by Jack Bowie
“Just a minute.” He heard a muffled “Sam” in the background.
“Fowler.” The voice sounded decidedly unfriendly.
“Detective Fowler? This is Adam Braxton.”
“Braxton? It’s the weekend. What the hell are you doing calling me on a Sunday?”
“I had to talk to someone. There was an accident last night. A friend of mine was killed in my apartment.” He knew his voice was breaking up but he couldn’t stop it.
“Jesus, what happened?”
Braxton related the events of the past evening. “I don’t think they were thieves. I think they were after me.”
“Take it easy, Braxton. You don’t have any proof that they were waiting for you do you?”
“No.”
“Have you had any other accidents? Anything that seemed suspicious?”
“No. I don’t guess so.”
“What did the police say?”
“They think it was just a blown robbery. I didn’t tell them anything else.”
“Okay. Look, you’re in no immediate danger. Even if they were waiting for you, they’re long gone now. They won’t try anything else until this cools off. Be careful, but try to relax. Have you found out anything new about Ramal?”
Fowler’s logic seemed sound. Braxton shook off his anxiety and lapsed back into the detached consultant. “Yes, I’ve verified Ramal’s original claim. There is something strange going on in GW’s gateways. I’m still trying to find out exactly what.”
“Who have you talked to about this?”
“Just my friend Paul and my ex-boss at Century Computer. Oh, and I sent an update to the Center.”
“Any of those electronic messages?”
“Yes, the one to the Center. But I’m sure they couldn’t be involved.” Except what if Braxton was right about the mole? CERT/CC wouldn’t need to be involved.
“Right. Probably not. I’ll see what I can find out about your break-in. I used to have a friend on the Boston PD. Call me back tomorrow . . . On second thought, are you coming back down here soon?”
“I didn’t have any specific plans to. Do you think I should?”
“Yeah. It would be a good idea. As soon as you can. When can you get here?”
“I could get out tomorrow morning. We could meet for lunch.”
“Good. I’ll meet you at twelve next to the Washington Monument. I go there for lunch sometimes to get away from all the crap.”
“See you tomorrow then, Detective. And thanks. I’m sorry I bothered you.” He clicked off. Maybe he did overreact. Things were just happening faster than he was used to. He felt a little better and got up to fix some lunch.
* * *
Fowler went back into the kitchen. He lived in a small but comfortable single family in Silver Spring, Maryland, just over the border from D.C. The home was twenty years old and needed constant attention to keep it habitable. This weekend it was a leaky drain under the kitchen sink. Usually he was a wizard with hand tools, but plumbing drove him crazy. He barely fit inside the cabinet and had been barking his knuckles on the pipes or hitting his head on some nearby fixture all morning.
As he crawled back into the tiny space, he worried about the consultant. Braxton had been near panic when he called; he was lucky to have calmed him down. Unfortunately, the guy was probably right. Somebody was after him. The case had taken a bad turn and Braxton was in the middle, maybe because he had pushed the consultant too hard. He’d call Boston later and see what he could do to protect the civilian. It was the least he could do.
* * *
Goddard caught the 11:00 a.m. shuttle back to Washington. She had overslept her planned 8:30 departure from the hotel, and had had to rush to Logan to get out before noon. The combination of the interview at WGBH and the dinner with Braxton had worn her out.
She settled into her seat in the 727 and relaxed for the first time in three days. The consultant was certainly much more complex than she had imagined. First, he had nearly bitten her head off, then he was comforting her memories of Ramal. He seemed very bright and, well, human. Most of the men she had dated in the past few years were either pompous ego-maniacs, or insecure milquetoasts. She found herself drawn to the consultant’s strange combination of strength and vulnerability.
He had experienced some rough times and obviously still felt the scars that had resulted. She remembered her pain when her father had died and the moments she had struck out at her friends. Who was she to judge him? He was trying to get his life back together. She had to respect him for that. For herself, and for Mohammed, she hoped his investigation would find some explanation.
She pulled out the Sunday Globe she had bought in the concourse and started to catch up on the news of the week. In the middle of the second page she saw an article titled “Cambridge Resident Slain in Robbery Attempt”. She almost skipped over it, but noticed a familiar name in the first paragraph.
. . . The owner of the apartment, computer consultant Adam Braxton, arrived only minutes after the police were notified . . . A police spokeswoman stated that it appeared the neighbor had entered the apartment while a theft was in progress. There was no apparent motive for the killing.
Someone was killed in Adam’s apartment? What could have happened?
She read the article through three times, but it gave no additional information on Braxton. She spent the rest of the flight flipping through the pages of the Globe, much to the annoyance of her seat mate.
The instant the plane’s wheels hit the runway at National, she pulled out her iPhone and dialed.
“Adam Braxton.”
“Adam, it’s Susan. Are you all right?” She tried not to sound too panicked.
“Yes, I’m fine. Where are you?”
“The tarmac at National. I just landed. I saw the report in the newspaper. It sounded awful. What happened?”
“It’s pretty much as they described it. I went home after I dropped you off and found the police waiting for me. I’ve been trying to clean up the place ever since.”
“Did you know the neighbor very well?”
