Notorious

by Carey Baldwin

  “Let’s stick with who; and then we can work on the how later,” Spense said. “Who would stand to benefit most if Matt Cambridge had to drop out of the race?”

  “The president,” they all said in unison.

  Abruptly, they all dropped into chairs. As the wind let out of their sails, Caitlin felt the ship running aground. “Do we really think the president of the United States blackmailed Cindy to get rid of an opponent?”

  “No.” Dutch poured himself two fingers of whiskey from the decanter on his desk. “But then again, the president doesn’t do much of anything on his own. That man is handled, maybe more than any president in recent history.”

  It was true; the general consensus was that the president’s advisors were the ones who really ran the show in D.C.

  “Maybe one of the president’s men, knowing that Matt had a longtime thing for Cindy, approached her and coerced her into the affair in order to ruin Cambridge,” Caitlin offered doubtfully.

  “To my knowledge, Cindy knows very few ­people in Washington. And frankly, if someone had approached her, she still wouldn’t have done it. She loved Heather too much, and she wanted to help her get to the White House,” Dutch responded.

  “Unless whoever approached her had some major leverage.”

  “She certainly didn’t need money, and she didn’t care about power.” Dutch nixed that idea, too.

  Caitlin closed her eyes. Cindy was talking to them through her diary. All they had to do was listen. “She may not have cared for money or power, but there was one thing she valued above all else.” She held her hand out. “You, Dutch. And her last entries were about protecting you. From what?”

  “Tesarak?” Dutch frowned. “That’s the one blemish on my record. Someone could’ve threatened to dredge it all up and ruin my career.”

  “Or worse. The Bureau cleared you, so the case never went to court. If the blackmailer claimed to have evidence against you—­that it wasn’t a good shoot, you could still be tried for murder. But who’s that loyal to the president and has the balls and the credibility to pull it off? Who has enough access to the Tesarak files to claim they had evidence against you, and to make Cindy believe it?” Spense asked.

  The room went quiet, and then as if lightning struck them simultaneously, they all looked up at once. Caitlin saw Spense’s face go ghost white.

  “I can only think of one person,” Dutch said. “But how in God’s name are we going to prove it?”

  Spense’s face turned a slightly brighter shade of pale. “Does anyone remember where we put the decoy diary?”

  Chapter Twenty-­Eight

  Wednesday, October 23

  4:30 P.M.

  Preston Hollow, Texas

  SPENSE WAS FAIRLY certain Monroe Sheridan thought Dutch, Caity, and he, had gone off their gourds. If the detective really believed their new theory, he wouldn’t appear so at ease. The way his shoulders slanted toward the ground made his stance seem almost a shrug—­of course, that was partly due to the low ceiling in the surveillance vehicle. But his slack expression and periodic yawns smacked of stakeout boredom. Spense, on the other hand, had all but worked the squares off the face of his Rubik’s cube but still couldn’t stop his mind from racing, and Sheridan’s constant chatter over the radio wasn’t helping.

  “Perimeter still secure? Who took charge of chow? Jarkowski’s stinking up the damn truck with a liverwurst sandwich. I thought we talked about this shit before. No tuna. No liverwurst. Those are the rules.” Sheridan squeezed into the seat next to where Spense sat eyeing the panel of video monitors. “This is a total waste of my time.”

  “Stakeouts are below your pay grade, huh?”

  “Something like that.” Sheridan spat into an empty paper coffee cup, then crushed it and tossed it into a wastebasket. “Particularly when it involves some harebrained theory about a presidential conspiracy.”

  “So why’d you show up?” Spense hadn’t been sure he could persuade Sheridan to go along and had been relieved when he’d agreed to go all out.

  “Because I was wrong about your boy, Dutch. And I figure I owe him one.” The detective checked the monitors, stood up, nearly bumping his head on the ceiling. “And because you pulled a rabbit out of your hat at the governor’s mansion yesterday. So I figure, if you can do that again, my career is set for the duration. And if your crazy-­ass theory turns out to be wrong, I’ll be standing right here, ready to say I told you so. Got myself a win-­win, see?”

