At Any Cost (11 page)

Fucking disgraceful. He shook off the fantasy, revolted with himself.

She was too sweet to get involved with him. He was too cold, too cynical. A depressed, closed-off bastard; he had nothing to give her or any woman. Knowing this about himself, he should be mature enough to simply convey that to her. By keeping that fact hidden, he was only hurting again—the very thing he wanted to avoid.

He could sense how badly she had wanted him to reach for her after he fucked her in the vestibule. It was the worst part of the day, when he disappointed her.

But what skidded him into panic was that he wanted to reach for her, too. Wanted it bad. She'd woken up feelings he'd forgotten about, closed off with razor wire and “Keep Out” signs.

Goddamnit, he could not afford this frivolous bullshit.

Wet snowflakes had begun to swirl through the black air. The cold wetness felt good against his feverish face. Helped clear his head. He began to run back toward Rosslyn, slow and easy, trying to work out the problem of Fallon Hughes.

When he reached the empty Court House Plaza, he slowed to a walk. As he approached the steps that led to 14th Street, he noticed a car on a narrow side street. The red brake lights were on but the headlights weren't, and later, he would think it was that odd arrangement of lights in the snow that drew his attention. It seemed, in that instant, that he recognized the car. He had seen it this afternoon parked across from Fallon's apartment when they returned from the Blair House. It was possible that it was a different car, of course. He struggled to make himself believe that. Surely black late-model Volvo SUVs were not rare in the suburban soccer mom enclave of Arlington, Virginia. Nevertheless, Tom's sixth sense pushed him back against the wall, out of the reach of the decorative faux streetlights. He slowed his breath so it didn't puff in the frigid air, knowing it was possible the driver was watching him in the rearview mirror.

Yeah, he was a paranoid cop who suspected the worst in any given situation. But after Fallon's search warrant and Antoine Campbell's murder, anything less was suicidal.

Thickening snow made it difficult to see details like the license plate number or even which state the automobile was from. Suddenly the headlights flared, the brake lights went off, and the engine fired. The buildings were close together and in the canyon, it sounded very loud, like a roar. The car swerved from the curb and proceeded up the hill.

Tom took a long, slow look around him and behind him to make sure nothing else was out of the ordinary. He noticed nothing but snow and the dark windows of the shops.

He stepped out of the darkness and jogged across the street. The security in his building was good: it required both a key fob and a code to get in. On the second floor, he opened his front door and paused in the entry, waiting, scrutinizing the darkened kitchen and living room. In the hallway, he turned on the light, moving stealthily from room to room, finding nothing out of place. His Secret Service weapon, an extra magazine of ammo, and badge were on his bedside table, where he normally kept them.

Everything was normal.

Except for the wet snowy footprints on the carpet, left from the person who had been in his bedroom.

The next morning, Fallon was working diligently on the Chandler case until Tom's voice tore through her concentration. She heard him in the office next door, exchanging pleasantries with Cameron Chapman. After several moments of chitchat, Cameron walked by Fallon's door, heading back to the command center on the first floor.

Fallon waited about thirty seconds, then jumped out of her seat.

Tom smiled warmly as she entered his office. “Hello, Avalon.”

“Good morning, Agent Bishop. Call the limos, would you please?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Is that necessary?” she asked with fond exasperation.

“Yes, ma'am.”

Fallon rolled her eyes.

At the elevator bank, out of earshot from the other employees, Tom asked, “How is it in the office today? Everyone curious about the warrant?”

“You could say that,” she said. “Two people actually paused to chat with me today, for the first time ever.” It had been rather embarrassing, trying to stiffly make small talk with people who so transparently wanted to know
what was going on
.

“How are you?”

“Fine,” Tom answered. There was something stiff in his delivery though, and she thought he was brushing her off.

The elevator doors slid open where a somewhat nerdish woman was scrabbling in a giant patchwork handbag. She glanced at Fallon as they stepped inside. Fallon saw the sudden click, that burst of light in the eyes when people placed her, and she smiled politely as she pressed the button for the lobby.

Fallon could feel the woman burning holes in the side of her face. She hated those random moments when people recognized her because they always made her feel awkward. She was known for no reason of her own. Unlike her mother and father, she didn't crave the glamour of the camera or seek out opportunities to be photographed or filmed or interrogated about her parents at any given moment. Once in a while, she'd run into someone who believed that they knew her just because they'd heard her voice support for some issue or another or saw her on television. Those were the worst. Trying to get away from a discussion about something she really didn't care about with people she didn't know … yuck. It was very awkward.

Fallon saw the woman pull something out of her purse, then there was a blur in the corner of her eye, and in the next instant Tom had her arm twisted painfully behind her back. “Drop it,” he ordered in a tone of voice Fallon didn't recognize. He was yanking the woman's arm painfully back and up, so she was on her tiptoes, her face distorted with pain and panic. Something silver dropped to the ground with a clatter. A camera. The back battery panel had broken off.

