“He sounds formidable,” Keane said.
“Even the best have to lose some time,” Pendergrass said.
Keane smiled. “Confidence, Captain, I like that in the people who work for me.”
Pendergrass felt himself starting to blush again.
Keane sat forward, a hand on the edge of the desk. “Call Sloane and invite him to a meeting, this afternoon if possible, or tomorrow morning, as soon as he is available.”
“A meeting?”
Keane stood. “One thing about this job, Tom, you have to remain flexible to change.”
CAMANO ISLAND, WASHINGTON
JENKINS REFOCUSED HIS attention on the computer screen in his home office. He felt like he was searching for a towel at a nudist colony. Shirley in the National Guard’s public affairs office had been of no help. The National Guard’s last known address for Michael Cassidy, the only surviving guardsman to have served with James Ford the night he died, was Maple Valley, Washington. Though just half an hour from Seattle, it might as well have been on the other side of the world. The house had been a rental, the phone number associated with it long since disconnected. A property records search revealed Cassidy did not own any real estate, not surprising given that he had been just twenty when he shipped off for Iraq, and the military had no forwarding address.
Posing as an administrator from the office of Veterans Affairs, Jenkins called the owner of the property and said he was trying to forward Cassidy a military benefits check. The owner confirmed Cassidy had rented the property but only until his deployment, which meant his last known address was Baghdad, Iraq. Cassidy had paid his rent in cash. The man had no record of a bank account.
“What about a security deposit?” Jenkins asked. “Did he leave a forwarding address?”
“He told me to keep it as his last month’s rent.”
“Credit check or references?”
“Lease was month-to-month. Like I said, he put down first and last. I didn’t ask for any references—they just lie anyway.”
“Did he give you a place of employment?”
“Said he was a painter and a handyman. I had no reason to doubt him.”
“No employer?”
“Called himself an independent contractor. Like I said, paid on time.”
Jenkins suspected the landlord never pressed the issue because Cassidy had paid in cash, and cash didn’t need to be reported to the IRS.
A credit check revealed Cassidy had once owned a credit card with an address in Yakima, Washington, three hours to the east. Jenkins called a friend at the IRS, but that only revealed that Cassidy had not paid income taxes. A tax account for a Jennifer and Richard Cassidy listed a Michael Cassidy as a dependent on past income taxes. The address was in Yakima, the same as on the expired credit card. It was a start.
Jenkins used an online directory to obtain a telephone number and called.
“Hello?”
“Richard Cassidy?” Jenkins asked.
“Are you a solicitor?”
“No, Mr. Cassidy, this is Corporal Charles Jennings with the Washington National Guard.”
“Christ, what’s the boy done this time?” His voice sounded rough and irritated from too many cigarettes and too much alcohol.
“Actually, sir, we’re trying to locate an address for Michael to forward his military benefits check.”
“Benefits? Hell, he didn’t serve long enough for any damn benefits.”
“It’s a onetime benefit, sir—a modest amount for his service in Iraq. We don’t have a forwarding address—”
“How much?”
“Excuse me?”
“How much is the check? That boy owes me close to five hundred dollars and hasn’t paid back a penny. And that’s not including interest.”
Jenkins surmised this wasn’t the feel-good, father-son relationship depicted on the television shows of the 1950s. “Well, sir, I’m afraid I have to forward the check to Michael to have it endorsed. You’ll have to take that up with him.”
“Sure, and I’ll go out and get water out of a damn stone while I’m at it.”
“Do you have a current address for your son?” Jenkins persisted.
“Nope. Don’t know where he is or what he’s doing, and don’t want to. He brings trouble whenever he shows up around here. We had hoped the military would shape him up. I wanted to put his ass in the marines and let them make a man out of him, but his mother begged me not to. She’s always been soft on him. We compromised on the Guard. Best news I got was when he called to say they were shipping his butt to Iraq.”
Ward Cleaver this guy was not.
