Michaelson got up and moved to the windows, which provided a nice view of the city in the morning light. “You didn’t kill Garrick. We already have the killer in custody.”
Abby let out another sigh of relief, with no need to exaggerate it this time. “Let me guess. Shanker.”
“Very good. You get a gold star.”
“I don’t deserve it. It’s obvious. If Shanker was running the Santa Ana organization, he’d be held responsible for the screw-up at Andrea’s house. He would’ve been sucking heavy heat from Reynolds. He blamed Dylan for the failure of the operation, so it only makes sense that he would go after Dylan. And he would do it personally. No middleman. No more delegating.”
“That’s essentially the line of thought we followed.” Michaelson studied her coldly. “You have a good head for these things.”
“Next you’ll be recruiting me for the Bureau.”
“I wouldn’t hold your breath waiting for that offer.”
“I’m not really cut out for the cubicle farm, anyway.” She was starting to enjoy herself, but then Tess had to ruin it.
“I don’t get it,” Tess said. “Why would Shanker confess to killing Garrick? We had nothing on him for that crime.”
Abby turned to her, irritated. “Tess, that kind of question is called looking a gift horse in the mouth.”
“At first, naturally, he wouldn’t own up to it,” Michaelson said, “even though, for all the reasons you suggested, we were starting to think he was the likely suspect. So we got creative. We’d heard your story about what happened to Dylan Garrick. We used it against Shanker. Told him there was a witness. We described everything Shanker had done, from finding the door unlocked to picking up the gun and the pillow on the floor. By the time we were through, he must have thought we had a hidden camera in Garrick’s apartment. It broke him. When he started talking, he wouldn’t stop.” He turned his gaze on Tess. “He even informed us about ordering a hit on Agent McCallum, to be carried out by the bartender she interviewed.”
Abby was surprised. “Tess, have you ever come to L.A. without someone trying to kill you?”
Tess ignored her. To Michaelson she said, “It was nothing. The guy put some moves on me, and I busted his chops for it.”
“A detail you omitted when you related the encounter to me.”
“I made a deal with him. He ID’d Abby from a six-pack, and I forgot about his momentary misjudgment. Now, if you want to bring him in on the basis of Shanker’s testimony, which I had nothing to do with ...”
Michaelson nodded. “We’re trying, believe me. After Shanker was taken, word got out to the rest of the club. All the Scorpions have crawled under rocks for the moment.”
“Excuse me,” Abby cut in. “Not that I’m uninterested in the fate of the homicidal barkeep, but am I getting the right impression here? Am I off the hook?”
The sigh that escaped from Michaelson’s lips was a profound expression of frustration. “Ms. Sinclair, there are a dozen things for which we could prosecute you. None of them would be as sensational as homicide, but the sum total would be more than enough to put you away in a maximum security facility for many years. However ...”
“I like that word ‘however.’”
“However,” he repeated, “to put you on trial would mean opening up the details of this case to the public, and since the major players have already plea-bargained, we’re not sure a trial would really be in anyone’s best interest.”
“Certainly not mine,” Abby agreed.
Tess was watching him. “You’re not telling us everything, Richard. There’s a reason you don’t want to go public, and I think I know what it is.”
“I’m sure you do. You must have had your publicity mill in D.C. working overtime.”
“You know I didn’t have anything to do with that.”
Abby was getting lost. “To do with what? A little backstory for the exposition-impaired, please?”
“The story has generated national interest,” Michaelson said. “A sitting congressman, a twenty-year-old murder case that was notorious in its day, a shootout in a downtown parking garage ...”
“It’s page one everywhere,” Tess added.
Abby frowned. “They haven’t mentioned me, have they?”
Michaelson shook his head. “Your name has been kept out of it. Actually, there’s only one person whose name keeps coming up.”
“I had nothing to do with it,” Tess said again.
“Well, regardless of how it happened, the spin on the story is that Tess McCallum, already famous for her earlier exploits in Los Angeles, foiled the abduction and took Andrea and the congressman into custody—all on her own.”
“Nice work, Tess,” Abby said warmly.
Tess regarded her with a sour look. “Shut up.”
“Witnesses saw a second woman with Reynolds in the hotel lobby. The second woman, we are told, was Agent McCallum, undercover. It was apparently Agent McCallum who pursued the congressman and shot it out with him and Mr. Shanker in the garage. It was Agent McCallum who made the arrest. Another triumph for you, Tess—though of course,” Michaelson added, “you weren’t responsible for leaking any of these details.”
“The leak originated in D.C. You said so yourself.”
“You have friends in D.C.”
“Not friends who could put that story in the pipeline.”
“Perhaps you have a guardian angel. How nice for you. The bottom line—”
“The bottom line,” Abby said, “is that you guys have got a story that makes the Bureau look all nice and shiny like a brand new car, and you don’t want to spoil it by revealing that some unlicensed civilian did the real heavy lifting.”
Michaelson’s distaste for her was becoming almost palpable. It exuded from his body like ectoplasm. “We are concerned with the Bureau’s reputation, yes. And there are certain benefits to the positive publicity accruing to Agent McCallum—”
Tess got it. “You can’t touch me, either. That’s right, isn’t it? You can’t even discipline me without risking a media inquiry.”
