The Survivors

by Robert Palmer

  “How’s that?”

  He was so absorbed he just grunted softly.

  “Have a good night.” I went into my bedroom and shut the door.

  I woke with the first chirps of the birds. Scottie was gone, along with his bicycle. I found a note from him on the kitchen table.

  I had to get going to be at work on time. The drain stopper in your bathroom sink doesn’t work. You’re out of toothpaste, too. I sent you an e-mail—check it out.

  Scottie

  There was a P.S. with a phone number. Under that he’d written: It’s not a direct line so you’ll have to leave a message. Remember, we’re supposed to talk every day!

  I went to my computer in the bedroom to look at the e-mail. There was no subject line and all Scottie’s message said was, “I’ll look for more on this when I get a chance.” More on what? I wondered. Then I saw there was an attachment. I opened it, and pages and pages of text appeared under the heading, “The Business of Politics.” It looked like a political news roundup. I couldn’t tell where it was from, a trade journal maybe. There was also no date. I kept skimming until, almost at the end, I spotted my father’s name. It was only a brief mention:

  The fight over control of Clawson/Oakes Consulting turned nasty last week as Greg Clawson filed suit against John Oakes for breach of their partnership agreement. The dispute centers on Oakes’s work for the Shirley Klanski campaign in the US Senate race in Maryland. Clawson is seeking half a million dollars in damages.

  I asked about my parents’ financial troubles, and Scottie comes up with this. Felix called him an idiot savant. I was beginning to believe he was a lot more than that, at least when it came to finding things out about people.

  My father had gone into business with Clawson a year before he died, so the lawsuit had started later, the last few months he was alive. Half a million dollars to my family wouldn’t have been trouble, it would have been a disaster. We did need to find out more on this.

  I clicked the print command and went to the kitchen to make coffee. When I came back, I saw that the printer hadn’t worked. The power light was off. I clicked the switch and got down to check the cord. It was plugged into the upper socket in the outlet. This was an old building, and some things didn’t work—like that socket. That’s why I always kept the printer plugged into a power strip.

  I checked out the computer and the top of the desk, then the drawers. Everything seemed neat and orderly—pens and paper and clips, the few files I kept there. I made a slow circuit through the kitchen and living room. I ended up in front the row of bookcases. Scottie had said something last night: You’re some kind of neat freak. The books were in perfect alignment, as if they’d been edged into place with a ruler.

  I went back to the bedroom to the phone. Lawyers in Washington usually get a late start on the day, and Tim Regis was no exception. I dialed his home number.

  He knew it was me from the caller ID. “Hey, buddy, what’s up?”

  “Answer a question for me. If, say, the FBI wanted to search my apartment, and I wasn’t home, what would they do?”

  “That’s not a good question to start the day with. You want to tell me what’s going on?”

  “Answer first.”

  “They’d get a warrant and just go in and conduct the search. They’d break the door down if they had to. Then they’d leave a copy of the paperwork taped to the door or some other conspicuous place.”

  “They wouldn’t try to hide the fact they’d been there?”

  “Usually it looks like a train wreck after they’re through. Now tell me what’s happened.”

  “Somebody got into my place yesterday.”

  “Did they take anything?”

  “No, and that’s the creepy part. Every book, every piece of paper, every fork, knife, and spoon, is exactly where it should be. Too perfect.”

  “The first thing you mentioned was the FBI. Has this got something to do with Scott Glass?”

  “I can’t come up with any other reason. He and I were together last night. We took a drive to Damascus to check some things out.”

  “Not a good idea,” Tim muttered. “Obviously whoever broke in was trying to be careful. What do you think they were looking for?”

  “I’m not sure. There’s a lot of information on my computer, and I’m sure they did something with that. They switched the power cords around. Scottie has a big stack of research papers. We had those with us.”

  “Are you going to call the police?” he said.

  “I’ll think about it, but right now I’ve got a session to get to.”

  “The longer you wait, the less help they’ll give you.”

  “I want to think this through before I do anything. If it wasn’t the FBI in here, it was somebody else. I’ve got a few candidates, and I could use your help on that. Could you find out everything you can about Braeder Design Systems? It’s a defense contractor.”

  “I’ve heard of it. Why Braeder?” In the background, I heard computer keys clicking.

  “It’s a name that keeps coming up. Focus on twenty-five years ago, anything out of the ordinary.”

  “It’s a big company. I’ll do what I can.” The keys stopped clicking. “From what I see here, twenty-five years ago is about the time Braeder made its first public stock offering.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Just when everybody started to get rich.”

  NINETEEN

  When I got to the office, the lights were on in the file alcove behind Tori’s desk. “Morning Tori,” I called.

  “You’re in big trouble,” she said.

  She was on her knees, surrounded by stacks of files. “I told you to stay out of here.”

  I put my hands up. “Not guilty, sheriff.”

  “I suppose these files moved themselves.”

  “Something was moved?”

  “Cal, you’re not going to weasel out—”

  I took her hand and led her out to her chair. “Somebody got into my apartment last night. They didn’t take anything, but they went through the whole place looking for something. Tell me what you found here.”

