“Yeah. I’m going to need you to continue backtracking down there. You got anything?”
“Not much. Some people where the vic worked are acting a bit suspicious.”
Graven was silent. After a moment, his voice came back. “Stay on it then. Like I said, the perp we had in custody here kept claiming he had an alibi. It took us half the damn night to check it out, but turns out he did. So it’s back to square one.”
“Did those digital photos I requested from the border crossing ever come in?” She heard his breathing again before he answered.
“What photos?”
“I’d requested any digital photos and records of any Americans crossing the border two days before and after Norton’s crossing,” she said.
“Oh, those. Yeah, I think they did, somewhere.” She heard the sound of shuffling papers, and could visualize him making a mess of the desk. “I know they’re here, dammit.” After a few moments more of frustrated breathing, he said, “I’ll have to find them and e-mail them. Just be careful not to open any official e-mails on your unofficial tablet. You might get hacked.”
Leslie rolled her eyes. Did he really think she would be that careless? She didn’t even access her departmental account on her personal phone.
Then she saw Colby’s business card lying on the desk next to her purse. She picked it up and saw that he’d written Call Me, with his cell number under it. He’d also drawn xx oo above his name. Maybe there was hope for them after all.
“I’ll find a secure server I can use, sir,” she said, holding the card. Through Chicago PD.
Colby sat waiting in Pearson’s office for a good ten minutes, certain that the damn Fed was letting him stew for losing it with Fontaine yesterday. But the curiosity was eating away at him, driving him nuts. A suspect, or rather “a person of interest” in custody. This whole thing was going down without him.
Who am I to blame them for not waiting? He thought, remembering, with a twinge of sadness, the Swanstrom twins. If somebody would have acted sooner, they might have survived. Maybe it was better that they hadn’t waited for his sorry ass to catch up.
But who had been working with Laird on these new murders? And why?
Pearson strode in holding a manila file and went behind his desk, not bothering to look at Colby or utter a greeting. When their eyes finally met a few seconds later, the FBI man gave a nod of approval. “I see you’ve dressed up a bit. Turning over a new leaf?”
Colby had changed into his best dark suit for the date. And he’d worn a silk tie with a light green and blue floral design that matched his shirt. He could feel himself blush as he got to his feet.
“Of course,” Pearson said, his mouth curling slightly, as if amused, “you could have shaved, too.”
Colby felt his blush deepen. He automatically rubbed his hand over the stubble on his jaw, then let it drop to his side.
“You got a suspect in custody? I heard it on the news this morning.”
The amused curl faded slowly from the Fed’s mouth. “Yes. I tried to call you. There was no answer.”
Colby waited to reply. What was this asshole getting at? Did he mean last night or this morning?
“You try my cell?” he asked.
“Left a message,” Pearson said. “Do you check them?”
Colby pulled the phone out and saw the little rectangular envelope feature flashed on the screen. He’d had in on vibrate and forgotten it in his coat pocket.
“Battery’s low,” he said, putting it back. “Why don’t you bring me up to speed?”
Pearson stared at him a moment, then said, “Sure. Sit down.”
Colby waited until he was sure Pearson was going to sit as well. There was no way he was going to sit in a chair and let this guy address him from a standing position. The Fed tented his fingers before he spoke.
“Since I’m not sure what you do and do not know,” he began, “I’ll give you a thumbnail sketch. Yesterday, at exactly six-forty-seven, PM, Morgan Laird dialed 9-1-1 on his cell phone in his apartment. Apparently, what sounded like a gun shot was heard in the background along with Laird’s voice. A call for assistance.”
He paused, as if considering just how to word the rest of it.
“We had a surveillance team on site, and they were monitoring the police calls in the District as well. When they heard the dispatch, they immediately went to investigate, and found Laird shot to death. The offender was still on scene and was taken into custody.”
“Great,” Colby said. “Who—?”
Pearson held up his palm and continued talking. “Approximately an hour later, the body of attorney Lance Fontaine was discovered in his vehicle in a shopping center parking area. He had been shot to death as well.”
