“Tell me again about what happened when you went to the Knights motel. The day Jessica’s body was found.”
“Ward . . .”
“Just tell me.”
“I got a call from Charles. On my cell. He said someone had just taken out a cop in a patrol car and then disappeared.”
“And then what?”
“Nothing. He told me where it was and said he wanted me down there.”
“For a cop killing.”
She hesitated. “Yes.”
“Which is nothing to do with the FBI, and of no interest to him. Unless . . .”
She was silent for a full twenty seconds while she put it together. “Oh, Christ.”
“Yeah. Maybe.”
She blinked rapidly. “So why on earth would we talk to him?”
“Because we don’t have anyone else. And because then you get to ask him this question and see what he says, and if he has no good answer, then . . . either we’re in worse trouble than we thought, or we have something to work with.”
She’d evidently made the decision before I spoke. She got off the bed and pulled her phone from her bag, turning it on. Within a couple of seconds it chirped several times.
“Messages,” she said. She listened. Then pulled the phone from her ear and stood with a strange expression on her face.
“John?”
She shook her head. “Monroe. Four times. No message, just ‘Call me.’ ”
“So call him. Not his office number. Call his cell.”
“But if he does a point-of-origin he’ll know where we are.”
“He’ll know where we were. Come on, do it.”
She dialed. Listened to it ring, with her eyes on me.
Then: “Charles, it’s Nina.”
From six feet away I could hear the immediate torrent of speech. Nina listened for a moment.
“What are you . . . Oh, Jesus. Charles, I’ll call you back.”
She cut the connection. Seemed for a moment actually speechless.
“What? Nina—what?”
“They’ve found another woman with a hard disk.”
AT HALF PAST FIVE IT WAS GETTING DARK AND WE were sitting in the car fifty yards back from a place called the Daley Bread. We were there because it was a place I’d noticed on the way in the night before, big and anonymous, and we’d chosen it because it was on a big street, four turns off 99 and the open road north or south. Easy to find, easy to drive quickly away from. We were there early because we wanted to see if anyone was going to be put into position, whether calls might have been made to the local cops or field office or . . . anyone else. Whether Monroe could be trusted even a little, in other words.
In half an hour we saw no one except a handful of bedraggled citizens shuffling past with tattered blankets around their shoulders, interspersed with small knots of the young and well heeled. The two appeared utterly unrelated, and it was hard to understand how they inhabited parts of the same space, as if they were two separate species that just happened to look a little like each other. We watched each group approach and then walk away. Some peered into the car and doubtless wondered why a couple of people might be sitting there on a cold, dark evening. We stared back. We were about as paranoid as we could be. When no one was around we just watched the street in both directions.
At quarter past six, fifteen minutes ahead of the appointed meeting, I opened my door and got out.
“Be careful,” she said.
“I’ll be fine. He doesn’t know what I look like.”
“No. But other people do.”
I walked up the road at a moderate pace, trying to place myself somewhere between the derelicts and the young and cool. I waited a beat on the opposite side of the road to the diner, saw no one who looked like law enforcement outside, and very few people within.
As I walked across the road I realized that anyone with half a brain would have held the location of the meeting back until Monroe was actually in town, to make it harder for him to mobilize local agents, if he had a mind to. More than ever before I wished Bobby was around. Or my mother. Without either, I knew there was some part of my back that was always going to feel uncovered.
I asked a question, quietly and without moving my lips.
“Is this a stupid idea?” There was no reply.
Inside the restaurant it was warmer and a little stuffy. A tired-looking girl in a uniform came straight over with a menu in her hand. “I’m Britnee,” she said, unnecessarily—she had a badge the size of a plate. “Will you be dining alone tonight?”
I said I would, and that I had my eye on one of the booths that ran along either side of the central partition of the room. As there were only two other couples present in the entire place, she had no real choice but to sit me where I’d asked.
I ordered chili without looking at the menu. When she went off to wake up the cook, I got myself into the position Nina and I had agreed upon. I sat close up against the right-hand side of the booth, with my back to the low wall that separated it from its twin on the other side. Neither table could be seen from the other side, but I should be able to hear.
I pulled out a free magazine that I had picked up in the foyer of the hotel, got my head down, and started reading.
Five minutes later I heard the door of the restaurant open. A quick glance showed Nina entering. Britnee tried to send her to one of the window tables, presumably because of their fabulous view of the cold, wet street outside, but Nina insisted. I lost sight of her as the waitress led her around the other side, but a minute later heard the settling sound of someone sitting on old Naugahyde, on the other side of the partition wall.
We sat in silence for a while. I heard another waitress shuffle over to Nina and ask if she wanted a drink, and I heard Nina’s reply. Soundwise, it was going to work fine.
I kept running my eyes over advertisements for local stores I had no interest in and deeply historic, family-run eateries that looked identical to what you’d find in any town in the country. It felt strange knowing that Nina was on the other side of the divide, doing the same thing. Every now and then I watched the street outside for a while. Nothing happened.