“How about a past employer, Mr. Cassidy, or a close friend? Is there someone who might know where I can forward this check?”
The man chuckled. “Past employer? That’s a good one. That boy couldn’t hold down a job to save his life.”
“I understood he was a handyman of sorts, maybe did some odd painting jobs.”
“Yeah, he said that once. Came by wearing one of those white hats, you know the kind, keeps the paint out of your hair. He wanted another loan, which is a joke since he ain’t never paid back a penny in his life. I told him, ‘It ain’t a loan if you don’t pay it back. It’s just stealing.’ He took off the hat and showed it to me like he was working at Microsoft or something. Said he was making good money. So I asked him why he needed the damn loan, then. He didn’t have an answer for that one.”
Jenkins tired of the conversation. “Do you remember the name of the company?”
“Wasn’t a company, just some guy far as I know.”
“What about a name? Do you remember a name?”
“Nah. I didn’t pay no attention. Likely a bullshit story anyway. Probably found the hat and was just using it to try to get me to part with a few more bills from my wallet.”
U.S. FEDERAL BUILDING
SEATTLE, WASHINGTON
WEDNESDAY MORNING, SLOANE stood in a concrete plaza gazing up at the twenty-three-story Federal District Court Building at Seventh Avenue and Stewart Street in downtown Seattle. The glass-facade structure with green copper trim and copper roof was quite a contrast to the squat concrete blocks he traditionally associated with government buildings. So, too, was the plaza. One hundred birch trees surrounded a sixty-foot-diameter grassy area, in the center of which stood a cast aluminum sculpture that resembled a raised fist. To the left a black wall sloped to the street, the Declaration of Independence carved in the granite. To the right, water gently cascaded over three shallow lily ponds.
Sloane was not surprised to receive a call from the U.S. Attorney’s Office. He had anticipated they’d want to meet. What did surprise him was the caller had been Tom Pendergrass, the regional claims officer. Pendergrass said he was working on temporary assignment, handling Ford’s claim. He wouldn’t elaborate over the phone, but Sloane could guess the agenda of their meeting. Pendergrass would try to persuade Sloane to voluntarily dismiss the complaint as premature. Sloane would decline. Pendergrass would then tell Sloane why Ford had no chance of success under Feres, and that the government would seek attorney fees and costs. Sloane would make a vague reference to interpreting the case law differently. He suspected the real reason for the meeting was that Pendergrass wanted to ascertain what evidence Sloane possessed to substantiate his allegation that Ford had not been acting incident to his service.
At the moment, Sloane had no such evidence, other than his gut, but he wasn’t about to tell Pendergrass that. Sloane could have delayed filing the complaint—it would have allowed him and Jenkins more time to find Michael Cassidy, and maybe some evidence to actually support the allegation, but there was no guarantee of that happening and Sloane wanted the complaint filed before Beverly received a formal notice that the claim had been reopened. Besides, filing a complaint was the best way to get people’s attention, and to let them know that Sloane was not going away. It might also make them nervous, perhaps make them suspect Sloane knew more than he did about the man who
came to his house to issue the threat. Nervous people tended to react, and the more someone reacted, the more chances they might make a mistake. The downside to filing the claim was that the clock would start ticking as soon as the government filed its inevitable motion to dismiss, and Sloane would have very little time to find evidence to corroborate his gut belief that there was more to Ford’s death than the military was saying. Federal judges weren’t partial to “feelings” and wouldn’t hesitate to toss him out of the courtroom on his butt, with his wallet a little less thick to cushion the blow.
Sloane walked up the wide concrete steps and pushed through the glass doors. Metal detectors and a healthy number of federal marshals waited inside. He put his briefcase on the conveyor belt to be x-rayed and stepped to the gate. The gray-haired federal marshal waiting for him on the other side told him to empty all his pockets.
“Even a penny will set it off,” he said.
Sloane wondered if that was the reason for all of the copper and silver coins reflecting off the black bottom of the lobby’s shallow pool to his left.