  She blinked a few times with shock. “I noticed the insurance forms first. I always keep them in the middle of the basket, but they were shoved into the corner. Then I checked the cabinets. I can’t find anything missing, but some of the files have been moved around.”

  “Which ones?”

  “I’ll show you.”

  We went back to the alcove. “These, and these.” She pointed into the two cabinets that held patient files. “I haven’t been through the rest yet.”

  “G and R,” I said. “Maybe they were looking for Glass and Russo?”

  She shrugged. Her eyes were still bigger than normal.

  I held her by the shoulders. “It’s going to be OK. I want you to go through all of this. Make a list of everything you think was touched.”

  The phone rang, and she gave a panicky look toward her desk. “I can handle the phone,” I said. “You take care of this.”

  “Cal, I’m the only one with keys to these cabinets. I was sure I locked up.”

  “I’m sure you did,” I said, and I hurried to grab the phone.

  “Cal Henderson.”

  “This is Jamie Weston. What the hell did you do last night?”

  My first impulse was to hang up. Right then, I didn’t need anybody yelling at me. But I remembered advice my Aunt Renee always gave: when somebody asks an angry question, give an inappropriately nice answer.

  “My lucky day. Every good-looking woman I talk to is mad at me.”

  “What? Stop doing that.”

  “Doing what?”

  “I don’t know . . . Confusing me.”

  “Why would I want to do that?” That got me a grudging laugh. “Anyway, I was just about to call you.”

  “I hope it was to apologize.”

  “Actually I was going to tell you my apartment was broken into last night. I came to the office this morning a
nd found the same thing here. There doesn’t seem to be anything missing, but somebody’s been through the files and, at least at my apartment, the computer. The only explanation I can think of is that they’re after information about a patient. The way things have been going lately, that points to Scott Glass. I’ve got other things going on, but all of it’s pretty ordinary.”

  “Ah, hell.” The anger was gone from her voice. “We should talk. Are you free?”

  “Right now? Where are you?”

  “DC may be the capital of the free world, but it’s really just a small town. I’m house-sitting for my ex-boyfriend. C Street Northeast. I’m leaving now.”

  “I’ve got a session in thirty minutes.”

  “I’ll be there in ten.”

  She made it in eight and didn’t break a sweat. After stopping to talk with Tori, she came into my office. She was dressed down in a standard-issue blue pantsuit. The jacket on this one was cut so the lump from her gun was more obvious. “Anything gone in here?” she asked.

  “I don’t keep files in this room, but I’m sure the computer was used. I close everything back to the desktop before I leave at night. When I started it up a minute ago, the browser was open.”

  She sat behind the desk. “Do you keep it password protected?”

  “No.”

  She shot me a look.

  “I guess I should.”

  She clicked the mouse a few times and frowned. “The diagnostic shows the CPU in flatline all night. That means it wasn’t turned on. You’re sure about the browser?”

  “Yes.” I checked what she was looking at, some multicolor graph from the operating system. “The sound is switched on. I always leave it muted.”

  She clicked through a few more screens then shut it down. “There’s nothing that shows it was used.”

  “Somebody was in here. I might make a mistake about the computer, but Tori wouldn’t about her files.”

  “I only said there’s no trace in the machine. I’m sure there’s a way that could be rigged, but it would take somebody with a lot of know-how. Do you know anybody like that? A patient or someone who works in the building?”

  “No, but when I first noticed someone had been in my apartment, I thought of you.” I watched for her reaction.

  She easily held my stare. “Think again. If I wanted something from you, I’d just ask. If you refused, I’d get a warrant. Simple as that.”

  “Then how about someone you work with?”

  “At the Bureau? No way, or I’d know about it.”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  “Sure, I—” She caught herself and laughed. “You’re right. But this isn’t our style. The Bureau doesn’t travel on kitten’s paws. This is too slick.” Her face became thoughtful. “But maybe not . . .”

  She went to the window and looked out at the parking lot.

  “What is it?” I said.

  “Maybe not so slick,” she said. “At first, it seems like a high-end job. In and out and leave no trace. But you spotted it at your apartment and your secretary knew as soon as she walked in here. No offense, but neither of you are experts at this sort of thing.”

  “So what are you saying?”

  “What if somebody wanted you to know they’d been here, but they didn’t want to leave hard evidence you could take to the police.”

  “Why would someone do that?”

  “I’ll bet you’ve got information here that could ruin people’s careers, their whole lives. If nothing is actually missing, whoever broke in could have taken copies. You’ve already thought about that, haven’t you?”

  “That’s why I asked Tori to figure out which files were moved, so I’d know who’s at risk. But I’m not going to have any handle on how bad it is until I know who got in here and what they were looking for.”

  “If they just wanted information, they would have taken what they were after and not left a trace. Maybe instead it’s about you. They want to get inside your head, have you worrying about what’s coming next.”

  “Great, and I don’t have a clue who they are. So what should I do?”

