Edge (32 page)

“Freddy, anybody down there?” I shouted.

He called, “No. After they cleared it they came upstairs.”

I started forward again toward the den. Yet every time I edged a few feet through the smoke, there'd be another flare-up and I'd have to spin backward to keep from losing eyebrows and skin. I looked around for water or a fire extinguisher or even a blanket I could use to protect myself to get to the scrapbooks and shoe boxes and save as many as I could.

I supposed that Freddy wasn't as convinced of the importance of the memorabilia as I was but he knew that this was my expertise—dealing with lifters and hitters from a strategic, rather than tactical, position—and he helped me push furniture against the vents and fling rugs over the flames that
sprouted from the floorboards. I didn't think we could control the fire—it was going to win—but at least we might contain the flames long enough to get to the books.

We tried for three or four minutes but finally the heat was too intense, the smoke blinding. I was close to vomiting from the fumes and ash. I grew light-headed and knew that to faint here would mean death. Choking, our eyes streaming, we had to retreat. The living room was now a mass of flame and so was the kitchen. We kicked out a side window and rolled onto the ground. The rest of the agents were nearby and, thinking that the fire could be a diversion, they were covering the trees, the logical position for a sniper to take out those fleeing the house.

But there were no shots. I wasn't surprised. Loving, I knew, would be gone.

“Report!” Freddy shouted. His fellow agents called back about their condition. They were all accounted for. One had a slight burn and another had been cut, breaking through a window to flood the basement with water from a garden hose—a futile effort, of course. There were no serious injuries, however.

No, the only victim here was Henry Loving's past.

I rubbed my stinging eyes, wondering if, as I'd speculated, this had in fact been a trap all along.

I was alive but this round of our game was a decided loss for me.

Scissors cut paper . . .

The roar of the flames was so loud that the fire trucks were almost to the property by the time we heard the sirens.

Freddy said, “A shoe box with pictures in it. He destroyed everything else. Why'd he save that? What's inside?”

A good question and one that I knew I'd ponder into the early hours. Did it contain photos of his sister? Of himself and her? Some place he liked to go? Pictures of a cabin in the woods or a lake somewhere he planned to retire to? I said nothing but stared at the fiery tornado that had been the family house. I walked back to my car to call the safe house in Great Falls and check on my principals.

I didn't, however, get very far.

Two black vans, with flashing red and blue lights on top, skidded to a stop not far away and a small entourage got out, making right for me.

My eyes closed momentarily as I realized who was leading them: Jason Westerfield and Chris Teasley, his assistant, possibly sans pearls. She wore a zipped-high jacket; I couldn't see any necklaces.

I shouldn't have been surprised to see these two. I now realized that, of course, Westerfield would have learned about the house and that I'd probably be here, because we were on record: We'd gone to a federal magistrate to request a warrant to search Loving's family's house. The U.S. attorney had sped directly here to find the man who'd lied to him and sent him an empty armored van.

I'd hoped that he'd be satisfied with a dressing-down in front of the troops and I could get back to work, but he had a different agenda. He glanced toward Freddy, standing nearby, and announced, in a voice louder than I thought necessary under the circumstances, “Arrest him. Now.”

THE FBI AGENT
made no move to put me in cuffs and I thought that on one level the U.S. attorney was going more for effect than to see me in chains. But I was hardly sure.

I looked at the occupants who'd been in the second vehicle. They had FBI jackets on too and could have arrested me themselves but they were deferring to Freddy, who was senior and technically their boss.

Freddy stepped between us, like a referee. “Jason.” He nodded to the other agents who'd accompanied Westerfield here.

“I want him arrested. I want somebody else to take over baby-sitting.”

I wasn't sure what the actual charge would be. Using an armored van to not deliver something you said you would isn't a federal crime.

“He lied to an officer of the federal court. That's the charge.”

