Death Never Lies

by David Grace

  “Sorry Agent Kane,” the babysitter, Agent Wellner according to his ID, told him in a tone that made it clear that he wasn’t sorry at all, “The Justice is busy. You’ll have to make an appointment with his secretary.”

  “No, I won’t,” Kane said. Wellner stood up straighter and took a step forward. “You’re about six inches away from getting yourself assigned to foot patrol outside the Nigerian Embassy,” Kane told him, refusing to back up an inch.

  “I need you to leave now, Mr. Kane.” Wellner said, opening his coat and showing his weapon.

  “At eight-thirty this morning your Director authorized me to run a full review of Justice Hopper’s security detail. Take a good look at my creds.” Kane shoved his ID into Wellner’s face. “The name is Gregory Kane.”

  “I don’t care who you are. I don’t have any–”

  “Interest in saving your career? Idea of the proper response to what I’ve just told you? Clue as to the pile of shit you’ve just stepped into? Get out your phone and call your Director, now.” Wellner hesitated and then raised his hand to his earbud. “No!” Kane shouted and waved his arm. “I told you to call your Director. Your supervisor has already proven his incompetence by not telling you about my assignment. If you don’t want this little problem to escalate into a real crap storm get your Director on the line and tell her that Senator Denning’s representative is very pissed that the Secret Service is obstructing his mission.”

  Normally the agent would have called in a couple of CSOs and had Kane tossed down the Courthouse steps but the words “Director” and “Senator Denning” made him pause.

  “You stay right there,” Wellner ordered then backed off ten feet and pulled out his phone. The call began with a few whispered sentences and was soon interrupted by delays as the agent was shunted to higher and higher levels of authority. Kane especially enjoyed watching Wellner’s face lose its bland composure and grow redder and more irritated as the call dragged on. At the end Wellner was barely speaking, just uttering brief responses mostly consisting of “Yes, sir” and “I understand.” Wellner finally hung up, composed his face into a rigid mask and, stiff-legged, walked back to Kane.

  “Through that door,” he said in a tight voice. “Tell the Justice’s administrative assistant what you want. Whether the Justice will see to you or not is up to him.”

  Kane turned away without a word. Three minutes later he was ushered into Mr. Justice Hopper’s office. Strictly speaking Kane didn’t need to talk to Hopper in order to evaluate the Secret Service’s security arrangements but only a fool would look at it that way. There were two basic parts to any protection detail: the protectors and the protectee. You couldn’t evaluate one without understanding the other. What was the target’s personality? Would he follow orders or fight you at every step? Did he appreciate his guards or resent them? Did he want to go out every night or have friends in or just sit quietly in his living room and read a book? Were there any circumstances under which he might try to give his protection team the slip? Did he have any guilty pleasures, a special food, a favored chef, season tickets to the symphony or a sports team, any habits that a hitter might be able to exploit? Was he bold or retiring, impulsive or methodical? When the chips were down, how was Hopper likely to react? These were things a good protection detail needed to know in advance.

  Sure, Kane could have guessed the answers to these questions, assumed what kind of person Hopper was based on his occupation, but assumptions were risky and often wrong. Kane needed a feel for the man that he could only get from a one-on-one meeting.

  “Mr. Justice Hopper,” he began. “I’m Agent Gregory Kane, Department of Homeland Security.” Hopper raised his eyebrows as if a peculiar creature had just wandered into view. “In light of the attempted break-in at your house last night I’ve been asked to make a thorough review of your security procedures.”

  Hopper stared at Kane for a count of two then apparently resigned himself to what he viewed as a waste of his time. He pointed to a club chair a few feet from his desk.

  “Have a seat Agent Kane. . . . You don’t need to call me ‘Mr. Justice Hopper,” he added before Kane had finished sitting down. “That’s for out there,” Hopper waved vaguely in the direction of the courtroom. “Most of my professional life people have called me ‘Judge.’ I see no reason to change that now.” Hopper stared at Kane the way he might have looked at a new painting, trying to decide if he liked it and, if so, how much it might be worth.

  “I’d like to get an idea of your schedule.”

