Man Down

by John Douglas

  “Not quite,” Katie said.

  “They will be brought to justice, make no mistake,” Armstrong said. “They will discover that this world is not large enough to hide from the United States of America.”

  “Tell that to Eric Rudolph,” I said, referring to the bombing suspect who had eluded the FBI for years in the North Carolina mountains.

  “Or J. P. Napoleon,” Katie said. J. P. Napoleon was the head of Empire International, a conglomerate with its hands in dozens of legal and illegal industries, from pharmaceuticals to small arms. He was also my own Moby, my white whale, a man I couldn’t prove existed, but a man who had haunted my career as surely as the Black Diamond Killer haunted my dreams.

  Some people said that Napoleon was actually several men, and others said he was merely the creation of one man’s imagination. Still others suspected he was Fletcher De Vries, the former husband of our own financial backer, Millicent De Vries. Supposedly drowned years ago, Fletcher De Vries had been seen at a number of jet-set soirees throughout Europe and the Far East, a remarkable show of social élan for a corpse.

  Aside from the traffic, the bullshit coming from my radio, and the thought of Napoleon, my absurdly named nemesis, the drive was pleasant. We drove past Embassy Row and into Cleveland Park, a beautiful neighborhood of steep lawns and stately homes. Mrs. De Vries lived in a spectacular stone mansion just a soul’s breadth from the National Cathedral. With the right security clearances and party affiliation, you could walk over to the vice president’s residence and chat up energy policy. In the winter, when the trees were bare, you could see the cathedral’s rooftop from Mrs. De Vries’s driveway.

  We were greeted at the front door by Frederick, Mrs. De Vries’s right-hand man. He led us into the solarium, dark on this overcast day, and brought us coffee.

  “Mrs. De Vries will be right with you,” he said, and left Katie and me alone.

  Katie had changed into a green blouse that matched her eyes and a gray suit that matched the sky. As we sat among the orchids and rare palms, I realized how much I depended on this beautiful young woman, not just professionally, but how much she had become a part of my life. Until Katie, I hadn’t become attached to anyone since my divorce, and now I couldn’t imagine what my days and nights would be without her.

  She caught me staring. “What? Do I have something on my teeth?”

  “No. I like looking at you.”

  She reddened and turned her face away. “Jake, stop it.”

  Mrs. De Vries, elegant in dress and manner that comes from high intelligence, old money, and all the right schools, normally blew into a room on an endless supply of energy. But today, her usual sparkle was subdued as she greeted us: “Katie and Jake, the most dangerous couple in the capital. How are you?”

  Behind her a man in his forties with an anchorman’s hair and the unmistakable smile of a career politician waited to be introduced. I recognized him as David Jason from North Carolina, already on the short list of possible presidential candidates, and the man with the great misfortune of having offered the First Lady a ride on his airplane. From his hair to the toes of his shoes, he looked far too polished to have spent the morning being grilled, but the lines around his eyes were deep, and his face showed signs of fatigue. Mrs. De Vries drew him closer.

  “I recognize Mr. Donovan, of course,” Jason said, “but I have to say that your partner, Ms. McManus, is the one everyone talks about in Washington.” His manner was one of a country boy with a Duke University education, someone as comfortable in boardrooms as he was pressing the flesh at tobacco auctions.

  “I am so sorry,” Katie said, and held his hand in the two of hers.

  He managed a smile, but it was bruised. “Thank you, Ms. McManus, but we must remember that our country was the target, not me personally.”

  “Still…”

  Mrs. De Vries stepped in and took Katie’s hand from the congressman’s. “You probably don’t know.”

  “What?”

  “The congressman’s wife was supposed to have been aboard the plane with the First Lady.”

  “Yes,” Katie said, “we heard. I’m relieved to know that you and your wife weren’t on board the plane.”

  The congressman cleared his throat and, for a moment, looked as though a tear or two might come to those blue eyes. “Thank you. But those men…” He trailed off.

