by Jane Gorman
“You got the lock fixed?” he asked.
“I called. I’m waiting for the locksmith now.”
“Are you alone?”
“No, Danny from next door is here with me.”
“Okay, good.” Adam took a deep breath. Danny was hardly the man Adam would turn to for help — unreliable, unemployed — but in a pinch, he would do. At least Julia wasn’t alone. “Listen,” he continued, “I’m gonna call Pete, see if he can come over, take a look around.”
“Isn’t he in homicide, like you? No one was killed here, Adam.” Julia tried to make her voice light, but to Adam her laugh sounded more like a cry.
His little sister was scared. And he was mad.
“Don’t worry about that, he’ll come over. He’ll take care of you.” And find the bastard who did this, he thought to himself as he hung up the phone.
Pete answered on the first ring. Adam had stopped walking and was now standing, his eyes staring, unfocused, at the giant statue of Ulysses S. Grant that loomed over the reflecting pool.
“Hey, partner. How’s DC?” Although he was speaking as fast as always, Pete’s voice was calm, quiet.
Adam took a breath. “I need your help, buddy. It’s Julia.”
“Okay. She need a loan again?” Adam could hear Peter shuffling papers in the background. He must be sitting at his desk, Adam thought, completing the interminable paperwork owed by every homicide detective.
“Her place was broken into last night. While she was sleeping.”
The sounds on Pete’s end stopped and Adam could picture him sitting up in his chair. “What happened, tell me.”
Adam related everything Julia had told him. The broken lock. The stolen and vandalized artwork. The lick.
“She reported this to the District? I haven’t heard anything yet. How valuable were the pieces that were taken?” Adam could hear the scratch of a pen as Pete jotted down the details.
“She’s still piecing together what was taken. She didn’t exactly keep an inventory of all her works and the gifts from artists she knew.”
“I get it…” Pete let his voice draw out, presumably as he jotted the last few notes. “You want me to see who’s on the case?”
Adam exhaled. “Yeah, I do. And I want you to work it.”
“Buddy, I’m here to help. I’ll go over and see her. But you know I can’t take over the case.”
Adam looked up at the sad, green face of Grant, looking with determination out over the reflecting pool, his back to the legislature, his gaze on the city of Washington, DC. “I know what the rules are, partner, but I’m asking you to do this.”
Pete took some time before responding. Adam felt a trickle of sweat pooling in his lower back, and shifted his shoulders, letting the fabric of his shirt rub it away. “Will you watch out for her?” he finally added, when Pete hadn’t responded.
“Of course, partner. No problem. I’ll take care of it.”
“Call me as soon as you know anything more, will you?”
“You got it.” Pete’s voice was calm again, in control.
Adam dropped the phone back into the inner pocket of his jacket, feeling it weigh his jacket down, destroying the line of the suit. He turned to follow Grant’s gaze, looking out over the city. Did he really want to be here, solving the murder of a man he didn’t know? Or should he be back at home, taking care of his sister when she really needed him?
He needed to do what he could, offer what help he could, then get out and get home. He turned back to Constitution Avenue and the nearest bus stop.
22
“Pardon me.” The elegantly dressed man gave a curt nod, but kept walking.
He hated the crowds. Hated having to rub shoulders with people like this. Messy. Ignorant. Tourists.
He walked quickly, pushing his way past slow-moving tour groups and families pulling crying children, quivering with disgust when he accidentally brushed up against one of them.
Another fat man in stained sweatpants rubbed up against him. He shuddered and stepped to his right, barely avoiding tripping up a tour guide who was walking backwards as she led a group toward the rotunda.
He pulled the red silk handkerchief out of his breast pocket and dabbed at his forehead. It was the tourists making him hot. It must be. He stuffed the handkerchief back in his pocket. A second later he pulled it out again, folded it, and placed it back as it should be, its tip protruding from the top of the pocket.
