“Her father was rich?”
“Very rich. Only he lived rich, and when he died, he didn’t leave much. Beth’s mother . . . she’s pretty destitute, by their standards, anyway.” Suddenly the senator sat up straight. “Look, Miss Graham . . .”
“Kenzie’s fine.”
“Kenzie, you must be tired. We have a bedroom, a guest room, on the third floor. It has a full bath . . . shower, everything. Sometimes . . . sometimes, my staff would stay up there if we were working late here. Feel free to use it.”
“That’s very kind of you, Senator.”
“The door to it is next to Zoe’s room.”
“Thank you.”
The senator stood up and began to walk slowly out of the room.
“Senator!” She stopped him. He turned to look at her. “Don’t give up. My best guess is we’ll be hearing from the kidnapper very soon.”
He simply nodded.
The news that the nanny, Nina Carmelita Valdez, had died shocked even Scott and Kenzie. “Apparently, she had a reaction to the chemical the unsub used, or maybe it was the stress. In any event, her heart failed and she died an hour ago,” Scott said, repeating the message he’d gotten from Jocelyn at the hospital.
“So now, we have kidnapping and felony murder charges,” Kenzie replied. She focused on the beautiful Oriental carpet as she thought. “This kidnapper is getting in deeper.”
Scott sighed heavily. “It isn’t going to make it easier to find him, that’s for sure. He has less and less to lose.” He picked up his attaché case. “Kenz, I need you to handle things here. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
“You’re going to see Cara?” Kenzie asked.
He grimaced. “No. I’ve got a command performance downtown. I’ve asked Crow to come and relieve you so you can get some rest.”
“All right,” she replied.
“I’ll be on my cell.”
After handing off the Emilio Lopez case—which had become a homicide-suicide—to D.C. police, John Crowfeather left the Kalorama section of the city. He’d gotten Scott’s permission to take an hour-long break, long enough to accomplish the one thing he needed most: a shower.
Crow lived in Foggy Bottom, near George Washington University. He rented an English basement in a brick townhouse owned by an elderly woman whose husband had been an assistant secretary of state in the Bush administration. The arrangement worked for both of them—the widow liked having a man around, and the house stood not far from Rock Creek Park, where Crow could run and bike and escape the intensity of the city whenever he wanted to.
The widow had stopped driving many years before and so allowed Crow to use the single, tiny garage for his Bureau car. A door from the garage opened directly into his main living area—a large living/dining room with a small kitchen off to one side. A single bedroom and bathroom completed the arrangement.
Friends at the Bureau told Crow he was an idiot for not buying into the robust Washington housing market and taking the mortgage tax write-off, but Crow liked his living arrangement, liked the impermanence of it, and he felt somehow by helping the landlady he was making up for his inability to do it for his own grandfather.
Today, he wished he had time for a run. The woods of Rock Creek Park beckoned him. He surely could use the tension relief. He ran six to eight miles most days of the week, allowing the forest to envelop him on the seldom-used trail he’d discovered. Frequently, he’d find the tracks of deer, or a tuft of animal hair caught on a bramble, or he’d see a snake slithering off into the undergrowth.
Although the desert southwest flowed through his veins, Crow loved the hardwood forest of the East. On the Reservation, since he’d come back from Iraq, he felt exposed as he ran, vulnerable, out in the open with barely a piñon tree for cover. In the big, empty country, he could travel a hundred and fifty miles in his car and people would still know him by the Navajo name he’d been given when he was still a boy: “One who runs.”
Here, in the East, people surrounded him, but few knew his name, fewer still would stop him to talk, none knew his story. He was just another brown-skinned man in a multihued city. He could run and only the birds and squirrels and other critters living there would notice.
But today, he had no time for a run. Crow pulled off his clothes, turned on the shower, and stepped in as steam began to fill the room. He felt sorry for the little girl whose body they found, and for her parents. He knew she was dead before he even touched her—he could tell by the color of her skin. What had she suffered before she died?