  “Sounds fair enough to me.” Again, Spense could care less who took the credit as long as they got their man. Only this time, he was hoping with all his might that he was wrong. He’d give anything to hear the words I told you so from Sheridan.

  Because that would mean Jim Edison, his dad’s best friend, the man who’d watched over him after Jack’s death and mentored both him and Dutch into the FBI was not a dirty rat bastard who’d paid an assassin to bring back Cindy Langhorne’s diary—­at any cost. But the way Spense’s gut was pinging on this one, Jim was about to crack one more piece off his already fractured heart.

  Once Sheridan came on board, setting the plan in motion had been simple. Dutch contacted Jim and reported that he’d found Cindy’s diary and was calling to keep him in the loop. But his priority, he told Jim, was to travel to Jefferson, along with Spense and Caity to check on his mother, Yolanda. Meanwhile, he said, he’d locked the diary in the library safe of his Preston Hollow home.

  Jim had pressed Dutch with questions. Had he read the diary? No. Why the hell not? Who else knew the diary had been found? No one? Good. Maybe keep it that way for now. Five separate times, Jim had asked Dutch if he’d read the diary yet.

  After much reassurance, Dutch had told Jim a half-­truth. That he was having a hard time turning Cindy’s secrets over to the cops. And that he wasn’t sure he could face reading the contents of that diary. That was why he couldn’t bring himself to open the book.

  Jim had been very understanding and promised that upon Dutch’s return from Jefferson, the two of them would turn the diary over to Sheridan together. He’d promised to be there to support Dutch when Cindy’s secrets were revealed.

  Then, with Caity waiting safe and sound down at the Dallas PD, Dutch, Spense, and Sheridan went to work. They’d locked the decoy diary in Dutch’s safe. Since Jim would smell a rat if they made things too easy, they’d set the burglar alarm in Dutch’s home. Security cameras were placed throughout the premises, and plainclothes detectives swarmed the quiet Preston Hollow neighborhood: walking borrowed dogs, checking water meters, and raking leaves.

  If they got Jim on tape, breaking and entering, if they could catch him red-­handed with the decoy diary, they’d have enough to detain him and get a warrant for his computer and phone. There should be a mother lode of evidence on Jim’s private electronics. And there was always a chance, since Jim likely believed the diary detailed his part in a conspiracy to force Cambridge out of the presidential race and subvert the democratic process, that they could bluff a confession out of him.

  If, in fact, there was a conspiracy.

  A small voice in Spense’s head continued to whisper hopefully that he might have it all wrong.

  All that was left to do was wait and see if Jim took the bait.

  Across the street, Dutch stood watch in a second surveillance van. They’d been looking out since 9 A.M., and nearly eight hours later, there was still no sign of Jim.

  “You told him you’d be gone until Friday, but just so we’re clear, I’m not tying my men up for three full days. If he doesn’t show by sundown, I’m calling it,” Sheridan said.

  Spense didn’t like those terms, but he’d expected as much, given the circumstances.

  “Let’s face it, if Jim Edison was worried enough about that diary to send a hit man after it, he’s going to act fast. If he really believes that diary could implicate him in a consp
iracy that leads all the way to the White House, he won’t let the grass grow under those fancy ostrich boots of his.” Sheridan spoke into the radio again, then said, “They got nothing.”

  Spense checked the feed in the library. Still working, just like the last ten times he checked it. Feed from the driveway camera and the entry were online, too. Bracing his hands behind his head, he leaned back to wait, and wait some more. He was sick to his stomach, and it wasn’t just the liverwurst.

  By five o’clock, a wave of optimism lifted his spirits. Sheridan had made a good point: Jim wouldn’t wait long to act—­if he were guilty. So maybe Spense’s gut was wrong, and Jim was exactly what Spense had always believed him to be—­a good guy. The sun ducked behind a large bank of clouds, and Spense noticed the eastern wall of the sky darkening with thunderclouds. A lightning strike crackled in the air, and a light rain pelted the side of the truck. Not good, since they needed the plainclothes officers to look natural wandering the streets. On the other hand, an impending storm might keep the neighbors safely behind closed doors.

