The Cutaway

by Christina Kovac

  “She broke it off with me,” he said. “That was nearly two months ago now. She had to stay with her husband, because he needed her. He wasn’t well. She thought it better, easier, if we didn’t contact each other. It was to be a clean break. Then one morning she called me out of the blue, asking if we could meet.”

  “That was the Sunday morning before she disappeared?”

  He nodded. “I canceled dinner plans with friends from law school, giving excuses that police tell me sound suspicious. But you have to understand the state I was in. I let myself hope she was coming back. All night I waited for her.”

  It had to be asked. “Did you kill Evelyn?”

  “No,” he said with a catch in his breath, and then louder: “I didn’t kill Evie.”

  His lawyer was watching me in the rearview mirror. When our eyes met, he said, “My client has consented to a paternity test requested by the MPD. This is an absurd waste of time. Even if there is a DNA match, what crime does that prove? Certainly not homicide.”

  “I believe there will be a match,” Ian said quietly.

  Winthrop glanced in the mirror again. “When the results come back, we can expect another round of leaks from our dear friends in blue. We ask that you consider the results within the context of what Ian has told you, and also that you give our side a chance to respond.”

  “Yes, of course,” I said.

  Ian turned in his seat as streetlight flashed across his face, illuminating the high planes of his cheeks and long eyebrows over shadowed eyes. “You believe me, don’t you?” he said.

  “What you’re telling me sounds credible.”

  That seemed to ease him. He settled back into the leather seat. “I keep thinking this part of it, at least, will go away. The longer they waste time trying to charge me, the more likely the real killer will get away with this. I hope the phone recovery helps them.”

  “Evelyn’s phone?” I said, turning to him. “Investigators found it?”

  Ian gazed at me curiously. “No, they have Brad Hartnett’s. He didn’t tell you?”

  I felt completely at sea. “Who?”

  “Your . . . source,” he said, bitterly, and then to Winthrop: “What goes on in his head? I understand protecting the investigation, but this isn’t about her as a member of the press.”

  “So tell her,” Winthrop said.

  He said that Hartnett had left his cell phone in his apartment before he drove off to meet me on the night he was killed. During a search of Hartnett’s apartment, investigators recovered his cell phone and turned it over to the FBI at Quantico, where it was examined by digital forensics. Agents found a spy app called CovertWizard installed on Hartnett’s phone. CovertWizard, already under federal investigation, was known for its ability to turn on phones remotely and record private conversations in violation of federal wiretapping laws.

  “Agents traced the spy app on Hartnett’s phone to an account on a server in suburban Virginia,” Ian went on. “On the account, they found several other phone numbers, also targets. One number was for the phone that Evie carried the night she was killed. It’s unclear who installed the app on her and Hartnett’s phones, as it was registered to an alias and paid for by an offshore account.”

  It was complicated, but I thought I understood: “So agents found a spy app on Hartnett’s phone. This was the same app monitoring Evelyn Carney’s phone. Which is how she was tracked to the bridge, right? Someone followed her phone’s movement, the same way Professor Hartnett was tracked to the grocery store parking lot?”

  “It’s the same suspect, yes. But the professor left his phone at home on the night he was killed. A lucky break for investigators.”

  I nodded.

  “Most likely, the suspect overheard your plans to meet with Hartnett that night,” he said, carefully—too carefully. “That’s how the suspect knew where to find him.”

  That didn’t make sense. “The suspect bugged the phone Brad borrowed from his friend?”

  “No,” he said, gazing at me with a pity that unnerved me.

  My mouth went dry. “They found my cell phone number on the account, didn’t they?”

  “Michael Ledger should have warned you.” He paused and gave me a grim smile. “It appears that Evie’s killer has been monitoring your phone, too.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  THE ESCALADE DROPPED me off in front of my house. I went inside and locked the door, turning the safety bolt. On the entry table was my cell phone that Ian had told me was bugged.

