by Jane Gorman
“Now I know your secret, what will you do?” Adam asked.
The question jolted McFellan out of his complacency, as Adam knew it would. “You know nothing, got it? This has nothing to do with your investigation. And you have no proof.” He ran a hand over his hair as he regained his composure. “You can’t beat me in this game, Detective, I’ve been playing it far too long.”
“If anyone found out that you’re behind that blog, you’d lose all your connections. No one would talk to you then. All that power you’ve accumulated.”
They had reached the halfway point around the pool. Third Street was a few steps straight ahead, Independence Avenue to the south.
“What do you think is going to happen next, Detective?” McFellan smiled at him. “Do you think I’m going to join you back at police headquarters?” He laughed out loud as he spoke. “Make a statement? Share everything I know?” He shook his head.
“Yeah, something like that.” Adam didn’t smile back.
McFellan put his hands up to straighten his tie, adjust the handkerchief peeking out of his pocket. “No, Detective, I don’t think so. You have no jurisdiction here. Not really.” He raised an eyebrow at Adam as he spoke, grinning again. “In fact, I’m going to walk away.”
McFellan smiled and waved his hand to indicate the street to their south.
“Damn,” Adam swore under his breath as he realized his own impotence. He had no real authority here. He couldn’t arrest McFellan. And no way he was going to bring McFellan in by force, or punch out another witness. Or suspect.
McFellan saw Adam’s indecision. He turned toward Independence Avenue.
30
Crowds surged on the dimly lit streets of Adams Morgan. They crawled along the sidewalk, moving in and out of doors that lined the street. Doors that led to small bars that could hold only a hundred or so people. Stores selling beads, bandanas, and incense. Restaurants that were nothing more than a counter at the front window, selling kebabs, fried chicken, pizza. Each venue drawing people in, then pushing them back out into the street.
People laughed, talked, called to each other. Waves of music blaring from within the buildings merged with each other, creating a raucous blend of rhythm, voice, and instrument.
A fistfight broke out, someone got pushed up against a pockmarked wall. The crowd closed in. A few minutes later, a winner emerged triumphant. The crowd moved on to replay the scene on the next block.
No one seemed to care about the black SUV parked along the curb, tucked behind an old blue van and in front of a silver Mercedes.
Farther up the street, Adam could see another similar SUV, which he knew held two more agents. A third team stood in a dark doorway that led to apartments above one of the bars, smoking.
“Business is good, looks like.” Liu used his chin to gesture toward the tall African leaning against a graffiti covered wall.
As they watched, a young man approached the dealer, hands in the pockets of his leather jacket. They stood close together, the African looming over the shorter man, but even through the lines of people passing them by, it was clear that something passed between their hands. With a quick glance up and down the street, the younger man sauntered away, hands back in his pockets.
Fitzpatrick sat behind the wheel, his eyes peeled on the street around them. Liu glanced at Adam and Ramona in the back seat, then turned back to the road in front of him.
Adam made eye contact with Ramona, but kept his mouth shut. Did she share the FBI’s focus on the drug dealer, or was she as worried as he was about McFellan? About Towne? About what was really behind Jay’s murder and the time they might be wasting sitting here?
She nodded without speaking. Both of them knew perfectly well that though they had been invited by Hennessy to join this operation, they weren’t wanted by the agents on the ground. Fitzpatrick had yet to even acknowledge their presence in the back of his car.
Adam knew the FBI was certain the cocaine trade with Cote D’Ivoire was behind the ambassador’s attempted murder. It made sense. Fit with what Sam had learned from his contacts. It just didn’t sit right with him. He was sure there was more to this murder, something they were missing.
This operation wasn’t the time for second-guessing. Or for sharing notes.
“Heads up.” Fitzpatrick’s voice was tight.
Fitzpatrick and Liu turned their attention to the dealer. Ramona’s attention, however, was caught by something down the street. Adam saw her face turn, a sharp intake of breath as her eyes flickered in surprise. She put a hand out to touch the door handle.