  Hopper gave him another appraising look then began to speak.

  “I get up around six-thirty, have breakfast at home and I’m here by eight. I eat lunch here in the building and generally leave around six. My housekeeper prepares dinner and I’m usually in bed by ten.” Hopper spoke in a diffident tone as if unsure what Kane was really getting at.

  “Is there anything that you eat that is unique, something that might be specially ordered just for you?”

  “You think someone’s going to poison me? No, everything Ardelia cooks is right off the supermarket shelf. And they make her shop at different stores on a random schedule. An agent accompanies her just in case.”

  Kane made a note. “Are you planning on attending any social events in the next thirty days?” he asked without looking up.

  “The Secret Service has my full schedule,” Hopper said, obviously irritated.

  “How often do you see your daughter?”

  “Kathryn? What does – just what are you getting at Mr. Kane?”

  “As I said, I’m preparing a review of your security procedures.”

  “By asking questions that the Secret Service already has the answers to? What’s really going on here, Agent Kane and what does it have to do with my daughter?”

  As he had planned, Kane now had Hopper’s full attention.

  “How do you murder a high government official?” Kane asked.

  “What?”

  “You can’t just walk up to him in the street or knock on his door. How do you get past his guards? How do you get close to him?”

  “Why don’t you tell me.” Good, Kane thought, he’s pissed. He’s almost ready to take this seriously.

  “You start with someone close to him, a guard, an employee, a friend, a relative. That’s the weak spot.”

  “That wouldn’t work with me, Mr. Kane, but you know that already. What are you really getting at?”

  “The first thing you’d do is watch someone close to the target, get an idea of his or her habits and schedule, look for some way to use them against the subject. At least that was my thinking. About two weeks ago I said as much to my partner, Grant Eustace. He was kind of a glory hound, always looking for some big case that would put a gold star next to his name, maybe get him a promotion or a bump in pay.”

  “Was?”

  “Grant decided to check out your daughter, nothing special, just watch her for a while, see where she went, what she did.” Kane paused, guaranteeing that he had Hopper’s full attention. “We found Eustace’s body about seven the next morning stuffed into the backseat of his car. Somebody had jammed a steel rod, maybe an ice pick, maybe a thin screwdriver, into his brain.”

  “Is that what this is all about, revenge, about finding your partner’s killer?”

  Kane almost laughed. “Grant Eustace was an ambitious moron who put himself in the wrong place at the wrong time. He was my partner and it’s bad business to let people get away with killing your partner but I wouldn’t have gotten into this jackpot with the Secret Service over that. I’m here because your friend Senator Denning wants you kept alive and he wants me to assure him that the Secret Service is going to see that that happens.”

  “Senator Denning is not my friend. I don’t even know the man,” Hopper snapped.

  “Well, he knows you. He’s afraid the gun nuts are–”

  “Stop right there!” If Hopper had had a gavel he’d have banged it. “I will not discuss or hear
any discussion that is in any way related to any case before me. I specifically reject the term ‘gun nuts’ as applying to any of the parties in Hoffkemper v. California.”

  “Noted,” Kane said, nodding submissively. “The point is, the woman who showed up at your house was an amateur, dangerous but crazy, the kind of person the Secret Service is perfectly capable of handling. Grant Eustace was killed by a professional within hours of the time he started watching your daughter. That waves a very big red flag. However you decide, whatever the Court’s ruling is, you need to live long enough to cast your vote. If every time somebody doesn’t like how a case is going they can change the result by killing the judge then this country is finished. So, here I am.”

  “I already have the Secret Service protecting me. What makes you so special, Mr. Kane?”

  “I see things more clearly than most people. That’s why I’m so popular.” For the first time Hopper smiled. “So, how close are you to your daughter?”

  “We talk on the phone or exchange emails two or three times a week. We have a standing lunch engagement every Wednesday. We used to use those occasions to try out new restaurants but after yesterday’s . . . excitement I assume that we’ll be eating in the building from now on. How could Kathryn possibly be used to do me harm?”

  Kane had two or three ideas on how he might do it but he wasn’t going to open that bag of snakes with the protectee.

