“Sir?” the court clerk said.
He looked up and gave her what he thought was an ingratiating smile. “Sorry,” he said. He closed the file and handed it back across the counter. The file was labeled on the front in black Magic Marker. Fedder, Carlotta J. vs. Lundgren, David M.
“Dankie…ah, thanks,” he said.
“You’re welcome, sir,” the clerk said. As he was leaving, he noticed the framed needlepoint on the wall behind the counter: When god closes a door, sometimes he opens a window.
“I like your sign,” he said. The clerk looked confused for a moment, then glanced back at the wall. She was smiling as she turned back. “Thanks,” she said. “You have a blessed day, now.”
“You, too.”
The clerk’s office was bustling with people, so DeGroot kept his face impassive as he walked out. His mind was racing, however. A child, he thought. He went after his child. After looking up the name of the lawyer on the card he had found, he had surmised that there was some legal action pending. A few moments with a helpful clerk in the lawyer’s home county had showed him how to look it up in the public records. And it had all been there in the dry archaic language of court filings. A custody dispute, an appeal for a court order after the child had been taken.
So that’s what you were protecting, DeGroot thought. Lundgren had taken a side trip to fetch his daughter, but he didn’t want DeGroot to know about it. Stupid, DeGroot thought. If he’d have just told me…then he reconsidered. If I was him, DeGroot thought with a cold, inward smile, I wouldn’t want me to know I had a child, either. Children were leverage. One had only to apply slight “pressure” to a child to get a parent to do what ever was needed. He had proved it enough times. A subject who had stood up under days of “pressure” without saying a word would start singing like a bird once you brought their child into the room. Often, no more was needed than a threat, which was fine with DeGroot. It was the result that mattered, not the process.
He took the elevator down to street level and stepped out of the building. It was late afternoon, and the big courthouse cast the street into shadow. DeGroot sat down on a concrete planter on the sidewalk and contemplated his next move. He needed Lundgren’s key. Lundgren hadn’t had the key on him. From the tone of the court filings he had just read, it wasn’t likely that he’d given it to the Fedder woman, the child’s mother. He’d probably left it with his buddies, Riggio and Powell. But Lundgren had declined to tell him where they were and DeGroot hadn’t taken enough time to persuade him. Which most likely meant that the child was with them as well. And, of course, so was the key that they held. He needed them both to unlock his future.
So. Find the child, find Riggio and Powell, get the other key. He’d probably have to kill them. They weren’t likely to be cooperative after Lundgren had tipped them off. Once he had the other key he’d have what he needed to finance his long-awaited and, to his mind, richly-deserved retirement. Someplace warm, with a beach. DeGroot had waited a long time for an opportunity like this, and there was no way he was going to just give up now.
He considered the child. She was no threat, and applying “pressure” to her probably wouldn’t have the same effect on Riggio and Powell. Still, one never knew. People got attached. He mentally filed her under the category of things that might be handy later. But how to find her? Unless the police found Lundgren’s body, they were liable to give searching for her a low priority. So far, for all they knew, it was a family squabble. But the lawyer…Ah, the lawyer probably had people looking. He’d try to find out what they knew.
With that thought, and with a plan forming in his mind, DeGroot stood up. It was good to be back on the hunt.
CHAPTER TEN
The last time Marie had talked to an FBI agent, she was being debriefed as a witness. The interrogation had been so exhaustive she wondered how the Bureau acted when they didn’t think you were on the same side. Now she was finding out, and she wasn’t liking it a bit.
“For the last time,” she said. “I work for Tamara Healy. She’s a lawyer. Everything I know is covered under attorney-client privilege. If she gives me the okay, then I’ll be glad—”
“How long have you had that PI license, Ms. Jones?” asked the male FBI agent—was it Rankin or Gerritsen? Marie couldn’t remember.
“Four months,” she said. “Look, do either of you know what time it is? I have to make arrangements for my son.”
They ignored her. “And you’d like to keep that license?” the female agent said.
