Mortal Faults

by Michael Prescott

  She decided to head downtown early.

  ***

  It took her ninety minutes of scrolling through microfilm, but she found it.

  An article in the Los Angeles Times, dated July 14, 1991, about Orange County District Attorney John Reynolds. He hadn’t been Jack then. The populist persona appeared shortly afterward, upon his entry into politics.

  The story was a puff piece, a human interest item on the D.A. at home. A tough man on the job, but tender with his kids, ages seven and five. There was a description of Reynolds flying a kite with the children on a windy bluff overlooking the ocean. Daddy at home making pancakes—“griddlecakes,” as he charmingly called them—on Sunday morning before packing the kids off to church. His wife Nora speaking of her hubby’s soft side.

  But not to soften up the D.A. too much, there was also much talk of his stern dedication to the law. Asked if he had any hobbies, he answered, “I like to put people in jail.” It was reported that he said it with a smile.

  Buried in the story was a brief acknowledgment of the real reason for the sudden interest in the life of a district attorney—rumors of a run for political office next year. The Times story was obviously a way of testing the waters, and of putting out a favorable impression of the potential candidate.

  None of which mattered. All that interested Abby was the photograph accompanying the article. The Reynolds clan at home—husband, wife, kids ... and their housekeeper, Rose Moran.

  Rose was in the background of the shot, serving up a plate of hot dogs at a family dinner in the backyard. In the fuzzy black-and-white photo her face was hard to make out. Abby fiddled with the knobs that controlled magnification and focus until the woman was centered in the microfilm reader’s blue crosshairs in blurry close-up. She had a sharp, thin face with narrow lips and close-set eyes.

  Not Andrea Lowry. Even the passage of fifteen years could not turn this pinched bone structure into Andrea’s broader, squarer face.

  There was no way Reynolds could have looked at Andrea Lowry and seen Rose Moran. His story was a lie. As lies went, it was a pretty good one, but not quite good enough.

  Abby hated being lied to. It really frosted her corn flakes.

  She fed a coin into the slot and printed out the page with the photo. Suddenly she was no longer worried about what she would say to Jack Reynolds. She had questions for him.

  And she wanted answers.

  8

  Tess didn’t want to think about Abby. She wanted to forget she’d gotten the phone call last night. She wanted to put the whole thing out of her mind and make it go away.

  This attitude sustained her during the first hour and a half of her workday, which began at eight fifteen with the weekly squad supervisors meeting. Her self-control continued when she returned to her office. It lasted long enough to allow her to dictate two letters and review three reports on ongoing investigations, sign out some mail, and initial a variety of paperwork, transferring it from her in-box to her out-box.

  None of this was very glamorous, nothing at all like a day in the life an FBI agent in the movies, and yet she took a secret thrill in even the more mundane aspects of her job. She never took her position for granted. To be in charge of a regional field office was a major accomplishment for any agent, rarer still for an agent who was not yet forty, and almost unprecedented for an agent lacking a Y chromosome. Only fifteen percent of special agents were female, and before Tess there had been just one female SAC, whose resentful male colleagues had dubbed her Queen Bee.

  There were plenty of agents who looked back fondly on the Hoover years, when women had been permitted in the Bureau only as support staff. Some of those nostalgic types were the old guard, dwindling as they hit the mandatory retirement age of fifty-seven, but most were too young to remember Hoover as anything other than an unsmiling face in one of the official portraits that hung in FBI offices everywhere. Still, they kept his traditions alive, including the casual, almost jocular misogyny that had been part of the Bureau’s culture from the start.

  In her days as a street agent, Tess had heard herself referred to as a skirt, a split tail, and—her personal favorite—a breast fed. She tried not to take offense. A certain amount of ribbing and rough talk was normal in law enforcement. In theory the Office of Professional Responsibility could be summoned to investigate sexually derogatory comments, but the policy was rarely enforced. No agent, female or otherwise, wanted to be known as a troublemaker who couldn’t take a joke—not in an institution that valued loyalty to the team above almost any other virtue. Anyway, she was an SAC now, at one of the country’s larger field offices, and nobody called her a split tail these days. At least, not to her face.

