by Diane Capri
Gaspar said, “For starters, why don’t you tell us your real name?”
“Elle told me you’d read my mail, Agent Gaspar. I’m sure you already know all about me.”
“Why did you kill Harry Black?” Kim asked. A pretty blunt tactic.
“Kill Harry? My goodness, why on earth would I do that?”
Gaspar said, “Cut the crap, Sylvia. Or whatever your name is. What the hell is going on here?”
“I take it you haven’t checked in lately,” Sylvia said. “You might want to do that before you get too forceful with me, Agent Gaspar. Your bosses won’t like your tone.”
“You confessed to murder,” he said.
Sylvia was amused. “Are you sure?”
“You called 911. You said you killed Harry Black.”
“I did not. Have you heard the tape yourself?”
Which proved she wasn’t merely foxy, but also sly. And informed. Neither Kim nor Gaspar had heard the actual 911 tape. Roscoe hadn’t heard it, either. And Sylvia knew all that. But how?
What had Sylvia said at the time? Kim searched her memory. Recalled Roscoe’s report precisely. “I’m told Sylvia’s exact words were ‘I shot him. He’s dead. I just couldn’t take him anymore.’”
A subtle difference. “I shot him.” Not, “I killed him.” Hair splitting? Maybe. But criminal cases fell apart for less. Harry had been killed by two bullets to the head, but he’d been shot a total of seven times. Five post-mortem. Sylvia might have shot him only after he was dead.
Nothing really tied Sylvia to Harry’s murder. Repeatedly, Roscoe mentioned the crime scene was totally clean. Sylvia had escaped Roscoe’s jail, but a good lawyer would argue she’d been falsely arrested and imprisoned in the first place. He’d sue Margrave and Sylvia would end up owning the whole town.
Was it really possible that Sylvia would walk away free? They had no warrant. And couldn’t get one based on existing evidence.
Sylvia knew that, too.
“We found the money, Sylvia,” Kim said, quietly.
“What money?” Sylvia asked, deadpan.
“Bernie Owens is dead, too.”
Contrived alarm in Sylvia’s expression. “You killed Bernie?”
“You know we didn’t. Your lover blew up that Chevy with enough explosive to scatter Bernie for ten miles.”
Slight reaction. Kim concluded Sylvia cared for Bernie, but not as much as she cared for the money. She was a hooker, after all. Kim said, “All that cash in Bernie’s car went everywhere, too. Couple hundred thousand, at least. Maybe more.”
Sylvia sat still, unblinking, but Kim could see perspiration beading along her temples, gathering on her upper lip. Her hands were clasped tight in her lap.
Kim knew Sylvia’s trigger point now. She said, “He stole Harry’s money, and then he killed Harry. He stole Bernie’s money, and then he killed Bernie. He’s stealing your money now. But don’t worry too much. You’ll never be poor. Because as soon as he gets it, you’ll be dead, too.”
“You’re lying,” Sylvia said, mouth so dry the words barely escaped.
“Think so?” Gaspar showed her the photo he’d taken when he looked in through the Chevy’s window. “That’s Bernie, right? Two bullets to the back of the head. Just like Harry.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out charred pieces of paper. He forced them into Sylvia’s palm. He said, “And that’s Bernie’s money.”
Sylvia looked at the burned scraps. She started to shake. Slightly at first. Then more. “That’s not really Bernie. Or his money. You manipulated that picture. You burned these yourself.”
“Your lover killed eight people and hurt dozens more.” Gaspar was angry. “You knew Jim Leach, right? There’s video. Want to see Jim Leach blown apart with your own eyes? Very entertaining.”
Kim’s tone was gentler. “We’re so glad you’re OK. At first we thought you were in the trunk. Can you imagine? Being in the trunk when the car exploded? That Chevy burned so hot there was nothing left but cinders. Everything in the back seat? Right where you were sitting? Toasted. Blown away. Ashes.” Kim raised both hands and pinched her fingers and flashed them open. “Poof! Gone with the wind. Just like that.”
Sylvia began to sob. Her shoulders heaved. Several minutes.