He complied with the instruction and stepped through the arch.
The detector beeped.
“Probably your belt.” The marshal pointed to the silver clasp. Sloane walked back through to the other side and removed his belt. “Put your coat through as well,” the marshal instructed. “Do you have a cell phone?”
Sloane slipped from his coat and put it on the conveyor. He stepped through without a beep. As the coat and belt went into the machine, the marshal standing on the other side watching the monitor stopped the conveyor and studied the grainy images. Then he motioned to his partner to view something. They stood together considering the monitor before starting the belt again. When Sloane’s jacket came through, the marshal picked it up.
“You have anything in the pockets?”
Sloane reached for the jacket. “I don’t think so.”
The marshal kept it. “We’re going to rerun it.” He walked to the other end and put the jacket back on the belt. By this time there were two other suit-clad men waiting to get through. Again the belt stopped. Again the marshals considered the jacket. When it came through, the gray-haired marshal picked it up and squeezed the pockets.
“Where did you get this jacket?” he asked.
“Florence. Why?”
“It’s got something in the lining that’s tipping off the detector.”
“Really?”
“It’s round. Could be a quarter that got through the pocket lining.” The marshal put his hands in both pockets. “I don’t feel a hole.” He held out the jacket for Sloane to feel. “Right there,” he said, and Sloane felt the quarter-size spherical object in the coat lining.
CHAPTER NINE
SEA OF CORTEZ
BAJA, MEXICO
Jake grimaced, his face a beet red from the sun and exertion. Tina wanted to tell him to let the deckhand take over, that he’d done more than anyone expected of an eleven-year-old boy, but she knew Jake would never give in. He was mentally that strong, and though she hated to admit it, he had her stubborn streak. This was his fish. He wanted to land it himself, even if it meant his arms falling off.
It didn’t help that they were sharing the boat with three fraternity brothers from California. Jake would not want to quit in front of them.
“Keep ahold of him, little man,” one yelled.
“You can do it, Jake,” another encouraged. “That’s it. Keep its head up.”
Miguel, the bronze-skinned deckhand with a face like cracked leather, said the fish was a yellowfin and estimated it to weigh between thirty-five and forty-five pounds. He had been coaching Jake through the thirty-minute battle.
“Tranquillo, tranquillo,” Miguel shouted. “Let him run, muchacho.”
Jake relaxed and looked over his shoulder at Tina. Trickles of sweat rolled down his face. He smiled, but his relief was brief.
“Enrollo, amigo. Reel.” Jake lurched forward, reeling down as Miguel had taught, keeping his left arm straight and using his legs to pull. He used the tension on the line and a slight bend in the tip of the pole to ease the fish toward him.
Tina was happy Jake was having a good time. She couldn’t say the same for herself. She missed David terribly and felt sick with worry, unable to eat much and too preoccupied to enjoy their surroundings. They had not parted on good terms, and she now felt bad about how she had behaved. Making matters worse, Alex had forbidden any phone calls. The past three days in Baja had felt like a month.
“Enrollo, amigo,” Miguel continued to shout. “Muy bien, muchacho. You are tiring him out.”
Jake was determined to bring David back a fish bigger than the salmon, which was the only reason Alex had relented about the fishing excursion. Up to that point she had avoided anyplace that would put two women and an eleven-year-old boy in a confined space. When they checked into their new hotel in Cabo, Alex had taken a room by herself and let Tina book a room separately, though they all shared Alex’s room. They had driven to the dock at dawn, and Tina and Jake waited while Alex spoke to half a dozen different charters. Though they all understood English, Alex had spoken only Spanish. Tina had been able to pick up bits and pieces of the conversations. The debate had not been about price, but about the other guests. Alex wanted other people on the boat, but only if they had made a prior reservation. She settled on the three fraternity brothers. Tina had feared a long day, but the young men were not the typical beer-swilling pigs she associated with most fraternities. That had not, however, stopped them from hitting on Alex. Dressed in white shorts, a tank top, and sneakers, Alex was a more prized catch than a marlin.
