“It’s going to take longer than that,” Carole Ann said quietly, expecting Patty’s eyes to flick open with the rapidity with which they did, before narrowing to slits.
“That means what?” she asked, the West Virginia accent heavy in her voice.
Carole Ann hesitated, choosing her words carefully. It would not do to antagonize Patty Baker, for numerous reasons, the primary one being that Carole Ann didn’t want to do that. “They—and whoever they are—seem to have knowledge about us. I want you to run this yourself, Patty.”
Patty’s lips compressed, creating a thin line of angry disgust. “You’re saying I got a traitor working for me?”
“If it turns out that all these things are connected, that means that somebody may be after us, Patty. After Jake or me or GGI or all of us. We don’t know the ‘who’ or the ‘why’ and Richard Islington is the only apparent link we have. He may not be connected at all, but we need to know that. And we need to protect ourselves.”
“Isn’t that a bit of a reach, C.A.?” Patty’s tone was calm, reasoned, in direct opposition to the tension that practically contorted her body.
Carole Ann nodded. “It is. But that’s all I can do, Patty, is reach. Grasp. What I think is that we know something or somebody thinks we know something that we shouldn’t. That somebody is connected, without a doubt, to OnShore Manufacturing or Seaboard Shipping and Containers, and possibly to Richard Islington. But if Islington is connected, how? And why? And if we have knowledge that threatens somebody, what is it? We need to answer those questions, Patty, and without bringing harm or danger to anybody else. So far, Jake’s been the only overt target, but the fewer people we involve the better. And they—whoever they are—did, after all, warn us against looking for them. And I was inclined to believe them when they said they’d know if we violated their orders.”
A sly grin lifted one corner of Patty’s still-compressed mouth, and she relaxed the hunch of her shoulders and they dropped slightly. “Then they better get ready to come after me ’cause I sure as hell kept me a copy of that OnShore-Seaboard file.”
Carole Ann could not prevent surprise from registering on her face, though she did manage not to speak the words.
“Information is too hard to come by, C.A., and I don’t believe in destroying it. And I don’t like being threatened.”
The Maryland State Police investigators from the Hagerstown Barracks and the investigator from the attorney general’s office were in the conference room with Jake waiting for Carole Ann when she came up from her meeting with Patty, and they exchanged the kind of greetings peculiar to people who have shared some kind of intense experience. The men all told Carole Ann again how much they appreciated her assistance on the night of Grace’s abduction, and how grateful they were that harm had come to none. For her part, Carole Ann expressed appreciation for the courtesy and professionalism extended to her in the midst of a volatile situation.
Then Carole Ann acknowledged the new player in the group—Sandra Cooper, an assistant state’s attorney who was frowning at the display she’d just witnessed: her investigators fraternizing with the other side. Carole Ann always had experienced and therefore expected an adversarial relationship with the police; she had been, after all, a criminal defense attorney, and a good one, to the chagrin of more than a few good cops. But this meeting should not be antagonistic; after all, they were here because the AG’s investigator had called and asked, quite politely, if she and Jake would mind if they came to ask a few questions.
They all were aware of the potential jurisdictional problems involved: Grace’s abduction took place in one Maryland county, and she had been transported to another. OnShore was located in yet a different Maryland county, and Seaboard in still another one. But GGI was headquartered in D.C., where Maryland authorities had no jurisdiction. A lack of willing cooperation would have benefitted none of them, and could easily create problems for GGI that they didn’t need. So why was Sandra Cooper giving attitude?
Everybody else at the table already had a cup of coffee so Carole Ann poured one for herself, as much for the additional time she needed to corral her thoughts, as for the caffeine. She and Jake exchanged a brief, questioning glance as she took a seat at the table, and she wished she could tell him about Patty’s secret harboring of the forbidden file. Instead, she offered a slight lifting of her shoulders and slid her gaze away from his.
