picture for the moment, she phoned the next most qualified agent on the team.

  “Lien-hua here.”

  “This is Executive Assistant Director Wellington. I’d like you to meet me at the Lincoln Towers Hotel. We’re going to do a walk-around. Together.”

  50

  On the drive to DC, I’d managed to move up the meeting with FBI Director Rodale one hour, to 11:00. “Actually,” his secretary had informed me, “the director is anxious to see you.”

  “Great.”

  Since Tessa and I had some time, she’d suggested coffee, and although we’d already had some this morning, she persuaded me. While we were at the coffeehouse I called Doehring, and he told me that nothing had come of his search into Mollie Fischer’s background and so, once again, I moved forward with the working hypothesis that she indeed was a victim in this crime spree, not an offender.

  By the time we’d left the coffeehouse, battled traffic, driven to FBI headquarters, parked, cleared security, and obtained Tessa’s visitor’s pass, it was almost 11:00.

  “You’ll be good waiting for me?”

  She nodded and took a seat in the reception area just outside Rodale’s office.

  “I’ll see you as soon as I’m done.” I gave her the guest password for HQ’s Wi-Fi. She plugged in her earbuds, opened up her laptop to read more about primate cognition, and I knocked on Rodale’s door.

  “Come in.”

  I entered and found him standing beside his corner window overlooking downtown DC.

  Congressman Fischer stood beside him.

  Maybe Mollie’s body was found.

  I waited for one of them to tell me the news, whatever it might be.

  “Pat,” Rodale said. “I believe you’ve met Congressman Fischer?”

  I nodded to him. “Congressman.”

  “I heard you almost caught Mollie’s abductors yesterday,” he said. “I need to thank you for going after them like that. Especially after our . . . well, my . . . the words I had with you in my office.”

  Today he sounded a lot more shattered by what had happened, a lot more like a man whose daughter was missing. “I know you were upset.”

  “They tell me you were shot yesterday?”

  “Yes, but I’m all right.”

  I waited; no explanations came.

  Rodale gestured toward a chair. “Please, Pat, have a seat.”

  Neither of the two men moved toward a chair or elaborated on why the congressman was here, and a tense kind of awkwardness sifted through the room. “I’ve been sitting all morning,” I said. “If you don’t mind, I think I’ll stretch my legs too.”

  A nod. “Sure. Yes.”

  “Has there been a break in the case?” I asked at last.

  Rodale shook his head.

  “No,” Fischer said soberly.

  Then Rodale walked to his bookcase and let out a tired-sounding sigh. He was six months from retirement but looked ready to bail on his job this afternoon. “I’m in a quandary here, Pat. I want to commend you on your valor yesterday, on your insights into this case, but I also feel the professional obligation to reprimand you for the reckless nature of your actions.”

  I wasn’t exactly sure how to respond to that. “That’s understandable.”

  “No more spur-of-the moment press conferences.”

  “Agreed.”

  “All right.” I could tell this was just the tip of the iceberg. “Moving on. There’s a sensitive aspect of this case that I need to tell you about, and I need you to keep it in the strictest confidence.”

  I let my eyes pass from him to the congressman, then back to Rodale. “What aspect?”

  Congressman Fischer spoke up. “The Gunderson facility. I believe I might know the reason the young woman was killed there.”

  “And that is?”

  “You remember Project Rukh?” Rodale said. “In San Diego?” “Of course.”

  Last February, Lien-hua, Ralph, and I had uncovered a biotech conspiracy that involved marine biology research and recent advances in neuroscience to create a top-secret weapon for the Pentagon. The device could be used to damage, in an untraceable manner, specific parts of a person’s frontal cortex to cause permanent brain damage or a stroke.

  The case would always stick in my mind not just for professional reasons but for personal ones as well: while in San Diego a young man had tried to sexually assault Tessa, and one of the killers we were tracking had attacked and drowned Lien-hua; I’d barely been able to revive her.

  “I thought the Pentagon pulled the plug on all that?” I said, referring to Project Rukh.

  “They did,” Congressman Fis
cher responded. “But a private firm managed to acquire the neuroscientific research that survived. For an unrelated project.”

