Exposing Justice

by Misty Evans

  Grey tossed a bag at her and one at Mitch.

  “What about me?” Teeg asked.

  “Yes! Cinnamon toast bagels,” Caroline hooted. “What did you get, Mitch?”

  He dug into his bag. “Looks like spinach, honey wheat, and one with everything.”

  “No bacon parmesan?” Teeg looked like someone stole his puppy.

  Another white bag materialized in Grey’s hands. He set it on Teeg’s desk. “All yours.”

  “Now that everybody has their favorite bagel,” Brice said, “can we get down to business?”

  Mitch flipped him the bird. “Give us a frickin’ minute, will ya? We were up all night working while you were enjoying hot sex with a pretty, young girl and sleeping in.”

  A cinnamon toast bagel sailed through the air and—whack—hit Mitch in the back of the head. He flinched and echoed Teeg’s sentiment. “Hey!”

  Caroline went to the counter and poured herself a cup of coffee. “Shut up and eat, Mitch.”

  He did a silent, exaggerated mimic of Caroline behind her back.

  “I saw that,” she said.

  Mitch got busy with his bagel.

  What the hell did I get myself into?

  Teeg set down Frodo and went for the bakery bag Grey had given him. The smell of bacon and cheese filled the air. Grey cleared his throat and Teeg stopped with the bagel halfway to his mouth. “Eat later,” Grey said. “Show Brennan what we found.”

  Thank you.

  The kid shot Brice a dirty look before making a big deal out of returning the bagel to the bag. He licked his fingers, rubbed his hands on his pants, then clicked a couple of keys. “This is your picture, taken with a high res camera phone. The guy’s in profile, but with the Next Gen Identifier software, courtesy of the FBI, it’s easy to identify a face from a range of angles, including a profile view.”

  “I know how facial rec works, man.”

  “Right. Well, the software came up with a match from an interesting government database.”

  “Government database?” Brice shook his head. “Why am I not surprised. Who else would a lobbyist take to Barbados on vacation?”

  “Yeah, but this is probably not what you think of in the line of conspiracies.” Teeg typed in a web address and hit enter. A page came up and asked for a security code. Another couple of keystrokes, and Teeg cleared the login. “Welcome to the D.C. Department of Transportation.”

  Department of Transportation? “What’s Charley doing with a DDOT guy? Are they friends or something?”

  “You could say that, but, well, I’ll get to that in a minute.” A listing of names with corresponding pictures appeared on the middle screen. Teeg scrolled through several pages. “All DDOT employees are photographed and fingerprinted. This is the guy NGI flagged.”

  Brice read the name. “Felix Warren.”

  In the photograph, no doubt taken for the guy’s employment badge, he seemed younger than the profile picture from Barbados. His dark hair was slicked back, his face clean-shaven. “You’re sure this is him?”

  “NCI doesn’t lie.” Teeg brought up one of the Barbados pictures and put it side by side with Felix’s employment photo. He zoomed in on a spot just above Felix’s colorful shirt in the vacation picture and pointed to what looked like an ink blob. “See that?”

  Brice leaned closer. “Yeah, what about it?”

  “Tattoo. Just the tip, but NCI matched it to this.” He zoomed in on the second photo. Since the employment photo was a head-on shot, almost none of the tattoo showed above Felix’s polo collar since it was on the side of his neck. “Scars, tattoos, birthmarks…the system can match all of them.”

  “It can also match palm prints, voice, even walking stride,” Grey added.

  “Jesus,” Brice muttered. Big Brother had turned into all-seeing, all-knowing Big Brother.

  “The interesting thing is,”—Teeg minimized the vacation photo and brought up a video. He clicked play and Brice watched an amateur shot of the bridge the morning of Turner’s death. Teeg had the sound off and as the video played, he skipped to a section near the end—“this.”

  He paused the video at the spot where a DDOT employee in an orange vest started removing the barricade to the closed lane.

  “Holy shit,” Brice said.

  Teeg zoomed in on the face, enlarging it next to the vacation picture. “Yep. Your guy Felix is the one who removed the barricade after Chief Justice Turner was murdered.”

