The Last Mile

by David Baldacci

  “What is it?” asked Bogart when he noticed the distracted Decker.

  “There’s only one road in or out of here. There is absolutely no cover for anyone to do a stakeout. It’s far enough off the main road so that whoever came and did this would have to risk leaving their car back there and make their way on foot. Otherwise, someone would have heard something. Or seen something.” He turned and looked at Bogart. “Did anyone see or hear anything?”

  “I can sure find out.”

  Bogart fast-walked over to a group of police officers who were huddled together near the destroyed duplex watching the firefighters pour more water on the remaining embers. He spoke with them for a few minutes and then came back over to Decker.

  “They went house by house soon after they got here and took statements from everyone. No one saw or heard anything until the explosion occurred.”

  Decker looked up and down the row of duplexes and the folks standing in front of each. “The duplex attached to Montgomery’s was vacant?”

  Bogart nodded.

  Decker looked up and down the duplex row again. “Any others vacant?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, there’re people standing in front of all these places except for that one.”

  He indicated the fourth duplex down on the left. The lights were out and, as Decker had said, no one was standing outside it.

  “There’s no car there, but that doesn’t mean anything. Not everyone who lives here has a car,” noted Bogart. “And the place might be vacant.”

  Decker’s mind revolved back to both times they had been to visit Regina Montgomery. He had seen nothing when he had been here with Bogart. But last night he had seen a light on in that house and a car had been parked out front.

  He told Bogart this and said, “The vehicle was a four-door tan Toyota Avalon. The license plates were not visible from where I was standing. But you can see ruts in the front of the house caused by the car’s wheels. They’re fresh.”

  Bogart said, “Okay, that puts things in a different light. There might be someone there.”

  “Let’s go see for ourselves,” said Decker. “And it would make sense to get some backup.”

  He pulled his gun while Bogart motioned to one of the officers, who hurried over. After some whispered instructions the officer and his colleagues pulled their weapons and headed over to the darkened house. When they got there, they surrounded it. With Decker and Bogart behind the three officers in front, the lead cop pounded on the door, identified himself, and asked to be let in. No response came.

  He called out one more time and then kicked the door in. The flimsy wood gave in on the first try. At the same instant the rear door was broken down and the two sets of cops flooded the small space.

  A minute later the all-clear was given.

  Decker and the others were allowed into the duplex.

  There wasn’t much to see. It was empty. Not a stick of furniture or anything else.

  “Doesn’t look like anyone was ever here,” said Davenport.

  “But someone was,” said Decker.

  CHAPTER

  25

  MARS KEPT SHAKING his head in disbelief.

  “Somebody just killed her? Blew up her house?”

  Decker nodded.

  They were sitting in the lobby of the hotel with Jamison and Davenport.

  “But you said her son is okay?” said Mars.

  “He’s fine, other than losing both his parents on pretty much the same day.”

  “And you really think someone murdered her?”

  “If not, it’s the biggest coincidence I’ve ever seen. And I don’t even believe in little coincidences.”

  “Do you know who might have done it?”

  “Whoever was paying her off, with Cartier watches and expensive clothes, and promises of a better life with her son.”

  “So you think Tommy might be in danger?” asked Jamison.

  “Bogart has state troopers looking after him,” replied Decker. “I doubt his mother told him anything, but whoever killed her can’t be certain of that. It was clear when we spoke to Tommy that he just thought it was insurance money.”

  Mars glanced at him. “What do we do now?”

  At that moment Bogart walked into the room looking agitated and upset.

  Jamison said, “What is it? Not another murder?”

  Bogart shook his head and dropped into an unoccupied chair next to Davenport. “No, it’s not that,” he said, not meeting any of their gazes. “It’s actually more complicated.”

  Decker eyed him closely. “You want to tell us?”

  Bogart lifted his gaze to Decker’s. “I just got a call from D.C. We have been officially pulled from this case.”

  “What?” exclaimed Jamison and Davenport simultaneously.