  Her office was large and well appointed, with the customary leather chairs and matching leather sofa, the properly intimidating desk with an American flag beside it, and a large bookcase stocked with reference volumes and the Bureau’s Manual of Rules and Regulations, known as the Big Manual; but the walls were curiously bare. Tess had eschewed the collection of photos known as an I-love-me wall, in which highlights of an agent’s career were illustrated for the benefit of visitors. Handshakes with the director or the president usually got the best display.

  Tess had shaken her share of hands and had the photos to prove it, but they were in a cardboard box in a closet at home, not demanding attention on her wall. The only photos she had put up were a couple of cityscapes she liked—Miami and Phoenix, two cities where she’d been assigned earlier in her career, and Denver itself. And there was a photo of Hoover, of course. Not to display J. Edgar’s picture would be the ultimate act of sedition.

  At nine forty-five the willpower that had carried her through her morning routine finally failed. There was no way around it. She had to know what Abby had gotten mixed up in. If there was a federal connection, Abby might come to the attention of the Bureau and be called in for questioning. Someone would link her to the Rain Man case. The truth would come out. Tess’s superiors would learn that for the past year and a half she had been covering up the participation of a civilian in a federal law enforcement action. And not just any civilian. Abby wasn’t some FBI groupie, she was an unlicensed private investigator, very nearly a vigilante, exactly the sort of person who should have no input into an official investigation. The repercussions would almost certainly prove fatal to Tess’s career.

  Switching on her desktop computer, she used the Bureau’s secure intranet to connect with the mainframe in the Hoover Building in Washington, then logged onto the federal internal computer system. The FICS was a database containing the details of every FBI investigation, while affording access to the records of other federal law enforcement agencies as well. Through the system she accessed the U.S. Marshals Service and ran a keyword search on “Andrea Lowry.”

  No hits. No Andrea Lowry was listed in the WITSEC program as a real name or an alias.

  She returned to the Bureau’s own database and repeated the search. Nothing there, either. The FBI had never investigated any case involving Andrea Lowry—or if they had, the case was too recent to have been entered into the system.

  So that was that. She had kept her promise, and it had cost her nothing. She could truthfully tell Abby that Andrea Lowry, whoever she was, had not reinvented herself with the help of the federal government.

  Part of her, oddly, was disappointed. She really had wanted to help Abby. Though it was true that they’d each come to the other’s rescue in Los Angeles, Abby had taken far greater risks on Tess’s behalf.

  But if WITSEC was a dead end, there was nothing she could do. She would call Abby later, when she was safely away from the office, and give her the news.

  She had settled back to work when her intercom buzzed with word that Assistant Director Michaelson was on the line.

  Michaelson ran the L.A. field office. Tess had worked with him twice—first during the Mobius case and more recently on the Rain Man. There weren’t too many people in the Bureau she actively detested, but Ric
hard Michaelson, known as the Nose in recognition of his most prominent facial feature, was one of the few. He was, in fact, at the top of the list.

  “Richard,” she said, putting on her best pretense of affability, “what can I do for you?”

  “You can tell me why the hell you’re interested in Andrea Lowry.”

  This was so unexpected she needed a moment to process it. “Andrea Lowry?”

  “Cut the bullshit. I just heard from Tenth Street.” The address of Bureau headquarters. “You ran a search on her.”

  “How could you—” She stopped herself. Her knowledge of computers was minimal, but even she knew that the system could be programmed to red-flag any unusual searches. Though why the name Andrea Lowry would trigger such a response she had no idea.

  “I didn’t realize Big Brother was watching me,” she said carefully.

  “Why in God’s name would you think she was in witness protection, anyway?”

  “I was just, uh, running down a long shot.”

  “It’s not your case. You shouldn’t be running down anything. How did Lowry come to your attention?”