The woman, Kenzie, was green. She’d come close to passing out at Lopez’s house, though she’d tried to hide it. It’s not easy, handling the adrenaline of a raid and then the smell of death. She looked great, attractive, as Scott had said: A natural beauty with blonde hair, trim and fit. Smart. Crow had felt protective of her.
He shook his head to dislodge his thoughts. He didn’t want to think about her, didn’t want to think about any woman. Women were not in his plan right now. And that’s the way he wanted it.
Kenzie, staring at the computer, looked up when Crow, smelling of soap and shampoo, showed up. The dark-haired, dark-eyed agent seemed to appear out of nowhere. “Scott asked me to come and relieve you,” he said. “He said to tell you to go take a few hours off. Get some sleep, if you can. And he asked me to bring you this.” He held out a plastic grocery bag.
Kenzie took the bag. Inside sat a carton of whole fruit strawberry sorbet. She smiled. “Thank you! Want some?” she asked, holding it up.
Crow hesitated. “Sure.” He dropped down into a chair with the grace of a big cat.
She went out into the kitchen, found a couple of bowls and spoons, and dished out the sorbet. The senator had invited them to use what they needed. Kenzie returned to the dining room, handed Crow a bowl, and sat down again, studying the agent as she took tiny bites.
The bone structure of his face was well-defined, with high cheekbones and a strong jawline, proportioned brow and slightly arched nose. With little trouble, Kenzie could picture him in buckskins. On a horse. Was that racist, she wondered?
“Tell me what’s going on,” he asked, nodding toward the open laptop.
“I’m going through the reports people have posted, correlating data while I look for information on a lead I gave Scott. I’m looking for patterns—key phrases that could be clues.”
“You’re a linguist.”
“Yes,” she replied, “A forensic psycholinguist.”
“Which means . . .”
“I analyze language for its psychological basis in criminal cases. For example, I may do a statement analysis to detect deception, or I may do threat assessments, or analyze notes to determine authorship. There’s a lot to it.”
“Sounds boring,” he said.
She fought to keep from being offended. “There are all kinds of things you can learn from language.”
“But it keeps you cooped up in an office all day.”
She had to give him that.
Crow’s eyes shifted slightly. “Scott speaks very highly of you.”
She blushed. “Scott’s a good friend.” Kenzie took another bite of the sorbet. “You’re from Arizona?”
He nodded. “Near Flagstaff. The high desert.”
“I’ll bet it’s beautiful. Do you speak Navajo?”
Crow nodded. “Sure. I grew up on it.”
“You pretty much have to from what I understand.” She knew very little about American Indians—their problems, their culture, their religion, their art, their language. She grew up in D.C.—she didn’t even see how the name “Redskins” could be offensive. Still, she’d learned a little about the Navajo language in her linguistics courses. Kenzie toyed with her sorbet. “The different dialects, the syntax, and the tonal qualities—Navajo is a very difficult language. Very verb intensive.” She looked up at him. “How would you say, ‘We need to catch this guy?’ ”
His eyes narrowed slightly. “I don’t perform.”
/> Kenzie blinked and blushed at his rebuff. An awkward silence followed. She tried a different tack. “Scott said your grandfather was one of the Code Talkers in World War II.”
“That’s right.”
“Did he speak much about his experiences?”
Crow leaned back. “People who’ve actually been in war don’t talk much about it,” he said. “A lot of what I know, I had to pry out of him.”
Kenzie hoped he’d continue. She felt wary of pushing him. His dark brown, almost black eyes flickered. “My grandfather was a friend of Philip Johnston, a white guy who grew up on the Reservation, the son of missionaries. Philip spoke our language. One day he came to Grandfather and asked him to help him sell his idea of using Navajos to encrypt messages in the Pacific theater. So he did. He became a Marine. He fought his way across the Pacific islands and saw a lot of action. He was on Iwo Jima, working all night as the Marines captured the island.”
Kenzie nodded. “Some people say it turned the tide of the whole Pacific campaign. The Japanese never broke the Navajo code.”
