The Bishop pbf-4

by Steven James

  “I’m not having girl problems,” he grumbled. “I’m not confused. And who are you supposed to be? Dr. Phil?”

  “Denial. Not a good sign.”

  She waited him out and eventually, probably sensing that in the end evading her questions would be a losing battle, he let out a small sigh and admitted, “All right, maybe a little confused. Last month, Lien-hua breaks up with me, and now, well… I don’t know what to think.”

  “Duh. Detective Warren is here.”

  He looked at her blankly.

  Okay, you have got to be kidding me.

  “Relationships 101, Patrick: what makes a girl more interested in a guy than anything else?”

  “I’m not sure. I-”

  “Hello. Another girl interested in that guy.”

  “Oh.”

  “And the light goes on.”

  “Gotcha.”

  “So which one of them do you want to be with?”

  He thought for a moment. “Honestly, I’m not sure.”

  “Well, keep playing things like this, and you’ll end up without either one of ’em.”

  Curiosity on his face. “What makes you say that?”

  “No woman wants to be strung along while you play the field looking for someone better.”

  “I’m not stringing anyone along.”

  “You’re being flirty with ’em both.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  A pause. “If you say so.”

  “That’s not what I’m doing.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’m serious.”

  She shrugged. “Right. I get it.”

  He folded his arms. “Stop that.”

  “Stop what?”

  “Agreeing with me.”

  “You don’t want me to agree with you?”

  “Every time you agree with me, I can tell, it’s just another way for you to unobtrusively disagree with me.”

  “Am I supposed to agree with that? Or not?”

  He opened his mouth as if he were going to reply, then closed it.

  He glanced at the clock, obviously trying to find a way to escape the conversation. Then he stood, collected the primate notes, his phone, a clipboard, and his laptop, and stuffed them into his computer bag. “I need to get going, Tessa.”

  “Where?”

  “I have a meeting with FBI Director Rodale.”

  She nodded toward the computer. “During your chat you said that you weren’t meeting him until noon. That’s like three hours away.”

  “I’m hoping I’ll be able to get in a little sooner.”

  “So you can have more time for lunch with Agent Jiang?”

  He pulled out his car keys. “I’m leaving now.”

  “What about me?”

  “Well, I was thinking you could stay here.”

  “By myself?”

  He eyed her. “You’re a big girl.”

  “Paul knows where we live, and he’s trying to find me, remember? To talk to me without you around? You sure you want to leave me here alone?”

  Her words seemed to bring him pause.

  “All right,” he said at last. “C’mon.”

  She grabbed her purse. “I hope Agent Jiang doesn’t mind vegetarian.”

  49

  Astrid was nine when it happened.

  Her mother had died in childbirth, and she’d been an only child.

  There was no sister Annie, of course. She’d lied to Brad about that from the beginning… Her dad did not work on weekends… The goldfish had been Astrid’s pet, and it was a neighbor boy who’d put Goldie in the freezer, telling her later that it was all just a joke and not to make such a big deal out of it.

  Astrid was the one, not the imaginary Annie, who’d cried for three days when Goldie was found dead.

  And of course, her father had not hit her, never would have laid a hand on her, he was not that kind of a man.

  But she hadn’t wanted to appear vulnerable or weak to Brad, so she’d invented a second past, a dual life, with just enough truth in it to keep things believable.

  Though her father was a good dad, even as a child Astrid could tell something wasn’t right. Often, she would hear him crying when he was alone. Sometimes in the morning before work, sometimes late at night, sometimes in his study when he was supposed to be preparing for the college classes he taught.

  She’d finally decided that maybe he cried because something inside of him was broken.

  It was an explanation that made sense to a child.

  She was the one who found him that night in May.

  He hadn’t cried that day. Just stared at her with a distant, sad look and told her how much he loved her and how he would always love her and did she understand that? Did she really? And she’d told him that of course she did, and then he’d held her close in a way that frightened her.

  “I need to do some work tonight,” he explained to her, “after you go to bed. So if you hear me in the study, don’t worry.”

  “Okay, Daddy,” she’d said.

  Then he tucked her in.

  And soon afterward, when she’d finished reading the Nancy Drew book he’d given her for her birthday and had just turned off the light, there was a harsh scraping sound in his study, and then all at once she heard the clatter of a wooden chair against the floor, and the house shuddered around her.

  She sat up. “Daddy?”

  Silence, except for a thin creaking sound coming from the study. Almost like the sound of a swing in motion on a windy day at the park.

  She called again. “Daddy? What happened?”

  No answer.

  She picked up her favorite stuffed animal, a kitten named Patches. “Daddy?”

  No reply.

  She slipped out of bed and she was afraid again, like she’d been when he’d told her earlier that night, with some urgency, how much he loved her.

  “Daddy?”

  Silence.

  She padded to the hall, but it was dark and lonely and seemed to stretch forever in front of her, as if it’d grown longer since the last time she’d walked down it.

  The sound of the tired creak was now growing quiet and dim.