  What was Felix Warren doing in Barbados with Charley Winslow and Joel Bigley, and then on the bridge after Turner died?

  “Hey,” Mitch said, now also standing behind Brice. “Didn’t you tell us Hope nearly got run over on that bridge the other night?”

  Brice gritted his teeth, said to Teeg, “You got an address and phone number for Warren?”

  Teeg hit the enter key on Frodo. “Just sent them to your phone.”

  Brice jumped up and started for the door. Grey stopped him. “You can call Warren and do your research from here.”

  He pointed to a six-foot long banquet table with peeling, fake wood grain, laminate top and a crooked metal chair next to it.

  “What’s that?”

  “Your new office.”

  “Wow, you really went all out.”

  Caroline snorted from her “office” as she chewed her bagel. “We did get Grey to buy you a state-of-the-art laptop.”

  A shiny, silver laptop did, indeed, sit on the tabletop.

  “It’s got all the bells and whistles,” Mitch said in a you-know-you-want-to-check-it-out voice. He did a Vanna White arm wave. “Teeg approved, even.”

  Teeg was nodding. “Check it out, man. I customized it myself.”

  A warm sensation flooded Brice’s chest. I have a team.

  Friends.

  A girlfriend.

  Damn. Could life get better than this?

  “There’s something on there you’ll want to see,” Grey said. “Your cabbie friend, Mr. Kostas, and Mr. Warren have a history together.”

  Brice didn’t need any more reason to throw himself into the metal chair and open the laptop.

  It sprang to life instantly, the wallpaper on the screen a big, bold Justice Team logo. A plethora of icons sat in the bottom tray. Kaleidoscope, NCI, and six more official government databases.

  All at his fingertips.

  Brice rubbed his hands together.

  Kid in a candy shop.

  Or more like a conspiracy blogger in intelligence heaven.

  “I cross-checked all the parties in your investigation,” Teeg said. He pulled out his bagel and eyed it lovingly. “If you click on the JT symbol on the lower left, it will bring up the results.”

  Brice did as instructed. A window opened with a folder containing four files.

  Lamar Kostas.

  Felix Warren.

  Charley Winslow.

  And one labeled “Turner Conspiracy.”

  “Check out the picture in the Conspiracy file,” Teeg said around a mouthful of bagel.

  Brice opened the file and found himself looking at a newspaper clipping with a black and white photo. The article read, “Warren Leads High School Shooting Team to Regionals.” It was dated 2004.

  “I’ll be damned,” Brice said under his breath as he scanned the article. Felix Warren had been an expert marksman back in high school.

  Then his eyes went to the picture of the team. A dozen young guys grouped together for a yearbook shot. Brice read the caption under it, looking for Warren’s spot in the cluster of teenagers.

  That’s when he spotted the other names.

  Lamar Kostas.

  Charley Winslow.

  No way.

  Not only had all three men attended Jefferson Springs High School, they’d all been part of the Competitive Shooting Team.

  “So Warren and Winslow were friends in high school,” Brice said. “And Kostas and Warren were both on the bridge two days ago. Kostas had $20,000 hidden in his house. Any chance Kostas w
as in Barbados at the same time the other two were with Bigley?”

  Grey was staring at Teeg’s monitor again. “I checked. Kostas was here in D.C. the whole month of December. Busy time for cabbies.”

  “So who’s the shooter?” Caroline asked.

  Everyone looked at her.

  “What?” She shrugged. “You’ve got a dead justice and at least two of your three marksmen were on that bridge the day he was shot. Seems logical one of them may have done the deed.”

  It couldn’t be that easy. Brice had to play devil’s advocate. “They were marksmen in high school with rifles. Doesn’t mean they can shoot worth a damn now, and besides, Turner was shot with a handgun.”

  She smirked. “Given the right situation, I’m as accurate with a handgun as I am with a rifle. I bet if they loved guns in their teens, they still do. Do any of them have guns registered to them? Any of them belong to a shooting range?”

  Grey’s gaze slid to Brice. “All three, in fact.”