  Unrelated.

  Yeah, right.

  “The Gunderson Foundation,” I said.

  Both men confirmed my words by their silence.

  “So you’re involved with the foundation somehow, is that it?” I said to the congressman. “Is there some legislation before the House that relates to—”

  “I’ve contributed financially to the foundation in the past. Yes,” he replied. “But that’s something I would rather the public not be apprised of at this time.”

  “Thank you.”

  He looked confused. “For what?”

  “For narrowing things down. I can guarantee that if you don’t want the information released, there’s somebody out there who does. And that person may very well be involved in your daughter’s abduction. So, the obvious question: who would want the facts about your donations made public?”

  “Every Republican in Congress.”

  Although that seemed like a gross overstatement, if the primate research were in some way ethically controversial, he might just be right. Rodale glanced at Congressman Fischer, who nodded. I did not find it reassuring that the Bureau’s director was taking cues from a congressman.

  Rodale said, “I know that Margaret pulled you off this case so you could get some rest, but I’d like you to keep pursuing whatever leads you can. I’ll speak with her. Arrange it. If you’re up to it.”

  “I’m up to it.”

  I turned to Fischer. “Send me a list detailing all of your contributions to the foundation. Forward all emails sent or received. Everything. And I want your phone records.”

  He hesitated.

  “Don’t fool yourself, Congressman. Someone will find out this information. The task force should see it before the press does.”

  “You can trust him,” Rodale said to Fischer.

  He looked uncomfortable with the idea but finally agreed.

  Then I turned to Director Rodale. “A few minutes ago you asked me to keep this all in the strictest confidence. How can I work with the task force if I’m not able to share this information with them?”

  “For now, only command level staff hears about the congressman’s contributions to the center. I don’t want anything leaking to the press and slowing down the investigation.”

  Admittedly, if this information was as sensitive as I was being led to believe, his concern made sense, but something didn’t feel right. I still wasn’t sure why these two men had chosen to share this information with me, but I figured I could bring that up with Rodale after the congressman left and we were alone. I nodded and he said he’d send me the files.

  I gave Fischer my email address, he excused himself, but as he was getting ready to leave I asked, “Congressman, who told you about the custody case?”

  “Custody case?”

  “Yesterday. You mentioned the custody case involving my stepdaughter.”

  This time, unlike yesterday, he was forthcoming: “My brother.”

  Shock.

  As far I knew, he had only one brother. “The former vice president told you?”

  “Yes.”

  “How does he know about a custody case involving my stepdaughter?”

  “He’s acquainted with your stepdaughter’s biological father. That’s all he said.”

  What?

  “How?”

  He shook his head. “Honestly, I don’t know. He didn’t say.”

  The congressman seemed to be telling the truth, and if he was, it added a whole new layer of complexity to what was going on. It meant Lansing had friends in very high places—and that would not be to my advantage in keeping custody of Tessa.

  “But why?” I said to him. “Why did he tell you this?”

  “Since it involved an FBI agent”—he avoided looking at Rodale—“and I’ve proposed budget cuts to the Bureau, I suspect he was trying to get me to . . . well . . .”

  “What? Threaten me?”

  “Suggest cuts in strategic departments.”

  He didn’t have to spell it out for me.

  Get rid of the agent; help his buddy get custody of the child . . .

  “When I found out you were on the case involving Mollie, I felt torn, and I knew we needed to talk. In the end, I said things to you I shouldn’t have.”

  I didn’t find his explanation entirely satisfying, but it was a start. I needed to give all this some thought.

  He offered us both a departure nod. “I do need to get back to the House floor.”

  After he left, the mood of the room still felt full of static. There was too much being left unspoken here. “Director,” I said, “did you tell the congressman to refrain from announcing the news about the victim’s true identity yesterday?”

  “An announcement like that should come from the public affairs office or one of the ADs, you know that, Pat. It doesn’t come from the father of a missing girl. Or from an NCAVC field agent. We have a system in place for the release of pertinent information, and that system serves the good of everyone.”