  “They’re treating the congressman horribly,” Mrs. De Vries said. “And everyone’s so security conscious that I can get absolutely no information at all. We were curious to know if you had heard anything, Jake.”

  Katie and I told what we knew, which was not much, and then Mrs. De Vries told what she knew, which was considerable. The wreckage hadn’t stopped smoking and she knew that the First Lady had been whisked off to Camp David; that the initial suspicion was some type of plastic explosive in the baggage compartment of the Hawker; and that a mechanic who worked on the congressman’s plane had been found shot in his home. “My contacts didn’t know if his murder was connected to the bombing.”

  “If I had your contacts, I could solve ninety percent of the crimes in D.C.,” I said.

  Mrs. De Vries, never comfortable with herself as the topic of conversation, said, “That’s why we called you, Jake. We need you.”

  The congressman cleared his throat. “I understand you’ve been removed from the case.”

  I nodded. “You know that we can’t help you with this. As much as we would like to.”

  “That’s not why you’re here, Jake,” Mrs. De Vries said, “although I think it’s a shameful waste of talent. David here, even in this hard time, heard about my problem and offered to help.”

  “What problem, Mrs. De Vries?”

  “There’s been a murder, Jake, and my niece is missing.”

  David Jason held Mrs. De Vries’s hand in both of his. “To not assist this grand lady in her time of need would be a crime in itself.” The way his voice dropped to barely a whisper that forced his listeners to lean in closer, the way he looked each one of us in the eye, the sincerity and determination of his tone, made me understand why he was so good at raising money and hopes within his party. I noticed that he wore a class ring and his nails were buffed to a high shine.

  The congressman said, “I’ve spoken to local law enforcement and cleared the way for your involvement. I know how turf is protected and I wanted to make sure you would get all the cooperation necessary to do your job.”

  “I appreciate that,” I said.

  “It’s a small thing,” he said, “but it was a way I could help.”

  Katie brought us down to business. “You said there’s been a murder.”

  Jason freed Mrs. De Vries’s hand so that he could use his own to gently mold his words, as though the substance of his words would cut him. “William Rush, a key man in a technology start-up, has been killed.”

  “When?” Katie asked.

  “The police believe he was killed last night,” Mrs. De Vries said.

  “The body was found this morning along a jogging trail in Research Triangle Park.” The congressman added, “We’re quite proud of the park in North Carolina. To have one of our brightest researchers murdered there is, I admit, a rather selfish reason for me to be involved.”

  “Human nature runs on self-interest,” Mrs. De Vries said. “Not all of us are as honest about it as you, sir.”

  “Especially given your current situation,” I said.

  Jason shrugged. “There’s not much I can do about the explosion this morning, as much as I feel somewhat responsible for what happened.”

  “Why is that?” Katie said, her concentration focused on the congressman, searching for physical reasons to believe his words or not.

  “Because I was the one who extended the invitation to the First Lady.”

  “You can’t hold yourself responsible for what happened, David,” Mrs. De Vries said, her hand on his forearm.

  “But I can help here. I can use my influence for good he
re.”

  That was true. Jason would be kept at arm’s length from the federal investigation, but he’d carry a lot of weight with the local police.

  “Why do you think the locals need us?”

  “Because they’ve already decided on the killer. There’s evidence that William Rush was having an affair with Janice Callahan, a married woman.”

  “Janice was divorced,” Mrs. De Vries said.

  “Is she your niece?” Katie asked. “Is she the one who’s missing?”

  Mrs. De Vries nodded, her eyes closed, her lips tight. It broke my heart to see her in pain.

  “But the police have already decided that it was the husband who did this,” Jason said.

  “He’d be my first choice,” I said.

  Katie said, “But you obviously think they have the wrong man.”

  “First, they don’t have the husband. Not in custody. He’s disappeared. And second, William Rush was involved in some highly classified work. There are a lot of people who might want him dead. Now, I don’t know who did it, but I think there are more suspects than just the husband.”

  “If you mean foreign governments, maybe you should be talking to Orlando Ravan,” Katie said.