“Yeah, I would. It’s my job. And I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“Some people might think obstructing a federal investigation—”
“I’m not obstructing anything, damn it!” Marie exploded. She stood up. “I want to help you. There’s a little girl out there who’s still missing, or have you two forgotten that? All I need to do is talk to my client and get her okay—”
“Sit down, Ms. Jones,” the male agent said.
She cocked an eyebrow at him. “Or what? You’re going to get my PI license revoked for standing up out of turn?” She started to walk toward the door. The female agent got in her way. Marie stopped. “Am I under arrest?”
“Why would you be under—”
“Oh, for God’s sake, honey,” Marie said wearily. “Don’t run that game on me. I used to be a cop, remember? I know what you’re up to, because I’ve done it myself. But I’m asking you point-blank. Am I under arrest or not? If I’m not under arrest, then get the hell out of my way. If I’m under arrest, tell me what for and get me a lawyer. I use Scott McCaskill in Fayetteville.”
“I don’t think you quite understand how the landscape has changed since September eleventh,” the male agent said.
Marie turned to look at him. “Oh really?” she said. “Well, Agent Rankin,” she said, taking a guess, “I’m still an American citizen, last I checked.”
“I’m Gerritsen,” he said.
“Sorry. I’m tired,” Marie said as she turned back to Rankin. “So what’s it gonna be, Rankin?” she said. “Am I going home or am I waiting for my lawyer?”
Rankin’s response came out of left field. “Did you know Jack Keller was romantically involved with your client?”
Marie felt like she’d been punched in the stomach. “What the hell are you talking about?” She turned to look at Gerritsen. He was pulling some photographs out of a file folder. He laid them on the table. Marie moved slowly, almost unwillingly, toward the table. There were several eight-by-ten photos spread out there. They showed two people walking down the street, arms around each other. She spotted Keller’s long blond ponytail right away. It was harder for her to make out the other figure because her face was turned away, but the slender form could easily be Carly Fedder’s. The next shot showed them seated in a vehicle. They were kissing.
Marie sank into the chair. She saw Gerritsen shoot a triumphant look toward Rankin. She hated him for that look.
“These are surveillance photos we took the other night,” Rankin said.
“Okay,” Marie said. “You wanted to shake me up, you got your damn wish.” There were tears in her eyes as she looked up. “But I’m still not saying anything until I talk to Tammy Healy. Or my own lawyer.”
“If Jack Keller was involved with Carly Fedder, wouldn’t that give him a plausible motive to kill the other man in her life? The man who had taken her child and caused her so much pain?”
Marie shook her head. She was still numb with shock. “No,” she said. “Jack Keller’s not a murderer.”
“Really?” Gerritsen’s voice was almost, but not quite, a sneer. “Six months ago, Jack Keller forced his way into a hostage situation and nearly killed a suspect in cold blood. Before that, he was involved in a pair of shoot-outs that left Fayetteville looking like downtown Fallujah. He was discharged from the Army after losing his shit and firing on one of our own aircraft. This guy’s no Boy Scout, Ms. Jones.”
“There’s a problem with your theory,”
Marie said. “If Keller killed Lundgren, where’s the little girl?”
“Good question,” Rankin spoke up. “Maybe Keller knows. Maybe that’s why Lundgren was tortured. Maybe Keller took things into his own hands and tried to get it out of him.”
Gerritsen sat down in the seat across from her. “So you don’t want to talk about Carly Fedder,” he said. “Let’s talk about Jack Keller.”
***
You cannot be this stupid, Wilcox,” Keller said. He was seated at the table in one of the interrogation rooms. “Why the hell would I kill Lundgren?”
“Why the hell would you not tell me you were romantically involved with Carly Fedder?” Wilcox shot back.
“What?” Keller said.
“The FBI showed me some very interesting photos a few moments ago. You appeared to be getting pretty friendly with your client.”
“They were following me,” Keller said. “Even before—” He shut up.
“Before what?”
Keller considered for a moment. Then he said, “I saw them at Marie’s…Ms. Jones’s…house the other night. It didn’t occur to me that they were tailing me afterward.”
