by HN Wake
“Maybe.” She tilted her head at him. “I’m surprised. You’re the first person from the ATF we’ve heard from. Usually we hear from your legal department. Is this an official investigation?”
“I’m actually chasing early leads related to an ongoing investigation. Just chasing possible connections.”
“Really?” Serious men didn’t intimidate her. “Chasing leads from articles in the New York News? You appreciate the First Amendment, right?”
“Of course.”
“So shouldn’t you be chasing leads with the SFG? Strong arming a newspaper isn’t exactly… highbrow investigative work.”
“So, you don’t know your source?”
She stood. “Want some coffee?”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m going to go get a coffee.” She tapped her inner elbow like a junkie. “Can I get you something?”
“No, no, I’m fine.”
He watched her walk off. Her tight jeans accentuated how fit she was.
His phone vibrated with a second text from Sheriff Soloman. “She also said she thinks your gal probably 40+ y.o. But couldn’t describe her in physical detail: seemed nice but distant.”
He watched Freda as she returned across the hardwood floor, blowing on the rim of her paper coffee cup. As she sat down she asked, “Do you think it’s a bad thing that the SFG has been caught out for their bad behavior?”
Cal considered this. “My job is to make sure we follow the law.”
“That seems…a bit too simple in this case. Surely you have an opinion about the SFG?”
“I do.”
“Is that coloring your investigation?”
“I should think not. I try to stay professional.”
“That must be difficult. Because I would imagine in your shoes, this case would be complicated by the players. They’ve been caught-out for their own, very questionable, unethical, behavior. It all seems a bit grey to me.”
He released a small chuckle accompanied by a self-depreciating grin.
“What’s that for?”
“Nothing.”
“I’m just trying to get a sense of how serious you are about investigating our journalism.”
“Well, I saw Stacia did a piece on the SFG a few weeks back.”
Freda nodded. From around the rim of the cup she said, “We were going to do a series actually. But it got canned. All she got was the one front page story.”
“Why is that?”
“The Chief thinks it’s an old story.” She wobbled her head and slipped into heavy sarcasm as she imitated someone, finger-quoting. “‘Old News. SFG. Guns. Our legislative failures. Kids shot in schools. We need something new.’ I paraphrase there of course. From higher-ups. I’m sure you know all about that cynicism around guns, being ATF and all.”
Her attempts to befriend, possibly flirt with him, were intriguing. Was she trying to deflect his inquiry? “Was it your idea to run the series?”
“It had been percolating for a while.”
He noticed she hadn’t answered the question.
Her eyes narrowed. “I know the other reason I recognize you. You were the agent on-site down at the Scimitar raid in Lexington.”
“You’ve got a good eye.” Before she could distract him again, he changed tack, smiling and dropping into a personal tone. “Freda, I’m an investigator. When I’m on an investigation, I tend to notice coincidences. I noticed that Stacia’s first article —“ He flipped through his notebook. “was published just a week before the Scimitar raid and just two weeks before these latest articles.”
She maintained a look of innocence. “And?”
“The focus for the article on the SFG seemed particularly well-timed, given the gun control legislation.”
She sipped from her coffee and without missing a beat said, “We’re no dummies here, Agent. And we’re all on the same side I believe. We are a liberal media outlet - according to Fox News - that wants to see some smart gun regulations passed. Nothing nefarious here.”
He watched her closely. She didn’t look away.
Quietly, he asked, “So no connection between Stacia’s first article and the latest on Neil Koen?”
“What do you mean?”
“No way you knew the Koen scandal was coming?”
She feigned surprise, contemplated his question, and said, “We were handed the Koen scandal by a courier. If I had that kind of ability to see into the future I would not be living in a 900-square-foot apartment in the East Village.”
He nodded, closed his notebook, and slipped it into his back jeans pocket. “Gotcha. Ok, well, I can see you’re quite a stickler for the law.”
“Yes. The First Amendment is pretty important around here, Agent.”
“Right. Ok, well, I’ll show myself out. If you change your mind --” He stood and handed her his card. “You grow up in New York? You have a slight accent.”
It was Freda’s turn to be intrigued: was he flirting? “I went to school in Michigan.”
“Ann Arbor?”
“Yup.”
He noticed that, again, she hadn’t answered the question. He reached out to shake her hand. “Ok, well, thanks again.”
Freda watched him walk toward the elevator bank.
In the elevator ride down he listened to the latest voicemail from Wilson. “Where are you?” he asked, clearly seething. “Ruby says she hasn’t heard from you since you asked for phone logs last week. She says the GAO guy out in Arlington says you weren’t in the office yesterday. I will not have you on the loose this week. Not. This. Week. Check in. Now.”
Standing at the window, Freda watched Cal step out onto the sidewalk below. Into the cell phone at her ear she said, “And the ATF was just here.”
Penny asked, “What? What did he want?”
“He thinks there may be a coincidence with all the heat coming on the SFG right now, but he doesn’t know anything about us. It was fine. We chatted. I played nice, got him chatting. He’s a good guy. I’m telling you, I’m tits. I played him like a fine-tuned, bluegrass fiddle.” She watched him head down Broadway. “He’s hot. No wedding band.”
