Looks could be deceiving. A brain lurked under that thatch of unruly hair. From here on out, she would be wary of his boyish charms and gentlemanly manners. “I’ll wager you could sell sand to an Arab in the Sahara Desert.”
He smirked, wholly pleased with himself. “I’ll drive.”
They tried Devlin’s office first but were directed to the courthouse, where they caught up with him during a recess in court proceedings.
Martin Devlin proved to be a cynical man of short stature and well-fed belly, given to wearing vested suits, striped bowties, and a cocky attitude. He requested and received their government IDs. “MonCom. I’ve heard of you folks. Never knew you to get out in the field, though.”
“This is a special case, sir,” Farrow said.
“Ah, I see.” He nodded his head slowly, taking in the meaning. “You’re interested in Coyote.”
Farrow set forth the definition. “Coyote. A small wolflike and carnivorous animal of buff or reddish-gray fur with a pointed muzzle and triangular ears. Hunts singly or in small packs, and is known for its vociferous yips and howls. Referred to in Latin as canis latrans. Inhabits North America in both town and country. Considered a menace wherever he habituates. Also called prairie wolf. Alternately, coyote can mean a person who smuggles illegal immigrants from South and Central America.”
Devlin cast Farrow an amused look before flicking his head and beckoning them to follow him into a private conference room. He flipped on the ceiling lights, set his buckled briefcase down on the round conference table, and sat with aplomb, folding hands over his equally round belly and inviting them to sit with a flourish of his hand. He went into a long explanation of the case as he knew it from his side of the bench.
“The most important thing you should understand is this. I’m Coyote’s defense attorney, not his parole officer or his nursemaid. My job is to go by the preponderance of evidence and convince a jury of peers of my client’s innocence. That’s what I’m paid to do. I’m sure you’ve read up on the case.”
“I have.” Cordelia let him talk. Most people like the sound of their own voices, and when allowed an open forum, say more than they intended to say. It took discipline to say nothing. Farrow seemed to have acquired the discipline, damn it.
“He was let out on bond due to exculpatory evidence. Then he dropped out of sight. From there, everything I know I’ve learned by reading the news.” He moved his eyesight from Cordelia to Farrow and back again, allowing his vision to center on her. “I have no idea where he is. Nor have I heard from him since he dropped out of sight. For all I know, he could be dead.”
She doubted it but let him go on without comment.
“The problem comes when the prosecution will do anything for a win. I used to think it was for vanity’s sake. Now I believe it’s the mindset of the delusional. They believe the defendant guilt, rely only on the evidence that shows their presumption to be true, and dismiss the evidence that proves the opposite. But I have to be honest with you. Myself, I don’t presume one way or the other. My job is to defend my client, period. I take on cases whether I believe my clients are guilty or innocent. In fact, I don’t ask them one way or the other. Often they open up and tell me what’s in their guts though not necessarily what’s in their brains or hearts. Or proclaim their innocence even though both of us know the truth. But I’m going to be honest with you. I believe Jack Coyote innocent of all charges associated with the Whitney case. As to his patriotism, his work ethics, his choice of women, or anything else, it’s none of my business. I know you’re here to see if I can shed some light on the fifty million or the presumed money laundering of said fortune. No charges were brought against my client pertaining to those facts. Therefore, I don’t have an opinion. I admit to having reviewed the brokerage statements, as I presume you have. I also noted the timestamps that coincided with the murder, but I draw no conclusions. And there you have it.”
“And the woman?” Cordelia said.
Devlin twirled his thumbs and innocently asked, “Which woman would that be?”
He was anything but innocent, but Cordelia played along. “The woman Coyote picked up in Annapolis. The woman he claimed set him up. The woman who called herself Kathy Heathland, but who in fact is Katerine Cécile Arnaud Madoc, a known member of the Milieu, the Parisian version of the Mafia, wanted by the French police and Interpol, and said to be an accountant, an extortionist, and a forger.”