“I heard that.” Colby was getting frustrated by the other man’s circuity. He tried a joke. “Look, if you’re wondering about my whereabouts when Fontaine was killed, I do have an alibi.”
“The thought never entered my mind.” Pearson’s mouth drew up at the corners again. “Besides, we’re confident that the weapon recovered at the scene of Laird’s murder will match that of the one used to kill Mr. Fontaine.”
“Outstanding,” Colby said. “Now, you gonna tell me who this guy is?” Pearson stared at him a moment more, smiled, and then said, “Yes. I am.”
Chapter 16
Instead of the leisurely breakfast, Leslie opted instead for a bagel with cream cheese and a medium coffee, both of which she consumed very unceremoniously in the taxi as she rode to the Federal Building. Between bites, she tried several times to reach Colby on her cell phone. It let her complete her dialing sequence, then flashed the ominous LOW BATTERY sign.
She stuck the cell phone back into her purse. The driver turned onto Dearborn and slowed to a stop in front of the Dirksen Federal Building. Leslie paid him and hurried as quickly as she could across the extended walk-way. Luckily, she’d worn flats, which made the accelerated pace less cumbersome. Inside, she flashed her Canadian police ID at the security check point and placed her purse and coat on the conveyer belt. After stepping through the metal detector, she grabbed her items and scanned the banks of elevators, wondering what Colby would say when she told him her investigation was going active again. Funny that she still thought of him as “Colby” after making such an effort all night to call him “Rog”.
But after all, you never really know somebody until you sleep with them, she thought, allowing herself a wicked smile as the elevator doors closed.
The secretary manning the upstairs check point was looking a bit addled as Leslie stopped to show her ID again and explain she was here to see someone in the taskforce.
“And who’s that?” the woman asked. Her grayish-brown hair was pulled back in a severe bun, and deep lines bracketed her mouth.
“Detective Colby.”
The woman’s expression stiffened, and Leslie added, “Or Special Agent Pearson.”
The woman picked up the phone. Although she held the receiver close to her ear, and made only murmuring whispers herself, Leslie could hear Pearson’s voice booming on the other end. The woman hung up and said to go right in.
Leslie opened the door and went down the now-familiar corridor toward Pearson’s office. She was surprised to see him standing halfway in the hallway without his suit jacket on. The shirt sleeves had been rolled up and he was wearing latex gloves.
“Good morning.” His expression was sour as he disappeared back into his office.
Stepping to the door, she realized he hadn’t gone completely inside the office, but was right there, wiping the frosted glass on the front of his door with a crumpled-up paper towel.
“What can I do for you, Detective?” he asked. He sprayed some cleaner from a plastic bottle on the glass and dabbed at it with the towel.
“I was looking for Detective Colby,” she said, watching his movements with great curiosity. “Have you seen him?”
“Oh yeah,” Pearson said, with a telling emphasis. “He’s not her
e right now, though.”
“Do you know when he’ll be back?”
Pearson started to say something then caught himself. He lowered his arms and turned to face her. “Is there something I can help you with?”
Taking a deep breath to give herself a few extra seconds, she said, “He was helping me check on some things regarding my investigation.”
Pearson’s eyebrows twitched, like confused rabbit. “Oh. Right.”
His eyebrows twitched again and he shrugged. “He’s probably going to be indisposed the rest of the day. I sent him back—I mean, he went back to his own Area. I can get you the number if you want.”
“That would be great,” she said. “And if I could use a phone. My cell’s out.”
Pearson nodded, gave the door one more scrutinizing look, and walked back into his office. Leslie gazed at the door on her way past it, the wood still slick and smelling slightly of ammonia from the cleaner. She wondered what that was all about.
Colby was sitting in the small restaurant at the corner of Clark and Jackson contemplating the situation. Laird being dead was a Godsend. Divine justice. And Fontaine, the devil’s disciple, was no loss, either. But Dix…there was no way he could have been involved. Not the Dix he knew.