“What?”
“The ATF agent is super hot.”
“Fuck off.
“I think he flirted with me.”
“Seriously. Fuck off. Are you kidding?”
“Nope. We had serious vibes. I’m talking scorching. He’s like 6’3” and built. I bet he played serious sports in college - like on scholarship. I’m telling you, Benjamin Franklin could have lit up a light bulb with our sparks.” Her eyes followed him in the crowd.
Penny growled, “I’m hanging up.”
Back in her office, Freda dialed Jack’s extension.
He answered gruffly, “Jack Diamonte.”
“Just so you know, both the FBI earlier and now this ATF agent for a second time are chasing the source from our stories. No connection to us.”
“Keep it that way.”
“And Jack, thanks.”
He hung up.
47
New York, NY
After leaving the New York News building, Cal started walking without a destination, just to clear his head. His stride was purposeful, chewing up whole blocks, but his mind churned randomly.
Maar was some kind of intelligence operative, a woman in her 40s.
She chose him because he was a whistleblower.
She left breadcrumbs.
She first piqued his interest with the Blue Lantern cables then revealed Scimitar’s gun trafficking, then the cover up of the Malhotra killing.
And she planted evidence. She had to be involved in the Koen scandal.
It looked exceptionally likely she was discrediting the SFG in the lead up to the Senate vote.
The New York News was serving as a well coordinated publicity tool.
Forty minutes later, he found himself looking up at the entrance to Grand Central Terminal on 42nd and Park Ave with a singular, pounding thought.
I have no idea who Maar is.
The only thing he had to go on was that Maar was a woman about 40 years old. So was Freda.
Cal searched for an internet cafe but stumbled on a public library on 46th and 3rd. The branch was remarkably small, but bright and airy. The overhead air conditioner belt whirled steadily. Aluminum lights hung from cross bars under a ratty looking dropped ceiling. Busy professionals popped in and out of the clean, modern space, dropping off books, scanning the computer catalogues.
Along the front window, Cal banged on a laptop checked out from the front desk. He was researching Freda Browne.
In a professional photo on the New York News website, she was wearing a stylish business suit below a cheeky smile. He deliberately scrutinized the photograph out of the corner of his eye, trying a different perspective. There was definitely a mischievous and knowing look about her.
According to her bio, she had joined the LA Times in 1990 as an investigative reporter after graduating from the University of Michigan. In 1995, she had become a special projects editor for the business desk. In 2000 she had become the Managing Editor.
Seven years later, she had moved to the New York News to take over as one of three Managing Editors. Her list of work accolades was long, including a Pulitzer Prize for investigative reporting on corruption in LA’s social services.
His internet search delivered 50 pages of links to articles she had written on varied subjects. There was no unifying theme. This must be true for all journalists. Methodically, he scanned each link, often clicking through.
He almost missed an outlier. It was an article, “Local Reporter Loses Brother to Santa Monica Shooter’, in which she was mentioned in the content, not as the author. He clicked through. Just after she had moved to LA, Freda’s brother was shot by a random man who had opened fire with a semiautomatic weapon on a pedestrian mall in Santa Monica. Michael Browne had been dead on arrival at UCLA emergency room.
Outside the library window, men and women hustled through their day. A telephone rang. He heard the front desk librarian answer. He wondered where Freda had been when she had gotten the call. He rubbed his eyes. This was a tragic bit of information.
But it also was not a coincidence.
He resumed his search.
Freda Browne sat on the PTA of the New York Lab School for Consolidated Studies. The school was for 8th and 9th grades. He located the school on a map of New York City near the West Village. He wondered how Freda got her kid to the school each morning. To stay as fit as she was, she must have an established routine of walking her child, hitting the gym, then heading to work. She was organized, not afraid to be driven.
After a few more clicks on the touchpad of the borrowed laptop, he stopped. He leaned back, lifting his hands off the keyboard. Freda Browne was listed on the Board of the non-profit Citizens Against Illegal Guns.
It was a significant, intentional omission on her part to not have mentioned this. It was one of the nation’s largest gun control advocacy group.
On the organization’s site, he discovered the photos from their last gala. The photographer had captured a large hall, white linens, and silver bedecked tables, candles, flower arrangements and bottles of wine. It was a very tony setting for the very tony of New York City.
On stage, the 50 smiling faces grinned out to the photographer, hands raised in a toast. Freda, in a slim, blue dress, stood on the left, toward the end of the row between a tall, bearded man and an attractive, petite black woman. She wore a wide smile and held up a glass of champagne.
He wondered if the bearded man was her date.
Under the photo, a caption listed the names of the board members. Cal leaned in close to the screen, then realizing his mistake, expanded the font. He looked around the library, embarrassed, before pulling out his cell phone and snapping a photo of the list of names.
The coincidences were piling up.