“What’s up?” Adam leaned over and whispered in her ear. Liu’s black eyes flickered toward them, then refocused on the dealer.
Ramona gave her head a quick shake and said nothing.
Adam scanned the street around them, trying to figure out what had startled Ramona. MPDC were patrolling the area on foot. A couple of uniforms in bright yellow jackets walked along the yellow line in the middle of the street. They chatted with the drivers of the cars that crawled along the congested roadway, trying to avoid the pedestrians who wandered in and out of the street. They kept an eye on the crowds on the sidewalks, but stayed out of the small scuffles.
Another man had approached the dealer, wearing the same uniform as the rest of the youth in the neighborhood. Dark leather jacket over baggy jeans that hung low, exposing swaths of gray boxer shorts. Unlike the African’s previous clients, this one was an undercover agent. Part of the sting operation set up for this evening. As soon as he gave the signal, the rest of the team would close in.
They just needed to wait for the signal.
Ramona’s hand moved. Adam saw her reach for the door. He put out a hand. To stop her, he supposed. It was too late.
She pushed the door open. Stepped out of the car.
The movement caught the African’s attention.
“Shit.” Liu pushed his door open, Adam right after him.
The agent with the dealer said something and the dealer’s head jerked toward him, then his hand lashed out. The agent fell back against the wall.
“Shit! Shit!” Liu was running across the street, weapon drawn.
Two more agents from the car ahead of them came running from the opposite direction.
Adam started to chase Liu, then noticed Ramona. She stood still, her hand on the roof of the SUV. Her eyes were turned away from the chase, scanning the crowd along the sidewalk.
Adam’s gaze followed hers. People were moving away, fast. Some were shouting, but the calls were lost in the noise of the music, the engines of idling cars and hundreds of voices. Some weren’t even fazed by the sight of the agents closing in.
One man caught Adam’s eye. A young man, hands in his pockets, walking away from the activity. Walking slowly and steadily, head down. Not looking back.
Adam glanced at Ramona. Saw her eyes following the young man. She nodded to herself, then turned to Adam.
“Let’s get in on this.” Her face was grim but excitement shone in her eyes.
Sam clicked another link on his computer. Scrolled through another old article. Then another. He sat up straight, pushing his hands into the small of his back, then leaned forward again, clicking another link.
Thirty minutes later, he reached his hand out to adjust the desk lamp, shifting the yellow beam of light away from his eyes. He sat back in his chair, rubbing his hands over his eyes. This was getting him nowhere. He could hear his wife downstairs in the kitchen, clearing up the dishes from their dinner. He should be down there helping her, he knew. God knows she worked hard enough during the day, she didn’t need to be stuck with all the housework at night.
There had to be something here. Something more.
All the information he could find on the Marshalls was superficial. At best. Stories about their perfect house back in Pennsylvania. Their perfect community at their church that helped them through the loss of their only child. His success at his business. Her success at her campaigns. Eve
n the dirt spilled about her on blogs like Political Dish was weak in comparison to some of the corruption exposed there. No one could be this innocent. There had to be something else.
He was stuck working on this from home, without access to his classified system. After the business with Troy and Harold, he had returned to his office earlier that day. Once again reading through cable after cable, looking for something that would connect Lisa or John Marshall to Ambassador Saint-Amand. Something that would reveal a motive. And the true victim.
He was only halfway through the cables he had pulled up with his search when a shadow fell across his screen.
“What you working on, Burke?”
Sam glanced up at Deputy Assistant Secretary John Waters. “Looking for background information on the Saint-Amand incident, sir.”
Waters leaned forward over Sam’s desk. “You’re not going to find anything helpful there. I thought the Bureau had narrowed it down to a drug deal. Something to do with Saint-Amand’s staff?”
Sam frowned and shook his head. “That’s what they’re thinking, yeah. They’re following that lead now, in fact.”
“You’re not with them?”
