Imposter

by Davis Bunn

  “You ever worked for the military?”

  “This is my first run-in with your operations, General.”

  “Well, you’re right on target. Was your trip tied to the murder investigation?”

  “Apparently so, sir. Precisely how, I can’t pin down.”

  “How about that. A fed who admits he doesn’t know everything.” A pause, then, “Can you give me any specifics on what they’re doing wih my folks?”

  Matt detailed what he had seen and experienced. He received static in response. When the general came back, it was in a volcanic growl. “Son, you need anything, you let me know.”

  “I appreciate that, General.”

  “Nobody does that to my soldiers. Robards out.”

  Matt’s elevated status meant a military driver was on call to take him home. He bought a paper at the PX just to check the date. His watch read meaningless numbers, but at least he could be certain they were attached to Wednesday afternoon. They got caught in heavy rush-hour snarl and needed almost three hours to make Baltimore. The driver did not speak a word the entire way.

  Matt entered his apartment and stripped off the uniform in his kitchen, listening to his phone messages. There was one from Connie, three from the newspaper journalist, and a dozen from Sol. Matt cut off the machine and limped to his bathroom. His body felt like one huge ache. He stayed under the shower until the water ran cold, then returned to the kitchen. He had not eaten anything since dinner in the officers’ mess, on a day that felt centuries ago. He microwaved a meal and ate standing at the back counter. The phone rang while he was eating. Sol again. Had Matt completely forgotten they were at five days and counting? Matt dropped his plate into the sink and walked back to the bedroom. The last thing he heard was Sol’s voice ordering him to be somewhere in a half hour’s time.

  The phone woke him. That and the sunlight. Which was strange, since Matt’s bedroom faced west. Matt lay blinking into the light, trying to fit together a day that did not start with a nightmarish jolt. Then he heard Connie’s voice come over the answering machine.

  He rolled over and grabbed for the bedside receiver. “I’m here.”

  “I thought you were going to call me.”

  “I just woke up. What time. . .” He managed to focus on his clock, which read two. “I don’t believe this.”

  “You didn’t get my messages?” She sounded borderline frantic. “You don’t know what’s going down?”

  “Connie, I don’t know what day it is.”

  “It’s showtime, buster, is all you need to know. You better get your act in gear, or you’re going to miss the curtain going up.”

  The Bromo-Seltzer Tower sat alone in the middle of its own little city block. North and west and east grew the new developments of Charles Street, Inner Harbor, and Camden Yards. South was a dreary wasteland of empty skyscrapers and wasted space. His father’s billboards sprouted from most of the buildings Matt could see in that direction. A new undertaking from Camden Partners. Seven hundred condos. Hotels. Restaurants. Shopping village. A project large enough to deserve the name Downtown. In earlier days Matt had wanted to burn all such ads. He had refused to enter any company or hotel or business Paul Kelly had under development. Now they just left him cold.

  Connie met him on the sidewalk out front of the Bromo entrance with coffee and doughnuts and an update. Matt listened to her description of the meet between prisoner and son, then the prisoner’s description of the man who had set up the armory heist. An accountant named Jerry Freid, a secretive little nerd who, according to the prisoner, dealt with very few clients. Completely unknown to the Baltimore PD’s gun guys, which was where D’Amico was now. Matt worked at paying attention, wishing all the while they were somewhere else, talking about different things. If only he could.

  D’Amico showed up then, bringing along a taciturn older guy in mismatched suit pants and jacket and a splotched wool tie. “You’re here. Good. Nice trip?”

  “It can wait.”

  D’Amico nodded. “This is Lieutenant Donovan Meehan. Donovan, you know Connie. This is Matt Kelly.”

  The man had a cop’s gaze, not cold so much as detached. “You the fed?”

  “Yes.”

  Donovan turned away. “Let’s hit it.”