Colby tried thinking about his next move, trying to assess just how badly he’d fucked things up, when his cell phone rang. He glanced at the number and after seeing it was from the Federal Building, debated whether or not to answer it. What if it was Pearson wanting him back there for round two? Still, could he afford not to find out?
He answered it with a quick, “Colby.”
“Hi, it’s Leslie. What’s going on?”
“Long story.”
“Where are you?”
He wondered if he should tell her. Maybe it would be best to keep his distance. Better for him, and certainly better for her. But he needed help, and he hoped, after last night, that she was someone he could trust. He gave her directions to the restaurant and said he’d be waiting. After he pressed the END button, terminating the call, he took another swig of his coffee and found it had gone tepid. He motioned the waitress for a warm-up, and when she asked, “Regular or Decaf?” he shot her a wry grin. Maybe he should switch to decaf as he recalled the confrontation between him and Pearson.
“I want to see him,” he’d demanded after hearing that Dix was in custody. “This is bullshit.”
Pearson’s eyebrows rose as if his sensibilities had been offended. “I don’t think that would be a good idea.”
“Fuck that, I want to see him.”
The FBI man’s eyes flickered. This guy was a pussy. “Detective, remember what I said initially about you being too emotionally involved in this case?”
“Where’s he at?”
Pearson compressed his lips, then said, “At the moment, we’ve got him at the Metropolitan Correction Center.”
Colby wrinkled his brow. “The MCC? He should be at a District lock-up. Murder’s a state charge, not a federal one.”
“In due time,” Pearson said. “But, since the task force was on the scene, and made the arrest, we’re still sorting out the facts. So he’s being held in federal custody right now.”
Federal custody…They were stalling for time. Colby took a deep breath. This banter wasn’t getting him anywhere. He decided to switch tactics.
“Look, I was Dix’s partner for a lot of years. I’m sure there’s some logical explanation for all this—”
“It’s extremely logical,” Pearson said, cutting him off. He held up his fingers as he counted off each point. “One, your ex-partner was caught at the scene. Two, we recovered a weapon that was used to shoot the victim. Three, a GSR test on your ex-partner was positive. We’re running ballistics on the weapon as we speak, but believe it’s the same weapon used to murder Lance Fontaine.” He held up his little finger beside the other three. “And four, Laird’s dying declaration named Dix as his assassin.”
“Dying declaration?”
Pearson nodded. “The 9-1-1 call was recorded.”
Colby felt liked he’d been sucker-punched.
“Plus, there’s the wound pattern on Fontaine’s body,” Pearson said. He held up a finger on his other hand. “Whoever shot him, obviously had a grudge against him.”
“How do you know that?”
“One of the first shots was to the man’s behind,” Pearson said, pursing his lips.
Colby frowned. Was this guy so much of a pansy he couldn’t say, “ass?”
Pearson held his gaze for a moment more, dropped his hands, and assumed a thoughtful expression.
“Of course,” the FBI man said, “I might consider allowing you to speak with him.” He ended the sentence with a bit of an inflection and brought his fingers up to caress his chin.
Colby didn’t like the sound of this.
“You and he were close?” Pearson asked.
“We were partners.”
Pearson nodded. “Good. Then it should be clear to you that it would be in Dix’s interest to make a clean breast of things.”
“In other words, get him to confess?”
Pearson’s lips twisted into a smile. “Do you think you could obtain a confession from him? It would save a lot of man hours. We’d also like to know the extent of his involvement with Laird.”
“What do you mean?”
“We have to consider the possibility that Dix may have been involved in the copycat homicides.” Pearson canted his head. “As I said, that’s going to take a lot of man hours. You could speed things up for us.”
Colby bit his tongue, suppressing the rage he felt. How could this federal idiot sit there and suggest Colby would use his friendship with Dix to stab him in the back? But before he could say anything, a voice came from in back of him: “Give me a shot at Dix. I’ll bust his ass and get him to come clean.”
Bosworth.