Sam grinned as he leaned back in his chair, turning to face his DAS. “I’m a little too old for that kind of action, sir. Searching cables is more my speed.”
Waters laughed. “I guess so. Don’t waste your time on this. If there was anything in our records that gave a clue about this, it would have been flagged by now. Our people in Paris or Abidjan would have let us know.”
“I know, but—”
Waters cut him off. “I said drop it, Burke. If you can’t help with the final stages of the investigation, there’s plenty else you could be working on.”
Sam bit his lip, looking up at the man who didn’t run his department, but wanted to. A man with lofty goals that weren’t matched by his skills. “I’m trying to get more on the Marshalls, sir, not just Saint-Amand.”
Waters frowned. “Why the Marshalls?”
Sam considered his answer carefully. He had no facts, only Adam’s hunch. “I met with him the other day, sir. He was pumping me for information about the investigation.”
Waters shrugged. “Makes sense. Though his wife probably knows more than you do.” Waters grinned at Sam.
“Yes, sir. There was just something about his attitude. I don’t know.” Sam thought about the phone call Marshall was unwilling to answer, the look that had crossed his face when he saw who was calling. “He’s got a secret, I’m sure of it.” He looked up at his DAS. “I’m trying to find out what it is. Part of any investigation, right, digging up secrets?”
“Everyone’s got secrets.” Waters pushed himself off Sam’s desk. “Doesn’t make him a killer. Or a target. Leave the senator and her husband alone, they’ve been through enough.”
Sam was surprised that Waters cared about their privacy. That wasn’t like him. “But, sir—”
Waters cut him off yet again. “I don’t want to have to write the letter to the senator explaining why we’re digging through her private life, you got that?”
Sam nodded. That sounded like the DAS he knew.
Sam rubbed his eyes again, bringing his focus back to the sites open on the screen of his personal computer at home. If the Marshalls had a secret, he wasn’t going to find it here. Anything worth killing over — anything worth getting killed over — wasn’t going to be posted online for anyone to see. He couldn’t justify going back to the office. He thought about the files Adam had found on Jay’s desk. Newspaper clippings, hard copies cut out and saved. Where they couldn’t be rewritten, updated, or faked.
What had Adam said? He closed his eyes to think about their conversation that morning. Noise complaints. Exorbitant hospital charges. A break-in. A hit-and-run. Had Jay found something important? A secret worth keeping?
Sam leaned forward in his seat and pulled up one more website. Pivoting in his chair, he reached for his phone, glancing at his watch as he did so. It was late. Not likely anyone would answer.
Someone picked up after the third ring.
“Sheriff’s Office.” The voice was gruff, tired. As it would be after a long day.
Fitzpatrick turned the corner into the alley, Liu right behind him. The two agents who had been positioned on the street were far ahead, closing in on the dealer as he made a run for it. The two agents from the other SUV squatted next to their injured colleague, sitting him up against the brick wall, bandaging his head, waiting for the ambulance that was on its way.
Adam glanced at Ramona and shook his head. She slowed her pace, falling into step next to him. They both holstered their weapons.
“Look.” Adam jerked his head to the right, and Ramona’s eyes turned in that direction.
A tall, thin black man moved quickly along the sidewalk. Not running, but not walking either. As he moved toward the alley, his hand reached into his jacket.
Adam and Ramona saw the heft of the gun at the same time, the shape of something solid beneath the leather of his jacket. They both tensed, put their hands on their own weapons.
The man turned the corner.
“Damn!” Adam picked up his pace, Ramona right behind him.
Adam was the first to turn the corner after the suspect. He took the turn at a jog, keeping his right arm close against the wall. Thank God for the wall. And thank God he was first, and not Ramona.
The bullet hit his left arm, tearing through the fabric of his jacket and shirtsleeve and through the muscle of his arm. He threw himself back against the wall with a grunt, the weight of his Kevlar vest comforting against his chest. Keeping his back pressed against the wall, he stepped to his right, taking shelter in an old window well, the bricks of the ground-level sill loose beneath his feet.