“He was my best friend, Susan. It looks like we’ve both lost someone close.” Braxton sounded very tired and depressed.
“Oh, Adam. I’m so sorry.” Now she did feel awful. Why did she have to disturb him at a time like this? It had been so hard on her when Mohammed had been killed. Now this had happened to him. What an awful coincidence. It was a coincidence wasn’t it?
“You don’t think there’s any connection do you?” she asked hesitantly.
“To tell you the truth, I worried about that all morning. I even thought the burglars could have been waiting for me. I called Detective Fowler but he didn’t think there was any relationship. I’m still not so sure.”
His answer sent a pang of dread through her. She couldn’t stand to lose another friend. And she was beginning to think of him as a friend.
“Is there anything I can do to help? I feel like I’m involved in all this now.”
“I did promise Fowler I’d come down tomorrow and talk the whole thing over with him. Would you like to join us?”
“Absolutely. I can even pick you up if you like.”
“I would like that very much. I’ll take the ten o’clock shuttle. It’ll be less crowded than the earlier ones.”
“I’ll see you then. And Adam, please be careful.”
“You bet. See you tomorrow.”
She stared out the window and saw the plane was finally approaching the gate. Why did he have to appear in her life now? Braxton was awakening feelings that she had long suppressed. She couldn’t get involved. It could ruin everything.
Chapter 33
Manassas, Virginia
Sunday, 12:00 p.m.
NICHOLSON PARKED HIS Lexus at the far end of the gravel parking lot, away from as many of the pickups and motorcycles as he could. The lot was only about half full at the Sunday lunch hour, but he didn’t want to take any chances on getting dents or dings in his new car.
&n
bsp; Why had Greystone chosen this place for his rendezvous? It reminded him too much of similar spots outside Richmond, and they weren’t pleasant memories.
The building was little more than an overgrown Quonset hut. It had a corrugated steel roof and metal with timber walls. A huge sign across the swinging front doors declared:
Manassas Run
Country and Western Bar
The Run’s primary attribute was that it was easy to get to. Just off Route 66 in Manassas, Virginia, it drew interstate truckers and local blue-collar Virginians alike. Occasionally, even a few white-collar bureaucrats came out looking for a good time. The Manassas Run management put up with their lack of country authenticity by overcharging them on the drinks and the other pleasures of the establishment. Nicholson knew he’d be pegged for this latter group.
He walked in and got the expected looks from the regulars gathered along the Formica bar on his right. He wondered whether it was the double-breasted suit or his skin color that caused more attention.
The Run was dark and smelled of stale beer and sweat. As he strode through the room, alcohol-soaked sawdust covered his polished wingtips. On his left was a small stage, thankfully now empty, where local groups came to perform on Friday and Saturday nights. Unfortunately, the audio system still blared twangy C&W through ancient scratchy loudspeakers.
The rest of the floor was covered with dirty wooden tables and chairs that looked as if they had been through one brawl too many. Civil War photographs and other memorabilia hung from the ugly metal walls, primarily to cover the dents and holes left from errant customers. He couldn’t imagine what the honky-tonk would be like when it was packed with sweaty red-necks and their whores. He shook off the thought and carefully stepped through the mess to an empty booth along the back wall.
A buxom bleached-blonde in a short denim skirt and low cut calico blouse came over to take his order. She looked as if she didn’t appreciate his taking up a whole booth by himself.
“I’ll take a draft,” he said. “I’m expecting someone in a few minutes. Bring one for him and then leave us alone.”
“Whatever you want, sugar.”
He gave her a long slow look as she swung back to the bar. She returned with the beers and dropped the check on the table. “Ten bucks.”
Nicholson covered the check with a twenty. He hoped it would buy him some privacy. She palmed the money, gave him a smile, and left for a table of truckers in the far corner.
Greystone never ceased to surprise him. Like appearing at the Kennedy Center, or calling this outlandish meeting. It wasn’t that he minded the clandestine encounters and the cloak and dagger procedures. He had been privy to Potterfield’s back room dealing long enough to know where the real work was done and the important deals were made. It was just that sometimes his friend took things a little to the extreme. But as long as he delivered the results they needed, Nicholson could put up with it.
He picked up the beer and took a swallow. It was warm.
He was about to motion for the waitress when the din of the bar suddenly stilled. Looking up, he saw a man striding arrogantly across the floor. It was Greystone. He was dressed casually for a change, jeans and a black leather jacket. Nicholson had barely recognized him. The Chief of Staff waved his arm and Greystone made his way through the crowd to the booth.
“A little over-dressed aren’t we, Nick?”
“I have a reception this afternoon. And a date with a very lovely lady.”
“Miss Mowaru?”
“Leave it alone, Bob. What’s so important to drag me out here?”
“Just a couple of things. This for me?”
“Yeah. I ordered it to give us some privacy. I’m afraid it’s warm.”
“Thanks. They always are.” Greystone grabbed the beer and took a swallow. “By the way, what’s happening with your blackmailer?”
“He’s still there. I’m running background checks. It’s got to be either a member of the family or some goddamn reporter trying to dredge up an old story. We’ll find him.”
“I’m sure you will. If you need any help . . .”