  “Let me rephrase that. HQ does not see this as a case. Not an open one. Mr. Mars has been cleared. The real killer has confessed and paid the ultimate price. That’s it. They want us back home.”

  “But what about Regina Montgomery’s death?” said Decker, still watching Bogart.

  “Irrelevant, at least to them. An accident, nothing more. And certainly not the jurisdiction of the FBI.”

  Mars looked around at each of them before his gaze settled on Bogart. “So what exactly does that mean, Agent Bogart?”

  “That exactly means that we pack up and leave and head back to Quantico. I’m sorry for the way this has turned out. It’s not how I intended it to happen. I’ll let Milligan know. He can leave directly from Texas.”

  “Well, he’ll be ecstatic about that,” said Decker dryly.

  Bogart rose and held his hand out to Mars, who rose and shook it.

  “I’m sorry to be leaving in this way, Mr. Mars. It’s not how I would have done it, if it were my choice. But I wish you the very best of luck.”

  “Okay,” said a bewildered Mars. “Sure, thanks.”

  Decker said, “Have a good trip, Agent Bogart.”

  Bogart didn’t look that surprised. “So you’re not coming?”

  “I don’t leave a case until it’s finished. So I’m staying here to see it through.”

  “Decker, please listen to reason, you can’t do that,” said Bogart.

  “I can do that. And I will do that.”

  “But you work for—”

  “I resign,” interrupted Decker.

  Bogart took a deep breath.

  “Have you really thought this through?”

  “I did, though it didn’t take long.”

  Bogart looked at the two women. “And what about you?” he asked.

  Jamison said firmly, “I’m staying with Decker.”

  Bogart’s gaze drifted to Davenport. “And you?”

  Davenport didn’t look nearly as certain, but after giving Decker a sideways glance she said, without looking at Bogart, “I’m staying too.”

  Bogart nodded slowly. “Seems like my team and project are out of business.”

  “We’re sorry, Agent Bogart,” said Jamison.

  Bogart actually smiled. “You may be. But he’s not,” he added, looking at Decker.

  “It’s nothing personal,” said Decker. “But Charles Montgomery did not kill Roy and Lucinda Mars. I’m going to find out who did.”

  “I wish you luck. And I wish I could stay and help you do it. But unlike you, I don’t have that option.”

  He turned and left.

  Mars quickly looked at Decker. “Hey, man, you don’t have to do this. I don’t want y’all to lose your job over me.”

  “Right now my job is to find out what happened to your parents, Melvin,” said Decker. “Whether it’s under the auspices of the FBI or not doesn’t matter a damn to me.”

  “But the dude is your friend.”

  “And Agent Bogart is still my friend. And he’ll be perfectly fine. He’s obeying orders.”

  “But they might not let you back in working with him after this is over.”

  Decker glance
d at Jamison before turning to Mars. “That’s our problem, Melvin, not yours.”

  Davenport said, “What do we do now?”

  Decker answered, “Since we’re no longer with the FBI, the police don’t have to cooperate with us.”

  “That will make it a lot harder,” pointed out Davenport.

  “Which is why we won’t tell the police that that’s the case,” continued Decker.

  “Lie to the police?” exclaimed Davenport. “Look, I know I agreed to stay, but I’m not getting in trouble over this.”

  “We aren’t going to lie. We aren’t going to say anything about it. We’re just going to continue on with the investigation as if nothing happened. If the police think we’re still working with the FBI, that’s their mistake.”

  “But Decker,” said Davenport. “Surely Bogart is going to inform them that the FBI is leaving the field.”

  Decker cast a glance in the direction of Bogart, who was waiting at the elevator bank and casting furtive looks in their direction.

  “No, I don’t think he will.”

  Jamison said, “Okay, to take up Lisa’s point, now what do we do?”

  Decker turned his attention to her. “Catch a killer.”

  “But how?”

  “We have clues, we just need to run them down.”

  “What clues?” said Davenport.