  It was unbelievable. Someone was listening in on my calls—me! I thought about calling the police on a landline, or maybe I could call Michael, and then I stopped myself. Michael already knew and hadn’t told me. Why hadn’t he told me?

  What had Brad Hartnett warned? A conspiracy, he’d said. Justice might be in on it.

  Which had sounded crazy, completely paranoid at the time, beyond the realm of possibilities. Then half an hour later, Brad Hartnett was shot to death. And his killer had tracked him by eavesdropping on my phone.

  All right, no calls to Michael. Hell, I didn’t know who I could trust. All I could think of was—run! But I had no idea who I was running from or where I could go or even if I’d know when I was safe.

  So I picked up the cell phone and sat with it on the hard marble floor, willing myself to be calm. I would figure this out. I was always able to figure things out if I kept a clear head.

  I approached it as I would a news story about anyone other than me. First, I tried to locate the app on the phone. See what information I could find on the registry. Part of me stayed focused, thumbing through the apps list and settings, much as I knew how, as another part of me listened to every creak and groan of the house and the street noises outside the door. After a long frustrating search, I gave up. I needed an expert’s help.

  Meantime, I could figure out how this happened. If there was an app on the phone, it had to have been installed, and if it was installed, someone had to have taken possession of my phone. I thought about the day my phone had gone MIA. It was the same day Evelyn’s body had been recovered.

  I went through the events of that day: calling the station at dawn for a live truck and crew. Seeing Evelyn’s mutilated body, and that crippling panic attack I suffered after. Had I lost the phone then? No, it was in my hip pocket after I’d climbed the ravine to the live truck and called in a script to the station.

  So how about when I changed into the evening gown and drank whiskey in the office with Ben? Or after, when I escorted Michael to the correspondents dinner, and we socialized with dozens of colleagues? I couldn’t see the phone anymore. Had I put the phone in my evening bag? Had someone stolen it from my bag?

  Had Ben taken it? Had Michael?

  Not Ben, no. That I couldn’t believe.

  Michael?

  There were problems with suspecting Michael. For one thing, law enforcement had access to devices more sophisticated than a spy app. If Michael wanted to monitor me, he wouldn’t risk stealing my phone to put an app on it.

  If not Michael, then whom?

  I had a terrifying thought. My phone was always within arm’s reach, so whoever had taken it was someone who’d gotten close, someone I liked and trusted, a part of my inner circle. I let few people that close.

  Who had slipped past my guard?

  ————

  The next morning, I went into the office early. I went through my usual routine, checking the newspapers and television news websites. None of my competitors had anything on the spy app. That was good for us professionally—we weren’t getting beat—but not so good for me personally. Just this once, I wouldn’t mind getting answers from the newspaper.

  I was off to a good start researching spyware when Ben burst into my office, looking like he’d slept in his clothes. Beneath the brim of his ball cap, his eyes were wild. “Where’s your phone?” he said.

  So the news was out. Dammit. I put my finger to my lips to shush him and plucked the phone fro
m my satchel and carried it to the newsroom, where I left it next to some noisy scanners.

  When I returned, Ben was sitting on my sofa, scowling at me. “My source at MPD wanted me to warn you about your phone. It appears you already know.”

  “I found out late last night.” I told him everything. How Ian got the information from his friends at the FBI, that the digital forensic guys tracked the app to a server that hid the user’s true identity, but that agents were also nearly certain it was the same user who’d tracked Evelyn and Brad Hartnett. “At first, this seemed . . . worrisome.”

  “Being stalked worried you?” he said dryly.

  “Well, okay, it scared me. But now that I’ve thought about it, the app could be useful. You know, if we can figure out how to track it back to the suspect.”

  Ben was staring at me, slack-jawed, as if I’d lost my mind.

  Not exactly the response I had hoped for.

  “Admittedly, it’s a little out of the box,” I said. “Think about it. The app is a piece of evidence, like a fingerprint. Now we find who it belongs to.”