Acting? Or real?
Kim handed her a tissue box from Marion Wallace’s side table. Sylvia pulled a fistful. Dabbed her face.
Gaspar said, “You help us, we’ll help you. Otherwise, you’re on your way to Leavenworth. If you’re lucky.”
“What do you want me to do?” A catch in her voice.
“Testify,” Kim said.
“About what?” Sniffles.
“Everything,” Gaspar said.
Sylvia’s face brightened. She flashed a bright pixie smile.
“Is that all?” she said. “I can do that. When do you want me?”
CHAPTER THIRTY NINE
Kim heard noise from the ballroom. More volume, lower tones. Men were showing up. The party was about to start.
“OK, let’s go,” Gaspar said. “Right now.”
Sylvia asked, “Go where?”
Kim wondered that herself. Margrave jail?
Gaspar opened the boss’s phantom cell and pressed the call back button. “We have a witness to bring in,” he said. “Sylvia Black.” He listened to brief instructions and disconnected. He said, “Our boss wants to see you.”
Sylvia smiled. A mega-watt blinder this time. “I’m so glad,” she said. “Would you mind if I slipped into the powder room to, um, fix my face? You can check for escape routes first.” She giggled. Flirtatious once again. A hooker.
Gaspar accompanied her to the small toilet at the back corner of the salon. She stood aside while he ducked in and back out.
“Don’t lock the door,” he said.
“Why would I want to do that?”
Gaspar stood guard, left hand clasped over his right wrist, his watch face visible, marking the time.
The salon’s main door opened. Marion Wallace returned. “Was there anything else you needed from me before I return to my guests, Agent Otto?”
Kim’s stomach snake thrashed violently. Acid bubbled up her esophagus. But she refused to flinch. She swallowed hard.
“No,” she said.
“Call to schedule something with my assistant if you need to see me again,” Marion said, and Kim watched her walk through the main door again.
“Agent Otto, Agent Gaspar.”
Sonorous male voice. Like radio. Unmistakable.
Kim’s skin crawled.
“Hello, Hale,” she said.
Which was as curt as she dared to the boss’s right hand man.
Michael Hale. Grandfathered in place before the boss recruited her or Gaspar. Binding ties between Hale and the boss ran from merely distasteful to downright disgusting. Kim avoided Hale whenever possible.
“Where is she?” Hale asked.
Demanding, as always.
“Primping,” Gaspar said, pointing at the powder room door.
“Cooper sent me to assess and report.” Hale’s derivative power was enormous. He wielded it more overtly than the boss ever would. “Get her out here.”
Gaspar rapped twice on the powder room door.
Sylvia came out. She recognized the new man in the room. She approached. She parted her newly glossed lips. She flashed her pixie smile.
“Mr. Hale, so nice to see you again.” Sylvia extended her gloved hand, and touched his arm ever so briefly. Ownership. A lover’s caress. “How is Mr. Cooper?”
They all knew each other. Mildly surprising. Maybe Hale had bedded Sylvia. Unremarkable. Hale was a notorious womanizer. Definitely not the boyfriend type.
But Cooper?
Elle had described Sylvia’s FBI boyfriend. Tall. Built. Gorgeous eyes. High level job over there in the Hoover building.
Cooper. Self-described serial monogamist. Could he have been that dumb? Maybe Hale wasn’t the only Hoover building
occupant Sylvia had screwed.
Kim berated herself for being so stupid.
But everything’s obvious once you know it.
Hale ignored Sylvia’s greeting. “Otto, what’s this about?”
Sylvia returned to her perch on the white sofa. She was more relaxed than anyone else in the room. Kim delivered by rote, “Susan Kane, a/k/a Sylvia Kent Black, has agreed to testify against her accomplices in matters related to the murder of Harry Black.”
Hale looked straight at Sylvia.
“That so?” he said. “You’re going to admit everything?”
Sylvia batted her eyelashes and raised her right hand and said, “The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me God.”
Hale flushed pink from his stiff white collar right up to his sandy hairline. His eyes narrowed, either in incomprehension or calculation. Kim couldn’t tell. His tone was hard enough to cut diamonds. He said, “In exchange for what?”