  Jason shook his head. “I’m afraid they’ve got their hands full at the moment.”

  “Still, this might be something outside of our capabilities.” If this was a hit by a foreign agent, I didn’t want the Broken Wings getting mixed up with the intelligence community. Their morals and motives were far too slippery for a team of cops, especially good cops. “Espionage isn’t really our specialty. If it is espionage.”

  “But murder is,” Mrs. De Vries said. “And you’re damn good at it.”

  “I’m sorry to ask this,” Katie said, “but was your niece having an affair with the victim?”

  Mrs. De Vries’s face turned to stone. “No. I don’t believe that. I can’t believe that. That’s why I need you to find her, Jake. I’m afraid that whoever did this to William Rush may be after Janice, too.”

  4

  After whacking the starter, Katie and I climbed back into the Aston Martin for the slow trip home. While we were stopped in the city’s traffic, I called home and got my voice-mail messages. There were three, all from Toni, my ex-wife. We have a good relationship, considering that our marriage went down in flames and I was the one holding the match. We’re raising two good kids: Ali who has just turned sixteen, and her brother, Eric, who is ten. Toni’s voice rang with worry. “Jake, I know you must be busy. Give me a call when you get this, uh, when you can, and, uh, let us know you’re okay. Eric and Ali are worried about you.”

  I hit speed dial and Toni answered. I assured her I was fine and we made small talk about the disaster, and the kids, and the scenes on the news. Toni was not a person for small talk of any kind so I knew that she was warming up to something, and eventually it came out.

  “Jake, I really hate to ask this, especially now, but I have to be in Toronto next week for a psychiatric conference. If you’re busy, I’ll ask my mother…”

  “No, no, I’ll be happy to stay with the kids. But I can’t be sure, Toni, not right now.”

  “When can you know?”

  “In a couple of days. The team is flying down to North Carolina for a case. Once I get a good look at the scene…”

  “Could you let me know by Monday?”

  “Sure, no problem. I should know by then.”

  I heard Eric in the background.

  “Eric wants you to know that Katie is welcome to come down, too,” Toni said.

  “Eric says hi,” I said to Katie. Eric suffered from a pre-adolescent crush and would do anything to be in the same room, the same planet, hell, the same solar system as Katie.

  Katie’s relationship with Toni was as good as anyone could expect, considering the circumstances. Katie was twelve years younger than Toni, and while Toni was attractive, Katie turned heads. That Toni didn’t harbor homicidal fantasies about Katie was a demonstration of my ex-wife’s maturity and self-confidence. I’m not sure I would have been as open-minded if the situation were reversed.

  While I was talking to Toni on my phone, Katie was on her phone assembling the team. Dominic Sanchez, our medical examiner, was coming in from a jazz festival in Baltimore. Jerry Carruthers, our forensic lab specialist, had been tutoring a graduate student in Georgetown and was now in his apartment putting his duffel together. Trevor Malone, weapons and tactics specialist, had driven in from Fairfax and was waiting for us at Reagan National along with the flight crew, Scott Kenworthy and Trish O’Connor. By the time all of the Broken Wings were seated around the conference table on board the C-130, it was late afternoon.

  The Broken Wingwas not your stock C-130 but had been a flying executive suite for a prominent Colombian drug cartel before it was seized by the DEA. Drug lords are notorious for their love of luxury and excruciatingly bad taste, but in this case, they had kept their affinity for leopard skin in check. Aside from a padded zebra toilet seat, the rest of the interior was corporate leather and chrome. The plane slept eight, had an executive cabin, a conference room, and a flying forensics lab. This was paid for, in a roundabout way that would take a New York accountant to explain, by Millicent De Vries and the De Vries Foundation.

  Scott had filed a flight plan for Raleigh-Durham Airport, and he and Trish were running through the preflight checks when we arrived.

  “Departure should be in approximately”—Scott looked at his watch—“twenty-four minutes, Jake.”

  “Approximately?”