  She held Patches close.

  Walked toward the study.

  Her dad almost never locked the door because, as he liked to say, “You’re more important to me than work, honey. So anytime you need me, just come in. A daddy has to have his priorities straight, you know.”

  But tonight it was locked, and when she called to him, he didn’t answer. So it was a good thing she knew where he hid the key-in the kitchen, in the cupboard where he kept the nice china dishes, right above the sink.

  It didn’t take her long to find it.

  She returned to the study.

  Then unlocked the door, put her hand against it, and pressed.

  The door slowly mouthed open before her.

  She saw his feet first, about a foot off the ground, and then her eyes traveled up his legs, his body, past his head to the rope that stretched taut and straight and tight to the rafters that had stopped creaking now. Then her father’s body pivoted toward her.

  And she saw his face.

  And screamed.

  Dropping Patches, she ran down the hall as fast as she could and dove under her bed. She was crying and trembling and wished, wished, wished she hadn’t left her kitty behind in the hall. Wished she hadn’t seen what she had.

  Her daddy’s face.

  Terrible, terrible thoughts tumbled through her mind. Scary thoughts and frightening thoughts and bad, bad images that she did not want to think about.

  Her daddy in the study.

  His face.

  The tight, tight rope.

  But the thoughts wouldn’t go away.

  She wanted to help him, wanted to, but couldn’t.

  Couldn’t do anything.

  But pray.

  Maybe she could pray.

  So even though she wasn’t sure if God was there or was even listening, sh
e prayed and prayed that her daddy would be okay.

  But nothing changed. Her daddy didn’t come to be with her.

  God ignored her. The house remained silent.

  So quiet.

  So lonely.

  So still.

  Until morning, when she heard the cook arrive, and then she ran past the study-somehow made it past the study, grabbing Patches as she did-and found the cook standing in the kitchen getting things ready for breakfast, and she told her everything.

  Her father had left a note with only five words: “I’m sorry I wasn’t stronger.”

  Then came the foster families who would shuffle her off to new homes if she cried all the time or if she refused to go to bed because she was too terrified of her dreams. And for a long time she couldn’t help but cry and disappear into herself and stay up all night sitting on the bed, staring at her door, but it was lonely going to new families all the time, so she’d learned to act like a good little girl, a girl who wasn’t broken inside.

  Acting, acting, always acting.

  The good little girl.

  But now.

  Now.

  She was no longer the frightened little child who’d trembled under the bed and lost her faith in the Almighty on a cool night in May. Now she was a woman, strong and confident and self-assured, everything people expected from someone in her highly respected, much sought after position.

  Something about the memory of that night when she found her father began to chew away at the anger and disappointment she’d felt toward her man last night.

  After all, he hadn’t deviated far from the plan. Yes, he’d made a few mistakes, but those were forgivable.

  She glanced at her reflection in the mirror. She was showing some, had put on a little weight, but Brad hadn’t seemed to notice.

  A child.

  A baby growing inside her.

  She hadn’t felt the baby kick yet, but soon, soon the evidence of her life, or his, would come.

  The more she thought about her own father and the father of her child, the more she considered telling him about the baby.

  Maybe it was time.

  According to the plan, she would go to work today, Brad would get the plates and the car, then pay a visit to FBI Executive Assistant Director Wellington’s home, and tonight, after the explosion, they would swing by the FBI Academy to leave a little surprise. And then this game would be over. Then they would move on.

  So for now.

  Watch.

  Watch and see.

  Keep an eye on him and only if necessary put him in the freezer and close the door.

  Only if absolutely necessary.

  9:48 a.m.

  Margaret Wellington did not like the feeling that something had gotten by her, so after the press conference, rather than go directly to the task force command post at police headquarters, she returned to the Lincoln Towers to see if there was anything the officers might have missed in their search for Mollie Fischer.

  She spent twenty-five minutes retracing the route Bowers had taken as he chased the killers through the hotel, looking for any place they might have found to hide a body.

  Nothing.

  Now, she scanned the lobby.

  The atrium extended up all twelve floors, with terraced gardens and a narrow waterfall that spilled out of a faux rock wall on her left. The water tumbled into a goldfish stream that meandered along the ground beneath a network of bridges and walkways.

  She still believed that somehow the killers had managed to get Mollie Fischer out of the building, perhaps through the parking garage, which might explain the glove that had been left behind.

  Or maybe they’d found another way.

  Or maybe she was wrong and Mollie was still here somewhere.

  Margaret rubbed her head.

  Room 809, the room in which they’d found the wheelchair, was still sealed of course, but the rest of the hotel was open. Last night Agent Cassidy and the new transfer from St. Louis, Natasha Farraday, had cleared it.

  Still no news about the laptop or the duffel bag that the Rainey boy had seen the man and woman carrying when they left the alley and climbed into the taxicab.

  And, honestly, Margaret had no idea where else to look for Mollie.

  A different perspective might be helpful, a fresh set of eyes, so with Hawkins and Bowers out of the picture for the moment, she phoned the next most qualified agent on the team.

