“Gee, I hope I’m not late for my job interview, sir,” Hunter said, slipping into the guest chair in front of the desk.
“You’re really not that funny.”
“Your partner made that clear last time. By the way, where is Detective Erskine? Did you send him out for doughnuts?”
“You’ve heard the news, I assume.”
“I’d better, given my job. But which news item are you referring to?”
“Senator Conn.”
“That news. I haven’t brushed up on my Constitution for a while; but does this mean he doesn’t get to become President?”
Cronin sighed and rocked forward. He looked tired, too.
“The feebs found some interesting stuff at the crime scene.”
“Please don’t tell me they found another one of my clippings.”
“Not this time. Are we off the record?”
“Sure.”
“A smartphone, apparently dropped by accident right outside the property. They dusted it, and guess whose prints came back?”
“Damn. I wondered where I lost that thing.”
“Hunter, can you be serious for just one minute? They belong to Boggs. His prints were on record from back when they investigated him as a Technobomber suspect. My feeb source says they still have lots of tests to run, but at first glance the pipe-bomb fragments look a lot like what they found in the CarboNot office.”
“So they think Boggs is good for both of those, then.”
“Looks that way. The forensics guys also found something else, though. A message, stuck on a bush out in the yard. It looked like it was planted there.”
“A message. But not one of my columns.”
“Not one of your columns. Just a typewritten note. It says: ‘Returned to Sender.’”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Cronin shrugged. “Not my case. That’s for the dicks at the FBI to figure out.”
“I’m curious. Why are you telling me all this?”
Cronin leaned forward, folded his hands on the desk. He looked like an executive.
“I picked this up from a D.C. cop on our task force. He says their people are investigating something connected to that CarboNot company you’ve been writing about. It looks like somebody was tapping phones and intercepting email of the biggest CarboNot investors. People you mentioned. Then they interfered with their stock transactions. It’s complicated, but the bottom line is, their calls were routed here. To your office girl out there—Danika.”
“Wait a minute. Are you saying that Danika is involved in some kind of scam?”
“No, no. Not at all. She doesn’t even know about this, yet. Her boss got calls from the irate CarboNot investors, wondering what the hell was going on. So he pulled his records and shared them with the D.C. police. Seems that some scam operation established a bunch of accounts here to have Danika answer their phone calls. They represented themselves as brokers, insurance agents, and financial advisers. Then the scammers contacted the various CarboNot investors, pretending to be their brokers and insurers. They gave the investors what they claimed were new contact phone numbers. But those numbers would actually ring here, at Danika’s desk. So, when the investors phoned what they thought was their brokers to buy or sell CarboNot stock, their calls were routed to Danika. She would forward the messages to other numbers, just as she was told. The bottom line is, the CarboNot investors’ transactions never went through. These guys wound up losing millions.”
Hunter whistled. “Slick.” He frowned. “But how did the scammers make their money?”
Cronin was looking at him, hard. “Apparently they didn’t. It looks like their whole setup was just meant to make these CarboNot stockholders lose a ton of money.”
“You mean, it was just malicious? Somebody went to an awful lot of trouble just to hurt these stockholders.”
“Exactly. And so I asked myself: Ed, who has it in for these guys?”
“Cronin, I don’t like where you’re going with this.”
“And I asked myself: Ed, isn’t it a coincidence that the phone numbers for this scam were routed right through the same office used by Dylan Hunter?”
Hunter rolled his eyes. “Ed, have you seen the musical Les Misérables? They should cast you as Javert.”
“I haven’t seen it, so I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I’m talking about an obsessed cop who wastes a lot of time chasing innocent people.”
“Innocent?”
“Give it a rest. You know I had nothing to do with the bomb that killed Sloan. That’s on Boggs. And you admit he looks good for the senator’s murder, too. It’s obvious that he and his gang hated CarboNot. So it makes perfect sense that they would be the ones going after those investors.”
“You think those losers, hiding in the woods, could pull off scams like these?”
“Why not? Isn’t Boggs supposed to be some kind of genius?”
“Well, whoever did these schemes didn’t know much about the insurance business.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean whoever knocked down that Capital Resources building and the EPA director’s house. And blew up those other properties—the jet and the yacht. The persons”—he paused, eyes steady on Hunter’s—“or person who did that stuff probably didn’t know that in cases of provable fraud, insurance companies will honor the policies retroactively, and pay the claims, anyway. So, it doesn’t look like the people who owned those properties will have to eat those losses after all.”
Hunter kept his face impassive and nodded thoughtfully.
“Well, then, let me see where that leaves things—just so I have it all clear for my next article. Capital Resources’s investors will be reimbursed for their building losses. But that won’t make much difference for them, anyway, since it looks as if the company is likely to shut down, regardless.”
Cronin shrugged. “That’s what I read in your paper.”
“If what you say is true, the EPA director, Weaver, will be compensated for the loss of his house. But I saw him on the news last night. He said that he had a lot of personal items in there that can’t be replaced. The same with the owner of that yacht, Lockwood; I gather that he was really fond of it. So, both of them lost things that money can’t buy.”
“So it would seem.”