“No final determination has been made—”
“Don’t use Bureauspeak on me. You can’t suspend me, let alone fire me, let alone charge me with anything criminal. Not without opening the whole can of worms. And you know it.”
Michaelson’s eyes shut briefly, as if in anticipation of a headache. “You won’t be punished. But you won’t be going places, either. Any other agent who’d reaped a public relations bonanza like this would be headed straight to upper management.” He leaned in close to the sofa. “Not you, McCallum. You’re going to stay in that cow town of yours for the rest of your career.”
Tess stared back at him, a faint smile on her lips. “Believe it or not, Richard, that’s just the way I want it.”
He believed her. Abby could see it in the way he straightened too abruptly and turned awkwardly away. “Attach an administrative section to your report on MEDEA. For the director’s eyes only. Leave nothing out. I want the full extent of your misconduct on the record—even if it never sees the light of day.”
“Anything to oblige a friend.” Tess got up.
Abby followed her lead. “I guess I’m free to go, huh, Dick?”
He winced at her use of the nickname. “You can go. But remember, Ms. Sinclair, you’re not so low-profile anymore. We’re aware of you and your activities. And we will be watching you.”
“Remind me to shut my blinds.”
She and Tess didn’t speak again until they were out in the hall.
“Well,” Abby said, “that worked out better than expected.”
Tess looked at her, a confusion of emotions on her face. “Abby ...”
Abby waved off whatever the next words might have been. “Sorry. I'm not in the mood for a heart-to-heart. I'm going to reclaim my belongings and get out of here.”
“I did what I thought was right.”
“That's the problem,” Abby said quietly.
She walked off, leaving Tess behind.
52
Tess returned to the squad room, where she was, predictably, the object of stares and the subject of whispered asides. She ignored them. Crandall was watching her with peculiar intensity. She ignored him, too. Hauser’s secretary let her in to see the squad commander, who looked as if he hadn’t slept all night. Then again, neither had she.
“I just wanted to say I’m clearing out,” she told him. “And to say you did a good job on this case. I’m sorry if I made it more difficult.”
Hauser looked up at her from his desk. “I know you’re not being disciplined, Agent McCallum. I want to say ... I still think you did the Bureau wrong. And I’ll never respect you again.”
He returned his gaze to the paperwork in front of him. After a moment she let herself out.
In the hall outside the squad room, Crandall caught up with her. “Hey, Tess. Heading home?”
She was surprised by the friendly tone. “Battered but unbowed.”
“Said your goodbyes to Hauser?”
“More like a good riddance, from his point of view. It appears I’m more of a persona non grata than ever.” She smiled. “How about you, Rick? Will you ever respect me again?”
“I’m not as much as a hardass as Hauser. Tess, if I’d known you were going to come clean to Michaelson, I never would’ve—”
“How could you have known? Even I didn’t know what I was going to do until I did it.”
“I still feel bad about it.”
“You shouldn’t.”
“I do. But I’ve taken steps to redeem myself.”
“What steps?” She studied him, an idea forming. “Rick, are you the media’s anonymous source?”
“Me? What kind of media contacts do I have in L.A.?”
“The leak didn’t originate in L.A. It came out of D.C.—where Ralston Crandall is currently posted as deputy director.”
“Let’s not bring my father into this.”
“The question is, did you bring him into it?”
“I’m not going to lie to you, Tess.” He left that statement hanging enigmatically in the air, then clapped her on the shoulder and added, “Have a safe trip. And stay in touch, okay?”
Crandall went back inside the squad room, and Tess was left thinking that, despite it all, she still had one ally in this town.
53
By nine in the morning Andrea had run out of ways to distract herself. Watching television was out of the question. She’d made the mistake of turning on the TV and had caught part of a report on the arrest of Congressman Reynolds, which included a garbled recap of what the newscaster called “the MEDEA child murders of twenty years ago.” Radio was even worse. The call-in talk shows were a fever swamp of speculation by the uninformed and the self-styled experts, none of whom understood a thing.
She couldn’t sleep with the constant noise and couldn’t concentrate enough to read or to work a crossword puzzle. All she could do was pace the floor and occasionally sneak a glance through the curtains. The crowd of journalists and curiosity seekers surrounding her house never grew smaller. If anything, it had increased in numbers as the story spread.
After the attack on her home, there had been three or four TV news vans and a few other reporters. Now the vans lined the streets, representing not only the local TV channels but national cable outlets. Every news radio station had sent somebody, as had every newspaper within five hundred miles, it seemed. Not to mention half the population of the Valley, who apparently had nothing better to do on Sunday morning than stand outside her house. Enterprising vendors had already set up carts selling hot dogs and tamales, and somebody had printed T-shirts with her picture on them from twenty years ago.
What did they all want from her—the journalists and the spectators tramping on her lawn and snapping photos of her porch? Well, the answer was obvious enough. They wanted a comment, a statement, or failing that, a sighting, a few seconds of footage to run on their next newscast or a blurred image to print on the newspaper’s front page.