After another twenty minutes of searching, he found that Freda had graduated in 1986 from the Germantown Friends High School in the Chestnut Hill area of Philadelphia.
He sat back.
The courier for Stacia DeVries’ informant had come from Philadelphia.
Freda had omitted that she was from Philadelphia.
He scanned through the photos on his phone, pulling up the image of the label for the courier company, and dialed their main number. He lied easily. “Yes, hi, this is the New York News. We received a package two days ago that originated in Philadelphia. I have the tracking number here for you. Can you please tell me the street address where it was picked up?” He read out the tracking number.
The courier company secretary said, “Sure, give me a sec.” There was a pause as she tapped on her keyboard. “Yeah, looks like we picked it up at 30th and Market. That’s 30th Street, the train station.”
“Nothing more definitive?”
“Nope, looks like the directions were to pick up literally at the corner outside.”
“Ok, thanks.”
He pulled up a map of Philadelphia’s SEPTA suburban commuter trains. It was extensive.
Chestnut Hill sat at the end of a tentacle that spread northwest from the city, roughly following a river, called the Norristown Line. The Chestnut Hill station looked to be about 30 minutes from 30th Street and the tenth stop: 30th Street, North Philadelphia, Allegheny, East Falls, Wissahickon, Manayunk, Carpenter, Allen Lane, St. Martins and Chestnut Hill West
Did Maar and Freda know each other from high school? Could it be that simple?
If Cal was right, it meant Maar had come back to her roots and was hunkered down in Chestnut Hill to run an op. When she needed to, Maar sent her results via courier to Stacia DeVries - Freda’s front man at the New York News - to run an article.
If Cal was right, there would be records of Maar attending the high school.
The website for the Germantown Friends High School displayed historic buildings spread across a rolling green campus littered with sports fields. For a kid from a working class neighborhood in Atlanta, the school looked like an Ivy League college. It touted 100% of graduates attended four-year colleges. There were 850 students enrolled and 85 full-time teachers.
He called the principal’s office. “Good afternoon. I’m with the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms here in DC. I wonder if I couldn’t ask you a favor.”
“Oh?” The secretary hesitated. “Yes? How can I help you?”
“We believe one of your alumni may be able to help us out in a federal investigation.”
“You say an alumni is involved? How is that?”
“I’m afraid I can’t say.”
“Oh. Ok. What do you need?”
“Would you be able to send me a copy of the school’s yearbook from 1986? Perhaps an electronic copy?”
There was another long pause. “Well, they are publicly available so I suppose that’s fine. Let me have your details. I’ll need to verify who you say you are, then I’ll send you a photocopy by email.”
He gave her his name, Ruby’s number, and his email. “Thanks so much.”
Ruby called his cell phone ten minutes later. Her voice was harsh. “You had better know what you’re doing. I just vouched for you for some school in Philadelphia.”
“Thanks, Ruby.”
“You know the Director has been looking for you. He found out you’re not in Arlington.”
“Yeah, I meant to call him. I’ll try him in the morning.”
“Cal, you’re on thinner and thinner ice around here. I’m not sure I can keep helping you. It may get me in trouble.”
“I know. I appreciate everything you do for me, Ruby. I promise to not call you again.”
She whispered, “I heard your name mentioned today. The DA was in there two hours ago.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Something about a Senator covering up some State Department report. Seemed like they were all in a big hurry to meet. The Director came out during that meeting, asking me where you were. I couldn
’t find you. You’re not answering your cell.”
“Sorry, I’ve been occupied.”
“You’re supposed to be out in Arlington doing menial, non-occupied work.”
“Yeah, I know. I’m heading back there ASAP.”
“Where are you? What are you doing?”
“Nothing, nothing, Ruby.”
“Listen, call in the morning and appease him, will ya?”
Manayunk, PA
The burner phone pinged on the architect’s desk with a text from Penny. “ATF interviewed Freda.”
Mac texted back, “As expected.” She sat back and lit a cigarette, blowing her smoke toward the open loft window.
Penny pinged again. “I can’t stop thinking about that squirrel.”
Mac took another drag.
“If he hadn’t moved, the cab would have plowed him. I would have watched guts splatter all over street.”
Mac stared at the burner phone. The pine from the cleaner was strong in her nose. “Yup.”
“I just stood there. I should have shooed it.”
“It was a squirrel.”
“Yeah. I get that. But what’s weird: where was my own self-preservation?”
Mac didn’t know what to say to this.
“I could have been splattered in guts.”
Mac texted, “Are you at work?”
“Of course.”
“There aren’t always answers. Find a distraction."
The burner phone went silent.
Mac fixed herself a cup of coffee and lit another cigarette as she stared at the weeping willow in the park.
Twenty minutes later Penny texted again. “Aaargh!!! Still can’t figure out why I just stood there.”
Very slowly, Mac pecked out, “XO”
New York, NY
It was late but the newsroom was still packed and rowdy. Stacia leaned back in her chair and stared up at the bright ceiling lights. She reached across her desk and picked up her cell phone, texting Charlotte, “We agreed I should do something right?”