Colby turned and saw the big man leaning against the door jamb. He stood and turned around. “Yeah, I’ll bet you would. You’re great at stabbing people in the back and kicking them when they’re down, ain’t ya?”
Bosworth’s mouth twisted into a scowl. “Hey, fuck you, asshole.” “You ain’t fit to carry Dix’s jockstrap.”
“Like I said, I calls ’em as I sees ’em.” Bosworth straightened up and balled his fists. “Why? You wanna do something about it, old man?”
Old man?
That was it. Colby stepped toward the big cop just as he threw a looping overhand right. Slipping the punch, Colby moved in with an uppercut aimed for point of Bosworth’s chin, but the big man ducked his head at the last second and Colby’s fist smacked into the nose area instead, sending a crimson spray all over the frosted glass window of Special Agent Pearson’s nicely monogrammed door.
Colby smiled at the memory of Bosworth twisting drunkenly as he sagged to the floor holding his bloody schnoz.
“Rog,” Leslie asked “What’s going on?”
He looked up. She had a worried expression on her face. He held his hand toward the chair across from him. “Sit down and I’ll tell you.”
Matthew felt like things were getting back on track. He was in a race against time, but as long as he could stay one step ahead, he’d be all right. With the Corvette now safely stashed in the storage facility, ready for a quick getaway, and the Blem tied up, sedated and sleeping blissfully in the cheap motel room he’d rented, it was time to address the next pressing issue: getting some food. He’d used the Kirby card again, renting a very non-descript van to carry out the final phases of his mission. It was something he could drive virtually everywhere, and no one would be suspicious. Plus, with the large tarps and sleeping bags he’d purchased, he could take the trussed-up, gagged Blem with him as needed. Grudgingly, he realized he should probably get some food and drink for the creature, too. Maybe a carryout from the restaurant he was pulling into.
It was a small place located in the corner of a strip-mall. He went inside, sat at the U-shaped counter, and ordered a
standard breakfast of eggs, bacon, and toast. The waitress, a middle-aged bimbo with the most artificial red hair that he’d ever seen, had the audacity to smile at him as she filled his coffee cup.
Matthew smiled back, thinking just how nice it would be to watch her tongue loll as he strangled the bitch. Then he noticed the moron sitting across from him staring. Matthew returned the man’s stare, giving him a steely look. The guy, who looked to be in his sixties, recoiled slightly, glanced at his paper, then back to Matthew before shrugging and picking up his coffee cup.
“Any more of that good coffee, Rosie?” he asked.
Even his voice sounded intrusive. Matthew allowed himself a brief fantasy of walking over and smashing the old man’s face against the counter until it was reduced to a bloody pulp.
In a perfect world, he thought. Then he caught a glimpse of the newspaper’s headline and froze.
Feeling his throat dry up, he looked around, searching for a discarded paper, or a vending machine.
Nothing.
“Excuse me,” he said to the waitress, “do you have any newspapers?”
Rosie turned to the old coot. “You about finished with that one, Ken? You been reading it all morning.”
Ken grinned, showing a perfect set of dentures. “Sure.” He folded the paper and handed it to her. Rosie snatched it and strolled over to Matthew, saying, “Don’t mind him, honey, he ain’t got no life, except for this place.”
Matthew accepted the paper with a nod and a thanks. He smoothed it out on the counter and glanced at the headline: FREED KILLER AND LAWYER SLAIN. Beneath it were photos of Morgan Laird and Lance Fontaine. Matthew stared at the paper for a long six seconds. It was an old mug shot picture of Morgan.
This can’t be happening, he thought.
When he looked up, the old coot from across the counter smiled and said, “That one fella kinda looks like you, don’t he?”
The GPS location was unmistakable. The Corvette had to be in one of the garage-like storage bins. Knox surveyed the place again. Key card entry only, a sturdy cyclone fence surrounding the facility, and a surveillance camera at the front gate. Not a bad setup. Matthew had chosen well.
Blood Trails Page 20