With the sound of the shot, all hell broke loose. Adam kept his eyes on the shooter, ignoring the sound of screams, running feet, revving engines coming from the main street to his left. He focused on the sound of Ramona’s footsteps, stopping just around the corner.
“Kaminski, talk to me.”
“I’m good, stay where you are.”
“The shooter?”
“I got eyes on him, about twenty feet up, behind a Dumpster.”
“You hit?”
“Just a graze.” Adam grunted as he shifted his weight, tentatively moving his left arm. “I’m fine.” The trickle of blood from his wound was growing. Adam felt dampness running down his arm, saw the drips of blood pooling on the ground below him. He let his arm dangle, keeping his grip on his weapon with his right hand.
“So it’s a standoff.” Adam heard the grin in Ramona’s voice, sensed the absurdity of his situation.
“’Til he moves, I move, or reinforcements arrive.”
“And I’m here now, aren’t I?”
Adam shook his head, but kept his arm firm, his sights clear on the suspect as he heard Ramona move with a quiet “on your left” under her breath.
She slipped into the alley in only three steps, throwing herself behind another Dumpster across the alley from Adam. The shooter caught the movement, took a shot. The bullet went wide, whistling through the air between them. Adam heard the shatter of glass as it hit a storefront across the street.
“Shit.” He risked glancing at Ramona to make sure she was okay, then kept his eyes trained on the gray Dumpster twenty feet up the alley. “We can’t have a shoot-out on a DC street.”
“You think it’d be the first time?” Ramona spoke without moving her jaw, her face tense. Adam heard her take a raspy breath, then she yelled out, “MPDC. Drop your weapon, put your hands in the air.”
The only response came from the street, where the wail of sirens grew louder, then stopped. Footsteps approached from the street.
Ramona tilted her head toward her radio, keeping her eyes and her weapon firmly trained.
“One shooter, about halfway up the alley. I need someone up at the other end.”
Adam couldn’t make out the response, but
Ramona straightened up, both hands clasped around her weapon. She repeated her call. “MPDC. Drop your weapon and stand up.”
They both saw the movement at the same time. The man pushed the Dumpster as he stood, turning to run farther up the alley. Ramona took aim and fired at the suspect. Her bullet dented the Dumpster. Adam lifted his left arm, using it to balance his weapon, and aimed ahead. The ring of the bullet hitting the large, square drainpipe that ran up the side of the building stopped the suspect in his tracks.
“Merde.” The man turned back toward the Dumpster, ducking down again.
“We got him cornered. We’ll have officers coming in from the other direction any second.” Ramona turned to Adam. He half stood, half slumped against the broken glass in the window well, his left arm hanging by his side. “You okay, Kaminski? Hold on there.”
“Just part of the job, right?” He grinned, but didn’t take his eyes off that Dumpster.
Ramona stood taller, her feet apart, eyes on the Dumpster. She glanced in his direction for a second, keeping her weapon pointed. “Why are you here, Kaminski, really?”
“Gotta keep the world safe, right?” He blinked to keep the sweat out of his eyes. The pool of blood at his feet seemed to have grown larger and darker.
“Stay with me, Kaminski. Who are you keeping safe?”
“Julia.” Adam spoke softly, not sure if Ramona could hear him.
“Tell me about Julia.” Ramona’s voice sounded distant. Adam blinked again. Caught the scent of lilies at his students’ funeral, the sound of dirt hitting three plain wooden coffins.
Adam tightened his grip on his gun, pushed himself into the brick wall next to him, willing the rough feel of the brick to bring him back to the present. “She’s my sister. I take care of her. She needs me.”
“I get that, about siblings, I mean. I have a brother.”
“Is that who you saw? On the street earlier?”
“You noticed that, did you?”
“Yeah, not just me. You’ll be getting hell about that false start.” Adam grinned, then his grin faltered. “It’s all about what you need to protect, isn’t it?”