“But as for that billionaire, Trammel—I doubt he had much sentimental attachment to his plane.”
“Him? I doubt he has much of a sentimental attachment to anything.”
“Still, by my estimate, he did lose the $13 million or so that he had sunk into CarboNot stock.”
“Just a drop in the bucket for somebody like him.” Cronin folded his arms, looking amused. “You disappointed about that one, Hunter? The fish that got away?”
Hunter smiled back. “You just won’t let it alone, will you? Why should I care about that character? Besides, from what I’ve read about him, this past week represents a significant setback for his interests, which are mainly political and ideological, not financial. So I’d say that Trammel got hit where it hurts, too.”
“You happy about that?”
“It certainly couldn’t happen to anyone more deserving.”
Hunter heard his phone chirp. He fished it out. Saw who it was.
“Cronin, why is it that every time I see you, my editor calls? Give me a minute, okay?”
He answered the call. Listened for a minute.
“You’re kidding!” He looked steadily at Cronin. “Bill, that’s incredible. It puts everything in a whole new light. Can you email the MP3 file to me? I’ll want to listen and write about it, ASAP … Great. Thanks.”
He clicked off. Sat back, folded his arms, and smiled serenely at Cronin.
“What?”
“Bronowski, my editor, just received a thumb drive in the mail. Anonymous, no return address. It contains a recorded confession by Zachariah Boggs, admitting everything. That he was really the Technobomber. Also, that he
bombed CarboNot, and killed that scientist, Adam Silva. But that’s not the big news. He also said—are you ready?—that he had been working for years with Ashton Conn.”
Cronin blinked. “The senator?”
Hunter nodded. “Which confirms what his girlfriend, Dawn Ferine, has been saying, doesn’t it.”
It was Cronin’s turn to whistle. “I’ll be damned.”
“Yes, well, if we’re through here, I’ve got work to do,” Hunter said, rising.
“Yeah.” Cronin stood, too. “So do I.”
They walked to the reception area. Hunter turned to the detective.
“So. Are we good?”
Cronin said, “We’re good. For now.” A hint of amusement touched his cool blue eyes. “I’m sure our paths will cross again.”
Hunter shook his head and sighed.
Hunter strolled along the Tidal Basin pathway in the waning sunshine of late afternoon. The sky was clear and the temperature unusually warm for early March, a reprieve from the cold of recent weeks. Though the cherry trees along the water were still bare of blossoms, just the sight of them held the promise of spring.
He reached the Jefferson Memorial and spotted the still gray figure amid the flow of tourists. He stood at the edge of the water, hands buried in the pockets of his long coat, staring into the distance. Hunter followed his gaze to the Washington Monument rising like a bright lance into the sky. Its sunlit stone sent a shimmering golden reflection onto the slate surface of the water.
Grant Garrett’s small security detail held positions around the plaza below the Memorial, and one stood beneath the Ionic columns of the portico. Hunter felt their eyes on him as he approached their boss. He stopped at the water’s edge a few feet away, sharing the view.
Garrett didn’t acknowledge his presence by looking at him. He took the cigarette from his lips, exhaled a stream of smoke through his nostrils, and began to speak.
“So. Are you done tilting at windmills, Mr. Quixote?”
Hunter forced himself not to smile. “‘Windmills.’ Nice. You must have stayed awake all night thinking up that one … Here. I brought you a present.” He held out the plastic bag he’d been carrying.
Garrett raised a brow. “Bribe?”
“It can’t be a bribe if I give it to you after the fact. A thank-you present.”
Garrett took the bag and looked inside. “Wow. That was fast. Did you fly your speedy little plane all the way to Havana today to fetch these?”
“No. I just know people who know people.”
“Thanks. I can’t wait.”
Hunter studied the ripples in the water. “You wanted to see me. About last night, I assume.”
“You assume correctly.” Garrett took a long drag on the short cigarette butt and started to pitch it into the water. Then thought better of it, ground it against the heel of his shoe, and dropped the crushed stub into the bag with the cigars. Then looked Hunter in the eye.
“I want you to know that I can’t do things like this for you anymore.”
“I know, Grant. I never expected you to.”
Garrett resumed staring into the distance. “This time was for Annie as much as for you.”
“I know that, too.”
“I could rationalize what I did, as an emergency response to an imminent act of domestic terrorism. But you and I both know that would be complete bullshit. I probably broke a hundred laws.”
“I shouldn’t have put you in that position.”
“I’m not trying to be sanctimonious. Breaking laws is nothing new for me, of course. I’ve broken thousands over the years. But what you did last night—that went too far … It was you who took out Conn—right?”
“Of course … Gee, I hope you’re not wearing a body wire, or I’m in deep doo-doo.”
Garrett snorted. “Only if I wanted to share the cell with you … Seriously—you do realize you went too far last night.”
“I did?”
“You murdered a United States senator. A presidential candidate, no less.”
“Now, now—be fair: He hadn’t even announced, yet.”
“That’s not very funny, Dylan.”
“People keep telling me that. I need to work on my comic timing.”
Garrett sighed.