He took another shallow breath. It was too hot in here. Too crowded. Not enough air. Damn these nobodies, breathing his air.
They do nothing, only come and watch the people who have real power. He glared around the room as he strode through it, shifting his eyes if anyone made eye contact.
Not him, of course, he corrected himself, glancing side to side as if nervous someone had heard his thought. No, no, not him. Her. The love of his life was the powerful one, not him. He respected her for that. Loved her for that.
He would never challenge that.
Would he?
He kept a light tattoo going on his pants pocket with his fingers, waiting for the vibration that meant she was ready for him. Ahead, a marble railing ran at waist height, enclosing a circular opening. He stepped forward to look down into it. Tourists below stared back up at him. He grimaced and stepped back.
He had reached his destination. Her designated rendezvous site. There was nothing he could do now but wait for her. He turned, his eyes darting from tourist to artwork to tour guide to child, never landing long enough to make an impression. To make a connection.
Giant oil portraits stared down at him from each wall. No matter which direction he turned, he came face to face with images of dark streets, marble domes, stone and brick cathedrals.
The aged paintings were a mockery of the city that existed today just outside these walls. This was no Roman capital, filled with wise men honestly debating the merits of government, working to improve the lot of the people.
Hah. That’s a laugh.
This city — his city — was a town of dealmakers and deal breakers. Of bankers, lobbyists, and money launderers. The kind of place where you needed someone to watch out for you. Someone who knew how to work the system. Someone powerful.
He pulled the handkerchief out of his pocket again without realizing he was doing it, dabbing at the beads of sweat that pooled once again on his forehead and at the back of his neck.
He had paid an exorbitant price for his silk suit. Its thin, gentle folds lay elegantly against his muscular frame. Silk was beautiful, but still so hot.
Why wasn’t it cooler in here? Didn’t they know the people who were supposed to be here, the ones who belonged, were dressed in suits and ties? Who cares if a stupid tourist gets a little cold?
He folded his handkerchief carefully. Slid it back into place in his pocket.
He wasn’t nervous, he told himself. He had no reason to be.
He had taken steps to save a piece of the past. To hide it. He should have trusted her, trusted his love for her. God knew she was always right. She’d be proud of him when she found out, right? It didn’t hurt to have some memento.
He laughed out loud as he recognized the absurdity of that thought. A passing child stopped in surprise, put his hand up to take his mother’s. He raised a lip in a snarl at the child, and it hurried on.
He shook his head and turned back to the railing. Leaning on it heavily, he saw a bead of sweat fall from his face, launching itself into the space below to land on some hapless tourist.
She was never happy. Especially when he made his own decisions. Took initiative. That’s not what she wanted. He stood. He legs were shaking, his hands gripping the railing as if holding on for dear life.
Surely she’ll be happy this time. The young aide was just a warm-up. He could be next. He had to be safe. They had to be safe.
He saw her approaching out of the corner of his eye. He stood up straight. Took another shallow breath. Smiled and walked toward her.
23
Demarche to USEMB Paris: Immigration … industrial espionage suspected … Update to previous reports on FR ed system …
The subject lines of the cables scrolled across his screen as Sam moved his mouse, scanning the topics for anything that could shed light on this investigation. Something about Saint-Amand would be nice. He grinned to himself as he looked for the cable with the subject, “Alain Guerin Saint-Amand linked to narcotics trafficking.”
Not one he was likely to find.
He kept looking. His phone calls that morning had been equally unhelpful. If Saint-Amand or anyone on his staff were involved in something illegal, they were doing a good job running under the federal radar. He hadn’t checked with the State Department’s Bureau of Intelligence and Research yet, only the law enforcement arm of Diplomatic Security. INR was his next destination, if nothing else turned up.
The chirp of his cell phone brought his mind back to his desk and the office around him. He glanced up at the tiny window as he pulled his phone out of his jacket pocket. The sun hadn’t quite made it around to his little portal yet. Blue sky showed clear through the window, just turning that pale shade of turquoise that meant the sun would be pulling into view within the hour.