  “This is a DC police matter. If you bring them in, they’ll dust for fingerprints, check the locks, run some tests on that computer. If they don’t find evidence of a break-in, and nothing is missing . . .”

  “They’re not likely to do much follow up.”

  “That’s the way I see it. Once you file a police report, everything’s out in the open. Your landlord will have to know, and the other tenants in the building.”

  “And all my patients, not just the few who had their files messed with.”

  “It’s your choice, but I know what I’d do,” she said.

  I went to the sofa, and she sat next to me. Her eyes seemed a colder blue than usual. “I said I needed to talk to you. At five thirty this morning, I had a call from my boss. He was in a real snit, and, let me tell you, you don’t want to be anywhere near him when he’s having a snit. He had a call—even earlier—from the Justice Department, an Assistant Attorney General. The AAG had been contacted by someone at Braeder Design Systems. They want to know why the hell Scott Glass is snooping in their business. And I thought you were going to keep Glass under wraps.”

  “I did. After we talked, I was with him most of the time. No, all of the time.”

  She gave a slow roll of her eyes. “Is there such a thing as a contradiction in psychology, or do you people just toss facts like a salad?”

  “Scott tried to contact a woman named Lois McGuin. She worked for Braeder a long time ago. He phoned her, but she refused to talk to him, just like Russo. That all happened weeks ago.”

  “Then why are the people at Braeder in a huff now?”

  I hung my head. “That would be my fault. I went to see McGuin last night. Scott was with me. He let me talk to her alone, but she saw him. She must have connected the dots.”

  “You promised me—”

  “I promised to keep him away from Russo. McGuin was supposed to be a distraction, to get him thinking about something else.”

  She frowned, trying to process it. Her boss must not have told her any of the particulars. For instance, she didn’t know that, in another lifetime, I’d been Davie Oakes. What a swamp a single lie can lead to.

  I kept a small refrigerator next to the sofa, and I pulled out two bottles of water. I handed one to her and clicked the tops together in a toast. “We tried getting a fresh start and that didn’t take. Let’s try something easier. Just a plain old truce, OK?”

  She stared at me.

  I said, “I told Scott that Russo was going to tell the FBI to leave him alone. That wasn’t enough. Scott was going to keep digging. I figured McGuin was safe. If I could get her to talk to him, it might be all he needed. I was trying to keep my promise to you.”

  Her expression softened. I held my bottle up again, and she cracked the top on hers and took a sip. “Fair enough,” she said. “Now explain to me how this Lois McGuin is connected to Glass and Braeder.”

  I filled her in as briefly as I could.

  “OK,” she said. “I see why Glass wanted to talk to her. But this has really opened up a bushel of trouble. I’ve got a meeting at nine thirty with an executive vice president from Braeder, a man named Markaris.”

  Inside, I gave a curse. She might get the whole story about me in that conversation. But I’d already played my cards. I’d just have to live with that risk as long as I was going to try to protect Scottie.

  She said, “That meeting was set up courtesy of my boss, and I hope to hell he doesn’t join us. Can I promise that no one from Braeder will hear from Scott Glass again?”

  I hesitated. I didn’t want to commit to more than I could deliver.

  “Cal, Braeder isn’t the kind of thing you want to screw around with. For people in the government, Braeder owns the water it walks on, and the scribes who write about it. Nobody is going to get away with putting a wrench in their machinery—no matter how innocent it is.”r />
  “I hear what you’re saying.”

  “Don’t just hear it, do it.”

  We stood up. “One more thing,” I said. “The break-ins here and at my apartment. If the people at Braeder are worried about something, could they have—”

  She waved her hand to cut me off and leaned close. I could smell her soap, lavender and spice. Homey and complex, just like her. “Officially, no comment. Unofficially . . . no comment again. Does that tell you what you need to know?”

  “I think so, yes.”

  “We’re still on for the meeting tomorrow with Glass, right?”

  “Noon. Right here,” I said.

  “Good.”

  Her eyes lingered on me for a few moments before she breezed out.

  TWENTY

  After Weston left, Tori came into my office. She’d been listening to our conversation. “Are you going to do what she says?”

  “You mean not call the police?” I said. “She’s got a good point about that. We wouldn’t get much help from them.”

  “Or maybe she just wants to keep them out of it, and keep you under control.”

  “What good would that do her?”

  “I don’t know, Cal, but you can see it in her. She makes up the rules as she goes along. She’s pure alley cat.”

  I smiled—another of Tori’s animal analogies. “Weston’s smart. Let’s play it her way for now.”

  Tori looked away as her face colored. Could that be jealousy? No, I wasn’t going to start down that path. “Did you find any files missing?”

  “I’m not finished, but so far everything’s there.”

  “Was anything else moved?”

  “Just the G and R patient files.”

  “I’m sorry this happened. I know how much you like everything kept in order.”

  “What if they did take copies of some of the files? Denton Rivlin could go to jail for some of the things he told you. And you’ve never even let me look at Judge Gabriel’s file.”

  “Let’s hope that’s not going to be a problem, OK?”