Then finally I heard Nina’s voice, quietly.
“He’s here,” she said.
I glanced quickly at the door again and saw an athletically built man in his late forties. He was wearing a suit and a long buff overcoat. He came into the restaurant walking quickly, and was past Britnee before she could even suggest a nice seat out on the terrace. He’d evidently clocked Nina’s position from the outside.
“Hello, Charles,” I overheard a moment later.
There was the sound of someone sitting down. “Why couldn’t we meet at your hotel?”
“How do you know I’m at a hotel?”
“Where else are you going to be?”
There was a long pause, and then Nina said, “Charles—are you okay?”
“No,” he said. “And neither are you. The video’s been checked. It’s John, and it’s not faked. His thumbprint on the bottle opener in Portland isn’t fake either, and there’s now an eyewitness who saw a man leaving the building half-carrying a woman. This man told the witness the girl was drunk and he was taking her home. The photo fit looks so like Zandt it’s unreal, and the girl confirms the likeness. I also talked to Olbrich, and I know what he found out for you. John was in Portland that night.”
“Thanks, Doug.”
“He’s a policeman, not your personal fucking information service. Zandt killed Ferillo, Nina. Accept it. He also hit the girl hard enough to give her a concussion. I don’t know what the hell is going on in his head but protecting him is going to do you no good at all.”
“Going after him is not going to help you either. You’re committed.”
“What do you mean?”
At that moment two things happened. The first was that the waitress arrived with my chili and took about as long setting it down, and made about as much noise, as you would have believ
ed possible. She also wanted to ask me a lot of questions. Where I was staying, how much I was enjoying being right here in historic Fresno, if I was sure I didn’t want a side of onion rings—she could go back and rustle them right up. I answered these as quickly and monosyllabically as I could.
The second was that Nina dried up.
I didn’t have to see her to know she was staring down at the table, unable to take the next step. So I made a decision. It was a mistake. I stood up, left my food, and walked around the partition.
I pulled a chair over to the end of the booth where Nina and Monroe sat opposite each other with untouched sodas.
Monroe stared at me. “Can I help you?”
“I hope so,” I said. “I’m a friend of Nina’s. I’m going to ask you the question she doesn’t want to ask.”
“Nina, do you know this guy?”
“Yes.”
“Your name is Charles Monroe. My name is Ward Hopkins. I’m one of only two people who can back up what Nina’s eventually going to tell you. Probably the only one you’re going to listen to, as you’re unlikely to take John Zandt’s word for much.”
“I’ve no intention of listening to you either, whoever the hell you may be. Nina—”
“You will listen,” I said. “After you’ve explained to us how you knew there was a body to be found in the Knights.”
He wasn’t expecting that. He tried to stare me down, but it’s a funny thing: since my parents died, it’s a lot harder to scare me. It was never that easy, and now it’s pretty hard. It’s like a part of me, right deep down, doesn’t really give a shit anymore.
Nina was watching him carefully. “Are you going to answer him?”
He didn’t say anything, and I saw the change in Nina’s face, and realized she suddenly believed what I’d suggested.
“You bastard,” she said.
“Nina . . . I don’t know what this guy’s told you, but . . .”
“Really?” I said. “Here it is in black and white. If a cop gets killed, it’s LAPD’s problem and job and business. It’s not an FBI matter unless the cops choose to make it so, which they won’t. The feds are the big brother they never wanted; this isn’t the X-Files, where you get called in on parking offenses or for spelling mistakes or just anything at all that looks juicy and like someone in a suit might help. Robbery Homicide has a special section dedicated to high-profile killings—they have entire divisions who’ll drop everything to go after someone who killed one of their own. So what were you doing there? And so fast? How come you were on the scene before anyone went into the motel room? Before anyone knew there was something to be found?”
Monroe shook his head. “This is ridiculous. Nina, this guy’s crazy and we’re in enough—”
“Charles, look at me and shut up.”
I didn’t even recognize Nina’s voice. It was a sound somewhere between a hiss and a ragged growl, like some large nondomesticated cat, long-caged, finally tired of being screwed around.
Monroe looked at her. I did too.
“Charles, where are my hands?”
He stared at her. “Under the table.”
“What do you think I’m holding?”
“Oh, Christ, Nina . . .”
“That’s right. And I will shoot you right here and now unless you start saying things I can believe.”
“People know where I am.”
“No, they don’t,” she said. “No way you’re going to compromise your precious reputation by advertising you’re coming upstate to talk to me, not with this crap about John floating around. Unless you’ve brought other people with you, of course, which so far it doesn’t look like you have.”
“Of course I haven’t,” Monroe said, momentarily looking so angry it was hard not to believe him. “For God’s sake—we’ve worked together for a long time. We owe each other.”
“Right. That’s what I thought. Until I was suspended yesterday. By you.”
“I had no choice. You know that. Zandt has compromised you too much.”
“Compromised? Talk to me about being compromised, Charles. Start by answering Ward’s question. My hands are still right where they were, and I still mean exactly what I said.”
