The Black List (17 page)

She started toward the door when he called out to her. She stopped, looked back at him.

He returned the pen to his desk. “The whole thing with Becca didn’t come out right.”

“Baby steps, Griffin. But let me warn you. I am
so
not waiting until next New Year’s eve.”

He followed her to the elevator. “What about a date?”

She looked at him, amused at the hopeful expression on his face. “A
real
date? Like dinner, that sort of thing?”

“Tomorrow night?”

“I’ll mark it on my calendar. But you better not stand me up.”

Griffin watched from
his office window, saw Sydney crossing the parking lot to her car, very much aware of how close he’d been to mangling his peace offering. Comparing her to his late wife was not what he’d been trying to do, even though it seemed to have the desired effect. They were officially going out tomorrow night.

That was what he wanted, wasn’t it?

It was, except for one tiny detail, and he could almost hear Tex’s voice in his ear saying that he better tell Sydney about ATLAS’s involvement in her father’s case before their relationship went any further. A part of him knew Tex was right, but he also knew that Sydney would not take the news well. She’d shut down and any chance they had of making a go of it would be gone. He wasn’t sure he wanted to risk that.

He’d tell her.

But not yet . . . One day.

“How’d it go?”

Griffin looked over and saw McNiel in the doorway, and it took him a moment to switch gears, realize McNiel wanted to know if Sydney had agreed to work with him, not go out with him. “Fine. Fitzpatrick’s on board with it as long as Pearson agrees.”

“I’ll get started on her security clearance.”

Griffin called Pearson, got his approval, then phoned Sydney to let her know she was now on loan to ATLAS. She arrived after lunch, and he met her in the lobby, escorted her to the floor above his. “IT works up here. We need to get your fingerprint into the system.”

He opened the door to an office where three men and one woman sat at mismatched government surplus desks, surrounded by computers. One of the men looked up, saw Griffin, waved them over. “You’re Sydney Fitzpatrick?”

“Yes.”

“I’m Pete. I just need your right index finger . . .”

She held her hand out, and he guided it to a small glass box on his desk, pressed it to the surface, and her print appeared on his computer monitor. He then held out a small keypad, attached to his computer with a USB cable.

“Punch in a code and you’re done,” he said.

“Code . . . ?”

Pete turned away, giving her privacy, and Griffin said, “So you can get upstairs without an escort.”

She took the keypad from Pete, pressed the numbers, then handed it back, saying, “You mean I’m a member of the club now?”

Pete typed something into the computer. “That and a buck will get you a bag of chips from the break room, but that’s about it.”

She thanked him and they returned to Griffin’s office, where he gave her a file folder. “These are the reports on the theft of a radiation therapy machine from a hospital in California.”

“It relates how?”

“Because after the original theft north of Los Angeles, another report came in from San Diego PD saying they found the machine in a storage unit, dismantled, with the capsule containing the cesium 137 missing. That could be used to make a very effective smoky bomb.”

“Is that like a dirty bomb?”

“Similar principle, smaller scale, with the threat being from breathing in the smoke from the explosion. A whiff of cesium 137 will kill you in about four days, and it won’t be a pretty death,” he said as he handed her another folder. “More importantly, the description of the man last seen near the machine matches that of Yusuf. If it is him, that means he got into the country by taking on a new identity. So we now have several tasks on our hands. Find out where he is, what identity he’s using, and who issued the identity so we can close that loophole.”

She examined the photo inside, saw a pleasant-looking man with dark hair and eyes staring back at her. “Find the identity broker, maybe find Yusuf?”

“Find the
right
identity broker,” Griffin said. “Too many of them out there all looking to make a buck off the many refugees who have never had any form of ID, and find themselves in a Catch-22, unable to get into the country without identification.”

“And the refugee programs somehow facilitate this?”

“By helping the refugees obtain sometimes fraudulent documents that give them that much needed ID. Unfortunately it’s the same method used by the criminals and terrorists, who have a distinct advantage in a completely screwed-up system that is fueled on both ends by vast sums of money and a proliferation of corruption.”

“And what’s our role?” Sydney asked, sorting through the paperwork.

“Take a closer look at some of the local charities to see if any of them are involved. Considering what’s gone on with A
.
D
.
E. and From Sticks to Bricks, it seems like a logical place to start.”

“We’re just going to march up there? Tell them who we are?”

“Actually, no. I wanted to start with the refugees themselves. Tex and I chased Dorian Rose at one of the apartment complexes out near the naval yard. Dorian knew someone was after him then, so it stands to reason that someone there might know something.”

28

“Where to start?” Sydney
asked Griffin once they arrived at the row of apartments.

“Somehow I doubt it matters.”

And he was right. They entered the first building, overpowered by the musty smell of mildew and mold. The hallway floor was uneven and soft in places, as though if one stepped too hard, the boards might cave in. Sydney knocked on the first door, and no one answered. A woman peered out of the second door they knocked on, smiled and shook her head, apparently not understanding English, and the language Sydney heard from behind the next door wasn’t one she recognized. At the third door, a young black child peered through the two-inch crack. “Is your mom home?” Sydney asked.

He cocked his head to one side.

She showed her badge, saying, “FBI.”

“Police?”

“Yes,” she said.

He opened the door wider, pointing toward the door leading outside, saying, “Offees.”

“Can you show us?”

The office, it turned out, was another apartment in the building next door. The boy ran off before they could thank him, and Sydney and Griffin walked in, finding the office was the first door on the left.

Before they even had a chance to knock, the door opened and a dark-skinned man standing about an inch taller than Griffin looked at the two of them, saying in a deep and melodious voice, “You must be the police. No one else comes here.”

“FBI, Special Agent Fitzpatrick,” Sydney said, and handed him her card. “And you are?”