  “That’s why I need to know everything I can about your daughter. What kind of person is she? What does she like? What does she dislike? What are her goals? What are her fears?”

  “You want to understand her personality,” Hopper said, then paused a moment before continuing. “You want to know how she would react to a threat or in an emergency. Do you think she’s a target, that the person who killed your partner might do something to her in order to get to me?”

  “It’s a possibility we can’t ignore. Now, tell me everything you can about Kathryn.” Half an hour later Hopper started repeating himself. “I think I have enough for now,” Kane said and put away his pen. “Thanks for your help, Judge. I’ll see myself out.” Kane stood and held out his hand.

  “I don’t want anything about my job hurting my daughter. She doesn’t deserve that. As far as this case is concerned she’s just . . . .” Hopper hesitated, suddenly lost for words.

  “Just an innocent bystander,” Kane said while thinking collateral damage. There was a brief flash of fire in Hopper’s eyes but the judge bit his tongue. Kane nodded and turned toward the door.

  “Protect my daughter, Agent Kane,” Hopper called after him.

  “It’s my job to protect you, Judge. Hopefully that will be enough.”

  When he left the justice’s chambers almost an hour after he had entered the building Kane found someone new waiting for him.

  “Agent Kane, I’m Special Agent in Charge, Clark Millingham.” Beefy, broad shouldered, built like an NFL free safety in a thousand dollar suit, Millingham stuck out a hand as black as India ink. Well, they’re taking me seriously now, was Kane’s only thought. Time to play nice.

  “Pleased to meet you, SAC Millingham,” Kane said taking the proffered hand. “Heck of a job you’ve got here.” Kane gestured vaguely toward Hopper’s office.

  “It’s what we train for. Is there anything the Service can do to help with your evaluation?” Now you want to kill me with kindness, Kane thought. Well, let’s see how long that lasts.

  “I want to talk to the daughter.”

  Millingham hesitated, trying to figure out where Kane was going.

  “We’ve got a double team on her, 24/7. No one’s getting near her.”

  “I appreciate that but I need to talk to her.”

  “What for?” Millingham asked his friendly tone now gone.

  “For my report to Senator Denning.” Kane smiled and waited.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” Millingham said finally.

  “No rush.” Millingham fractionally relaxed. “I haven’t had lunch yet. Two, two-thirty will be just fine. Do they have a cafeteria in this building? Hey, Wellner,” Kane called to the scowling agent in the corner, “how’s the food in this place?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Immerson wandered through the bull pen in a state best described as nervous euphoria, his emotions simultaneously being stretched in two opposing directions. On the one hand, with Kane temporarily somebody else’s problem the office was the emotional equivalent of a placid, garden pond. On the other, dropping a bottle of nitroglycerin like Gregory Kane into the middle of a Secret Service operation was unlikely to end well and Immerson felt himself tensing in anticipation of the eventual explosion. At least Kane’s errand-boy new partner seemed busy. Rosewood’s desk was covered with stacks of folders and documents and Rosewood himself was industriously pounding away on his keyboard, apparently looking for more.

  “Want to bring me up to date, Danny?” Immerson asked. The kid jerked around and for a moment a hand-in-the-cookie-jar expression clouded his face then, just as quickly, vanished.

  “Uhhh, yes sir. I’m working on the Albert Brownstein disappearance.”

  “I assumed you were. Do you and Kane have any other open cases?”

  “Uhhh, no sir.” It came out half as an answer, half as a question.

  Something’s going on, Immerson thought but decided that he probably didn’t want to know what.

  “So, what’s all this?” Immerson gestured toward the paperwork covering Rosewood’s desk.

  “Well, uhhh, we noticed a suspicious person near Mr. Brownstein’s apartment before he went missing and Agent Kane thought he might have recognized him so I’ve been going through the suspect’s credit cards and phone records from the time before he disappeared.”

  “The time before Brownstein disappeared?”

  “No, before the subject disappeared.”

  “Wait.” Immerson waved his hand, confused. “The ‘suspicious person’ that Kane recognized has also disappeared?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Around the time that Brownstein went missing?”