  Inside, the tower was cramped to the point of claustrophobia. The windowless foyer was decked out in art-deco mosaic tile, brass elevator cage, and matching brass chandelier. A cracked marble staircase with brass handrails wound around the elevator in a square spiral. The four of them fit tightly into the elevator, which clanked and rattled as it climbed.

  The eleventh-floor landing was the size of a walk-in closet. Three doors opened along the south, west, and east walls. Beside each was the same brass nameplate for Jerry Freid, CPA. North was the elevator and stairway. The east door was cracked open. D’Amico knocked and pushed.

  A young woman was seated behind a narrow desk. She pulled the phone a fraction from her ear. “Yes?”

  “We’re looking for Jerry Freid.”

  “And you are?”

  D’Amico offered his badge. “Police.”

  She set down the phone. “Is this a joke?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “I’m sorry, that wasn’t . . . It’s just, I called you guys not five minutes ago.”

  The wall to the secretary’s right had floor-to-ceiling mahogany cabinets that shrank the space and darkened the room. The office was too small for all of them to stand inside comfortably. Connie and the gun guy stood in the doorway. Matt remained on the landing. D’Amico asked, “You just called the police?”

  “About my boss. He’s missing.”

  “How long has he been gone?”

  “He never came in after the weekend.”

  D’Amico turned to Connie. “Radio Division One. Tell them to cancel the call.” He asked the young woman, “What is your name?”

  “Fairworth.”

  “Ms. Fairworth, it’s a little unusual for someone to call the police on an adult missing just four days.”

  “You don’t understand. Jerry is never away. And he gave me strict instructions on what I was supposed to do if he ever vanished like this.”

  “May I sit down?” Lucas took the office’s only other chair. “You say your boss keeps a regular schedule.”

  “He’s an accountant.”

  “And he’s been gone since Monday.”

  “He’s missed a couple of really important meetings. One I could cover. The other guy, he was furious. He came all the way from Jersey.”

  “Have you checked his home?”

  “Like, ten times a day.”

  “Does he have a vacation house somewhere?”

  She laughed in the manner of one considering the absurd. “Not a chance. He lives here.”

  “Mind if I have a look at his office?”

  “Sure. But there’s not much to see.”

  She rose and did a sideways slide between her desk and the filing cabinets. “This way.”

  Jerry Freid’s office was larger and the furniture more upscale. But it was still a thirties-era building in serious need of renovation. D’Amico moved around slowly, touching nothing, just looking. When he spoke, his voice had changed. Not a lot. Matt noticed only because he was listening. Quiet and totally controlled. “Is that it?”

  “Jerry has the whole floor. But the other room is just old files.”

  “Would you show me, please?”

  She was already moving. The third room was neat as only an accountant could keep it, an eight-by-ten filing cupboard. D’Amico did another slow sweep. “You say Mr. Freid left strict instructions if he disappeared.”

  She was standing in the doorway, twisting her hands together. “Yes.”

  “I know you’re not certain what you should say or who you should trust.” D’Amico leaned against the cabinet closest to the window, farthest from the young woman. Not pushing in any way. Talking as he might to a frightened child. “But you think something is wro
ng, don’t you?”

  “He’s such a weird guy.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Most of his clients are small businesses around here. Super-normal stuff. The dry cleaners, men’s clothing store, restaurants, bars, like that. Then he gets these visitors. People I’m not supposed to see. They’re so strange.”

  “Strange how?”

  She whispered it. “Evil.”

  Slowly D’Amico nodded with his entire body. Giving her approval. “Okay. So your boss might be involved in something bad. You don’t know. He’s gone and you’re worried. But you’re not alone. We’re here. Do you want to tell me what he told you to do?”

  She stared at him a long moment. Twisting her hands. D’Amico remained by the window. Slightly stooped. Waiting. Forever if need be.

  Abruptly the young woman turned and stepped past Connie and Matt and Donovan. She walked across the foyer and entered her office. D’Amico moved out of the empty office and shut the door. Eventually the young woman returned and held out an envelope. “Here. Take it.”

  D’Amico accepted the envelope. “Do you know what’s inside?”

