Edge (12 page)

“There're only two major cases I've got at the moment.”

That was all? I wondered, surprised. A cop of his age and experience, in a city like D.C., would normally be inundated with open case files. I asked, “Give me the details. I'll have somebody check them out. Carefully. They won't disrupt your investigation.”

“But I must've collared a hundred perps in my day. No, more. It might be revenge.”

I was shaking my head. “I don't think so.”

“Why?”

“For one thing he doesn't want to clip you. He wants information. Besides, you worked street crime.”

“Yeah.”

“How often was revenge a motive? And who was behind it?”

Ryan considered this. “Only a dozen times. Usually jealous lovers or a gangbanger after another one for diming him out. You're right, Corte, nothing like this.”

“Tell me about the cases.”

The first, he explained, was a forged check, written on the account of a man who worked for the Pentagon.

“The victim's name is Eric Graham. Civilian analyst.” Ryan went on to explain that the man's checkbook had been stolen from his car in downtown D.C. The perp had been smart. The forger had noted Graham's balance and written a check in nearly the full amount and sent it to an anonymous online payment account. Once it cleared, he'd used the money to buy gold coins from a dealer. They were delivered to a post office box and he picked them up and, presumably, sold them for cash. A clever money laundering scheme. The perp had never had to present the check in person anywhere, only collect the coins at the private mailbox operation.

“Poor bastard,” Ryan said. “Know how much was in the account? He'd just deposited forty thousand.”

Joanne was sitting nearby, staring at the TV screen, the volume low. She'd been listening apparently. “That much in a checking account? That's a little suspicious, don't you think?”

I recalled that she'd been a statistician, so that numbers would come easily to her, which suggested that she probably was the one who ran the household finances. I noted too that it seemed she'd never heard about the case. This struck me as odd, since my experience was that husbands and wives often talked about their careers. But then I recalled her sensitivity to the seamier side of life; maybe pillow talk about even nonviolent crimes was discouraged.

But her husband said he'd looked into that question. “It seems he'd just sold some stock and put the money into the account to pay his son's tuition at an Ivy League school. It was due a week after the forgery.”

“Any leads?” I asked.

“I just drew the case ten days ago. I hadn't gotten very far. The P.O. box where the coins were picked up was in New Jersey. The man who collected them was Asian, in his twenties. I followed up with Newark PD but . . . well, you can guess: They've got more serious things to worry about than bad paper.” Newark had one of the biggest drug and gang problems on the East Coast.

“Did you look into what he was working on?” I asked.

“Who?”

“The victim, guy whose checkbook got boosted.”

Ryan examined the shag carpet for a moment. “At the Pentagon?”

“Right.”

“Not really. Why?”

I noted the defensive tone was back.

“I was wondering if it was a random crime or if he was targeted.”

“Well, random, it looked random. Smash and grab. They got a gym bag, some clothes, nothing classified or sensitive.”

I asked for details, names, phone numbers, addresses. He opened his large briefcase, which was filled with hundreds of papers, and found a manila folder. He gave me the information I'd asked for. I reassured him again that we wouldn't jeopardize his investigation.

“Appreciate that.”

“What's the other big case you're working on?”

“A Ponzi scheme,” he answered.

“Like Madoff?”

“Lot smaller. But the theory's the same. It looks like he could be causing just as much damage, relatively
speaking. Madoff ruined a lot of rich people's lives. My suspect could ruin a lot of poor folks'. You ask me, that's even worse. They don't have anything to fall back on.”

He explained that the investment advisor under investigation was accused of preying on people in a lower-income, primarily minority quadrant of the District.

“What's the suspect's name?”

“Clarence Brown. He's a reverend.”

I lifted an eyebrow.

“I know. Could be legit but it's also a good cover to win over investors, especially in that part of the city. He got his divinity degree mail-order.” Ryan added that he'd been surprised to find that the man had nearly a thousand clients, so that, although the amounts each contributed were small, the total in the portfolio was significant.