“You’re very thorough, aren’t you, Ms. Burke, since that information isn’t in court records or in the news. Ergo, you have an in with the Severn County Sheriff’s Office, perhaps the lead detective himself, Sergeant Detective Jaime Benedicto?”
“He’s on my To Do list,” she said.
“Someone in his office then,” he said chuckling. He was using his poker face, the same one he had been using from the first. But his serene facial expression and calm body language flashed telltale signs of surprise. Perhaps even admiration. Most definitely annoyance. Cordelia saw something else. The tiniest giveaway in his eyes, as if he were planning the best way to get in touch with his client and warn him the Feds were onto him.
“We believe she’s also a mercenary for hire,” she said, “The kind available to the highest bidder.”
He fished for more details. “Such as?”
“We don’t know yet, but we have a few theories.”
“Pertaining to people of considerable influence, I have no doubt.” A small smile attended his pronouncement. He let out an elongated sigh while spinning his thumbs more rigorously than before. “Now if there isn’t anything else ....” He dislodged himself sprightly from the chair.
Cordelia had one last question. “What do you know about Janice Brodey?”
His eyes ignited with mischief before saying, “Janice who?”
“The woman murdered in Virginia,” Farrow said.
She gave Farrow a doubletake. Obviously he had been boning up on every one of her memos. It unnerved her.
Farrow went on. “Raped, throat cut, daughter missing. Your client’s fingerprints and DNA were left in the house.”
Devlin settled back, seemingly deflated, but not so deflated as to lose his composure. “Ah yes, that Janice Brodey. Interesting. That fact hasn’t been in the news, either. How did you make the connection?”
Cordelia took the lead. “Shall we say the murder wreaked of coincidences and several unanswered questions. Sensational tragedies don’t usually strike twice in one household.” She didn’t mention two key facts. One, that the HID people were on top of anything having to do with Coyote. And two, the wire transfer of one million dollars siphoned into the wife’s bank account exhibited the same digital fingerprints as the other forty-nine million.
Like a holy man, Devlin peered at them over his half-frame reading glasses. “The presence of my client’s presence in that house does not prove he murdered the unfortunate woman.”
“We didn’t claim that he did.”
“And,” Devlin said on a dispirited sigh, “since no charges have been brought, I have no opinion to render one way or the other. I am compelled to stress a second time that I have not been in touch with my client since the day he was released on bail. Nor has he been in contact with me. Therefore, I wouldn’t know anything about the fate of Mrs. Brodey. Now if there isn’t anything else ....”
He stood and offered his hand. The interview ended. Cordelia hadn’t learned anything more than she already knew, but she did come away with something vital. Devlin confirmed everything she had picked up on the rumor mills.
Once they had put enough distance between themselves and the courthouse, Farrow asked, “What are you thinking?”
“I think Devlin is a lawyer protecting his client.”
“But do you think Coyote did it?”
“Like Martin Devlin, Attorney at Law, I have a job to do. My opinion doesn’t come into the equation. Neither should yours.”
“Know what I think? I think it’s going to be fun working with y
ou.” When she gave him an eyeful, he cleared his throat, stretched his neck, and said, “What’s next?”
“I want to see where Coyote worked. And where his boss jumped.”
“John Sessions. Deputy director of the Technical Bureau. Coyote’s second-in-command.”
The headquarters of the Homeland Intelligence Division was housed in one of those unremarkable glass-and-steel skyscrapers rising seventeen stories straight up. Standing beside Farrow on the busy commercial avenue, Cordelia could barely make out the top floor. It was a long way up and an even longer way down. She lowered her eyesight to the plaza and the revolving doors through which people passed in and out of the building as if it they weren’t treading on the flesh and bones and viscera of a dead man. And shivered.
Farrow asked, “Do you think Coyote pushed his boss over the edge?”
“Literally? Or figuratively?” Jack Coyote had already become the stuff of legends. His face was plastered all over the internet. On the run and looking over his shoulder, he would have assumed a false identity by now, altered his appearance in subtle but effective ways, and acquired a do-or-die attitude. Whether guilty as charged or wrongfully accused, circumstances had gotten the better of him. Either way, she had a job to do. Locate Coyote and bring him in.