“Dangerous people will be looking for me. You and Mr. Cooper can fix that, can’t you?” Sylvia’s tone was so sweet it made Kim’s teeth ache.
Hale’s face turned redder. “You agreed we wouldn’t need to help you again. Yet, here you are, and it’s not a minor prostitution charge this time, is it?”
Sylvia’s breathless little voice begged, “I’m innocent, Mickey. You know I didn’t kill anybody. Helping me again shouldn’t be a problem for Charlie, should it?”
Mickey?
Charlie?
Hale looked like he’d swallowed a turd. His eyes bulged from his head. “We’re not in the immunity business. But if your testimony is valuable enough, I suppose we might help. What are you offering?”
She said, “Who killed Harry.”
Hale was unmoved. “That might be of minor interest to the Margrave Police Chief. It’s of no interest to me.”
Sylvia remained quiet for a minute. Then she looked at Kim, and Gaspar. Then her gaze returned to Hale. She said, “I suppose I could talk about why he killed Harry, too.”
Kim had to hand it to her. Men had followed women like Sylvia right off a cliff since the dawn of sex. Sylvia was smoking hot. And while not brilliant, she was undeniably clever. Harry Black, the poor bastard, had never stood a chance. Yep. Sylvia was a stone cold bitch.
Hale’s eyes were slits. “What do you mean? Exactly?”
Sylvia straightened her skirt and crossed her remarkably long legs, giving him a full shot view up her thigh. “I shouldn’t say more until my lawyer is present, should I? Maybe we can get the whole truth recorded tomorrow morning? Would that work? I’m at the Hay Adams. These agents can escort me. I’ll call my lawyer and we’ll take care of everything tomorrow. How’s that?”
Hale covered the short distance to Sylvia and grabbed her bicep and jerked her off the sofa and shoved her hard against Gaspar. “Bring her to Cooper’s office in the morning. Eight o’clock sharp.”
And then he stalked out.
Which was when Kim knew for sure. Hale was expendable. They all were. Except Cooper. Rank had its privileges. Cooper was the top dog. Untouchable without hard evidence. Suicide to try.
If the situation went sideways others would take the hit.
Gaspar had been right all along.
They were all involved in it.
Reacher, too. Had to be.
Cooper was the leader. Had Reacher crossed him somehow? Had Cooper sent them to find Reacher for some private purpose?
Possible.
There was plausible deniability all around if they succeeded. If they failed, everyone except Cooper went down. Cooper would make it so.
CHAPTER FORTY
Washington, DC
November 3
6:35 p.m.
Kim paced the room for a solid half hour, seeking solutions, but getting nothing except impatient and thirty minutes older. Gaspar waited quietly, butt in chair, long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles, hands folded, eyes closed. He said, “We could follow orders for once. We could deliver Sylvia in the morning. And return to normal life.”
His laconic style was familiar to her by then, but no less maddening. “But don’t you feel like a first class patsy? And what do we tell Roscoe? Have you even thought about that? She’s going down in flames and Sylvia walks free? Again? Sixty-seven million dollars richer? And Cooper, too? Does that seem right to you? And what about Reacher? Do we leave him out there doing God knows what to God knows whom?”
No response.
Her hands balled into fists. “Well?”
“Tantrums never work on me,” he said, unmoved. “But anyway, in answer to your questions, in order of asking, yes, I don’t know, yes, sucks, sucks, sucks, sucks, no, don’t care, sucks, deep subject.”
She was not amused. “Are you going to help me or not?”
He stood and stretched. He limped around the spacious room. He stopped outside the door to Sylvia’s bedroom and stared as if he had x-ray vision or supersonic hearing. He ran a hand through his hair. He limped some more. He returned to his seat.
He said, “Of course, I’ll help you. But with what? There’s something going on here, and it’s buried deep. I don’t even know what it is, let alone know how to prove it. We turn all this over to an internal investigations unit and they fail, too, and then what? Give me a stroke of genius and I’ll be there. Otherwise, I don’t see any options except deliver Sylvia in the morning.”