  But it wasn’t long until the drizzle let up, and the sun popped back out, shining a spotlight on the rain-­slick street . . . and then bounced its rays off a tan Dodge Charger, creeping down the road.

  “Look alive.” Spense thumped Sheridan between the shoulder blades.

  The detective yawned. “That ain’t him. Last time I saw Jim, he pulled up to the station in a red Porsche.”

  “He’s not stupid enough to drive himself to a break-­in in his personal vehicle. That Charger’s a Bucar if I’ve ever seen one. He must’ve yanked it from the fleet.” The optimism that had lifted his spirits disappeared, and a lead weight in his gut replaced it.

  The Charger pulled curbside, several doors south of Dutch’s home. Its driver exited the car, tugging a waterproof poncho over his clothing. Not unusual on a rainy day, but a bit much for a light drizzle like this one. Even though the electric smell of a storm hung in the air, Spense didn’t think most guys would worry about a few stray raindrops mussing their hair. The poncho’s hood hid the man’s face, and its bulky profile concealed the shape of his body. As he made his way up the street, he hunched over, making it difficult to determine his height. His gait, one of the main cues Spense might use to recognize Jim with his face concealed, was useless, too. The suspect limped up the road, which made the hairs on the back of Spense’s neck prickle. Either they were looking at a guy who cared more about his hair than most, had both a spinal deformity and an ankle injury—­or that was Jim Edison on his way to steal Cindy’s diary, trying to make sure the neighbors, if questioned, would be unable to accurately describe him.

  The closer he got to Dutch’s place, the more prominent the limp became. Finally, the Hunchback of Notre Dame ascended Dutch’s front steps and knocked forcefully at the door. “Census.” The microphone on the porch transmitted the sound of his voice.

  Jim.

  Spense’s heart paused, then started back up with a vengeance, hammering rage through his entire being, smashing a lifelong friendship to bits, until no trace of sympathy remained, nothing that might stop Spense from taking this guy—­this asshole—­down. His mentor called out a few more times, “Census!”

  Then, apparently satisfied no one was home, Jim made his way around to the backyard, where cameras caught him at the fuse box, disabling the alarm.

  You motherfucking son of a bitch.

  Jim removed his poncho, wrapped it around his fist, and smashed a back window. The cameras caught him climbing inside, then lost him again until . . . he entered the library. His eyes darted everywhere and finally landed on the portrait of Cindy that concealed the wall safe.

  Using a handheld electronic device, Jim unscrambled the lock code and opened the safe. After removing several packs of small bills, he reached in and retrieved the diary. He stuffed the bills under his sport coat, as if setting things up to look like an ordinary burglary.

  With a grim smile on his face, he examined the diary. Apparently satisfied, after turning it over in his hands—­Caity had come up with the last-­minute idea of adding Cindy’s initials in gold lettering on the back—­Jim tucked the decoy diary beneath his coat and exited the library. A minute later, he walked straight out the front door and headed for his car.

  “Got him!” Spense said.

  Maybe not enough for a conviction, but enough for an arrest and a warrant to search his home and computer—­which ought to offer up all the proof they’d need. Giving terse orders over the radio, Sheridan put his men in motion. The plan was to surround Jim and cuff him just before he got into his car.

  Plainclothes officers materialized in strategic locations.

  “Proceed with the utmost caution,” Sheridan ordered.

  The last thing anyone wanted was for one of the officers to have to discharge his weapon in a residential area. Luckily, the street appeared clear of civilians for now. As a precaution, Sheridan decided to order a temporary roadblock to prevent an influx of residents arriving home from work—­just until Jim was safely in custody.

  The muscles in Spense’s back ached from the way he’d been tensing his shoulders. He wanted out of this van. He wanted to be on the street so he could be the one to personally cuff Jim, but that privilege belonged to Dutch. He could see his brother, already on the move, wearing a hoodie of his own, with a bevy of detectives at his side.