“Agent Burke,” he answered his phone.
“Burke, it’s Jackie from the Comms Center. You put out an alert for the name Troy Davis? Well, it came up today.”
The legs of Sam’s chair screeched against the floor as he stood with force.
Communications technology was still a problem in law enforcement, particularly when it came to federal and local law enforcement agencies sharing information. The problem wasn’t the will, it was the technology. To address the problem quickly and cheaply, Sam had simply requisitioned a DC police radio, set up in State’s Communication Center. It was a standard practice whenever DS had to work with a local force.
And as he always did whenever his comms was tracking DC police calls, he asked for an alert if any particular names came up. Some because they were wanted. Others because he wanted to keep an eye out for them. Like Troy.
“What’s the context?”
“Suspect one of three… chase still underway for other two…” Jackie read off the incoming message, her voice calm. “Probable drug bust.” Her voice changed, and Sam knew that this time she was speaking to him in her own words. “Looks like they got the guy, now they’re trying to grab his friends. Anacostia. Twenty-fifth and Wagner southeast. You interested in this guy?”
“It’s personal, Jackie, thanks for the call.” Sam was packing up even as he got off the phone with Jackie, thanking her for the heads-up. He held his breath and counted the seconds as the computer slowly shut down. As he pulled out the hard drive. Spun the combination lock on the filing cabinet.
No way he was going to let Howard’s boy down, not without at least trying to help. Not after everything Howard had done for him.
Not willing to wait for an elevator, he took the stairs down to the underground parking garage three at a time, almost tripping as he turned the last corner. The slam of the door reverberated against the concrete walls as he threw himself into it, out into the vehicle pool parking area.
“Josh, need a car now,” he shouted the greeting, checking his watch. Four minutes since Jackie had called. They’d already had Troy in custody at that point. It wouldn’t take them long to book him, and then there’d be nothing he could do to help.
“You got it boss, number 10 is fueled up and ready to go.”
He held his hands up for the keys, but instead of tossing them, Josh jogged over. “Need to sign for it, you know that.”
“Yeah, whatever.” Sam scrawled an illegible signature across the bottom of the page and grabbed the keys.
He knew better than to race out of the State garage with tires squealing, rubber burning. He resisted the urge to punch the gas, guiding the car swiftly but carefully through the short maze of the garage out to the C Street entrance. Fingers tapping on the wheel as he waited for the security check. Holding his breath as the security gates lowered into the ground, moving at their usual glacial speed.
Troy was in trouble, that much was clear. He knew Troy was a good kid. He also knew the boy had problems. Knew Ramona and Harold were kidding themselves, blind to Troy’s attitude. His hostility. His anger.
That’s why he had given Comms Troy’s name. Every time he had worked a case with MPDC over the past couple of years, he had given them Troy’s name, in case it came in over the radio. In case Troy ran up against the MPDC. Because when that happened, Sam wanted to be there. To help. If he wasn’t too late.
He checked the clock on the dash. Six minutes since he’d got the call from Jackie. He needed to get to Troy while there was still time for him to intervene.
He hit the gas.
Adam shut his eyes, frowning. He couldn’t get the picture out of his head of someone evil in Julia’s apartment while she slept. When he opened his eyes again, Ramona was watching him. He didn’t want to bring her in to his troubles. “So tell me how it went this morning at the ambassador’s residence.”
“Hennessy’s confirmed everything Senator Marshall told you about Ambassador Saint-Amand,” Ramona started. “He’s a big player back in Paris, apparently. Pushing hard for tougher immigration laws and tougher drug laws.”
“And not making any friends in the process, I assume.”
Ramona nodded her agreement. “Is that what’s bugging you? The ambassador’s political position?”
Adam tightened his lips and shook his head. “Don’t worry about me, focus on the job at hand.”
Ramona’s brow furrowed but she said nothing.