  “I can feel a key. And some papers. Probably his computer passwords. He’s the most secretive guy, you wouldn’t believe.”

  “Do you know what the key is for?”

  “He has another office. I’m not supposed to know about it. It’s under a different name.” She saw nobody but D’Amico. “I’ve seen him go there once. It’s on the seventh floor.”

  “Maybe it’d be best if you stayed here.”

  The four of them took the stairs down four flights. The seventh floor was scruffier than the eleventh and had cobwebs in the high ceiling corners and trash on the floor. Things the accountant upstairs wouldn’t stand for. Ganja music and smoke that smelled of cloves came from the east office. D’Amico knocked on the central door. Again. He called out, “Mr. Freid, this is the police.”

  The east door opened. An Anglo with blond cornrows and wide eyes looked out. “What’s going on?”

  “Step back inside and close your door, sir.” D’Amico fit the key in the lock. He took his gun out of his holster. Looked at Connie. “Ready?”

  She and Donovan had both drawn their weapons. Donovan shooed Matt farther back. Matt knew it was futile to object. Connie said, “Behind you.”

  “Okay.” He turned the lock and opened the door very fast. Shoving it as far as it would go. It banged on the side wall.

  The room was smaller than the main office on the eleventh floor. Narrower. A table and two chairs sat in the middle of an otherwise empty room.

  Then Matt smelled it. A sweetish funk. Like compost with a putrid edge.

  D’Amico shouldered his weapon, said to Connie. “Call the coroner’s, have them send a wagon and an ME. Then get back to Division One, ask for uniforms to back us up.”

  “Okay, Lucas.”

  “Then I want you to clear all the civilians off this floor, and get back upstairs and take the lady’s statement.” He slipped a tape machine from his jacket pocket. “Use this.”

  Matt stepped inside the room. Donovan walked to the grimy window and shoved hard. When it refused to give, he holstered his gun and banged with both hands. The window creaked open. Traffic and siren noise drifted up from the street.

  Matt tapped what looked like an ordinary stucco wall. It gave back a bass thunk. He turned around. The two detectives were watching him. D’Amico knocked on the opposite wall. Same hollow sound.

  Matt tried to ignore the stink, which was stronger by the wall, even with the window wide open. The wall’s only adornment was a double socket down near the baseboard. Matt bent over. Tapped it. He felt it jiggle. He pushed with three fingers. The socket slid around on an invisible hinge, revealing a lock.

  “Would you look at that.” Donovan bent down beside him.

  Matt held out his hand. “Could I have the key?”

  D’Amico handed it over. “That’s a new one on me.”

  The key turned easily. A rattle sounded in the wall as a bolt pulled free. Matt rose and pressed on the wall. A hinge clicked, and the wall sprang out.

  The smell almost knocked him flat.

  Matt hung on okay until the medical examiner finished and things began winding down. His shoulder and ribs ached, but he helped haul the armaments out of both wall units and carry them down to the waiting wagon. It felt good to move about. It kept his mind occupied. The police were there in force. The building was evacuated and the area taped off. News vans showed up, but not until after the coroner’s wagon had left and the guns were stowed, so there wasn’t anything to film and they soon left. Donovan and the ICU firearms specialists were agog over the haul, especially coming from an arms dealer none of them had heard of before. A corporate techie showed up, took one look at the typed sheet from the envelope D’Amico had taken off the secretary, and got to work on the accountant’s computers. Everything in full cop mode.

  When Matt came outside the last time, the sunset was doing wonders to the sky. A flock of starlings swirled overhead, their shrill cries echoing over the city traffic. He leaned against the tower wall. The smell from upstairs was in his clothes, his hair, and his skin. His tongue felt coated with a putrid tar.

  Lucas found him there. He gripped Matt’s arm and said, “Let’s walk.”

  “I’m okay.”

  “I didn’t ask how you were. I said let’s walk.” He lifted the tape and motioned for Matt to pass under. They crossed the street. Away from the clustering cops and the talk. Matt coughed and tried to clear his lungs. But the smell refused to dislodge.