“That’s right.”
“Amazing.”
Crow shifted in his seat. “My grandfather says it was the work of God.”
Curious, she cocked her head.
He shrugged. “I don’t know that I get that.”
“Is that part of the Navajo religion? Attributing things like that to God?”
Crow shook his head. “The Navajo people are divided. Some believe the American Indian way, some are Christians, some people try to mix the two. Grandfather is a Christian.” He laughed softly. “A really strong, ninety-year-old Christian.”
The sorbet felt cool and sweet, so refreshing on her throat. “I thought a lot of American Indians had Christianity pushed on them and they resented it,” Kenzie said.
“My grandfather never excused the wrong methods some white men used, but he told me the truth is the truth. It is also wrong to hold a grudge. The way of forgiveness, said my grandfather, is the only way to peace.” Crow shook his head. “As I said, he’s very strong in his faith. I thought I would escape it, you know? Moving East? No more God talk. But no, here’s Scott. He sounds just like my grandfather. He says God is chasing me.”
“Is he catching you?” she said, smiling.
“I’ve learned to move fast,” he joked.
The clinking of their spoons on the ceramic bowls filled the gaps in their conversation. “Scott’s faith seems to work for him,” Kenzie said.
Crow stopped moving. “I don’t think that’s it.”
Kenzie looked at him, surprised.
He stood up. “I’ve thought about this a lot,” Crow said. “If what Scott and my grandfather say about God is true, then it isn’t just true for them and it isn’t a matter of it ‘working’ for them. It’s a matter of reality.”
Kenzie’s heart beat faster. “What do you mean?”
Crow closed his eyes, his face tilted toward the ceiling. “My grandparents raised me.” His voice tightened and he looked at her. “They lived their faith every day, from praying for rain to praying for me to stop getting into fights, from saying grace to thanking God for the beautiful sunset, from giving when they had nothing to give, to loving people who treated them wrong. For them, worshiping God was like breathing. If the sheep were healthy, they thanked him. If a baby was born, they thanked him. And even when my parents were killed in a car accident because my father was driving drunk, even then, my grandparents chose to believe nothing was by chance, everything was God’s will, and they trusted him like . . . like I trust my right arm.” Crow held up his clenched fist and looked directly at Kenzie. “Scott’s the same way. Even when things go wrong, even when his faith doesn’t ‘work,’ he trusts God.” Crow’s eyes were bright. “Scott and my grandfather, they live in a different reality. They soar above the world I know.”
Kenzie felt a tremor within her. “Those are some deep thoughts.”
“Out in the desert, at night, you have time for deep thoughts. The skies demand it.”
Kenzie stood up, crossed her arms, and began to pace. “I went to church as a little girl, until my father died. And I believe, you know, the basics: God, Jesus, all that. But Scott . . . he goes one step beyond, maybe ten steps beyond.” Kenzie tossed her head and looked at him, capturing Crow’s eyes. “Like bringing God into this”—she gestured toward the table where the computers were set up. “He’s convinced God’s in control, but that child we found today,” an involuntary tremor shook her voice, “where was God when she was being killed? Where was God . . . in that closet?” Her stomach felt tight.
Crow silently watched her as she spoke. His eyes followed her with an intensity that sent a shiver down her spine. When she finished talking, he said, “There’s a lot I don’t understand—much that is a mystery. But you have to be all in or all out. You can’t follow him halfway. Either God is who Scott says he is—sovereign, all powerful, all loving—or he’s no god at all.”
“And which is it, in your opinion?”
Crow turned away, looking up toward the ceiling again as if the answer were there, then he dropped his head. “My grandfather wanted me to be strong. He used to make me wrestle whatever was around: Sheep, dogs, horses, trees . . . anything to build muscles and endurance. Today, I think I am wrestling God.”
“Why?”
Crow hesitated. He met her gaze and for a moment, she thought he would speak. Then he shook his head slightly. “That’s a story for another time.” His eyes were burning. He took a deep breath and shoved his hands in his pockets. “Did Scott get motel rooms? Why don’t you take a break? I can handle this.”