Though she knew that protocol dictated yielding control and direction of the meeting to the Marylanders, Carole Ann was feeling too off balance to practice good manners. “Have you been able to identify the John Doe yet?” she asked no one in particular, and waited for one of them to answer. That would tell her a great deal about the status of the investigation: if the lawyer answered, progress had been made toward building a case of some kind; and if the cops responded, they were as much in the dark as were she and Jake.
“Not yet,” the state police lead investigator answered with a disgusted shake of his bristly blond head. “Talk about charred remains. The only reason we ID’ed Childress as quick as we did was because his wife had reported him missing. We got a dental match on him, and then were able to find his jewelry, which his wife had described for us.”
“Were the bodies in the same location?” she asked, and really wanted to know the answer, though she sensed that the lawyer was onto her and was about to put a stop to her questioning.
“Close enough,” the state cop, whose name was Teague and who spoke with a true Eastern Shore accent, answered. “John Doe was just outside the warehouse door, in the parking lot. And Childress was just inside. Like they knew they were in trouble and tried to get away. Can’t tell yet whether they were running into or away from the building.”
Carole Ann was primed to continue her questioning when Sandra Cooper interrupted.
“I want you both to know,” she said, looking from Jake to C.A., “that we appreciate your cooperation. And I know I’m about to piss you both off because I’m going to ask you questions you’ve already answered more than once. But I don’t like reading answers, if you know what I mean?”
And it wasn’t a rhetorical question. Both C.A. and Jake knew very well what she meant. Words were only part of the answer to a question. The other, sometimes most important part, was tone and inflection; body language; eye contact. What did the respondent do with his or her hands? How long did it take to answer the question? Sandra Cooper was a prosecuting attorney. She would know how to conduct an interview.
“So,” she said with a little sigh, “tell me how you came to be involved with OnShore Manufacturing.”
Jake leaned back in his chair and crossed his hands behind his head, elbows splayed out sideways. He had no intention of opening his mouth. C.A. was the company attorney; C.A. would do the talking. Which she did for a quarter of an hour, getting to the point of Patty’s discovery of the phony Social Security number before the assistant attorney general held up a hand to halt the recitation.
“If I may, Miss Gibson, ask a couple of quick questions here? How did OnShore come to you? Was it a referral?”
Carole Ann looked at Jake. “No,” he said. “Childress told me he read about us in Regardie’s and I accepted that since there was a small mention of us in a big spread on local security companies, about a year ago. We got a mention as an up-and-coming firm, based on a string of successful missing persons cases we resolved, and based on our expertise in security consulting.”
She nodded her acceptance of his explanation. “OK. Now if you would, please, tell me again what made you suspicious or wary of the OnShore books?”
C.A. and Jake looked at each other and C.A. seized the lead. “Nothing specific, Miss Cooper. It was more of a feeling we had, you know? After you’ve seen enough double-kept books and cooked books, you develop a nose, I suppose. Warning bells sound and your nose itches or whatever.”
The government lawyer smiled. “So your nose itched. So why didn’t you drop OnShore as a client?”
Carole Ann returned the smile. “We had no reason to drop them. We had no proof of anything. All we could do was take a closer look at them, and at Seaboard, which we did, and that’s when we found the inconsistency with the Social Security number.”
The two lawyers sat smiling at each other and only a pro could detect a difference between them: Jake was a pro and he observed his partner with true admiration. As a cop, he’d known of her legal prowess by reputation, not firsthand experience. Now, he was treated to an up-close demonstration. She was as relaxed in the straight-backed conference table chair as if in the recliner in her living room, legs crossed at the knees, right arm casually draped across the back of the chair. Her smile was relaxed and genuine. She looked as if she could sit that way all day. The young government lawyer could not.
Sandra Cooper’s folded arms supported her as she leaned forward toward Carole Ann, across the conference table. Her thin shoulders were hunched toward her ears and the longer she held her smile in place, the more it resembled a grimace. Suddenly she sat back, as if she’d become aware of her unfortunate body language. She took up a pen and began turning it end over end, apparently unconsciously. “And are you going to tell us about that Social Security number, Miss Gibson?”