“Yeah, well,” Wilcox said. “They’ve been taking this very seriously, Keller. So maybe you better start doing the same. What was going on between you and Carly Fedder?”
Keller shook his head. “Nothing. I ran into her in a bar downtown. She was wasted. Drunk off her ass.”
“The bartender says you paid her tab.”
“She’d been drinking for a while. She walked out without paying, and the bartender was making an issue of it. She was getting ready to try to drive home. It wasn’t a good idea. So I gave her a ride.” He sighed. “She made a pass. I turned her down. End of story.”
“Maybe,” Wilcox said. “Maybe not. The FBI still wants to talk to you.”
“So what are you,” Keller snapped, “their errand boy?” The way Wilcox’s face reddened told Keller he’d landed a blow with that one. He considered adding something even more cutting, but pulled back at the last minute. Wilcox had been an ally. He could be again.
“Look,” Keller said. “You know this is bullshit. I know this is bullshit. So how do we convince Heckle and Jekyll in there that it’s bullshit?”
Wilcox sat down in the wooden chair opposite Keller. “You’re on your own there, Keller,” he said. “They don’t…” He shook his head as if reminding himself not to say too much.
“So when do I get to talk to them?” Keller said.
“The agents will be with you as soon as they get done talking to Ms. Jones.”
Keller stood up. “What? Marie’s here?”
Wilcox stood up as well. “Whoa,” he said. “Hold on a minute.”
“Fuck that,” Keller snarled. “Where is she? Are they telling her…” He felt a sick sensation, as if his stomach had just fallen through the floor. “Sure they are. They’re spinning her this same line of bullshit about me and Carly Fedder. Trying to shake her up.” He moved to the door.
Wilcox got up to stop him. Keller’s arm shot out and caught Wilcox in the chest. He slammed backward into the wall. “I swear to God, Wilcox,” Keller said in a low, deadly voice, “if you and those Keystone Cops in there are—”
The door swung open wide. Tamara Healy was standing there, flanked by a uniformed sheriff’s deputy.
“Am I interrupting anything?” she said.
“No,” Keller said. “I was just leaving.”
“Like hell…,” Wilcox began.
“Actually,” Healy said, “he is. Unless you arrest him.”
“He’s a material witness in a federal investigation,” Wilcox said.
Healy regarded him coolly. “And where’s your material witness warrant? Where’s the affidavit?” She waved off his answer. “Don’t bother,” she said. “I know you don’t have one. I, however, have this.” She pulled a document out of the folder. “Habeas corpus writs, signed by Judge Longtry. One for Mr. Keller, one for Ms. Jones.” She handed it to Wilcox. “Mr. Keller and Ms. Jones will be available for deposition at the government’s convenience. They’ll be glad to answer your questions then. Subject, of course, to attorney-client privilege.”
Wilcox took the paper and read it. Healy waited patiently. He handed it back, looking subdued. “Now,” Healy said sweetly, “where can I find Ms. Jones?”
Keller waited in the hall until Healy exited from another interrogation room. Marie was behind her. She didn’t look at Keller. They were followed by the two FBI agents, who looked ready to explode. Healy put one arm around Marie’s shoulders, another around Keller’s. “Now,” she said, “let’s go.” They walked toward the doors of the Sheriff’s Department. “Brace yourselves,” she said in a low voice. “The press is here.”
“Fuck,” Keller muttered.
“Don’t be too pissed off,” Healy said, “They have their uses. It’s part of the reason we were able to get the writ. Longtry hates bad publicity.” They were approaching the glass doors. Keller could see the crowd milling around outside. “Eyes front,” Healy said. “Don’t make eye contact, and for God’s sake don’t say anything.”
Walking through the glass doors was like being suddenly caught in a breaking wave. There was a roar of questions being shouted and a rapid-fire barrage of lights exploding. Keller put his head down and pushed his way through as questions were hurled at him from both sides.
“What do you know about the soldier found dead this morning?”
“Is it true his body was mutilated?”
“Are you a suspect in the murder?”
“Are you free on bail?”