  “I’ve heard things.”

  “From who?”

  “I believe the proper question to ask is: from whom. I’m not at liberty to divulge my sources. Maybe you’d like tell me who called you from Washington?”

  He simmered. She was happy to let him think she knew more than she did. He might not call her bluff.

  “If you have any leads, solid or not, pertaining to Andrea Lowry,” he said after a moment, “you’d better damn well hand them over to us. We’re running the investigation. It’s our project.”

  “I don’t remember you being such a glory hog, Richard.”

  “Glory?” He snorted. “You think I want MEDEA? Goddamn thing is so hot it’s radioactive.”

  MEDEA. The code name of the case, presumably. Usually cases had unimaginative code names, shortened to facilitate computer entry. THERMCON, for Thermite conspiracy. UNABOM, for university and airline bombings. Occasionally someone would get more creative. One name she’d always liked was CASTAWAY, a mob-related investigation aimed at putting a Mr. Paul Castellano away. That one had a certain charm.

  And now MEDEA. Somebody had been in a mythological frame of mind when coming up with that one. Who was Medea, anyway? Some figure in Greek mythology. Tess had been given a thorough exposure to the classics in parochial school, but all she remembered about Medea was that she played a role in the story of Jason and the Golden Fleece.

  “Come on now.” She tried a little fishing. “You’ve never been afraid of a high-profile case.”

  “Ordinarily that’s true. But when it’s political ...”

  “Politics is your specialty.”

  “Not this kind. One wrong move on MEDEA, and I’ll be posted in Anchorage.”

  “I’m not trying to horn in on your territory, Richard. But from what I understand, the seventh floor is unhappy.” That floor was the power center of the Hover Building, and its very mention could inspire fear in a dedicated rung-climber like Michaelson. “They seem to think you’re having trouble with MEDEA. They feel you might be in over your head.”

  “Ridiculous. I have the situation fully under control.”

  “That’s not the way they’re reading it back east.”

  “Well, if they have concerns, they ought to come to me personally. You tell your friend that the L.A. field office is entirely capable of handling MEDEA on our own.”

  “If they felt that way, they wouldn’t be talking to me.”

  There was a pause. “Are you saying you might be coming on board? Is that what they’re telling you?”

  She hadn’t intended to say that, but if the threat of her direct involvement would keep him talking, she would use it. “It’s a possibility.”

  “Oh, hell.”

  “Try not to sound so thrilled.”

  “Why would they bring you in? It doesn’t make sense.”

  She thought fast. “Look at it this way. At some point MEDEA may go to trial. When it does, you’ll need somebody with credibility in L.A. to testify. They seem to feel that yours truly has the most credibility of anyone. I mean, given all the favorable coverage I got on the Mobius case and the Rain Man.” She didn’t like bragging, but she thought he would buy this angle.

  He did. “Yes. Yes, I could see how they might think that way.” He sounded worried.

  She tried to get on his good side, assuming he had one. “Believe me, Richard, it’s not that I want to go. Or that I think I can handle things any better than you can.”

  “That’s a lie. You always think you can handle everything better than anyone else.”

  Apparently his good side was a lost cause. “I don’t see why you’re being so territorial. It seems to me that MEDEA is big enough for both of us.”

  “You’re saying you want a piece of this case? Tess, I always thought you were trying to commit career suicide, hanging out in that little cow town when you could be in the spotlight by now. This confirms it.”

  “Maybe I just have very poor judgment.” And Denver is not a cow town, she added silently.

  “There’s no maybe about it. Look, MEDEA is a tightly held secret. There’s only a handful of people who even know the case has been reactivated.” Reactivated—she noted the word. “However you found out about it, we can’t have you sniffing around and making waves.”

  “That’s a mixed metaphor.”

  He sighed, a sound of undisguised exasperation. “How certain are you that you’ll be assigned to MEDEA?”

  “It’s looking likely.”

  “Damn. Well, then you might as well come on in right now .”