Tom blinked, as if not believing what he was seeing, and quickly let the woman go. Fallon reached down to pick up the camera. She replaced the battery panel, thinking like a lawyer that she might now be sued because her detail broke the lady's camera.

“I'm so sorry,” she said, handing the camera to the frightened woman.

Her eyes were huge behind red-rimmed glasses. She looked with stunned, wide eyes from Tom to Fallon.

“Secret Service,” Fallon said weakly.

“It looked like a weapon,” Tom replied. Fallon was shocked at how calm he sounded. He was pumped up from an adrenaline burst, she could see that, but his voice was steady, his inherent politeness returning. Her heart was still pounding.

“It's not a weapon,” she said. “My camera …. Can I have a picture?”

“Of course,” Fallon said, doing her best to smooth over the situation. As the elevator doors opened in the lobby, the woman indicated a spot beside the security desk. Fallon stood in front of a potted plant and grinned broadly for the picture, aware that it would end up on Instagram in about three minutes.

Clusters of media people were waiting outside, cameras at the ready as they chased the search warrant story. Tom walked beside her, slightly behind, and another agent opened the door. When she came out, there was a cacophony of clicking cameras and a swell of voices shouting questions. If it had been her client accused of murder, she would advise them to keep their mouth shut, which is what she did. Pretending to ignore them, she climbed in the back seat of the limo.

Looking up at Tom, he seemed like a stranger as he slammed the door closed. She wanted to ask what was wrong but couldn't in the presence of the driver.

“The Four Seasons Hotel again, please, Agent Rowland.”

“Wanna tell me what that confrontation was all about?” Fallon demanded as soon as they were alone in the building. She led him to a corner hidden from view by an escalator, then turned to face him.

“Just doing my job, ma'am,” he said neutrally.

She flinched at the formality. Something really was off today. He seemed hypervigilant, looking around them, still on the clock.

“Look at me,” she whispered.

When he did, his dark gaze was unapologetic.

“Something has happened,” she said flatly. “Tell me.”

“Not here,” he said.

Fallon relaxed a smidge, pleasantly surprised that he wasn't stonewalling her. Still, the fact that he wouldn't just say what was on his mind irked her. Clinging to her dignity, she turned away, but Tom caught her sleeve and tugged her back toward him. The glib expression was replaced with something softer. Maybe regret for being so closed off, she thought. Not expecting that from him, certainly not here at this place and time, she felt disarmed. Just that one look brought to the shining, vivid surface just how many silly, hopeful fantasies had been bubbling at the back of her mind since yesterday. It was kind of pathetic actually. She'd fucked the guy yesterday and today was dying for a kind word, a gentle expression. Shame flamed her cheeks. Really, she had such low expectations of men. Tom too, she reluctantly admitted.

She tried to hush the internal criticism of him. She knew what kind of man he was from those days locked in each other's arms four years ago. He was capable of intense emotion, gentleness, joy … genuine intimacy. She'd experienced it firsthand. To put it mildly.

“Meet me tonight,” Fallon said spontaneously. “At Gwen's house. She's engaged and spends all her time at her fiancé's house. We can meet there and … talk.” She hoped they would do more than talk. Even just standing close flooded her with girlish awareness of him.

For a moment, he seemed to be thinking about it. Fallon braced herself for some lame excuse: he had to walk the neighbor's dog or something. To her surprise, he nodded subtly.

“I have to arrive first so my coworkers don't see me.”

Wow. That sounded like a yes
. “I'll set it up with Gwen.”

“Okay,” he said, without happiness, as if it had cost him a great deal to acquiesce.

Fallon smiled. “This will be nice.”

“We'll see,” he replied.

Fallon's expression must have revealed the little hurt of his words. He shook his head and ran his hand through his hair in a gesture. “That sounded wrong. I'm sorry. Of course it will be nice. We just have to …”

“Be careful. I know.”

“Okay. Good. Now let's go, Nancy Drew.”

She rolled her eyes, but a smile did curve her lips.

Fallon led the way to the law firm that took up the entire fifth floor in cherrywood and gilt luxury. She mentally shifted gears as soon as she walked in.

The lacquered blonde at the receptionist desk looked up. After a little pause she smiled, as if sharing the joke.

“Good morning. Agent Tom Bishop here is investigating the suicide of a young man who leapt to his death two days ago. We were hoping you might be able to tell us if there were any witnesses in this office to that tragedy?”

“Oh, it was horrible, wasn't it? I didn't see the actual jump, thank God, but when he came in here, I was leaving to use the ladies' room. He was shouting. He came running right toward me. I was really scared; he looked crazy. Out of control. I was relieved when the police officers came up. They grabbed him, but he got loose and then ran up to the roof.”

“Were the officers in uniform?” Tom asked.

“The first one wasn't. Two more showed up, and they were in uniform.”

“What was Antoine Campbell shouting?” Fallon interjected.