“I know. Look, my phantom emailer can’t be the reason you wanted me all the way out here. What’s up?”
“Right to business as always, Nick. Two things. First, I’ve put together the technical requirements for the Bill.” He handed Nicholson a large envelope of papers. “They’re consistent with NSA’s analyses and give us the upper hand in getting product to market. Still think you can get the amendments through?”
“No problem. You’ve got the old man drooling. We can call in some favors and swing the vote. I’ve also got a few skeletons I can use if we have to. How is Takagawa working out?”
“Damn Japs have great engineers. They’re ahead of schedule on the prototypes. We’ll be ready.”
Nicholson watched his partner; the glib smile, the overconfident tone. “What aren’t you telling me?”
“You notice too much, Nick,” Greystone admitted with a frown. “Hajima is a slippery guy. I can’t help but think he has another agenda. I need to watch him, that’s all.”
“If you say so,” Nicholson replied. His partner always thought he could handle anything. The play with Takagawa was risky; they’d known that from the beginning. But the reward could be staggering. He just hoped his partner wasn’t in over his head.
“I still think killing Keane was a mistake,” he added.
“It was necessary. And it makes the Board more amenable to our plan. Don’t worry. I’ll get what we need from Flitterman.” He took another swallow of the beer and made a quick scan of the room.
“I’ve always admired your confidence. What’s number two?”
“In a hurry to get somewhere, Nick?” Greystone’s smirk only increased Nicholson’s impatience.
“Jesus, Bob, get on with it. If you want to check out the merchandise do it on your own time.”
“I was wondering if you had heard from Warren lately.”
“Not for a couple of months. Last time was to get a review of their latest technology plans. I sent you a copy. Why?” Is this what Greystone wanted to talk about? What’s he up to?
“I got a call from him yesterday. He’s concerned about that CERT consultant working on the Ramal accident.”
“Why not just get rid of him?”
“I tried but my contractors botched the job. They ended up killing his neighbor.”
Nicholson stared across the table, then brought his hand to his forehead. And started rubbing. “Jesus, Bob. What’s going on? Maybe you better get some new people. I can fix you up with some I know.”
“Thanks anyway, Nick, maybe next time. It’s nothing I can’t handle; just a string of bad luck. CERT hasn’t found anything and the consultant is still in the dark. He did talk to Warren though and that apparently spooked him.”
Greystone paused and checked out a trio of local professionals congregating along the bar. When he turned back, his brow was furrowed and his voice thick with concern. “You don’t think he’d do anything, well, inappropriate, do you?”
Nicholson stared back, trying to penetrate his colleague’s carefully-crafted mask. He thought of Greystone as a friend, although not a close one, but had always wondered if the feeling was one-sided. Chamberlain was very insecure; he had expressed discomfort with some of their methods in the past. Nicholson had worried then that the engineer might become a liability. He hadn’t heard anything lately, however, so there was no reason to alarm Greystone. He didn’t want him going off the deep end.
“Warren? Certainly not, Bob,” he said with all the bravado he could muster. “I’m a helluva lot more concerned about CERT and the damn consultant. We can’t have them poking around in our network. Get those contractors to go do their job.”
“Absolutely right, Nick.” The smirk returned. “It was ridiculous to be concerned about Warren. And as for Braxton, I know how we can settle that very quickly.”
“Great. Now as much as I love this place
, I’m going back to the reception.” He downed the beer and stood up. “Leaving?”
“No, you go ahead. I think I’ll stay and admire the scenery for a while longer.”
Nicholson shook his head and made his way back through the human stable. Greystone had been acting strange lately. There hadn’t been any need to meet face-to-face. He could have sent the damn documents over the net.
Maybe all the pressure inside Theater was getting to him. He’d better keep a watch on his partner for both his and Chamberlain’s sakes.
* * *
Greystone could have called Nicholson, but he had needed to see his partner’s face. Some things just had to be done in person. His intuition had been correct; it had been clear in Nicholson’s expression and hesitation. Chamberlain couldn’t be trusted.
He had had to approach the subject carefully. Nicholson and Chamberlain had been close once and he didn’t want to do anything that might alert either man. He was sure he hadn’t aroused any suspicions; the plan could continue without modification.
A tall, dark-haired woman sitting alone in one of the corner booths caught his eye. He liked women with a sense of understatement. His next appointment wasn’t until later that afternoon. He picked up his beer and walked toward the smiling face.
* * *
Fowler collapsed into his recliner and let out a tired sigh. Even a long, hot shower hadn’t been able to relieve the relentless throbbing in his lower back.
It had taken him all day to fix the goddamn leak. And while he was gallantly toiling in the tiny cabinet space, his wife had reminded him she had to leave for a meeting at their church. She had said something about meatloaf in the refrigerator and disappeared, leaving him to fend for himself. Well, the cold Corona in his hand would have to do for now.
He had just settled into a repeat of Law and Order when the phone rang.
“Shit,” he mumbled. “Let it go.”
The noise stopped on the sixth ring as the answering machine picked up. All he heard was a dial tone; no message.
“Damn robo calls,” he whispered.
Then it rang again. He let it go, same result.