She knew better than to give it to them. They would not be satisfied with only one statement or one appearance. They would want more, always more.
Of course, it might be in her interest to cooperate. She could tell her side of the story, get the truth out to the public after two decades of lies. But she couldn’t be so pragmatic about it. The simple fact was, she hated the press. They had hounded her for years. They had forced her to change her name and live in hiding. She would give them nothing now. They could go to hell.
Her phone rang again. She was so tired of that sound. And yet—she blinked in surprise—her phone couldn’t be ringing, could it? Hours ago she had unhooked it from the wall.
It was her cell phone, then—the one Abby had given her. And only Abby knew the number.
She found the phone amid the items she’d brought home from the downtown hospital where she had been examined for injuries suffered in the car crash. There had been nothing serious, only a few scrapes and bruises. She had endured a long interrogation by a nice young man named Crandall and, much to her astonishment, had been released with no charges filed.
On the eighth or ninth ring she answered. “Hello,” she said tentatively, ready to end the call if a reporter had somehow gotten hold of the number.
“Hey, kiddo. How’s tricks?”
“Abby. Where are you?”
“Eating a late and much needed breakfast at a yogurt shop in Westwood. It’s within walking distance of the federal building, which is good since my Mazda is still in an alley downtown. Unless it’s been towed by now.”
“I was afraid you were in trouble. They said something about pressing charges against you.”
“They were bluffing. You know these Eliot Ness types. All talk, no action. I hear they let you go, too.”
“Yes. Though I’m still not sure why. I abducted Jack Reynolds. I shot him.”
“You weren’t yourself.”
“I know. I was acting crazy. I don’t even know what I intended to do. I mean, I thought I was going to kill him, really kill him, but if that’s all I wanted, why did I bother to make him go anywhere? I could have killed him at any time. It doesn’t make sense.”
“Want my take on it?”
“Even if I said no, it wouldn’t stop you.”
“True enough. I think you were conflicted. Part of you wanted revenge on Jack. Another part wasn’t willing to pull the trigger. So you compromised. You put off taking any final action.”
“I would have had to choose eventually.”
“You weren’t thinking that far ahead. And if you have chosen, you would have made the right choice.”
“You believe that?”
“I really do.”
“Well I hope you’re right. You probably are. You’ve been right about most things. But I wouldn’t have thought that kind of explanation would get me very far with the authorities. There was no way I expected to be released. I’m still thinking they’ll show up at any minute and take me back into custody.”
“They won’t. What you’re not taking into consideration is a little thing called extenuating circumstances. To prosecute, they have to be reasonably assured of a conviction. Now, what jury is going to convict you after hearing the tape I made?”
“I suppose that’s true. I have to admit, though, that I was prepared for the worst.”
“Well, that makes two of us. But you know what they say. Always prepare for the worst, and most of the time you’ll be pleasantly surprised.”
“They advised me not to say anything about you if I talk to the press.”
“That’s a good idea. But you’re not going to talk to the press, anyway, are you?”
“Of course not.”
“Didn’t think so. You weren’t too eager to be interviewed the night I pulled that stunt to get into your house.”
“I held a gun on you. I’m sorry.”
“All in a day’s work. So who are you going to be from
now on?”
“What?”
“Andrea ... or Bethany?”
“I don’t know. I suppose it doesn’t matter.”
“No, it doesn’t. What matters is how you feel.”
“How I feel?” Andrea closed her eyes. “Well, I’m encircled by those jackals from the press. There are television vans parked up and down the street. People won’t stop ringing my doorbell. I think they’d climb in a window if I left one open. I had to disconnect my phone. Every time I turn on the TV or radio I see pictures of myself from twenty years ago. I can’t even think of looking at a newspaper. I’ve become a celebrity again. Only this time I’m not Medea anymore. This time no one is saying I killed my babies. They know I didn’t. And I know I didn’t. I know I never killed anyone.”
“So how do you feel?”
“Free, Abby,” Andrea whispered. “I feel free.”
54
After finishing her breakfast, Abby hiked from Westwood Village to the Wilshire Royal, where she found Vince and Gerry on duty at the front desk. They were both properly outraged by the search of her condo last night. She told them not to worry about it. “Just a minor misunderstanding,” she said lightly. They pretended to believe her, the same way they pretended to believe she was a sales rep. Denial could be a beautiful thing.
She checked the garage and found her Hyundai still in its reserved space. Later she could bum a ride off Wyatt and pick up her Mazda. At least for now she had her backup car.
The elevator took her to the tenth floor. She opened up her condo after stripping off the crime scene ribbon festooned on the door.
The place was a mess, of course. The feds had not been gentle when searching the premises. Every drawer had been opened, the contents strewn on the floor. For some unaccountable reason her sizable collection of CDs had been scattered. The clothes formerly hanging in her bedroom closet had been cast around like rags. Her computer was gone, taken to a crime lab for analysis, though she’d been given assurances that it would be speedily returned.
Mortal Faults Page 33