  “Are you insane?” he said, springing up from the sofa. He began pacing. “You just said this suspect probably killed two people. What if this guy isn’t just curious about what people are telling you? Have you thought of that? You could get hurt . . . or worse.”

  “Of course I’ve thought of it.” But I’d also thought of Brad Hartnett as he’d been in the front seat of the Pathfinder. He’d been my source, and he’d been killed bringing information to me. It’d been my duty to protect him, and I’d failed.

  I had to try to use the app. Shouldn’t I at least try? “I’m open to suggestions about how to minimize the risk.”

  “My suggestion?” he said. “Throw the damn phone into the Potomac.”

  “No, Ben, think about it. Wouldn’t it be satisfying to catch the killer using the phone he bugged? Then we point a TV camera into whatever hellhole he’s hiding in and his face would be everywhere. Then he’s on the run, not me.”

  “Worst idea I’ve ever heard,” he said, but I could tell he was thinking about it. I gave him the time he needed. Finally, his shoulder moved in that impatient way of his, and he frowned, saying, “You have to carry a burner phone, in case you need to talk to me or call for help. That’s nonnegotiable.”

  “So you’ll help?”

  “What a question. You know I will,” he said. “First things first, let’s have Isaiah take a look at your phone.”

  I was shaking my head. “The less people who know, the better. Besides, Isaiah is already stressed about Mellay and the layoffs, and he’s not particularly supportive of me working this story. The last thing he needs is one more thing to worry about.”

  His eyes narrowed. “In other words, you know he’ll try to talk you out of this harebrained idea?”

  “He won’t succeed,” I said. “So why argue about it?”

  Ben reached into his pocket and pulled out the pocketknife that had been a gift from his father and that he carried with him always. He gazed fondly at it, caressing the worn ivory handle, and then held it out to me.

  “This is more good luck charm than anything else,” he said. “A weapon of last resort.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  IT’S EASY TO keep your game face on when you’re surrounded by friends and coworkers and a team of security guards. The television station was a safe place, where I felt invulnerable, free. But driving to my empty house was altogether different. My anxiety grew with each block. I turned into my neighborhood and slowed as I went past the cathedral. The red light in its tower was blinking over me like a weary eye.

  I circled my block, looking for a parking space. On the second pass, I noticed the car. It was a clunker, boxy-brown 1990s sedan, parked in front of my neighbor’s house. My headlights flashed across the rear window, showing someone in the driver’s seat. The car had no lights on, no engine running, and it was parked facing my house—the perfect vantage point. Exactly where I’d park for a stakeout.

  Was someone staking out my house?

  As I drove past, I sank a little in my seat, which was silly. If someone had my address, they probably got the make of my car, too. At the end of the block I swung the car against the curb under the stop sign. It was an illegal spot, too close to the intersection, but made for an easy getaway. I killed the lights and sat with the engine running, my knuckles white against the steering wheel, working up the nerve to walk past the clunker to my house.

  There was an old trick I’d learned from bouncing between foster homes: act like you feared nothing, and the fear would ease. I reached under the seat for the heavy Maglite. Its weight and the texture of its barrel felt good in my hand. Fear nothing, I told myself again, and climbed out of the car.

  Halfway to my front door, headlights came on and flooded the street. I was caught in the light, blinded for an awful moment before I ran. An engine revved and the light slid away as the clunker made a u turn and sped off.

  It wasn’t until I was behind the locked door in my house that I realized: the license plate. Goddamn it all to hell, I ran instead of getting the tag numbers. Isaiah could have used them to get the owner’s name. We could have known the identity of the stalker, now, tonight.

  How could I be so goddamn stupid?

  Maybe it was all too much. The murder of my source. The bugged phone. The stakeout of my house. Maybe I couldn’t handle this alone. Maybe I should call Ben. He’d know what to do. Ben would help me. And then I caught my reflection in the mirror beside the door.