On reflection I wasn't even sure I'd done that. I couldn't remember my exact words. Which wasn't to say I couldn't be arrested in the first place, even if the charges were ultimately dismissed. That had happened to me before.

Westerfield glanced my way. “I want the Kesslers
downtown, near me. I want to interview Ryan personally. That is going to happen immediately.”

“I can't do that,” I said.

“Release them to me or somebody Aaron Ellis recommends. You do that and give me access to interview Kessler, I won't pursue the charges.”

“I can't do that,” I repeated.

Freddy, at a tennis match.

“Agent Corte, I think we've been in this business too long to play games,” Westerfield said.

“A slammer was not the right strategy, Jason. You kept pushing. I had no choice. My first job's to keep my principals safe.”

“Interesting to hear that. My impression would be that you felt your first job was to harpoon your white whale. Agent Fredericks? Could I see some handcuffs,
s'il vous plaît
?”

Freddy, who worked more for Westerfield than he did for me, seemed nonetheless marginally on my side. He said, “Whatever he's doing is working, Jason. The family's safe.”

“But I can't help but notice he's here, not with them. . . . And, on top of it all, Loving got away.” He waved to the burning house.

That was true, though I hadn't expected to find him here. I was more interested in clues to his life—now, of course, dissolving into ash and embers.

Westerfield glanced toward the senior FBI agent. “Are you going to arrest him?”

“Probably not.”

A disgusted sigh. The U.S. attorney looked my way. “Corte, you've even missed the boat on the primary.”

I looked away from the house to him. “What do
you mean? We've eliminated Graham. Now we're concentrating on Ali Pamuk.”

“Pamuk's not the one either. You said he was a terrorist.”

“I said that was a possibility since most of the fund's money was showing up in the Middle East. My associate is still investigating his involvement.”

“Ms. duBois.”

“That's right.” I wondered how he knew about her. And—more interesting yet—how he knew the name was pronounced the non-French way. “You got it wrong, Corte. You've been spinning your wheels with Pamuk. We've been doing some work on our own. I've found the primary.”

“Who?” Freddy asked.

I was frowning and I said nothing.

He turned to Teasley. “Chris, could you tell Officer Corte and Agent Fredericks what we've learned?”

She said, “Detective Kessler has been involved in some internal administrative work for the Metropolitan Police.”

I said, “Something about the budget, accounts.”

“So you know about that?” Westerfield said with some satisfaction.

“He mentioned it, yes.”

“You didn't think it was relevant?”

“To Loving and the primary? No.”

Westerfield glanced toward Teasley again.

She continued, “A year ago, there were some mix-ups with expenses in the police department. Overtime charges. Nothing big, it seemed. But the head of budgeting told the chief of police, who thought it'd make sense to have somebody—somebody
in their financial crimes division—look over the books and see what was going on.”

“It
seemed
to be nickel-and-dime stuff,” Westerfield filled in. “But bottom line . . . tell him the bottom line.”

Teasley continued, “Expense checks were issued for tens of thousands of dollars but the money ended up in different department accounts. Been going on for years.”

I said, frowning, “You're saying that it was intentional? Some kind of a plan to skim money out of the police budget?”

“Exactly,” Westerfield said.

Catching on, Freddy said, “And whoever was behind it—somebody senior in the police or city government—got scared because Kessler had a background in investigating money crimes. He was getting close to figuring out who.”

I looked absently at the burning house and mused, “High up in the city government—somebody high enough to have access to an MPD helicopter. Claire couldn't find a flight plan or charter.” I grimaced and shook my head. “She even wondered if it was a government chopper that'd been used to extract Loving and the partner but I said, no, it was probably private. I didn't have her check police department logs. My fault.”

Westerfield wasn't gloating but he liked my last sentence.

I said to Freddy, “And somebody within the department would have access to police equipment too.”

“What equipment?” Westerfield asked.

The senior agent answered, “Loving's partner
tried to plant trackers on Corte's car earlier. They were the same model that's used by the District of Columbia police.”