Monroe went quiet, staring down at his place mat. It held oversaturated pictures of high-fat food, and I knew it wouldn’t be able to hold his attention for long.
“Things are going wrong,” he said, in the end. His voice was quiet. “And not just for you.” He looked up. “But it’s your fault. It’s whatever personal mission you’re on. Why wouldn’t you just tell me what happened last year?”
“To protect you,” she said. “There was nothing you could do to help, and we didn’t know who we could trust. If anyone.”
“Sorry, that just sounds like paranoia.”
“It isn’t,” we said, simultaneously.
Monroe looked at me properly for the first time. “Who did you piss off? Who the hell were you dealing with?”
Nina looked at me. I nodded.
“They’re called the Straw Men,” she said. “We don’t know how many there are, or even who they are. They used to own a big chunk of land up in Montana, which is the place that got blown up.”
“You did that?”
“They did. It was wired,” I said. “It was a field of evidence. Bodies. Many bodies. These people kill for fun. They had a chain of victim supply using people like Stephen DeLong. The man you once called the Delivery Boy was another one of their procurers—the most important of them, a serial killer in his own right, and some part of the overall organization. He’s also my brother. He calls himself the Upright Man. He was key to one of their other sidelines. You remember the explosion at the school in Evanston last year?”
“Yes. They got two kids for it.”
“It wasn’t them. It was him. Also other events and shootings in Florida, England, Europe, going back twenty years. Maybe longer. The group already existed back in the mid sixties. They do these things and set up other people to take the fall.”
Monroe looked bewildered. “Nina—do you believe this?”
“Belief is irrelevant. This is all true. There is a group of people who live in the cracks of this country, and who have done so for a long time. They are powerful, and they kill. That’s who we pissed off. And now, for the last time: tell me about Jessica.”
He only hesitated for a moment. His decision was made.
“I got a call,” he said quietly.
Even though she’d known it was coming, I think she still nearly shot him. I think Monroe thought that too.
Then there was silence for a long time.
MONROE EVENTUALLY OPENED HIS MOUTH TO speak again. His voice clicked. He took a sip of soda, then changed it to a gulp.
“I got the call the evening before,” he said. “To my cell—the personal one. Not many people have the number. I assumed it was you, in fact. I was at the theater with Nancy. It was the intermission, we were in the bar, it was very noisy. A man’s voice said something, but I couldn’t really hear him properly and by the time I was outside he’d hung up. I had no reason to . . . Then next morning I was on the way to work and I got a second call. Again it was a man, and he asked what the hell was wrong with me, was I not interested? I said I didn’t know what he was talking about. He told me a cop had just been shot, and I should go to the Knights motel right away. It . . .”
“It would be good for you,” Nina said, as if Monroe had just admitted he wanted to feed crack to babies while beating off.
“Yes,” he said. “That’s exactly what he said.”
“The same number that called you the night before?”
“Yes. For all I knew it could have been someone in the department.”
“Without declaring their identity? Yeah, right.”
“If it was going to be good for me it would also be good for the bureau.”
“Talk to the hand, Charles. I don’t believe you and I don’t care. You went there because you were tipped off that
there was something worth your while, something good for your career, and you pulled me into something you knew was tainted. You told no one that you had prior knowledge. You maneuvered Olbrich into assembling a task force and you worked it for a couple of days until it started looking like it wasn’t going anywhere. When we were in the McCains’ house and I asked if we were sure the cop-killer also murdered Jessica, you already knew the two could be different.”
“The fact that they could be didn’t mean they were.”
“Oh, come on. You even tried to push me away from the idea. Then the morning after John suddenly made the Most Wanted List for the Ferillo killing, you get another email. Untraceable again, I assume?”
“It doesn’t matter how it came, Nina. It’s real. And get off your horse, for God’s sake. You knew. You knew that Zandt had killed DeLong and you withheld the evidence.”
“I didn’t know at the time. He only told me late last year.”
“Whatever. The minute you heard, you were an accessory after the fact, so don’t—”
I interrupted. “Who was that man with you when you showed Nina the film?”
“I don’t know,” he said, bitterly. “He arrived that morning and already knew all about it. About everything. He had NSA security clearance but yesterday I tried to trace him and they claim he doesn’t exist. I pushed on it and shouted at some people and . . .”
“And now things are getting shaky for you too,” Nina said.
“Only indirectly.” He breathed out heavily. “The Gary Johnson file is being reopened.”
“What?”
“Some attorney in Louisiana is suddenly claiming he has evidence we tampered with the forensic reports. Specifically, that you did and I looked the other way. Someone wants you discredited, and as the senior agent on that case I’m going to share the ride. Satisfied?”
“You compromised yourself, Charles. Don’t blame me.”
“And don’t you claim any moral high ground either. You withheld knowledge of a homicide, lied about what happened last year—and do you really think I don’t know you took Jessica’s disk out of evidence for forty-eight hours? Either is enough to ruin you, and both were your choice and your fault.”
The Upright Man Page 25