  “Lien-hua here.”

  “This is Executive Assistant Director Wellington. I’d like you to meet me at the Lincoln Towers Hotel. We’re going to do a walk-around. Together.”

  50

  On the drive to DC, I’d managed to move up the meeting with FBI Director Rodale one hour, to 11:00. “Actually,” his secretary had informed me, “the director is anxious to see you.”

  “Great.”

  Since Tessa and I had some time, she’d suggested coffee, and although we’d already had some this morning, she persuaded me. While we were at the coffeehouse I called Doehring, and he told me that nothing had come of his search into Mollie Fischer’s background and so, once again, I moved forward with the working hypothesis that she indeed was a victim in this crime spree, not an offender.

  By the time we’d left the coffeehouse, battled traffic, driven to FBI headquarters, parked, cleared security, and obtained Tessa’s visitor’s pass, it was almost 11:00.

  “You’ll be good waiting for me?”

  She nodded and took a seat in the reception area just outside Rodale’s office.

  “I’ll see you as soon as I’m done.” I gave her the guest password for HQ’s Wi-Fi. She plugged in her earbuds, opened up her laptop to read more about primate cognition, and I knocked on Rodale’s door.

  “Come in.”

  I entered and found him standing beside his corner window overlooking downtown DC.

  Congressman Fischer stood beside him.

  Maybe Mollie’s body was found.

  I waited for one of them to tell me the news, whatever it might be.

  “Pat,” Rodale said. “I believe you’ve met Congressman Fischer?”

  I nodded to him. “Congressman.”

  “I heard you almost caught Mollie’s abductors yesterday,” he said. “I need to thank you for going after them like that. Especially after our… well, my… the words I had with you in my office.”

  Today he sounded a lot more shattered by what had happened, a lot more like a man whose daughter was missing. “I know you were upset.”

  “They tell me you were shot yesterday?”

  “Yes, but I’m all right.”

  I waited; no explanations came.

  Rodale gestured toward a chair. “Please, Pat, have a seat.”

  Neither of the two men moved toward a chair or elaborated on why the congressman was here, and a tense kind of awkwardness sifted through the room. “I’ve been sitting all morning,” I said. “If you don’t mind, I think I’ll stretch my legs too.”

  A nod. “Sure. Yes.”

  “Has there been a break in the case?” I asked at last.

  Rodale shook his head.

  “No,” Fischer said soberly.

  Then Rodale walked to his bookcase and let out a tired-sounding sigh. He was six months from retirement but looked ready to bail on his job this afternoon. “I’m in a quandary here, Pat. I want to commend you on your valor yesterday, on your insights into this case, but I also feel the professional obligation to reprimand you for the reckless nature of your actions.”

  I wasn’t exactly sure how to respond to that. “That’s understandable.”

  “No more spur-of-the moment press conferences.”

  “Agreed.”

  “All right.” I could tell this was just the tip of the iceberg. “Moving on. There’s a sensitive aspect of this case that I need to tell you about, and I need you to keep it in the strictest confidence.”

  I let my eyes pass from him to the congressman, then back to Rodale. “What aspect?”


  Congressman Fischer spoke up. “The Gunderson facility. I believe I might know the reason the young woman was killed there.”

  “And that is?”

  “You remember Project Rukh?” Rodale said. “In San Diego?” “Of course.”

  Last February, Lien-hua, Ralph, and I had uncovered a biotech conspiracy that involved marine biology research and recent advances in neuroscience to create a top-secret weapon for the Pentagon. The device could be used to damage, in an untraceable manner, specific parts of a person’s frontal cortex to cause permanent brain damage or a stroke.

  The case would always stick in my mind not just for professional reasons but for personal ones as well: while in San Diego a young man had tried to sexually assault Tessa, and one of the killers we were tracking had attacked and drowned Lien-hua; I’d barely been able to revive her.

  “I thought the Pentagon pulled the plug on all that?” I said, referring to Project Rukh.

  “They did,” Congressman Fischer responded. “But a private firm managed to acquire the neuroscientific research that survived. For an unrelated project.”

  Unrelated.

  Yeah, right.

  “The Gunderson Foundation,” I said.

  Both men confirmed my words by their silence.

  “So you’re involved with the foundation somehow, is that it?” I said to the congressman. “Is there some legislation before the House that relates to-”

  “I’ve contributed financially to the foundation in the past. Yes,” he replied. “But that’s something I would rather the public not be apprised of at this time.”

  “Thank you.”

  He looked confused. “For what?”

  “For narrowing things down. I can guarantee that if you don’t want the information released, there’s somebody out there who does. And that person may very well be involved in your daughter’s abduction. So, the obvious question: who would want the facts about your donations made public?”

  “Every Republican in Congress.”

  Although that seemed like a gross overstatement, if the primate research were in some way ethically controversial, he might just be right. Rodale glanced at Congressman Fischer, who nodded. I did not find it reassuring that the Bureau’s director was taking cues from a congressman.