“I am Ito Abasi. What can I do for you?”

His English was clear, but his accent strong, and Sydney couldn’t place it. “We’re looking for someone who might have known Dorian Rose.”

He eyed the two of them, as though contemplating his next move. “Why?”

“He was killed several nights ago.”

The man’s mouth opened, then closed. He stepped to one side, saying, “Come in. Please.”

The apartment was cleaner than expected. Sure, the carpet was stained, worn in spots, the walls in need of one or two more coats of paint, but Sydney had seen worse. “Did you know Dorian?”

“I did. He was our liaison with the refugee program.”

“When did you last see him?”

“Less than a week ago. Around five I met with him at his apartment. I was waiting for him, to apologize, actually, for the article that came out in the paper about the state of the buildings and evictions. He had promised to speak with Mr. Redfern, the landlord, about the evictions, but did not, and so I felt our only recourse was to go to the press. Unfortunately I lost my temper. But we only argued, and then I left after he promised to address our concerns.”

“With Mr. Redfern.”

“Yes. I cannot say who is responsible for killing Mr. Dorian, but if anyone should be brought in for questioning, it is Mr. Redfern. He slowly murders people every day by allowing these buildings to stand in disrepair. They might not die violently, but if they stay here they will surely die.”

“We’ll make sure the police and Social Services look into the matter. Thank you for your time.”

“Are you not going to see for yourself, at least?”

She and Griffin both made a show of appearing interested in the apartment.

“Not here,” he said. “The new paint hides much. This way, please. The people who live in these buildings, they are all refugees from Africa.” He led them out, then down the hall, and the farther they walked, the heavier the stench. He knocked on a door that was opened by an older woman, a bright multicolored scarf wrapped around her head. Sydney couldn’t understand what was spoken between the two, but the woman allowed them entry into a living room, where at least ten people sat, mainly women and children. “There are two families who live in this apartment,” he said. “From Somalia. The charity Dorian works for, A
.
D
.
E., brought them in. They live here until the A
.
D
.
E. assistance runs out in the first month and hope the welfare kicks in. It is not enough to allow the families to find better housing or separate housing.”

Griffin remained by the door, while Sydney looked around. What they were seeing wasn’t anything they hadn’t seen before, an apartment not fit for humans to live in. “We can call Human Services.”

“For what? They have nowhere to put these people. The shelters are full and it is more than the mold in the ceiling from the water pipes above stairs and the stench of sewage because he will not fix the toilets. Do you know what the landlord, Mr. Redfern, said to me when I asked for them to be fixed?”

“No,” Sydney said.

“That they are used to crapping in a hole in the ground. This is a luxury to them. The same with the roaches and rats. What are a few bugs and rodents to someone who lived beneath a tarp held up by sticks? Why replace the carpet when it is better than the dirt floors they left behind in Africa? Do you see why I have an anger deep within? And
this, this,
is one of the better apartments.”

Sydney looked around at the faces of the children, watching her with large brown eyes, and the women holding them in their laps. “I understand your concern. But I’m looking into a murder.”

“And I am showing you
why
he was murdered.”

“You know who killed him?”

“No. But I believe it is why he was killed.” He turned to the woman who had let them in, saying,
“Asante,”
in a quick show of thanks, then directing Sydney and Griffin out and back to his office. He did not, however, invite them in. Instead, he walked them outside and pointed down the street to the capitol dome off in the distance, its grandeur in stark contrast to the neighborhood they currently stood in.

“It’s not just here in your capital where this is happening. It is everywhere in this country. Places just like Mr. Redfern’s buildings, a few better, many worse, and the charities and parasites that feed off the revolving door of refugees. These people, they come to America looking for shelter, a place away from war and death and unspeakable crimes, and this is where they are brought. It is as you say, big business.
Very
big. Without the refugees, there is no money to be made. And money is made every step of the way. These people have no hope, no chance of succeeding. They have left one hell only to land in another. And
that
is why Dorian is dead.”

He looked Sydney in the eye, adding, “To put it succinctly, there is far too much money at stake, and Dorian was a threat.”

29

“Carillo has way more
experience working homicide than I do,” Sydney told Griffin after they returned to ATLAS to further investigate the buildings owned by Redfern.

“Which, when compared to my experience, makes you the resident expert.”

“Assuming that Dorian did not commit suicide—”

“A safe assumption.”

“Then we want to look at who had motive and opportunity. Your password . . .”

When he moved to her side, leaned forward, and typed a series of letters and numbers in, she was acutely aware of his proximity. Tonight was their official date, and try as she might, it wasn’t likely to fade to the back of her mind. “Since everyone involved in this mess seems to be tied to Trip somehow, I’m guessing the motive has something to do with A
.
D
.
E. and their refugee programs.”

“We need everything we can find on them,” she said. “Property, finances, you name it. I think we should also do the same to the landlord, Larry Redfern.” When Griffin didn’t move, Sydney added, “How about you call Doc, while I do some digging around here. Between the two of us, we may have something we can work with.”

That did the trick, and he walked around to the other side of the desk to make the call. She felt as if she could breathe again, then chided herself.

Apparently she’d need to work on ignoring his presence, or this was going to be a
long
investigation.

Doc found the information before Sydney had even finished running the man’s name. Griffin put him on speakerphone.

“Your landlord owns about half of the slums surrounding the area you were visiting,” Doc said. “A few past minor health code violations, but other than that, nothing.”

“That’s it?” Sydney asked.

“Actually it says a lot. If the places are as bad as you say they are, someone is either blind as a friggin’ bat or there’s some money changing hands for them to look the other way.”

“No one can be that blind,” Griffin said.

Even this far removed, it wasn’t easy to forget what she’d seen, never mind what she’d smelled. “Anything else?” she asked.