“What do you think you know?”
Besides having an envelope filled with numbers that were somehow related? How she wished she could ask him about that. The cursor blinked on the computer screen, and she realized she had about two seconds to come up with something plausible, a semblance of the truth. She’d been a fool to even mention it to him, since he and Pearson were practically joined at the hip. She couldn’t let them know about that envelope, but if she denied any knowledge, he’d be suspicious. “They have a connection to the CIA and possibly BICTT.”
“You’ve done a bit of homework since last night.”
“A bit. I was worried about who was going after Griffin.”
“Can I give you some advice? Let it go. Wingman Squared and BICTT have nothing to do with this case. Nothing to do with what happened to Griffin last night.”
“But—”
“We handle a lot of cases here, Sydney. And sometimes they overlap. Your case—the one you were specifically brought here for—has everything to do with a terrorist that may be trying to get into this country, may already be here, and has nothing to do with the files you saw on Redfern’s desk with a W2 label. Do I make myself clear?”
“Very.”
He looked at the monitor again and said, “The number you want is two four.”
“Two four?”
“The extension to IT. You’ll need computer access if you’re going to help find this bastard.”
And then he left, and she was sitting there alone at Griffin’s desk, trying to figure out what the hell it all meant. If the cases weren’t related, then who had tried to kill Griffin and why? Did she trust McNiel that this W2 business had nothing to do with last night? That her seeing the file on Redfern’s desk was merely happenstance?
She had to trust him. McNiel undoubtedly had every reason to keep secrets from her, but she sincerely doubted he’d risk Griffin’s or even her life in the name of national security. So it was that she mentally put it aside, called IT to get her computer access, and started looking up the things related to the case in question. The problem was, she wasn’t even sure what she was supposed to be looking up, and she kept drifting back to the moment in the parking garage when she saw Griffin hit by the car.
Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to follow them. What didn’t make sense was sending an innocent kid to spy on them. Unless that was a distraction? Something to slow them down, allow the car to take them out when they stopped to investigate.
Griffin was too aware of his surroundings, and perhaps whoever had been following them knew this.
But how would they have known to follow them to the bar if it had nothing to do with Wingman Squared across the street? She’d picked it because it was close to Redfern’s office, and unless someone had her cell phone or Griffin’s office phone bugged, they would have had to follow her from the subway and then a taxi, which she doubted, or followed Griffin’s vehicle, which seemed more likely.
And Griffin had left from the ATLAS building.
Just as they had the night the gunmen took them by surprise at the From Sticks to Bricks fund-raiser . . .
She pushed back from the chair, walked to the window, and looked out. As busy a street as it was out front, someone could have easily followed them from here to the hotel that night. It wasn’t a secret where they were coming from. Tex had handed out Washington Recorder cards with the address on it. Sure they’d gotten away that night, but how hard would it be to park at one of those outlying corners and wait for a van to drive out, or follow Griffin to a bar after he got into the SUV he was driving, then wait for them to come walking back after a night of drinking, sending a naive college kid to distract them . . .
Since she knew that McNiel wouldn’t endanger his own men by leading her astray from the W2 angle, then whoever came after Griffin probably followed him from the paper to the bar. And since that was the second time someone came after him after leaving the building—meaning someone followed him while he was in the guise of a reporter—she’d have to say that put the suspect squarely in the A.D.E. court.
They clearly didn’t want reporters snooping around.
The question was, why?
44
While Sydney waited for IT to send down a password to access the computer, she checked her work voice mail, receiving a call from Scotty, who complained that she wasn’t answering her cell phone—hard to do when no signal came into or out of the ATLAS building—then one from Pearson, reminding her to finish her report. The third call was from Lieutenant Sanchez at the PD. “Hate to bother you,” he said, “but I had a shooting last night, and your name came up—which it seems to do a lot of late. Give me a call when you get a chance.”
She telephoned the number he left, wondering if it was about the man she shot at as he tried to run down Griffin.
“Sanchez.”
“Sydney Fitzpatrick.”
“Hey, thanks for calling back so quick. Any chance you can meet me at the hospital?”
“You’re on day shift now?”
“First day on, so you can imagine my surprise to be fielding a call and hearing your name once again. And no, not the shooting you were involved in last night. This one was a robbery maybe an hour before. Some guy chased his victims into a building, then shot at them through the door. Hit a nine-year-old kid.”
Definitely not her case from last night. “Do you need a suspect sketch?”
“Actually, we got the guy. Hoping the kid makes it. It’s just that, like I said, your name came up from a friend of the family. I know the Bureau doesn’t typically involve themselves in your basic robbery, but, if you’ll pardon the expression, you sort of owe me one—and I’m not even counting last night’s shooting on K Street. I’m talking about the suicide undercover FBI thing you threw on me.”
“Extenuating circumstances.”
“Tell you what. If you can get this guy off my back, I’ll call us even, because right now, he is making my life a living hell.”
“I’m on my way.”
“Meet me in the lobby.”
Lieutenant Sanchez was actually waiting for her in the front of the hospital. “Thanks. I hope you don’t mind if I talk and walk at the same time? I have a Kiwanis meeting I need to get out to.”