Tina applied a liberal dose of sunblock to her arms and legs and felt the salt from the splash of the waves on her skin. Despite her Italian heritage, number 45 sunblock, and the wide-brimmed sun hat covering much of her face, she felt as though she was baking.
“Reel, niño, reel,” Miguel shouted.
Tina offered the sunblock to Alex, but she declined. Alex remained quiet, and seemed to be constantly scanning the horizon, considering other charters that passed. The fraternity brother named Vincent had been unsuccessfully working to get her attention.
“Ya parele, ya parele,” Miguel yelled. “Stop. Stop.”
He picked up a long pole with a hook on the end and jabbed it into the water. On the second try his muscles strained and he lifted a huge fish from the water onto the deck to loud cheers. The fish looked prehistoric, silver green with yellow fins along the tail. It thrashed on the deck, but Miguel held its head down with the pole and pinned its tail between his ankles, the fish’s blood pooling on the deck. Jake looked exhausted, but had a grin from ear to ear.
Tina smiled back and congratulated him, then looked to Alex, but she was now focused on the captain, who stood on the deck above them behind the wheel talking on a cell phone.
“David would have loved this,” Jake said. “Can I have it stuffed, Mom? We could hang it over the fireplace in the living room.”
“You did great, Jake.” She hugged him. “Really great. David will be so proud.”
The captain yelled down in Spanish, and Miguel gave him a puzzled look before beginning to organize the poles as the diesel engines powered up, smoke sputtering for a brief second before the blades churned the water.
Alex approached Tina. “Do you have that sunblock?” Tina handed her the tube. As Alex rubbed the lotion into her copper-brown skin, she continued to look out at the water. Then she turned to hand back the tube. “When we get back to the dock, follow my lead and do exactly as I say.”
U.S. FEDERAL BUILDING SEATTLE, WASHINGTON
IT FELT LIKE the marshals’ eyes were boring holes in the back of Sloane’s head as he walked across the lobby to the elevators. Sloane told them that the black spot was likely a security device to keep someone from stealing the jacket from a store. He acted relieved, saying he’d had similar problems traveling through airports but had been unable to determine why the jack
et kept tripping the sensor. The explanation seemed to pacify the marshals, if not completely convince them.
Sloane knew the hardened object was not a security device. There had been no security detector in Florence. There had been no store. Tina had purchased the jacket at an outdoor market not far from the Duomo. Sloane knew what the quarter-size object was. Ken Mills had pulled one like it from his desk drawer, and said it was a listening device.
And Sloane also knew exactly when the device had been inserted into the lining of his jacket.
It’s a hundred and thirteen degrees in Iraq.
Captain Robert Kessler had encouraged Sloane and Jenkins to leave their jackets when they went to tour the Argus warehouse with the replica of the blocks in Mosul. Someone had slipped the bug in the lining then.
As the elevator ascended, Sloane struggled to recall what conversations he had engaged in while wearing the jacket. Had he discussed Cabo? If Argus had been listening to everything Sloane had said since leaving Kessler’s office, they very well could know Tina and Jake were with Alex and where they were. He fought to recall where he’d put the jacket the night he sat with Alex and Charlie in the living room discussing the trip.
On the fifth floor he exited the elevator and pulled open glass doors to the lobby of the U.S. Attorney’s Office. A wood carving of the Great Seal of the United States hung on gray walls beside a picture of Western District of Washington U.S. Attorney Rachel Keane. Sloane slid his driver’s license through a slot and advised the woman on the other side of the glass that Tom Pendergrass expected him.
“Who?”
“Tom Pendergrass.”
The woman picked up a phone and had a brief conversation. Then she studied Sloane’s driver’s license as she typed out a visitor’s pass and eventually handed both back through the slot. Sloane peeled off the backing of the pass and stuck it on his jacket.
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