She told him about the senator’s offer. The room on the third floor.
“Fine. I’ll be here. You go rest. I’ll come get you if anything happens,” Crow said.
She started to protest. There were so many more questions she wanted to ask him. What did he do in Iraq? Why did he decide to become an agent? His words had stirred something in her, and left her longing for more. But clearly he was finished. “All right, thanks,” she said, swallowing her disappointment.
The sound of his voice and the cadence of his speech echoed in Kenzie’s head as she climbed the stairs. Automatically, she began sorting out the slight accent she’d detected, the sound of his As and Es, the almost singsong quality of his language. And his thinking! Very deep.
The senator and his wife were in their bedroom. As she walked up the stairs, Kenzie heard arguing.
Kenzie looked into Zoe’s room. The late afternoon sun set the pink ablaze, like a tropical sunrise in the world of a little girl. My Little Pony. Barbie. Baby dolls. Dress up. Books.
Zoe loved her books, from the looks of her room. There were books on shelves, books near her bed, books mixed up in the covers. Who read to her? The senator? Mrs. Grable? Or did all of her listening take place in the accented world of her nanny?
Kenzie picked up a copy of Go, Dog, Go. It had been lying on the floor, perhaps the last book someone had read to Zoe.
She put it down again, returned to the hall, and found the door to the attic bedroom. Three steps led to a landing, then a turn in the stairs. Eight more steps and she found herself on the third floor.
It should have been hot, this nest in the upper reaches of the home, but Kenzie found it remarkably comfortable. Wallpapered in a neat American eagle design, the room held a twin bed made of cherry, a matching dresser, and a small desk and chair. Dark blue paint matching the wallpaper covered one wall. The desk held a lamp, paper, pencils, and a stapler. The room’s two dormer windows looked down on the front street. Next to the bed was a door that led to a small but adequate bathroom, equipped with fresh towels and soap.
A shower would make her feel so much more human, a shower, and then a nap. She turned on the spigot, but even the sound of the rushing water could not get Crow’s words out of her head.
10
Scott inserted his Bureau ID into the card reader and entered the parking garage. Hi
s boss had said he’d meet him in the director’s outer office. Outer office. Street agents were lucky to get a battered old desk in a bullpen. The director had an inner office and an outer office!
It’s OK, though, Scott thought. Anyway, I’d go crazy sitting behind a desk all day.
All the way over, he’d been thinking about Cara. Praying for her. He hated not being able to be with her now. But Cara was a trooper. She felt proud of him, she said, proud of his job. And all he had to do to stay motivated to find the Grables’ daughter was to think of his own in the same situation—kidnapped, helpless, at the mercy of an abductor.
Just the thought of it made him angry.
Methodically, Scott worked his way past security into the building. Since 9/11, you needed an act of Congress to get into Bureau headquarters, even if you were an agent. He took the elevator to the director’s floor, stepped out, and checked his watch. Fifteen minutes. He had fifteen minutes to download any new information on the Grable case website through the secure net connection. The director’s secretary could help him out.
Entering into yet another secure area, the hallway where the Bureau’s top executives had their offices, he greeted her. “Hey, Miss Sampson!” he said.
Bea Sampson had been with the Bureau over forty years and was legendary for her devotion. She hadn’t taken a sick day in anyone’s memory. At age seventy, retirement wasn’t anywhere on the horizon as far as she was concerned.
“Well, young man. You’re here to see the director?” Miss Sampson was thin, gray-haired, and crisp. Just what you would expect.
“Yes, ma’am. At his request. Special Agent Scott Hansbrough from the Washington Field Office.”
“Oh, yes. The Grable case. I do hope you find that little girl.”
“Yes, ma’am. I do, too.” Scott smiled at her. “Is there a place I could hook into the secure net?”
“Absolutely. Right here.” She pointed toward a credenza running along the wall behind her desk.
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