They stopped off at Club Seven, the popular watering hole down the street from HID headquarters where Coyote picked up a femme fatale who led him into a trap.
They spoke to the bartender who served both patrons that night. According to her, the woman had her eye on Coyote the second he walked into the joint, and never took her eyes off him the entire night. “I guess it was reciprocal,” she said.
“Did you see them leave together?”
“Yes and no. She left first. He followed her out.”
“What’s your impression of Coyote?” Cordelia asked.
“Nice guy. Sort of sweet. He looked me up after he got out of jail.”
“Did he?”
“Showed me a photo of the woman, stamped Interpol. Thought he was putting me on. But it was her, all right. Couldn’t miss her in a crowd.”
“Ever see her before?” Cordelia asked.
“He asked me that, too. I’ll tell you what I told him. She might have been here before. If it was her, she had red hair. Couple months back at most.”
“Thanks, you’ve been a big help.” After Cordelia and Farrow climbed back into the car, they sat for a while, absorbing what they had learned so far.
Farrow read her mind. “A guilty man doesn’t run around trying to prove his innocence.”
“They do every day. It’s called witness tampering. Planting false memories when the case comes to trial.”
“If it comes to trial,” he said. “If he’s ever caught.”
Usually MonCom went after crime syndicates, embezzlers, drug kingpins, venture capitalists, real estate moguls, corporate overlords, and cold-blooded terrorists. The scummiest scum crawling in the muddiest depths of a polluted pond. Coyote was different. Before being charged with the murder of his girlfriend, he seemed a man who lived a bland life.
Something nagged at Cordelia like an itch that could not be scratched. Coyote was an enigma. An unknown quantity. Intelligent, clever, unpredictable, an outlier. And with his oily good-looks and his allegedly charming manner, as dangerous as a rattlesnake. “Oh, he’ll be caught all right. Only so many places he can hide. The question is, who will get to him first?”
3
Annapolis, Maryland
Monday, August 18
THE RECENTLY APPOINTED deputy director of HID’s Technical Bureau wasn’t terribly surprised when Chris Cameron called her into his office. Liz Langdon expected the invitation but wasn’t looking forward to the meeting. No doubt he would exert pressure on her. And though she understood the reason, she didn’t appreciate the aftermath of having submitted her resignation.
The backlash after the death of John Sessions and then of Lindsey-Marie had been fierce. Their tragic ends delivered the final stroke to an agency already teetering on the edge. Staff members were walking out by the dozens. It was easy to guess why. Five of their cohorts were missing in action from one mishap or another. No one wanted to be the next unfortunate soul to disappear from the ranks of the Homeland Intelligence Division under mysterious circumstances.
Liz slipped into her heels, shook back her hair, buttoned her suit jacket, and straightened her weakening spine. She was as ready for the persuasive arguments to come. Leave she would. This time, she was determined. No one could talk her out of it. After giving her coveted window office one last look, she spun on a heel, took a series of girding breaths, and put one foot in front of the other, each leading to an unknown future.
Upon entering Cameron’s office, she was surprised to encounter two unexpected guests. Angela and Camilla broke off their huddled, and rather quiet banter with Chris, and straightened their postures, smiling pleasantly, licking cream from their lips. They resembled matrons at a tea party, hands folded on their laps, heads angled just so, eyes patronizing. For a passing moment, Liz expected to be sacked. The irony wasn’t lost on her since she had already quit.
Chris beckoned her with flagging fingers. “Close the door, if you would, Liz. This isn’t an inquisition. Far from it.”