  Scott laughed. “Yes, sir. ETA at RDU is twenty-one thirty-four hours.”

  “Thank you, Scott.”

  Trevor, as usual, was pacing the length of the small conference room, bulkhead to bulkhead. He was anxious to hear about the case in North Carolina, but was distracted by his anger at being pulled off the attack on the First Lady. “Goddamn, Jake, they need every swinging dick they can get.”

  Katie cleared her throat.

  Trevor waved it away impatiently. “You know what I mean.”

  I shook my head. “I know, Trevor, and I’m sorry. It’s because of me that we’re not on the case.”

  “Dammit,” Trevor hit the table with his fist.

  Jerry, already highly agitated due to his flying phobia, jumped. “Trevor, please don’t do that.” Jerry turned to me. “Tell us about this murder in North Carolina.”

  I pulled out what information I had been able to piece together, which wasn’t much. I put a photo on the table and the Wings passed it around. “The victim is a white male, thirty-four years old, a Ph. D. in physics from your old employer, Jerry.”

  “Harvard?” Jerry squinted at the picture, holding it at arm’s length.

  Dominic said, “You want to borrow my glasses, Jerry?”

  “No, no, I can see.” Jerry closed one eye. “I think I know him. William Rush?”

  “That’s him.”

  “He was a big deal in Cambridge. Had a reputation for being a little squirrelly, which in the physics department means he was collecting more acorns than usual.”

  Trevor laughed. “Man, you think someone’s squirrelly, they must live in a damn tree.”

  Jerry straightened up. “In academia, I’m considered extremely well-adjusted.”

  Dominic harrumphed.

  I took the photo from Jerry and looked at the dead man’s face. It was soft, and round, almost like a baby’s, except for a thin mustache on his lip. His eyes were watery, as if he’d been slicing an onion when the picture was taken. His shirt was a summer print, and the burn across his nose made me think the photo had been taken while Dr. Rush was on vacation. “Does he normally wear glasses, Jerry?”

  Jerry scrunched up his face, concentrating on his memory of a man he’d last seen two years before and then only from across Harvard Yard. “I think so, why?”

  I handed him the photo again. “He looks like he’s wearing contacts, that’s all, and isn’t quite used to them.”
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br />   “How was he killed?” Dominic asked.

  “Shot,” Katie said. “The locals think Dr. Rush was working out some personal physics problems with this woman.” Katie pulled another picture out of the file and slid it across the table. The photo was a studio shot of an attractive blond woman seated in front of a large man with a beard, a shirt that strained at the buttons, and a forced smile. “In case you’re wondering, that man standing behind her is her husband, estranged, and he’s considered the prime suspect.”

  Trevor shrugged and took a seat at the table. “Well, that pretty much wraps things up then, doesn’t it?”

  “Mrs. De Vries doesn’t think so,” Katie said.

  “Why would she think this is more than a man knocking boots with another man’s wife?”

  “First,” I said, “the woman in the picture is Janice Callahan. She’s Mrs. De Vries’s niece.”

  “Oh, no.” Trevor dropped his head into his hands. “I hate it when these things get personal. It makes everything sticky.”

  “Ms. Callahan is missing, along with her husband,” I said. “So we might be looking at a whole list of things including extortion, kidnapping, blackmail, who knows? That’s why she’s asked us to look into it.”

  “It could still be exactly what the police think it is,” Katie said, “a jealous husband with a gun.”

  “There’s something else,” I said.

  Dominic adjusted his glasses. “What’s that, Jake?”

  “We know that Dr. Rush was working on some classified project, possibly a weapon, so there are people in Washington besides Mrs. De Vries who are interested in our investigation.”

  The mention of a weapon sparked Trevor’s interest. “Do we know what kind of weapon?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Probably from the Buck Rogers collection, considering Rush’s research at Harvard,” Jerry said.

  “You think this might be espionage?”

  I shrugged. “You never know.”

  Dominic shook his head. “I don’t like it, Jake. You know what happens when you get mixed up with politicians. Things get really complicated.”