“Well, of course,” C.A. replied languidly, and did so, in what seemed to be great detail, though she omitted any reference to Patty Baker and the subterraneans.
“Detective Graham,” Sandra Cooper said, putting a gentle emphasis on “detective,” “when you called to confront OnShore about the Social Security number—”
Jake didn’t let her finish. “I didn’t call to ‘confront’ anybody about anything, and, for the record, I’m not a detective anymore. ‘Mister’ is fine with me. I called to schedule a meeting with both the CEO and the COO, who was never around when I was there. I told Childress that I had something important to discuss with the both of them and I’d only discuss with the both of them. That was on a Thursday. He—Harry Childress—said MacDonald was on the road, due to return on the weekend. We scheduled the meeting for Monday at noon at OnShore.”
“And instead of a meeting that afternoon, you found yourself negotiating for your wife’s safe return.”
Jake shifted in his chair, giving himself time to make the decision not to respond. What began as a cordial exchange of information session was rapidly changing character. It was clear that, at least from Sandra Cooper’s perspective, this was no friendly exchange of information; she was exercising her authority and it was a dumb move, Jake thought, and not a little insulting. After all, playing the lawyer-cop intimidation game against a lawyer and a cop was bound to end more like a chess game than one of checkers.
“Since that last comment obviously wasn’t a question, do you have any further questions, Miss Cooper?” Carole Ann asked, sarcastic emphasis on the second “question,” and everyone at the table took note of the fact that the assistant AG blanched.
“I’d like to see your files on OnShore and Seaboard—”
“That’s it!” Jake jumped to his feet so quickly and so furiously that his chair tipped over behind him. “You all can find your own way out. We’ll cooperate with you people all day long but we don’t have to take your insults for a single second! You know good and goddamn well we don’t have any OnShore or Seaboard files—”
Paolo Petrocelli’s entrance at that moment halted what was promising to be an award-winning Jake Graham performance, and relieved Carole Ann of the responsibility of deciding whether to amend his claim regarding the OnShore-Seaboard files. The Maryland guests, who had visibly tensed at his abrupt shift of demeanor, had no way of knowing that Jake was just getting primed. They should, thought Carole Ann, thank Paolo, who, after carefully closing the door behind him, approached Jake with a quizzical look on his face. He gave his boss a package, which Jake all but snatched from his hand, then turning toward Carole Ann and taking a seat next to her, he leaned in close to whisper, “Trouble in paradise?”
Jake looked at the package he’d just received from Paolo, then tossed it into the center of the conference table. “We had audio and video surveillance on the truck that night. This is what we got.”
Sandra Cooper stood and glared at Jake. “What’s on these tapes?”
“They’re yours. Take ’em home and find out,” Jake snapped at her.
“Why are we just finding out about this surveillance?” Her voice was ice cold and her just-as-frosty gaze traveled from Jake to Teague, her own comrade.
“ ’Cause I just decided to tell you about it, that’s why, and if you got any sense at all, you’ll take it and get outta here before I change my mind. And, lady . . .” he stopped and looked hard at Sandra Cooper, “. . . don’t doubt that I can and will change my mind if you keep pushing me.” He snapped his mouth closed around the last three words and Teague reached out and snagged the package. The he stood up. His partner quickly followed suit, and after a long moment, so did Sandra Cooper and the AG investigator.
“If we have any questions after we check this out,” Teague said, tapping the package he cradled as if it were some fragile thing, “can we call you?”
“You can call her,” Jake snapped, gesturing with his head toward Carole Ann, and without another word he turned and stalked out of the room, not bothering to close the door.
“Paolo,” Carole Ann said to him, but following Jake’s disappearing back with her eyes, and he stood up.
“I’ll show you folks out,” he said, freeing her to follow her partner.