“Talk away.”
“You remember a man named Ito Abasi?”
She looked over at him, surprised. “On-site manager at one of the slums out near the naval yard?”
“The same. He’s the one who dropped your name. Here’s the thing.” Sanchez stopped, shoved his hands in the pockets of his uniform jacket. “The guy is probably calling us fifty times a day to report stuff we can’t possibly get to. If we lived in Mayberry, sure, but this is D.C., and when it comes to rats and plumbing, and the crap he has to deal with, all we can do is refer him to the proper housing authorities and call it a day.”
She well-remembered the stench. “The place needs to be razed.”
“I feel for the guy, I do, but the few times we’ve actually been able to get someone to answer the phone in whatever department handles his type of calls, we get the same answer. Budget cuts. No manpower. They’ll get to it when they get to it,” he said, his tone telling her exactly what he thought of that excuse. “And so he calls again, because we’re the only ones who answer the phone. Then, out of the blue last night, in the middle of this shooting investigation, he drops your card on my officer and says you’re working a case and that we should contact you.”
“A case?”
“Quote, unquote.”
“Did he say what case?”
“Not exactly. He mentioned the suicide, but my officer assured him the kid’s shooting last night wasn’t related.”
“Knowing what little you know about the, er, suicide, do you think it’s related?” she asked, wondering why the man would insist she be contacted.
“There is no way on God’s green earth the two cases are related. The guy robbed a couple out in front of the Target store abou
t an hour before, which is where this family was shopping. He followed them from the Target to the apartment building. A dirtbag who saw an opportunity and took it. His girlfriend, who wasn’t present at the second robbery, confirmed his story. Apparently he’s done this before, and so left his itinerary with her. The robbery part. The shooting, unfortunately, is a new facet to his criminal history. He tripped on a torn piece of carpet in the hallway and the gun went off. And a witness in the hallway confirmed it.”
“Bottom line, Lieutenant Sanchez. Why am I here?”
“Frankly, I don’t know. Mr. Abasi is desperate that someone sit up and take notice. You and I both know last night wouldn’t have happened if my dirtbag hadn’t committed a robbery. But Mr. Abasi thinks it wouldn’t have happened had there been proper lighting, a security lock on the door that led to the building, a floor with a carpet that wasn’t so shredded people tripped on it every time they ran, which, when holding a loaded firearm, can have deadly consequences. And the sad thing is, he’s right. There’s a boy fighting for his life upstairs in that hospital because some landlord’s too greedy to do what needs to be done. The kid’s entire life, he’s probably never been in a room as nice as that one, and he has to get shot to get there.”
“I’m not sure I can do anything more than you’ve done.”
He looked beaten, and Sydney felt for him as he turned toward the hospital, then took a ragged breath. “I know. But I’ve exhausted every available government agency trying to help them, and I guess when I heard your name, I thought, why not?”
Why not? Because her one attempt to look into the Redfern Group ended up with her being ordered off any possible investigation. Still, she empathized with Sanchez’s plight. “Where is Mr. Abasi?”
“Upstairs with the boy’s parents.”
“I’ll go talk to him.”
“That’s all I can ask.”
Ito Abasi was in the room, sitting next to a man and woman she presumed were the boy’s parents. The boy was in a room with a breathing apparatus and monitors beeping in the background. Mr. Abasi looked up, saw her, and excused himself to join her.
“Thank you so much for coming,” he said, clasping her hand in both of his. “I know this has nothing to do with your case, and that you hope to find Dorian’s killer, but I do not know where else to turn. These people, they need your help, Ms. Fitzpatrick. Please . . .”
“They caught the man who did this.”
“Yes, but at what point do we say enough is enough? Their older daughter was raped and killed in Dadaab, when she left to gather firewood. And then they come here and now their son is nearly killed by more violence. You have seen how they must live, and no matter who I talk to, no one will help. Only Lieutenant Sanchez ever returns my calls, and even he is powerless. We are set to receive another family in the next two days,” he said, then waved toward the hospital room, the boy lying so helpless in his bed. “How is this any better than where they come from when they have nowhere to go? Please help us. Please.”
She looked into the room, saw the father, his arm around his wife’s shoulder and she brushing the tears from her face. How was it better? Sydney had no idea if it was or it wasn’t, but she recognized injustice when she saw it.
“I don’t know what I can do. But I can try.”
“Thank you. Thank you,” he said as she left, feeling guilty because his appreciation seemed so sincere. Lieutenant Sanchez was no slacker, and if he failed, then how could she possibly make a difference? He, at least, had the inside connection to all the departments in the city. She had a desk in the Quantico basement without a clue on where to turn next.
Then again, there was always Doc. If anyone could find the sliver of a chance in a hopeless case, he was the man.
She called him from the car and told him about the robbery and Mr. Abasi’s plea for help. “I don’t suppose you have anything in that bag of tricks you keep handy? Not only that, but if Redfern is somehow involved in this mess that put Griffin in the hospital, then anything I can do to take him down a notch is worth it.”