  More evidence, but all of it still circumstantial. “I need to talk to Warren.” Brice said. He looked for Teeg’s text with the number. “Feel him out.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Mitch said. “Better to do these things in person.”

  He had a point.

  “Mr. Warren is not at work today.” Grey marched to the counter and grabbed a mug, started pouring coffee. “I already checked. He called in sick. Perhaps you can catch him at home.”

  “We can stake out his house.” Mitch clapped his hands together and motioned for Brice to follow him to the door. “Maybe do a sneak and peek if he’s not there.”

  Robin was way too excited to leave the Bat Cave. Brice couldn’t blame him.

  “I’ve got it covered.” He dialed Tony Gerard’s number. “Tuner’s bodyguard will want to know what we’ve found.”

  Gerard’s phone went directly to voicemail.

  Balls.

  “No luck?” Mitch stood in front of him with pleading, puppy dog eyes. “That’s too bad. Guess you’re stuck with me.”

  He grinned from ear to ear.

  Bastard.

  “I can handle it on my own,” Brice insisted, rising from the chair.

  “We use the buddy system, here.” Grey didn’t look at him as he walked over to his dry-erase board and fiddled with a photo, his commanding Batman voice echoing in the room. “Take Mitch. Report in if you find anything.” His gaze swung to Brice. “And no stupid shit this time, Brennan, or next time, I’ll be your partner.”

  A threat. Great.

  “Watch your back, Brennan,” Caroline called out as Brice gave up and headed for the door. “And keep an eye on Mitch’s too. He’s a pain in the ass, but I love him.”

  Defeated, but not all that upset about it, Brice waved over his shoulder as he went out the door and his new partner followed on his heels.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Twenty minutes after Hope had left a voicemail for Dr. Martin Block, her phone rang. Kenton Laboratories.

  Cha.

  Ching.

  “Hello?”

  “Hope Denby?”

  Male voice. Deep. Commanding. Somehow she didn’t imagine a scientist to sound this way. But, hey, everything else in her life in the past few days had surprised her so why not a male phone sex operator posing as a scientist?

  Wow, she was tired. Fucking tired. Ha. This swearing thing might be fun.

  “Yes. This is Hope Denby.”

  “Good morning, Ms. Denby. This is Dr. Martin Block. You left me a message.”

  “Yes, Dr. Block. Thank you for returning my call. I’m on a wicked deadline here.”

  The deadline lie couldn’t hurt. And it wasn’t altogether a lie. They were dealing with the murder of a Supreme Court Justice for crying out loud. If that wasn’t an urgent matter the world needed an upgrade on crime prioritization.

  “Of course. You said something about an article?”

  “Yes. I’m doing a follow-up story for the Patriot Blog on the death of Chief Justice Turner. I believe my boss tried to reach you as well.”

  Her boss. Hawk would love that. If she told him.

  If.

  “I’ve received many calls this week.”

  “I’m sure.” But since she had him, she wasn’t letting him cut loose. “Since the Court was about to rule on whether Donazem’s patent hearing would be granted, I thought you might want to comment. From my research, I see that Donazem is your baby.”

  And your cash cow.

  “It certainly is. I have an entire team responsible for the success—or failure—of the drug. But yes, I call the shots.”

  “Dr. Block, would you have some time today to meet me for a short interview?”

  Another thing Hawk would love. If she could set a meeting with Dr. Block, she’d get Hawk to tag along with her. Maybe she’d go all FBI on this thing and wear a wire so Hawk could listen.

  “An interview? Today?”

  “Yes, sir. As I said, I’m on deadline. But I’m just fascinated by the work you do. We could get some pictures of you to run with the story.” Yada, yada, blah, blah. Stroke, stroke, stroke. “Honestly, sir, I think we could turn this into a feature on how a drug goes from development to getting approved by the FDA. I’m not sure consumers realize the rigors of the process. I know I didn’t. Plus, it’s certainly topical right now.”

  The line went quiet, but Hope waited. She’d already thrown a ton of bull at him, and if she layered any more on, he would absolutely get suspicious.