  “Not Mollie,” I said. “Not yesterday.” He eyed me severely, but I didn’t care. I went on. “Why did you call me in on this case to begin with? You know my specialty is serial offenses, but when we started on this we knew of only one homicide.”

  “We haven’t always agreed on everything over the years, but we’ve always respected each other.” He made it sound like an answer, but I couldn’t see how it was.

  “Yes, I would say that’s true.”

  “You’re not the kind of man who plays politics, who’s always looking for a way to get ahead.”

  His comments were making me a little uncomfortable. “I’m an investigator not a bureaucrat, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Yes. That’s what I mean. And that’s why I want you on this.”

  But if he doesn’t want people working this case with an eye on a promotion, why did he assign Margaret to head it up?

  “If I can be frank, sir, none of this makes any sense. It seems like politics and personal agendas are taking precedent over finding a missing person.”

  Welcome to Washington, Pat.

  “You know that’s not true.”

  “I’m not sure that I do.”

  A dark cloud was crossing his face—

  And then it hit me.

  “The budget cuts. Is that what this is about? Maybe, ‘Find my daughter, keep my involvement with this research place under wraps, and I won’t push through the legislation to cut Bureau funding.’ You scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours?”

  Rodale looked at me icily. “I will pretend that you did not just say that.”

  “Don’t bother.” I headed for the door. “I’ll keep you informed,” I said. “Of our progress.”

  Tessa could tell I was upset when I met her in the lobby. “You all right?” she asked.

  “Oh yeah.”

  Then I was on my way to the exit and she was hastily grabbing her things and catching up with me. “Agent Jiang called while you were in there. She told me she can meet us at Jacob’s Deli at about 12:30, if that works. She said you’d know where it is.”

  “I’m afraid we’re going to have to cancel. There’s someplace else I need to go.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “The Gunderson Primate Research Center.”

  51

  The Lincoln Towers Hotel

  Room 809

  Nothing.

  Margaret Wellington shook her head.

  Mollie Fischer couldn’t have just disappeared. Where is she!

  Lien-hua was standing beside the bed, carefully studying the room. “We found the wheelchair in here but no other physical evidence?”

  “That’s right.”

  “But how could that be? The video of the suspect wheeling Mollie into the hotel shows that they entered at 1:29 p.m. And Pat was shot just after 3:00.”

  “That means at
least one of them was in a room with an abducted woman for approximately an hour and a half,” Margaret said, following Lien-hua’s train of thought, “but yet managed to leave no forensic evidence behind.”

  “That’s not likely.”

  “No, it isn’t.”

  Margaret thought, They faked Mollie’s death . . . left her purse in the habitat . . . left Mahan’s car at the scene. . . left the glove in the parking garage . . .

  They used misdirection every step of the way . . .

  Of course.

  “They used another room,” she said. “Just left the wheelchair in here to mislead us.”

  Lien-hua considered that for a moment. “According to Pat’s report, there were two maids in the hall when he was pursuing the subjects. I wonder—”

  “Come on,” Margaret said, heading for the door. “We need to have a talk with those maids.”

  Tessa and I grabbed drive-thru bean burritos for lunch and were on our way to the primate center.

  I convinced her to listen to her iPod for a few minutes so I could make a call, then I speed-dialed Lien-hua’s number, and, speaking quietly so Tessa wouldn’t overhear me, I cancelled lunch, then summarized my meeting with Rodale and Fischer. Lien-hua listened attentively, and toward the end of my explanation, I heard Margaret speaking incredulously somewhere near her. “What’s going on?” I asked.

  “We’re wondering if the killers kept Mollie in a room other than—”

  I heard Margaret’s voice again, the words were indistinguishable, but she was obviously upset. “Just a sec,” Lien-hua said. She spoke off-phone for a few seconds, then said to me, “You’re not going to believe this: there is no Aria Petic.”

  “What do you mean? We have footage of her leaving the facility.”

  She took another break from talking with me to get an update from Margaret, then spoke into the phone again. “Margaret just got a call from Doehring. Apparently, the primate facility contracts out their janitorial services. Aria’s name appears on the computerized records, but that’s all. No one by that name has ever worked for them.”

  “How come we’re just finding this out now?”