“You crossed a line, son. I can’t be a party to that sort of thing. Okay, yes—I gather that he conspired with Boggs in several of his murders. So he deserved it. I get that. But he needed to be arrested and prosecuted for it. Not blown up in a residential neighborhood. This is Washington, not Baghdad or Kabul.”
Hunter faced him.
“All right. Then tell me how he could have been successfully prosecuted, Grant. No, really—please tell me. There was no physical evidence against him. Only the word of a terrorist and his emotionally unstable girlfriend, against that of a popular U.S. senator. I have some emails and taped phone calls—all illegally obtained—that suggested he was a hypocritical slime ball. But not a killer. So, there is no evidence he participated in those murders. None. The same thing goes even for his lesser crimes.
“Grant, you say that I should have waited for him to be arrested or prosecuted, when we both know that would never have happened. Here’s the bottom line: Ashton Conn was about to get away with multiple murders. He also was about to make millions by looting scores, maybe hundreds of people. And the scariest thing of all? That same man stood on the brink of becoming our next president. That means your boss, Grant. Prosecute him? How? The law was impotent to stop him. Nobody else was even trying to stop him. So, I did. Now, please explain to me why what I did was wrong.”
Garrett looked down into the dark depths of the water.
“I have no good answer to that. I don’t know what we’re supposed to do when the political process becomes this corrupt. I just don’t know what people like us are supposed to do anymore.”
He put a hand on Hunter’s shoulder.
“I can’t pass judgment against you, Dylan. I don’t know what to tell you to do, or not do, in these situations. The only thing I can tell you is: I can’t be a part of it anymore. I won’t try to stop you, or get anyone else to stop you. But I can’t protect you, either. You’re on your own, my friend.”
Then Garrett smiled—actually smiled.
“But I guess you’re used to that.”
Hunter clasped his arm and grinned in return.
“Oh, I almost forgot,” Garrett said. “I’ve got a present for you, too. Do you mind taking a little walk, over to where my car is waiting?”
They strolled past the Memorial and behind it, out to the Jersey barriers lining East Basin Drive. His black armored SUV sat nestled in a small pull-off area, with a security man standing beside it.
Garrett walked to the rear, pulled open the door, and motioned him over.
Hunter looked inside. His mouth fell open.
“Grant, you have got to be kidding.”
“Why?” His steel-gray eyes danced impishly. “Don’t you like the symbolism?”
FORTY-TWO
It was dark when he pulled the Ford van into his driveway on Connor’s Point. He parked beside her Camry. Then fetched the box from the passenger side and carried it up the front steps. Setting it down at his feet, he unlocked and opened the door, then brought it inside. He hung up his coat, left the box in the foyer, and walked down the hall.
“Annie?”
“In here, Vic.”
Chuckling, he went into the den. He found her curled up with a book in the recliner next to the fire. A glass of white wine perched on a tray table nearby. She wore a dark green sweater over black jeans; her bare feet were drawn up under her. She kept her nose in the book, pretending not to notice him.
“Already I am taken for granted,” he said. “Aren’t you supposed to greet me at the door, stark naked, and throw yourself into my arms?”
She frowned, not looking up. “Mmm … just give me one more minute. I’m almost finished with this chapter.”
He stomped acro
ss the room, grabbed the book and tossed it onto the floor. Then picked her up and crushed her against him as she squealed and he laughed. Within seconds they were no longer laughing. Not breaking the kiss, he carried her to the sofa and held her on his lap.
“So you did miss me, then,” he murmured into her ear.
She stroked his hair. “Little bit, I suppose.”
He searched her face. “How did you sleep last night?”
The gray cat’s eyes were calm.
“Like a baby.”
He kissed her again.
She pushed away, alarmed. “What’s that noise?”
“Come and see.”
They got up and he led her by the hand into the foyer, over to the cardboard box, watching her eyes.
“Oh!”
She reached down and lifted the whimpering little puppy out of the box. It was a bundle of soft, fluffy, honey-colored fur, with a snow-white chest and legs.
“Oh, Dylan!” She pressed its face to her cheek. “Dylan, she’s absolutely adorable!”
“It’s a ‘he,’ not a ‘she.’ Between you and Luna, I have enough estrogen in my life.”
“Where did you get him?”
“I didn’t. Grant did. He thought it was an appropriate gift.”
“Appropriate?”
“Sure. It’s a Sheltie.”
“What’s that?”
“A sheepdog.”
She began to giggle—then laugh. She laughed so hard and so long that tears came. Pressed to her face, the puppy turned and began to lick her wet cheeks. That made her laugh even more, and so did he.
They brought the pup into the den and put him down on the floor. He waddled around, sniffing things, his little claws making scratching noises on the bare hardwood.
“We have to give him a name,” she said.
“Grant thinks we should call him ‘Cyrano.’”
She laughed again. “I wonder why.”
They held hands, enjoying the spectacle of the little dog clambering around the room. After a moment she asked, “So why is he giving us a present? Shouldn’t it be the other way around?”
“He said to tell you that it was an early wedding present.”
BAD DEEDS: A Dylan Hunter Thriller (Dylan Hunter Thrillers) Page 40