“Even if Redfern knows who tried to take out Griffin, the attorney-client privilege means that you’re not going to find out, unless he decides his practice is worth sacrificing.”
“What would you do?”
“Regarding the thing with Griffin, or the slumlord angle? If the former, question the guy, rattle his cage enough so he passes on the info and forces someone to make a move.”
“Except the FBI has been ordered off his case.”
“How long have you and Carillo been working together?”
“Good point. So if I really wanted a creative way to rattle his cage and get him or his clients to take some action on bringing these apartments up to living standards . . . ?”
“Get out the phone book and get every single government agency involved in housing codes and violations and sic ’em on him. In other words, tie his ass up in housing court. And while he’s busy fending them off, you make sure he’s aware of a nice little law that says in nonpayment cases a tenant could file a countersuit for three years of back rent if the conditions violated the DC Housing Code. I’m guessing there are a lot of violations that would qualify.”
“Doesn’t seem like a lot.”
“It is if the majority of those tenants joins in.”
“I can’t see every one of them joining in. They’re scared refugees who have no way to fend for themselves, especially if they find themselves suddenly evicted.”
“They would if you had the right person on board. I’m e-mailing the information to you now. Linwood Tillett. It’ll be cheaper for them to raze the buildings and start over than fight this guy.”
“And what happens if they do raze it? Where does everyone go?”
“They’ll have to front big bucks to put the displaced refugees up somewhere.”
“I’m not sure it’s about money,” she said. “What if there’s something else going on? Some other reason they don’t care that there are so many refugees having to live this way?”
“First and foremost, Sydney, it’s always about money. But let’s say you’re right, that for whatever reason, money’s no object. The last landlord Tillett sued was able to get the judge to sentence the owner to live for several days in his rat-infested property so he’d remember not to let it happen again. I’m going to guess that Redfern and any clients Redfern has are not going to want that to happen.”
She checked the e-mail he sent over on her phone’s screen, then drove to the attorney’s office, immediately dismayed by what she saw. It was not in some fancy downtown high-rise, like the Redfern Group. It wasn’t even in some posh older location. If anything, it was in a very nondescript office building as far from the movers and shakers as one could get. She called Doc, questioning his judgment. “You sure this Linwood Tillett can take on the Washington bigwigs? Redfern’s got a direct pipeline to the upper-echelon politicians.”
“Trust me. I don’t care how many senators Redfern has in his pocket. When he sees Tillett walking into the room, he’s going to have an epiphany. Almost makes me wish I was there to see it.”
Sydney still had her doubts about the effectiveness of Linwood Tillett, but at this point it was the only tool she had in a very empty toolbox. And even though she had been technically ordered to back off Redfern’s case, the memory of those apartments and the sight of that little boy in the hospital was enough to justify the black mark on her record or even a suspension should Redfern decide to complain again.
Now all she had to do was call him and get him in for an interview. For that, she was going to need Lieutenant Sanchez’s help, and she left a message for him detailing her plan, and for him to call her once he got out of his Kiwanis Club meeting.
“I’ve never heard of this attorney,” he said when he phoned about an hour later.
“Neither have I, but my associate assured me he’s the one to champion our cause. I can, however, use some finagling on your part. I need Larry Redfern to
come down to the PD for an interview. And he can’t know I’m involved, or someone’s likely to stop it before our plan gets off the ground.”
“Connected?”
“Very.”
“Let me see what I can dig up.”
He called back about twenty minutes later. “Turns out Mr. Redfern has a couple parking tickets he neglected to pay. They were in Virginia, but seeing as how they’re our good neighbors, I think we’re going to have to tow his car.”
“Can you get to it?”
“As a matter of fact, I’ve got a tow truck hooked up to it as we speak. We’re leaving a courtesy notice that he can come down and complain to me personally if he has issues, and if he’s as much of a prima donna as you say, I’m guessing he’s going to have plenty of issues.”
“Thanks.”
“If this does the trick, it’ll be worth it.”
45
“So how’re you liking working the eight-to-five shift?”
Lieutenant Thomas Sanchez looked up from the shift summary he was reading to see Sergeant Ennis in the doorway, holding a report. “I’ll be liking it a lot better in about two hours when I get off for the day. If someone could disconnect the phone, it would be perfect. What’s up?”
“Just wondering where to forward this,” Ennis said, walking into the office and taking a seat in one of two chairs facing the desk. “A suspicious circumstances report that came in last night. One of those odd ones that you wonder is it legit or another crackpot.”
“Is there a day that goes by we don’t get one of those calls?”
“Uh, not like this. Got a little old lady on the bus from San Diego to here saying she was riding next to a terrorist with radiation sickness. She’s pretty sure he was carrying a nuclear warhead.”
“Nuclear warhead? Carrying it where? On the top of the bus?”
“In his pocket. Apparently they’ve improved them since World War Two. She saw it when he was sleeping. And she says it made her sick, too, but she wanted to report it to us before she saw her doctor this morning.” Ennis walked over, handed him the report. “The way I see it, this is way too important to entrust to a lowly sergeant. I’m thinking, you know, definitely Watch Commander territory.”
The Black List Page 21