She sighed.
He pressed. “Any bright ideas? Preferably something that won’t get us fired? Did I mention I have a large family?”
She said nothing.
He said, “That’s what I thought. You got zilch.”
He was wrong, technically. She had one desperate, last-ditch option. But she didn’t describe it. Maybe she would never need to. Maybe something else would come along.
She went back to pacing. She talked as she walked. “Roscoe said Archie Leach is howling because we left before he debriefed us. He wants vengeance for his brother.”
Gaspar said, “We didn’t kill his brother. So how is Archie Leach our problem?”
“Cooper called you after the fire in the mailbox store.”
“Right.”
“He asked you about Sylvia’s mail. You told him everything. The smashed mailbox theory, forwarded envelopes, the list of box holders, and how you found her mug shot.”
“Yes.”
“He didn’t ask to see the list?”
“No.”
“That’s weird, isn’t it?”
“No.”
“You saw the list just like I did. His name is on it. And so is mine. And yours. He wasn’t even interested?”
Blandly, like he was calming a suicide, Gaspar said, “But I didn’t know all that when I was talking to him. You took the list with you, remember? To the bar? In your pocket?”
“But he had to know, right? So it’s weird that he didn’t ask or deal with it somehow, isn’t it?”
“You’re wearing me out.”
“Isn’t it?”
“We’ve been over this, Sunshine. All we have is the list. Nothing else. If it comes to it, he’ll say he has no idea why his name was on the list, and he’ll say he didn’t have a mailbox at Bernie’s, and we’ll believe him, because we have no idea why our names were on the list either, and we sure didn’t have mailboxes at Bernie’s.”
“Cooper is involved with Sylvia.”
“Sex is not illegal.”
“Sylvia laundered the money and stole it from Harry and killed him.”
“Maybe so. No proof, though. And nothing connecting Cooper to any of that.”
When she didn’t raise anything else, he said, “Can I go to sleep now?”
She patted herself down, checked her gun and her pockets, and walked toward the door.
Stretched out in his chair, eyes closed, Gaspar asked, “Where are you going?”
“To call Finlay.”
He didn’t move so much as an eyelid. But his tone conveyed every catastro
phic consequence she’d already argued in her head. “If anybody asks, you’re on your own. I’ve got a family to feed. Did I mention that? Twenty years left. Fit for no other work. Not even fit for this, to be honest. I’m a charity case. You can throw your career out the window, but please don’t add mine to the landfill while you’re at it.”
“Cooper’s not God, you know,” she reminded him, in his own words.
“He’s the God of my family dinner. And yours, too. Whatever special relationship you think you two have, Sunshine, make no mistake. He’ll throw you under the train in a Hot’lanta second and never look back.”
Only one choice.
She opened the door. Looked back. He hadn’t moved.
“I was wrong about you,” she said. “Zorro, you’re not.”
“Sad but true,” he said, and the door slammed behind her.
CHAPTER FORTY ONE
Washington, DC
November 3
7:15 p.m.
Kim got a cab outside the hotel and sharpened her plan on the fly. It was cold, but she barely noticed. She thought through her counter-surveillance options but knew she was unlikely to hide much. Unmonitored transmissions in Washington, D.C., were as scarce as innocent felons. The very airwaves were alive with ears and eyes every moment of every day.
Best case: Cooper was otherwise occupied at that moment. He was covering a private operation solo and off the books. There would be inevitable windows of surveillance black-out. He wasn’t God. He could find the pieces afterward, but he might not be observing in real time.
But he’d anticipate her call to Finlay. He’d be ready to intercept. The problem gnawed at her. She rubbed Finlay’s card inside her pocket. She needed an unpredictable location. And fast. The Redskins’ FedEx Field would work, but there wasn’t enough time to get there and back.
Only one choice.
Which was: Verizon Center during tonight’s hockey game.
Twenty-thousand-plus in attendance; most of them using electronic devices. On a pre-paid burner phone, she would be as anonymous as any hay straw in the stack.