  “First time at a homicide is rough. I should’ve sent you outside. But I’m not accustomed to ordering feds around.”

  Matt took up station against a rusted metal railing. Stairs led up to a brownstone door, but the door was sealed with plywood and a county renovation notice. His father’s company logo was stamped on the paper and the wood.

  “It’s still hard for me, and I’ve been at this a long time.” Lucas leaned one foot against the bottom step and stared at the sealed door. “It’s a first glimpse at your own end. You get hit deep by everything that’s not done, or not done the way you want. You see how short time is and what’s happening to the time you got left.”

  Matt took a ragged breath. Convicted and sentenced both.

  “The best way I’ve found of getting through this is by confronting the honest fact. Everybody’s going to face death sooner or later. Right now, though, there’s still a chance. It’s never easy. But if you try hard enough, you can make the days that are left to you into something of value.”

  D’Amico patted him on the shoulder. “Something I never thought I’d say to a fed. You’re a good cop and a better man. It’s an honor to work this case with you. Just don’t let this harden you. Don’t stop caring about the people you are supposed to serve. Our work is about creating a shelter where good people can live safely. So don’t you go hard on me. Find a way to keep caring.” He patted Matt again, then turned and walked away.

  Matt stared at the cracked sidewalk at his feet as a second set of footsteps approached. “Matt?” Connie came up and touched him the same place as Lucas. “Hey.”

  He wanted to lift his head. But he was afraid of what he’d find there in her eyes. Another conviction waiting to happen.

  “Arnos on Charles Street,” she said. “Dinner. Seven o’clock. We don’t talk about this or anything else from copland. You got me? Not a word.”

  She hugged him then. Fast and fierce and gone. “Be on time.”

  Matt drove from the crime scene to his apartment. He spotted his father’s car as soon as he pulled onto the side road. When not riding in the campaign bus, Paul Kelly drove a black-on-black Lincoln Navigator. Several campaign staffers clustered by the car’s open window. Matt locked his car and aimed for his apartment door.

  “Hey, mister!”

  Matt heard a car door slam shut behind him and footsteps hurry in his direction.
He kept going.

  “Turn around when I’m talking to you!”

  His father was jacketless and angry. He strode forward in a starched gray pinstriped shirt and dark silk tie. “You’ve missed three crucial events! Sol has been going crazy with worry.”

  Sol rose from behind the wheel. He pushed through the staffers and started forward. “Paul.”

  The candidate grabbed for his son’s arm. “You’re coming with me, mister! And I mean right now!”

  Matt deflected his father’s grip, then planted his hand in the middle of Paul Kelly’s chest. And shoved.

  His father’s face swelled with rage. Sol moved faster now. His father looked down at his shirt, “Look what you’ve . . .” He sniffed at himself.

  “What is that stench?”

  “The smell of my mother’s killer.” Matt unlocked his door, stepped inside, and slammed it in his father’s face.

  He locked the door and leaned against it. Matt’s head was pounding. His father started around the side of the house, yelling that his son had ruined his clothes and he had to go change. Shouting at Sol about rescheduling the shoot.

  There was a tentative knock. “Matt?”

  “Not now, Sol.”

  “Matt, son, we’ve got to have a word.”

  Matt unlocked the door.

  Sol stepped inside. “Matt, we’ve been so worried. Why didn’t you get in touch?”

  “I got back last night from England.”

  “What?”

  “Mom’s death is connected to Barry Simms. The thumbprint we found upstairs was Simms’s. He was murdered by an American, one whose description fits a man I saw out behind our house the day of the explosion.” Matt shaped the words without thinking. He took out a glass and poured himself a glass of water. Then he set it down on the counter. He didn’t want to drink anything until he’d washed the taste from his mouth. “It all goes back somehow to Pop’s time in Vietnam, Sol. There’s no question.”

  Sol stepped forward. “Look at me a second, Matt.”