  “No sir. About two years before that.”

  “This is someone who Kane knew from Baltimore?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “You don’t have to call me ‘sir.’ Just, ‘yes’ or ‘no’ without the ‘sir’ will be fine.” Rosewood seemed confused but Immerson pressed on anyway. “Who is this ‘suspicious person’?”

  “He’s a Baltimore County Deputy Sheriff, Mearle Farber.”

  “What would a Baltimore County Deputy Sheriff have to do with a missing HHS Director?”

  “I don’t know, s–.” Danny sputtered to a stop.

  “Have you located him?”

  “Not exactly, but I think I might be closing in.” He waited for another question but after a moment’s pause Danny figured that he was supposed to keep talking. “Agent Kane gave me some tips about things I should look for and they’ve paid off. You know,” Rosewood said, suddenly enthused, “Agent Kane really knows his stuff. I mean, he taught me more about how to track down people in one hour than any of the books I’ve read.” Danny gave Immerson a smile then, chastened by his boss’s silence, turned back to his piles of documents. “Well, anyway, this Farber had a Safeway Club Card that gave him a discount on gasoline. I checked his regular credit card transactions and nothing special popped up, but then I subpoenaed his Club Card records and I found a bunch of gas purchases at stations nowhere near his house or work,” Danny pointed to a file on the upper right corner of his desk, “so I got the station’s records for that time and date,” his hand patted the next pile down, “and I matched the purchase amount on the Club Card to a credit card in the name of Benjamin Prentiss.”

  “Were you able to link Prentiss and Farber together?”

  “Yes, I was,” Danny said proudly. “I got Prentiss’ driver’s license and the picture matches Farber’s.”

  “Do we know where Prentiss is now?”

  “Oh, no. He
went off the grid pretty soon after Farber went missing.”

  “And?”

  “Oh, well, I’ve been going through Prentiss’ credit card records,” Danny patted yet another of his piles, “looking for links to bank accounts, email addresses and cell phone purchases. Prentiss paid his credit card bill by an automatic transfer from an account at the Eastern Federal Bank in Laurel. That account’s dormant now but there were some pretty big deposits made to it. I think he was dirty and that’s where he put his payoffs. And I’m following another lead. Agent Kane called it a ‘thread.’ I just have to find the link that ties Prentiss to the name he’s using now. I think I’m getting close.” Danny gave his boss a hopeful smile.

  Good God, now I’ve seen everything, Immerson thought. Kane had managed to piss off just about every trained agent in the office and now he partners up with a wet-behind-the-ears kid and it’s all cotton candy and rainbows. I wonder how long this honeymoon’s going to last? he asked himself, then decided to just enjoy the peace and quiet as long as he could.

  “Well, good work, Rosewood. Keep at it and let me know if you track this Farber down. Make sure you keep Kane up to date.”

  “Yes, sir – uhh, sorry. I’ll email him my report before I go home tonight.” Danny turned back to one of his printouts and began making notes.

  It was a little past seven and Danny was just about to quit when he found the crucial link. At first he couldn’t believe it. He just sat there and stared as if it might disappear if he looked away. It had started out as such a small mistake but Danny knew what that mistake meant right away. It was the loose thread Kane had told him to look for and Danny had pulled on it for all he was worth.

  The Prentiss credit card had been used for some on-line purchases, nothing shocking, no shotguns or tear gas or anything like that, but the vendor had required an email login. Prentiss had used a Gmail account in some cryptic name. No big deal. But then Prentiss had wanted another, equally cryptic, Gmail account for something else and he’d had to give an existing email address to open the new one. He used the first fake-name email account to open the second one. That’s where he screwed up. The records of the first account led Danny to the second one and the records of the second email address took Danny to a PayPal account and the PayPal account records led him to payment for a private mail box. The address on the private mail box matched the address on a newly issued VISA card in the name of Paul Conklin. A DMV check turned up a registration for a Toyota Camry and Paul Conklin’s Virginia driver’s license. When Danny accessed the driver’s license he recognized the picture immediately, no question, none at all. The deadpan face on the Paul Conklin license belonged to Mearle Farber.