  Another three seconds passed. “An interview,” Dr. Block repeated. “I could make that work. I’m not in my office though. I’m on my way back from an off-site meeting in Virginia. Are you in D.C.?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “If you’re familiar with Branchbrook Park, I could save you a trip out to the lab and meet you there in thirty minutes.”

  She knew the place. One of her old boyfriend’s used to run there. Two hundred acres of winding paths, a few manmade lakes and various sports fields, the park was a popular attraction year round. And it was public with plenty of places for Hawk to hide while she did the interview.

  “Yes. I know it.”

  “Park at the north entrance. About two-hundred yards in there’s a statue with several picnic tables. I’ll meet you there.”

  “I’ll be there, sir. And thank you.”

  She disconnected and immediately dialed Hawk. Whatever he was doing with his nutty friends, he had to put it on hold. They had a doctor to interview.

  For the second time in less than a week, Brice was doing a sneak and peek on a stranger’s home.

  This time, he had the joy of Mitch’s presence.

  Joy being the operative word, and not one Brice normally used for someone who irritated the hell out of him.

  “Good cop or bad cop?” Mitch said.

  “What?”

  “You’re better at bad cop, aren’t you?” He rubbed a thumb under his chin, his thumbnail rasping against two-day stubble. “Problem is, that’s my specialty.”

  Annoying cop was more like it.

  Brice parked a couple houses down from the townhouse listed as Felix’s address and surveyed the place. Not a dump like the cab driver’s, thank goodness. “I’m just going to ask the guy a couple of questions.”

  “What if you don’t like his answers?”

  He sent Hope a quick text to let her know he’d be home—if the rundown safe house could stand in for such a thing—as soon as he could. He’d forgotten to charge his phone the night before thanks to Hope distracting him, and the battery was down to almost nothing. He turned it off; he didn’t want any interruptions right now. “I’ll unleash you on him.”

  Mitch grinned. “Now we’re talking.”

  The two of them exited the truck and made their way up to the front door. The townhouse was brick, a steep front staircase to a door framed with a classic, white trim. Brice was about to ring the doorbell when he overheard a man’s raised voice.

  �
��You can’t do that…I don’t care if it’s just an interview about the drug…”

  Mitch and Brice exchanged a look. What drug? Donazem?

  The voice was coming from his left. A long, narrow window was framed with the same white trim as the door. Brice eased next to the window, then crawled underneath to the other side. Mitch stayed put, head next to the house, listening.

  They leaned in, continuing to eavesdrop, both of them scanning the neighborhood for anyone who might raise an alarm or question what they were doing. The street was quiet, most people at work.

  Warren talked about screwing things up, but never said what those things were. After a couple of minutes, Brice’s ear was growing chilled next to the cool bricks and his feet tired of standing motionless on the spot.

  Finally, the man said something that made his ears perk up.

  “…they’re getting too close…the less we say…” He paused as the person on the other end spoke. “We never should have pulled him into the group. I told Chuck that. Bigley’s an idiot.”

  Brice couldn’t disagree there. But what specific Bigley-stupidity was Warren referring to?

  “…nah, I told Chuck to leave that to me. I wouldn’t have missed.”

  The cold tone of the man’s voice made the hair on the back of Brice’s neck rise.

  Missed what?

  Or was it a whom?

  Mitch nodded at him to take a peek. Brice carefully angled his head to get a look inside.

  A sheer curtain covered the window and it took time for his eyes to adjust to the dim interior, especially since he was trying not to be noticed.

  A tall, slender man paced the wooden floor of what looked like the living room. The townhouse was narrow, the stairs to the second floor right inside the front door. An old, stone fireplace was directly across from the stairs with a few pieces of white Ikea furniture grouped around it. Above the mantel hung a forty-inch flatscreen. The typical layout put the kitchen in the back, the bedroom and bath upstairs.

  “God, you always were full of yourself, Martin.” Warren paused in his pacing, hung a hand on the mantel and shook his head. “Interview or not, you can’t talk your way out of this, don’t you get it? The more you say, the more likely you are to incriminate yourself, and the rest of us.”