Then, out of the crowd, Keller heard his name being called. “Mr. Keller! Mr. Keller!” He jerked his head up in shock. The crowd parted slightly as reporters in the crush turned to look at the person who seemed to know more than they.
A petite Asian woman with short, perfectly coiffed hair pushed her way through the crowd, trailed by her cameraman.
“Oh, shit,” Marie said.
“Mr. Keller, Grace Tranh from Fox Investigative Reports,” the woman said crisply, sticking out her microphone as the cameraman raised his lens to fix on them. “Can you tell us what your connection is with the murder of the Special Forces soldier found dead this morning?”
The noise of the reporters subsided. No one else had known that the dead man was with Special Forces.
“No comment,” Keller said through clenched teeth. He tried to push forward, but she stood her ground.
“Are you a suspect because of your involvement in the hostage crisis in Wilmington a few months ago?” Tranh persisted.
“No comment,” Keller said again, and pushed past her.
“You know each other?” Tammy Healy asked.
“You could say that,” Keller grunted. They made their way to Healy’s Ford Expedition parked at the curb. Healy took the driver’s seat. Keller turned to Marie. “Front or back?” he asked.
Marie still didn’t look at him. “I don’t care.”
“Marie!”
She looked at him. Her blue eyes were flat and dead.
“Jack,” she said, “I’m not going to talk about this here, okay? Not here, and not now.” She savagely yanked the back door open and got in. Keller climbed into the front. Healy had already started the vehicle and was moving forward, the crowd of reporters parting reluctantly. They pulled onto the highway and headed for Wilmington.
“Thanks for getting us out of there,” Keller said.
“Thank Scott McCaskill,” she said. “He’s the one who knows all that criminal stuff. I’m a family lawyer. I couldn’t figure out how to get a habeas writ if you held a gun to my head. I just came down to deliver it because Scott was tied up.”
“You sure acted like you knew what you were doing,” Keller said. “You learn that from Scott?”
She laughed. “No, Jack, bluffing he learned from me.” She gave a little secret grin. “Among other things.” Keller glanced back at Marie. She was staring vac
antly out the window. He caught Healy glancing at her in the rearview mirror. “How you doing back there, Marie?”
“Fine,” Marie said distantly.
Keller took a deep breath. “Ms. Healy—”
“Tammy,” she said.
“Tammy,” Keller said, “the FBI made a couple of accusations back there, some accusations you need to know about.”
“Anything they can back up?” Healy said calmly.
“Not with anything real, no. But there are a couple of photographs.”
“Jack,” Marie said.
“She needs to know, Marie.”
“I assume this has something to do with the tension between you two.”
“Yeah,” Keller said. “They think I was involved with Carly Fedder.”
She didn’t react. “Go on.”
“I ran into Fedder a few nights ago downtown. She was drunk. I gave her a ride home.”
“Ah.”
“The Feebies were tailing me at the time, or maybe it was her. Anyway, they took a picture of her making a pass at me.” He looked back at Marie. “I turned it down. But the picture—”
“You turned her down?” Healy said.
“Yeah.”
They had pulled up to a stop sign. Healy looked him up and down. Then she grinned again. “No wonder my client’s so pissed off.” She spoke over her shoulder to Marie as they pulled away from the sign. “I know it’s none of my business, hon,” she told Marie, “but I tend to believe him. I heard Carly Fedder the day after. And if there’s one thing I know, it’s the voice of a woman scorned.”
Keller looked back again. Marie was still looking out the window, not responding. They drove like that for a few minutes. Finally, Keller said, “So what do we do now?”
“We don’t do anything,” said Healy. “Lundgren’s dead and the child is missing. It’s a law enforcement matter now. Let them handle it.”
“Those idiots?” Keller said. “They act like they’ve forgotten the kid’s even alive.”
“Jack,” Healy said, “she probably isn’t. And if she’s in the hands of whoever did that to David Lundgren…it might be better if she isn’t.” No one said anything after that. They pulled up in front of the restored Victorian that housed Healy’s offices. As they got out of the car, Keller turned to Marie. “Marie…,” he began.
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