She knocked and, without waiting for a reply, opened the door to his office. He was standing in front of the wall of windows identical to those in her office, looking out but seeing nothing. She crossed the room and stood next to him.
“You outlawyered her ass,” he said after a moment.
“She’s young yet,” Carole Ann replied mildly.
“She’s arrogant!” Jake snarled.
Carole Ann chuckled. “That’s what being young means, isn’t it?”
“Doesn’t mean you can be insulting, goddammit! Doesn’t mean you call somebody a liar!” His hands were fists at his sides and his jaw muscles worked with the effort to control his anger. “She knows full damn well that we don’t have those files and her asking for what we already told her we don’t have is calling us liars and that’s insulting and she’ll apologize before I meet with her again voluntarily. Let her subpoena me.”
She touched his shoulder and left her hand in place long enough to feel him relax. So determined had she been not to lose control over her own emotions in the wake of Grace Graham’s abduction and her involvement in the rescue that she’d never fully considered the impact on Jake. She’d intellectualized his feelings: Of course it had been difficult for him. But it was much more than difficult, she saw. He was close to the breaking point, wracked with guilt and fear and anger—and a palpable vunerability that was painful to observe. She looked at him, into him, and knew that the depth of his emotions in fact exceeded her own. Because he carried the guilt that she did not. He could—and did—blame himself for almost getting his wife killed.
She inhaled deeply. “Jake.”
He looked up at her, the question in his eyes.
“We need to talk.”
He shook his head slowly. “Not if it’s about OnShore we don’t. They’re deleted, remember? From the computer and from our lives.”
Now it was her turn, and the sight of her shaking head caused an upheaval within him that sent a shudder of fear coursing through his body.
“Patty,” he said thickly.
“She doesn’t believe in the destruction of information. It’s too hard to come by, you know?”
“Life’s pretty hard to come by, too,” he spat out with great bitterness. “She’s gonna get somebody killed.”
“You’ve got to stop thinking like that, Jake, and we both have got to dig out of this pit we’re in. I’ve got to stop being so afraid that I’m going to get killed, and you’ve got to stop blaming yours
elf for what happened to Grace. She wasn’t killed by the kidnappers, and I wasn’t killed going to get her and I don’t want to live the rest of my life being afraid that something terrifying will happen to me. And I don’t want you to live the rest of your life cowering—”
“I’m not cowering, goddammit!” he thundered.
“Yes, goddammit, you are!” she flung back at him. “Listen to yourself. You sound more like the Duke of Earl than the Lion King.” Jake was a cat lover and the Duke of Earl was one of his household felines. “You couldn’t even properly cuss out little Miss Cooper. If she’d been one of those grizzly courthouse-square lawyers instead of an office lawyer, she never would have even flinched at your little whine.”
He whipped around and fixed her in an angry stare.
“See what I mean?” she said off-handedly. “You ain’t scaring me, and I know what a mean son of a bitch you are.”
He blew breath out through his teeth and lips, making a sound like air escaping a balloon. “What do you want me to do, C.A.?”
She stood close to him, speaking in a low voice. “I want you to send Grace to her sister’s. I want you to move into Tommy and Valerie’s old place. And I want us to figure out what kind of mess we’re in and why.”
Carole Ann owned two units in the highrise building in the Foggy Bottom section of D.C., on the banks of the Potomac River. Foggy Bottom was just south of Pennsylvania Avenue. George Washington University and Hospital and the Watergate Hotel and Apartment Complex and the Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts and the State Department and the Vietnam Memorial were a few of her near neighbors. She continued to live in the penthouse unit that she’d shared with Al; until they moved to Los Angeles, Tommy and Valerie Griffin had rented the one-bedroom six floors down, which had remained vacant because she hadn’t had the energy to seek new tenants. Jake moved in and immediately began grumbling about how unnatural it was to live off the ground, and so closely surrounded by other people.
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