“That they were going to kill him.” The receptionist actually looked traumatized. “He said it's a national security matter and that they were going to kill him.”

“Did the officers interview you?”

“One of them briefly asked me what I saw and what Antoine was saying.”

“Do you remember the detective's name or perhaps he gave you a card?”

“No, sorry. I didn't think to ask. I was quite shaken by the whole experience.”

Tom switched angles and asked if there was anyone in the office who actually saw Antoine Campbell jump.

“Karen Schwartz did. She was on her way inside after a doctor's appointment and she saw the whole thing.”

“Is Karen here?” Tom asked.

“I think so. I can page her if you'd like.”

“That would be great,” Tom replied. The receptionist paged her on the intercom but after several minutes, Karen still hadn't responded.

“She must not be at her desk,” the receptionist said.

Tom handed her a business card. “Could you pass this to Karen and ask her to call me at her convenience?”

The receptionist looked at the card with the embossed five-point star that was the Secret Service emblem.

“I'll give it to her as soon as I see her.”

Tom thanked her for her time. The door had barely closed behind them when Fallon said, “The police are chasing Antoine Campbell from Maryland, and only one detective and two officers follow him inside the building?” It seemed to her that in every police chase she ever heard about or saw, there were a dozen police cruisers with lights and sirens blazing, maybe a helicopter or two.

“It is odd,” he agreed carefully.

Back inside the limo, Fallon's phone buzzed, indicating a text. From Gwen: HOW IS THIS FOR REHEARSAL DINNER? and a link, which Fallon didn't bother clicking. But the name Gwen Atwell on her phone triggered a sudden thought so absolutely brilliant that she was ashamed for not having thought of it sooner.

“Agent Rowland? I need to go to George Washington Hospital.”

He glanced in the rearview mirror.

“I'm fine, I need to talk to a friend.”

The hospital was only three miles away, but it seemed to take forever to get there. Since Gwen sent her a text about a rehearsal dinner venue, Fallon surmised Gwen was on a break. Gwen's break would be brief—ten, fifteen minutes—and Fallon had to reach her before she returned to her rotation and the business of birthing babies.

The limo swung into the circular drive only moments after the text. Tom jumped out and held open her door, and Fallon rushed inside the automatic double doors with Tom following. At the reception desk, she asked the attendant to page Dr. Gwen Atwell. “Tell her Avalon is here,” she added.

The receptionist looked dubious.

“Please,” Fallon said. “It's important.”

“Avalon?” The woman frowned. “Names get stranger every year.”

Over the loudspeaker, the receptionist announced, “Doctor Atwell, you are needed at central admission.”

Within a minute, Gwen appeared, looking alarmed at Fallon's presence at the hospital. She charged up to Fallon and clutched her in a tight hug, her eyes closed. “I was so scared for you.”

“I'm okay. Dad has some people fighting the warrant, but I have to talk to you,” Fallon whispered, extricating herself.

Gwen looked over to the Secret Service detail out of earshot and asked, “Are you really okay?”

“I'm fine. I need your help.”

Gwen said, “Come with me.” They walked beyond the reception area to a hallway that led to pediatric trauma center. Perversely, the walls were covered with cheerful yellow, pink, and blue flowers and bumblebees. Who were these walls trying to fool?

“A young man named Antoine Campbell committed suicide yesterday,” Fallon said. “His autopsy would have been conducted here. I need the autopsy report.”

Gwen's eyes widened. “What the hell is going on?”

“Please, Gwennie. It's complicated. I need the report.”

“I can't do that,” Gwen replied. “Why do you even want it?”

“Because he called me minutes before he died and I don't think he committed suicide.”

Gwen looked deeply puzzled. And concerned. And just plain tired. Her coppery hair was yanked back in a sloppy ponytail. Her face was pale and devoid of makeup. Purple circles smudged beneath her eyes from days without sleep. Her lips were chapped.

Suddenly Fallon's bright idea didn't seem so bright anymore. It seemed like she was burdening her friend who had more than enough going on in her life right now without Fallon adding conspiracy theories and suicides.

“What happened yesterday with the search warrant?” Gwen asked.

“I don't know,” Fallon said with a mystified little shake of the head. “But I think it's connected to the suicide call.”

“As your friend, I'm telling you, you sound nuts.”

“Granted. But Antoine Campbell is dead. If he really did commit suicide, I will back off. But I need to know for sure because if he didn't kill himself, I am somehow a part of all this.”

Gwen folded her arms over her chest. “Fallon …”

“Worst case scenario, you get arrested and my dad pardons you.”

Unexpectedly, Gwen smiled at that. “You're asking me to do something really unethical.”

“I know. I will never ask you for anything else again.” Fallon said this with trepidation, aware that she was not only asking her friend to do something slimy, but betraying her own character. Honesty, truth-telling, and fairness were Fallon's reining virtues: she neither tried to create illusions nor indulged them in others. That might have been a reason the practice of corporate law did not come naturally to her.