The shocking demise of John Sessions had come as a blow for everyone, both inside and outside HID. He was well liked, the mainstay of the organization, the placid face everyone respected. He was also the agency’s moral compass. He questioned decisions, tossed grenades for others to catch, proposed sober alternatives, and held everyone’s feet to the fire with quiet determination. Not to say he was perfect, far from it. Often he went along just to avoid confrontation. He picked his battles cautiously. His was a long vision. Capitulate on the minor points in exchange for big wins down the line. Now that he was gone, HID had a greenlight to do whatever the hell it wanted. The watchdog was gone. The FBI and CIA were barking at the gate, rabid teeth bared, demanding to be let in. Espionage games were about to be launched, to hell with the rules, just get the job done no matter what it took and think about the blowback later, if later ever came.
With little choice, Liz pulled out the only empty chair and prepared herself for the grilling. She sat with trepidation, one hand overlapping the other, both palpably moist with nervous sweat. She waited for someone else to break the silence. It would not be her.
Camilla began. “Has your girl heard anything new from Jack?”
“Aneila?” Liz had sent her to the Cayman Islands to track down Jack. By the time she found out where he was staying, he had checked out and disappeared. “He’s gone off the map. I have other plans for her.”
Camilla angled her head, curious.
“A hacker Jack knows.”
“And she’s game?” Camilla asked.
“She seems eager enough. Coincidentally they were arraigned on the same day. Jack for murder. And this hacker for breaking into Georgetown’s grading system. He’s a student there.”
“Will wonders never cease,” Camilla said, swallowing a smile. “And?”
“Jack’s following the money.” Liz explained it as if they didn’t already know. “The fifty million.”
“Wouldn’t he already know where it is?”
“Apparently not.”
“And this other hacker?” Camilla asked.
“Charges were dropped. He’s still enrolled at Georgetown.”
“He seems to be a very clever fellow. Like Jack.”
Liz smiled knowingly. “No one is as clever as Jack.”
Disquiet followed. Each of the senior executives looked in turn toward their counterparts. None wanted to broach the subject of why Liz had been summoned.
“We wanted to talk to you about something else,” Chris said. “I think you know what it is.”
To counteract her beating heart and churning stomach, Liz assumed a straight posture and an unreadable expression, eyes level, head erect, and mouth set. She was making bets on who would b
e the first to start the real conversation. Chris was the natural choice since it was his office. The deputy director of Security Methodologies met her gaze with understanding. His face was rugged, dark, and timeless, much like the faces of his distant African ancestors who hunted game on the savannahs of a dark continent, free men on open lands that stretched from rising sun to setting sun. Even if generations had passed, he carried with him their dignity, and so he had remained silent, letting others take the lead. As the deputy director of Information Assurance, Camilla ordinarily would have convened the meeting. But it wasn’t her office and it wasn’t her call. That left Angie, who never let protocol stand in her way.
She reached over and placed a hand on Liz’s folded hands. It was a spontaneous gesture, quickly withdrawn with a clearing of her throat. As brief as it was, the gesture given by the deputy director of Signals Intelligence was not the norm. “We know how difficult this has been for you. First Jack and Milly. Then Harrison. And now John and Lindsey-Marie.”
“Let’s not get maudlin over this,” Camilla said. “We’re all broken up. Our people are dropping like flies. If I were in Liz’s shoes, I’d get the hell out, too. But as it stands―” She left personal thoughts out of her otherwise flippant but sobering remarks. She wasn’t being dismissive. Quite the reverse. She was protecting her own insecurities and making every effort not to break down. Her bloodshot eyes spoke the truth, along with her lackluster appearance, normally as springy and bright as the silver hair on her head. “I’m not leaving. Especially at a time like this. And neither should you.”
“But John’s death ...,” Liz began haltingly and then grew quiet, overcome with emotion. She wanted to say his death devastated her, but it went deeper than that. It terrified her. Besides, what was there to say? Platitudes that skirted around the real issue were worthless. “He was my boss. More than my boss. A friend. A supporter. As good a guy as they came. No one feels his absence more than me. No one,” she emphasized. “John always treated me with respect. Hell, he never once made a play for me. That says a lot, more than you know. He respected my abilities, my judgment, my decisions. And he always had my back.”
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