He explained that over the past month several of those clients had tried to get their money out but Brown kept stalling, making excuse after excuse—the classic symptoms of a Ponzi scheme. The clients complained to the police and the case landed on Ryan's desk. He'd just taken a dozen victims' statements and was starting to piece together Brown's operation. The delays in getting the money were just technical problems, because of some of the particular investments he'd picked, Brown had explained to Kessler. The advisor didn't live the sweet life. The office was modest and based out of a storefront in South East D.C. Brown lived up the street in a tenement.

“I'm just curious,” I said. “If it's a securities violation, why's Metropolitan Police handling it?”

Ryan gave a tight smile. “Because it's small potatoes: the crime, the victims. So a small-potato cop gets the case.”

An awkward silence.

Another excavation of the big briefcase. Documents appeared and I took down relevant details on this investigation too. “No other cases it could be?”

Another shrug. “Like I said, it's a quiet time. The other cases're small. Credit-card scams, identity theft. Low-dollar amounts. Mostly misdemeanors.” He pulled out a pad and wrote the details. “Pennyante stuff.” A shrug. “That's it.”

I gave him a nod of thanks. “This is helpful. I'll get somebody on it right now.”

I took my notes to a table in the corner, clicked on the light—it was dim inside with the shades and curtains drawn—and made a call.

“DuBois.”

“Claire. Got some info on Kessler's cases. I want to find out if anybody connected to them—suspects, witnesses, victims,
anybody
—could be the primary who hired Loving. I want you to start backgrounding all the players.”

“Okay, I'm ready.”

DuBois never calls me anything. She's about twelve years younger than me, which puts her squarely between “sir” and “Corte.”

I gave her the details of the cases Ryan Kessler was running.

She said, “The forgery case? The guy works for Defense. That can be tricky. Sometimes you're dealing with military, sometimes civilian government, sometimes private contractors. If there's one thing they don't like to do, it's talk to outsiders.
Even inside outsiders like us. Do you have any contacts there?”

“No,” I told her.

She was silent a moment. One of her habits was tucking and retucking her brunette hair behind her ears. I pictured her doing this now. It never stayed in place but then neither did she. “I know somebody who dated a friend of mine. He was wacky. Played games a lot. Not your kind of games. And not boyfriend or husband games. I mean he'd run scenarios for the Pentagon and CIA. Like World War Three scenarios. And World War Four scenarios. There really is such a thing. Now, that's pretty scary, don't you think? I always wondered if there was a Five. Anyway, I'll call him. And I'll get on the Ponzi scheme too. I myself don't invest. I like the mattress theory.”

As we disconnected I heard a jangle I was sure came from her bracelet.

I knew that if there was any connection, however slim, between Ryan's cases and Henry Loving's primary, duBois would find it. Despite her youth, she was better than I at the investigation side of our job—tracking down leads. She didn't have a game player's mind, which I seem to have been born with, so the deadly chess match between me and lifters and hitters didn't come naturally to her. But she was persistent as a terrier, sharp and wily when the script called for it. Because of her frenetic nature and dancing mind, she chatted up a storm with the subjects she interviewed, who ended up overwhelmed or intimidated. Or captivated. (She'd actually gotten a marriage proposal from a principal we'd protected about a year ago,
after she'd spent some hours interviewing him. Since he was a former organized crime enforcer, duBois had declared him “not prime dating material.”)

About a year ago Barbara, the personal assistant I share with another shepherd at the office, caught me gazing at duBois with what was apparently a smile, an uncharacteristic expression for me. It was only a look of admiration after the woman had poured out a flood of helpful details she'd unearthed about a potential primary. That smile, though, was enough for Barbara, a single mother of fifty and a regular in the online dating world. She assumed my gaze was romantic and had later asked why I'd never asked duBois out. (She mentioned something about “May–September,” which seemed to me a little harsh for a mere twelve-year difference.)