  She leaned forward, uncertain she’d heard what she thought she had. “Are you inviting me on board?”

  “If goddamned D.C. is going to send you anyway, I’d rather take the initiative.”

  Now it made sense. “And get the credit,” she said with a smile, “if I come up with a way to clear the case?”

  “You overestimate yourself, as usual.”

  She asked herself how badly she wanted to help Abby—and ensure she stayed off the Bureau’s radar screen. The answer was: almost as badly as she wanted to piss off the Nose.

  “Thanks for having me on your team, Richard. I’ll be there by two p.m.”

  “Wonderful.”

  “Fax me the case report. I’ll read it on the plane.”

  “Why don’t you ask your friend in Washington fax it to you?” he asked in a sullen tone.

  “Just do it.”

  “If you know so much, you don’t even need to read the case report.” He paused, and she thought she could hear the click of mental tumblers starting to fall into place. “How much do you know, anyway?”

  The conversation was veering into a dangerous area. “Enough to know that I’ll regret getting involved,” she said briskly. “Fax the report, but don’t bother arranging a pickup at LAX. I’ll catch a cab.”

  She ended the call before he could say anything more, then buzzed her assistant.

  “Cancel my appointments for the next two days. I’m going out of town.”

  9

  The Brayton Hotel had been put up in 1927 and recently renovated at cost of thirty million dollars. The establishment was not so much a hotel as a palace, an opulent monument in the heart of the city. Vaulted ceilings hung over the Spanish Renaissance lobby. Fine carpets absorbed the footsteps of liveried bellmen. The clamor of traffic and people on the streets outside was muted, safely relegated to another world, another century.

  Jack Reynolds loved the Brayton. He loved any place that whispered of wealth and status. Whispered was the right word. It did no good to shout about these things. To shout would be vulgar. Men of real power did not shout. They didn’t have to. The same was true of buildings. The Brayton was old money, not nouveau riche. It had no need to prove itself.

  He was different from the hotel in that way. He’d been proving himself all his life. />
  Reynolds entered the rendezvous court, which had once been a library and still offered the hushed atmosphere appropriate to a bookish sanctuary. At a small table in an out-of-the-way corner he ordered black coffee. His security people weren’t with him, but across the room he saw Kip Stenzel reading the latest Newsweek. Stenzel had outfitted him with a radio transmitter the size of the deck of cards, and Reynolds now reached into his pocket and switched it on, saying quietly, “Testing.”

  At the far table, Stenzel discreetly tapped his earlobe. He was receiving.

  It never hurt to have a second pair of ears at a meeting. And Stenzel could be trusted to keep quiet about whatever Abby Sinclair had learned.

  The coffee arrived. Reynolds took a sip and leaned back in his chair. As always when he found himself in a place like this, he couldn’t resist the inrush of contrasting memories from his boyhood. The gray sludge that leaked from the tap in the kitchen sink, which the landlord refused to repair—and now the porcelain mug of Kona coffee, imported from Hawaii and fresh ground in the kitchen. The blare of jungle music from car stereos—and now the Chopin etude playing on hidden speakers. The stink of urine in the stairwell—and now the hint of cinnamon from a scented candle in his table’s centerpiece.

  Those were superficial differences. What really mattered was the change in atmosphere, of the very air around him. Growing up, he had been hardly able to breathe—and not only because of the waves of body odor rising from the bums who slept on the stairs, or the stifling confines of the bedroom he shared with two younger brothers. Even in the open air, his lungs had been tight, frozen. He’d been choking, suffocating, every breath constricted by furious despair. At some point in his childhood he heard the expression “trapped in poverty,” and he knew immediately that it named his predicament. He was trapped in the barrio. No exit. No hope.

  There were three great turning points in his life. The first came at age ten, when he was ambushed after school by a trio of Mexicans. They were older and bigger than he was, and they took turns pummeling him, pounding him in the face and belly. He could still see the blur of their fists, taste his own sweat, feel the burn of nausea with each new smack in the gut.