  “Looks like you pulled another rabbit out of your hat.” Sheridan shot him an animated smile, his stakeout ennui a thing of the past. “I bet I make commander in under a year.”

  “We have to get him in custody first.” Spense rubbed the soreness out of his tight jaw.

  “No worries. You Feebies make everything a big deal. We’ll have him cuffed and in a black-­and-­white before you can say . . .”

  Spense squinted at the monitor. “Tell your men to stand down.”

  “What? No. Jim’s nearly at the car.”

  “He just lost his limp, and he’s doubled his pace. I think he made one of your guys.”

  “All the more reason . . . oh, holy shit,” Sheridan yelled into his radio. “Stand down! Stand down!”

  Headed straight for Jim, a kid pedaled fast and furiously—­on a beat-­up yellow bike with flower decals.

  Aaron.

  Spense ripped the radio from Sheridan’s hands. “Civilian in the field. Stand down. Do not approach. Wait for my go.”

  Too late, the men dropped back.

  Jim had made them all right. He kicked a large rock into the bike’s path. Aaron swerved, and the bike tipped over. Jim plucked Aaron off the sidewalk and pulled him against his chest.

  Aaron screamed, crying out for help. His feet dangled, kicking in the air. Then Jim locked an arm around his throat, and the boy went still, and silent.

  “Back off. Back way off,” Spense ordered into the radio as he scrambled out of the van. He ran full tilt to where the detectives encircled Jim and the boy, weapons drawn.

  Aaron had ridden up out of nowhere at the exact wrong moment. But Spense knew it was no coincidence. He’d egged the kid on with all his talk of profiling, telling him he’d make a good agent someday. Aaron had probably had Dutch’s house under surveillance ever since the news reported him missing. This was on Spense. He knew it, but now wasn’t the time to let guilt mess with his head.

  Now was the time to act.

  He put his hands in the air and stepped inside the circle, keeping a yard or so between him and Jim. “Drop your weapon. You got no reason to hurt an innocent kid.”

  From behind him, Sheridan called for Spense to drop back.

  No fucking way.

  Spense took another step toward Jim and Aaron.

  “I’m ordering you to take cover, Agent Spenser,” Sheridan had a bullhorn now.

  Hands high over his head, Spense kept walking. Then another set of footsteps sounded beside h
im.

  Damn it, Sheridan.

  “Get back,” Spense said through gritted teeth, and then, out of his peripheral vision, he caught sight, not of Sheridan, but of his brother. He nodded, and together they halted a few feet or so in front of Jim and the boy. His mouth pulled up at the corners, just a bit, because one the best hostage negotiators on the planet now stood by his side.

  “Let me handle this,” Dutch said. “It’s what I do. Step back and take cover.”

  “I’m not leaving your side, brother. Not this time.”

  “Okay.” Dutch shot him a side glance. “Don’t fuck it up.”

  “Not another step.” Jim raised his pistol and angled it just inches from Aaron’s scalp. “I thought you said you didn’t read the diary.”

  “I lied.” Dutch jerked his head up.

  “Yeah, I got that.” Jim narrowed his eyes. “You forget, Dutch, I took your class on hostage negotiation; your tricks won’t work on me.”

  “Then you must not have been paying attention, or you’d know I don’t use tricks. I just tell the truth. You know what I want, so let’s make this go quick.”

  “You want me to surrender my gun. Keep dreaming.”

  “You got no way out, Jim. You know as well as I do this boy is not real leverage. The only way you walk out of this alive is if you put down your weapon. You know it already. I shouldn’t have to spell it out for you.”

  “You expect me to take you at your word after you lied? You read the diary, and then you set me up.”

  “You want to talk about our lying to you?” Spense broke in. “Well I sure as hell wanna talk about your lying to me. Put down your gun, and we’ll have a family conference.”

  Spense saw a faint tremor in Jim’s gun hand. A sign his emotions were overtaking his training. Aaron’s eyes had gone saucer wide, and his chest heaved rapidly. The kid was terrified, but Spense couldn’t put his attention on him. He had to focus on Jim. “Let’s talk, buddy. We can work it out.”