The waiting room at Barton McFellan looked the same as it had the day before. Same plush gray rug, same orange accents on the doors and chairs. Same ghastly art on the walls. Adam thought of Julia and frowned.
Ramona checked the clock on the wall. “How long does it take her to get here?” she mumbled.
“Got here fast enough last time.” Adam smiled, remembering the lawyer’s anger at them for talking to her client without her. Apparently, McFellan wasn’t making the same mistake again today. They were waiting until the lawyer arrived.
“Jay may have been involved in drugs in some way. Probably was. I don’t see the connection to the ambassador — or his staff,” Adam thought out loud.
Ramona picked up the thread of his thought. “He was the type to grab opportunities as they presented themselves. Maybe somehow, in Senator Marshall’s dealings with the ambassador, Jay picked up a connection he could work.”
“Only if the ambassador’s crooked, and a complete hypocrite.”
Ramona raised an eyebrow and gave Adam a look he couldn’t argue with. “Point taken.” He smiled. “So Jay gets his drug connection from the ambassador’s connection. Now he’s got his own link to the stuff the moment it hits the street. If he was working as a low-level middle man, he’d be raking it in.”
Ramona’s face darkened, her fingers beating out a fast rhythm on the arm of her chair. Adam wondered what she was getting so angry about.
“Then who shot him?” Ramona raised her hands in a gesture of despair. “The ambassador, because he didn’t like Jay profiting off his own connections?”
“Or because Jay was blackmailing him,” Adam pointed out. “We know Jay liked that particular revenue stream.”
“Doesn’t make sense.” Ramona shook her head. “Saint-Amand was on the driveway with him. He couldn’t be the shooter.” She stopped, her head to one side. “Unless he paid one of his staff to do it.” She shook her head in frustration. “Then why was he so eager to be helpful? He invited you to that cocktail party, encouraged you to be part of the investigation, didn’t complain when you interviewed his staff.”
“That’s a good question. The staff certainly had access that morning. Beth. Or Elise.” Adam looked at Ramona. “You spoke with them this morning, do you think that’s possible?”
Ramona
thought about it, examining the piece of art on the far wall, then shook her head. “No, I don’t. I don’t know why, it doesn’t sit right with me.”
“No, me either.” Adam nodded. “If someone from that house is involved, there’s gotta be something else, something we’re missing.”
The double glass door at the end of the room opened, and the young assistant who had tried to put them off yesterday came into the room. As he was about to speak, Ramona’s phone bleeped. She nodded at Adam, held a finger up to the assistant, and turned her back on both of them, her ear to the phone. “Hello?”
Adam turned to the assistant, who stood gripping a leather notebook in front of his chest. His knuckles turned white as he gripped the notebook even tighter, his eyes on Ramona’s retreating back. “Well. I came out here to tell you that Mr. McFellan is ready to see you now. If you’re no longer interested…” He let his words fade away, blinking in irritation.
“Let’s wait ’til my partner gets off the phone, shall we?” Adam asked in a quiet voice, reclaiming his chair. He sat back and crossed his legs, his right ankle lying across his left knee.
“Hmph.” Adam thought the young man’s knuckles would crack open from the strain, but he said nothing else.
Ramona turned back to them as she tucked the phone into her jacket pocket.
“Kaminski.” She gestured with her head.
“Stay here.” Adam held a finger up to the young assistant. “Don’t go anywhere, I’ll be right back.”
He followed Ramona to the other side of the room, where she leaned her head in close to his.
“That was one of Hennessy’s men,” she explained.
“Are they onto something?”
“They think so. They invited us to meet them back at FBI headquarters. They’re planning an activity for this evening.”
Adam nodded, then glanced back at the young man waiting impatiently near the double glass doors. “Look, you go meet up with them. I’ll handle this interview on my own. We just need to find out if Towne really was there that morning. Maybe McFellan will confirm it if he thinks it will get him off the hook.” Adam would take any lead that might get him home faster.