  My lips were bloodless, and my skin pale as death. It was the scared little woman face that mocked everything I’d worked for. The face of a woman too frightened to break news stories, who let other people take her risks, the real journalists who were no less vulnerable to bullets or blackjacks or stalking but who had somehow found the courage to carry out a simple plan. I had nothing but disdain for this face. I dropped the bugged phone on the table and raced up the stairs two at a time.

  In my bedroom, I pulled off my dark suit and tossed it onto the bed before changing into my old American U sweatshirt and a pair of nylon running pants. My tangled hair got swept back in a tight ponytail. I went to the bathroom sink and scrubbed my skin until the blood was back in my face. That was a start. Not such a scared rabbit now.

  I thought of Paige Linden, how she’d been that first night I met her, decisive, indomitable, prepared for whatever the world threw at her. She’d moved like an athlete—if an injured one. Something about her shoulder during a training session. For self-defense, she’d said. My mind seized on the idea. Paige Linden would have known what to do tonight. She would have stood her ground and gotten that goddamn license plate number. She would have kept her wits about her. Why couldn’t I be more like Paige Linden?

  From downstairs, I retrieved the burner phone that Ben had gotten me and placed a call to Paige to find out where she trained. She didn’t pick up.

  What had she told me about the gym? Not its name, but that it was across town, somewhere off of Georgia Avenue. There were listings for several gyms fitting that description, and I called them all, dropping Paige’s name as a reference. During the last call, a gruff-sounding trainer turned friendly and asked how Paige was. He offered an introductory class.

  “Can you teach me to kick ass? That’s what I really need.”

  The guy laughed. “You know it. Kicking ass is what we do.”

  “Sign me up.”

  ————

  The gym was in an old warehouse near the Fourth District police station. It had a reception area that was clean but utilitarian with folding chairs and an old-fashioned water fountain that hummed. Dozens of trophies were lined in a glass case. A young woman behind the counter glanced up from her Essence magazine. When I told her I was looking for Leroy, she gave me the once-over. “You the police?”

  That made me laugh. “No, a prospective student.”

  She smiled widely and asked, “Why didn’t you
say so?” and set her open magazine flat on the counter before she went to the door. She curled her fingers that had long red nails like talons and punched a button with her knuckle. The door clicked open.

  This gym was for real. No warmed hand towels or juice bars or fancy cardio machines with LCD monitors. This was for serious athletes—punching bags and pull-up bars and thick mats for throw downs and free weights that ran the length of a wall. A boxing ring was in the middle of it all. Sweat smells competed with lemon cleaner and oiled leather. Not a bad mix, surprisingly. Deep male laughter rose and fell amid the trash talking, and coursing through the laughter, the percussive bump, bada, bump, bada of go-go pumping out of speakers.

  The receptionist cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted “Leroy” toward a group of men. A clean-shaven, fifty-something man of carved muscle separated from the others and approached us with a grin. A diamond stud winked in his ear.

  “You a friend of my girl’s?” he said in a thick Gulf accent. He told me any friend of Paige’s gets a free session with him. “We’re all so proud of Paige, coming up like she did. Her daddy and me, we go way back. Since she was no bigger than a minute.”

  How this friendly man knew Paige’s family, he didn’t say, nor could I get a word in edgewise. Leroy was on a roll about his Paige. “I haven’t seen her since I don’t know when. Got to be months. Guess she’s getting ready for her politics. Always said she’d run the world, and you best believe what Paige says, she’ll do. How’s she been anyway?”

  That confused me. “You didn’t see her last week? Are we talking about the same Paige Linden? Blond hair, athletic, couple of inches taller than I am?”

  “That’s my girl, yeah.”

  I glanced around the gym, wondering if I’d come to the wrong place after all. “But she trains here regularly, right? Well, not this week. Not since she was injured—when was it, last Tuesday?”

  “Paige hurt herself?”

  She’d told me about it that first night I’d met her, when she held out my coffee, barely able to lift her arm. Slowly, trying to remember the details, I said: “She’d been sparring at the gym—this one, I thought—and took a hard jab to the shoulder. Said she’d been distracted with worry about a friend.”