Westerfield liked this addition too and he shot a look toward Teasley, questioning why this helpful piece of the puzzle had eluded her.

I cocked my head, frowning in thought.

“What?” Westerfield asked.

“Just that Kessler's mentioned Chief of Detectives Lewis a few times. The chief's shown an interest in what he's doing. A lot of interest. I didn't think about it at the time but why would the man in charge of
detectives
be interested in some accounting issue that involves
all
the departments? Transport, Com, Patrol, Crime Scene? Everything.”

It seemed I'd made a good contribution to Westerfield's new case. “Good question.”

“Lewis . . .” Freddy mused. “Always wondered about him. Think there were some whispers in his past.”

“About what?” Westerfield asked quickly.

“I don't know. They were whispers.”

The government attorney now said, “Corte, look, you've been so busy trying to tree Loving that you dropped the ball on the primary completely.”

Treeing prey and dropping balls. I supposed in court, before a jury, he didn't mix metaphors so relentlessly.

“And Lewis, or whoever's behind this, has had a chance to destroy evidence and get to other witnesses, thanks to you. I really think it's time to hand the case over to somebody else.”

We fell silent for a moment; the sound track to our thoughts was the crackle and crash of the house
dying, the shouts of the firemen. Flashing lights rippled on every nearby leaf.

Finally I asked, “Jason? Can I talk to you?”

We stepped aside, walking with heads down, away from the others, about ten feet or so.

Westerfield glanced at the embers and sparks. “You get any clues there?”

“Nothing helpful. We weren't in time.”

“Anybody hurt?”

“No.” I noted it was his first inquiry about casualties. Then, staring at the sparks being sucked upward into the vague cloud of smoke, I said, “You mentioned evidence that Lewis might destroy.”

A nod.

“What if I told you that Kessler has it all with him. All the spreadsheets, the memos, the accounting books.”

“In the safe house?”

“That's right.”

A sparkle of enthusiasm lit his eyes.

I lowered my voice further. “All right, Jason, how's this? I'll admit I've been a little focused on getting Loving and I
haven't
focused on his primary as much as I should've. . . . A city-wide financial scandal? That's just the sort of thing a primary'd bring Loving in for. It could go way to the top.”

“Go on.” Meaning, Let's hear your offer.

“What do you say to this: I'll get you copies of everything Kessler has. Tonight, as soon as I get back to the safe house. But I keep the protection detail. I control the Kesslers and their whereabouts.”

“I'll want to interview him.”

I debated. “By secure phone. Not in person.”

The U.S. attorney chewed on a lip. “There'll be some fallout,” he said. “You outright lied to me.”

“We'll deal with that afterward. After Loving's collared and Lewis's in jail. Or whoever at police HQ or city hall's behind it.”

A nod. It amounted to a handshake.

He, Teasley and the other agents returned to the black SUVs and headed off and I was treated to one of Freddy's particular looks.

“The hell are you doing, son?”

I said nothing but called the safe house and asked Rudy Garcia for an update.

“Everything's fine, sir,” the agent told me. “Just checked with West Virginia and the grounds're secure. The fellow there said, if you call in, to tell you the deer're where they're supposed to be. He said you'd know what that means.”

“Good. How're the principals holding up?”

His voice lowered. “Kind of a soap opera.”

The nature of our work.

“The husband and wife got into it again. Over something crazy. Didn't amount to squat. Maree wanted to take pictures of me, portraits. I had to tell her no and she started to, well, pout. That woman's a handful.” That last sentence was delivered in a whisper. He continued, “At least the game was on. Baltimore. That gave Ryan something to do. At home we're an Orioles family. How 'bout you, sir?”

“Sorry. I go for Atlanta.” Sports don't appeal to me much but spending so much time in hotel rooms and safe houses with male principals, I've watched plenty of games and over the years have developed an interest in baseball. I like the strategies involved. Football, not so much.