  “A blown-up house. A four-door tan Toyota Avalon. And whatever the neighbors can tell us about the person or persons in that duplex. And we trace back the money that went to Regina.”

  Mars said, “You really think that’ll provide answers?”

  Decker stood. “What’s the key to winning on the football field?”

  “Preparation,” said Mars automatically.

  “That’s right. Well, in the investigation field preparation means looking at all the little details in the hopes that they deliver up the big answers. And in my experience, when you look for criminals, you have to dig deep in the shit. Because that’s where they live. Let’s go.”

  He strode out of the room.

  Mars looked at Jamison. “Damn, he really is always like that.”

  CHAPTER

  26

  HEAVY RAINS OVER the last several hours had turned the site of the duplex explosion into a quagmire.

  Wearing slickers and boots, Decker, Jamison, and Davenport walked the site looking for clues and talking to the local cops. Because he was not with the FBI or the local police, Mars could only watch from the rental in which they had driven over.

  “We couldn’t find any evidence of an accelerant or a timer or bomb materials, Agent Decker,” said the cop who had been leading them around the site.

  Decker did not correct the man about his “agent” status. And his FBI creds were prominently clipped to the outside of his slicker for all to see, the same for Jamison and Davenport.

  Decker surveyed the debris field. “Do you think you still might turn something up?”

  “Usually by this time we would have. We’re not inexperienced with explosions down here. People like to blow shit up, so we know what to look for. And we know the explosion patterns we typically see if a man-made device was used. Right now all things point to it being an accident. The duplex was really old and in bad shape. And I have to imagine the pipes and valves coming from the underground propane tank weren’t in pristine condition. We’ve had these things blow before. It just happens.”

  Decker nodded. “I get that. Only I’d feel a lot better if the timing were different.”

  The cop nodded in understanding. “Meaning her husband just being executed?”

  “Right.”

  “You don’t think she committed suicide, do you?”

  “By blowing herself up?” said Decker skeptically.

  “No, but she could have tried putting her head in the oven or something like that and then it just blew. You said she was a smoker. She could have struck a match for some reason.”

  “That’s one theory, but I don’t think it’s the right one.”

  Decker left the officer and joined Davenport and Jamison.

  “What now?” asked a soaked and visibly irritated Davenport.

  “Well, since they’re not finding what caused the explosion, now we talk to the neighbors.”

  “Can we at least wait until it stops raining?” asked Davenport.

  “You can,” said Decker.

  He turned and headed to the nearest house.

  Jamison glanced at Davenport. “You coming?”

  Davenport stared after Decker, annoyance flitting across her features. “Actually, I think I’ll wait with Melvin. It might be more productive.”

  She stalked off toward the car while Jamison hurried after Decker.

  * * *

  Folks in six of the duplexes had not noticed the Toyota Avalon. The seventh door was opened by a tiny, bent, white-haired woman, who looked to be close to a hundred. She wore a fuzzy white bathrobe, used a walker, and had to tilt her head back to take in the full scope of the huge Decker. Her glasses were Coke-bottle thick, and Decker was not holding out much hope that she would be able to tell them anything.

  She invited them in, looking excited, because, as she said, “a G-man” was here to talk to her.

  “And G-lady,” she said, nodding and smiling at Jamison as they settled into chairs around a small, battered coffee table. “I guess even the FBI has learned that the women can get things done better than the men.”

  “Guess so,” said Jamison with an impish look at Decker.

  “My name is Patricia Bray, but you can call me Patti. All my family and friends do—well, they did when they were alive. I’m really the only one left now. The last of nine siblings.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, Patti,” said Jamison.

  A fat tabby jumped up into Bray’s lap and the old woman stroked it. “But I’m not alone. This here is Teddy. He’s sixteen, and it’s anyone’s guess who’ll outlive the other.”

  Decker said, “You heard what happened to your neighbor?”

  Bray nodded, her lips curling into a frown. “I knew Regina. What a life that woman had. But I heard Tommy is okay, thank the Lord. He’s a nice young man. He’s helped me around the house lots