In any case, of course, I deflected the suggestion. But my professional enthusiasm for my protégée was unrelenting and I didn't pull back from expressing it, though admittedly in my typically subdued way.

I now typed my own notes into my laptop, encrypted the file and saved it.

Maree joined us; for some reason she'd changed clothes and renewed her makeup. A flowery scent of perfume surrounded her. She seemed even more attractive than earlier. Interestingly, though she and her sister resembled each other in many ways, only Maree was what I'd call sexy, and this had nothing to do with the age difference. She walked to the coffee station and poured some. She then set the cup down, cocked her head as she looked at an arrangement
of flowers on the dresser. Lifting her camera, she shot a dozen or so fast pictures. I made a mental note to review all the photos she'd taken since the family had come under my care; I'd make sure she deleted any that depicted me or anyone else on the team.

Then she returned to the coffee, glanced my way and refilled my cup.

“Thanks.”

“Anything in it?”

“No, this is fine.”

She looked at me as if she wanted to say something else but kept silent.

I received a text message, read it and then sent a reply. I turned to my principals. “The new SUV's here. We'll be leaving soon.”

Ryan joked, “Just about to take my shoes off and put the game on.” His attitude was completely different from when we'd first met. The mission I'd given him and the liquor helped, I assessed.

I rose. “Stay here.” I looked at Ryan. “Don't open the door for anybody but me.”

He nodded and adjusted his holster.

I stepped outside and circled our wing to the parking lot behind the motel. A dark green GMC Yukon pulled up, trailed by a Ford Taurus. I gave a wave and the two vehicles stopped nearby. Two men emerged from the SUV.

A young officer in my organization, Lyle Ahmad, was a solid, olive-skinned former marine with a trim crew cut. He was a clone, a close protection officer. I had met Ahmad when he was a marine guarding the U.S. embassy in Warsaw and I was an agent with the State Department's protection and investigation
arm, Diplomatic Security, where I worked before joining my present outfit.

He was quiet and sharp and boasted impressive multiple-language skills. He was a rising star in our organization.

Driving the SUV was our transport man, Billy. The gangly man, whose age I couldn't begin to guess, had shaggy hair and a crooked incisor you had to force yourself not to look at. He absolutely loved cars, trucks, motorcycles, anything that moved by what he called “dead dinosaur”—gas or diesel fuel. He not only maintained the fleet but he would play Rubik's Cube with the three or four dozen vehicles we use—swapping them and shuttling personnel and principals around the area. We had quite a collection—after salary and safe houses, transportation was the biggest item on our budget. Vehicles are like fingerprints. Along with cell phones and credit cards, there's probably no better way to trace somebody than through his car. So we made sure to swap vehicles often.

Billy nodded at the Nissan. “She ready to go?”

“Yep.” We swapped keys and he drove off.

The man who had emerged from the Taurus was Rudy Garcia, the young FBI agent Freddy had brought with him to the Kesslers' house.

I shook his hand and introduced him to Ahmad and we started back to the motel room.

I introduced the new arrival to the Kesslers and Maree, who whispered to her sister, “He's cute,” drawing a blush—but no other reaction—from the unmarried Ahmad. I noted dismay behind the nod Ryan gave, as if the presence of other guards might rob the D.C. cop of his chance to see some action
as my wingman in the operation to take down Loving.

It was then that my phone rang. The caller ID was from my organization but I wasn't expecting this particular individual.

“Hermes,” I said. That was the real name—pronounced without the
H
—of our technical director, the man in charge of surveillance devices, computers and communication systems.

“Corte,” he said urgently, his voice tinted with an indiscernible accent. “Believe it or not, we got a hit on the squawk box, the one connected to the Armada. Then fifteen minutes ago somebody made a call to the North East D.C. trap.”

I felt my heart begin to thud quickly.

“All right, thanks, Hermes.”

I disconnected. I thought for a moment. Yes? No?

Then I told my principals, Garcia and Ahmad that there was a slight change in plans.