by R.J. Ellory
The man extended his hand. ‘Richard Forrest,’ he said. ‘Deputy Manager.’
‘Mr Forrest . . . thank you for seeing me,’ Miller said. ‘I wondered if there was somewhere—’
‘A little privacy, of course.’ He crossed the foyer and took a left-hand corridor. A little way down on the right he stopped, opened up an office door, and showed Miller inside.
‘Some coffee perhaps?’ he asked as Miller sat down.
‘No, it’s fine, Mr Forrest. Thank you.’
Forrest sat down facing Miller. ‘So, detective, how can we be of assistance to you?’
‘We’re closing up some details on a case. Unfortunately it concerns the murder of one of your customers . . .’
‘Oh dear,’ Forrest said, genuinely alarmed. ‘How terrible.’
‘A Miss Catherine Sheridan?’
Forrest hesitated for a moment. ‘I’m sorry, Detective Miller . . . over two and a half thousand customers . . .’
Miller smiled. He took Catherine Sheridan’s death certificate from his pocket. ‘As far as we can determine she had no living antecedents or living relatives. We have to act on behalf of the state in such matters and deal with her affairs, at least the basic things such as her bank account. I’ve just spoken with Doug Lorentzen at the American Trust Bank down the street . . . VP for security?’
‘I think I know him . . . yes, that name rings a bell.’
‘Insurance and suchlike was held there. We’re just going to finish up on those aspects of her affairs today. Her bank account is here, and she received an income from a company named United Trust.’
‘And you wish us to inform them that the account is being closed?’
Miller smiled. ‘We have a department that can do that. We send them a copy of the death certificate and an official notification.’
‘So what can I do for you, detective?’
‘Somewhat unusual, and this we have not been able to explain, but amongst Ms Sherdian’s effects there are numerous references to a half dozen different offices of United Trust, but it appears she might have been employed by an office outside of Washington. We just need to know which of the offices her salary was originating from.’
Forrest smiled, seemingly pleased that he was being asked for something that he could in fact provide. From experience, Miller was aware of the fact that all usual restrictions imposed by bureaucratic martinets seemed to fall away in the face of murder. Normally unsympathetic and self-important officials demonstrated their ability to be human.
‘You can bear with me a little while?’ Forrest asked.
‘Of course, yes,’ Miller replied.
‘And you’re sure you wouldn’t care for some coffee, some mineral water perhaps?’
Miller shook his head.
At the door Forrest paused.
Miller, doing everything he could to maintain his nonchalant air, felt his heart miss a beat.
‘For our records, in case there’s ever a question . . .’
Miller raised his eyebrows.
‘I’m wondering if I could take a photocopy of Ms Sheridan’s death certificate?’
‘Of course, of course,’ Miller said. He rose and stepped toward Forrest, handed him the single sheet of paper.
Forrest took it, said he’d be as quick as possible.
For the few minutes that Miller waited he tried not to think what would happen to his career if his current actions came to light. He was not in good with the chief of police or the PR department. He knew his file would be flagged by Internal Affairs. He knew that his request to Greg Reid would be considered highly irregular. He was barely out of the woods on the Brandon Thomas case, and here he was - sitting in the offices of the First Capital Bank on Vermont Avenue, waiting for the deputy manager to return with the personal details of a murder victim’s salary, that victim now part of a case that had been taken off him by the Federal Bureau of Investigation . . .
In and of itself, each violation seemed to be nothing more than the narrow lines so often crossed by a diligent and committed detective pursuing a case. Even Lassiter, even ADA Cohen and the chief of police - they knew all too well that officers sidestepped those lines so many times it was becoming all the harder to see them. They all had their own Memorandum of Understanding, the acceptable truths, the points where the upholding of the law and the provision of justice became more important than the exactitude of statutes. These things were implicitly understood. They were not discussed. But what Miller had done, what Miller was now doing, was a blatant violation of even the most basic tenets of investigation.
It was now a question of whether he could make it out the other side, or whether this thing would kill him. There was no question in his mind regarding the necessity to continue. Not after all he’d been through. And Oliver was dead. That was sufficient to motivate him. And there was something else: the certainty that understanding could be gained. Whatever justification or explanation might have existed for the deaths of these people, there was still the fact that there was a who. Someone had caused these deaths. Someone was guilty, and Miller did not believe it was one person. He believed something else entirely, and when he considered the evidence, the small flags that indicated which way he should go, what he should look at, how easily they had all been fooled into thinking that one thing was something else entirely . . . only when he looked at all this did he experience the substance of his fear. This was a matter of life and death, not only of those who had been murdered, but now of his own. He’d been asked to back down, to step away, to let the real professionals handle it. He had already previously suspected that the very same people who were now supposedly investigating this case knew an awful lot more about it than they were communicating. Like Harriet said, the best kept secrets were the ones in plain view . . .
The door opened. Forrest came through, crossed the room and sat down. He returned the original death certificate to Miller, and then handed him a single sheet of paper.
‘Unfortunately this is all we have,’ he said. ‘United Trust Incorporated is the name given, and their address is a post office box here in Washington. Strictly speaking, a post office box should not have been accepted, but—’
Miller nodded. ‘These things happen, Mr Forrest, I understand. ’
‘So that’s the best we can do. You’re going to have to see the post office. They should have a billing address on record for the rental of the post office box. PO Box number is 19405. Means the rental agreement was taken at Nineteenth Street.’
‘And there’s nothing else on file regarding this account.’
Forrest shook his head. ‘From what I can see the money came into the account, it was withdrawn in cash from ATMs. No checks were written . . .’ He looked up at Miller, seemed a little confused. ‘Not in all the years that the account was open was there ever a check drawn on it. Ms Sheridan never came to the bank. She never took a loan, never asked for a credit card, never met any of the bank staff.’
‘Unusual,’ Miller said.
‘Very,’ Forrest replied. ‘But not against the law, eh?’
‘No, not against the law.’
‘I’m sorry there isn’t anything else we can do to help you, Detective Miller.’
Miller rose from his chair, shook hands with Forrest. ‘You’ve done everything you can. I appreciate your help.’
‘A terrible thing,’ Forrest said. ‘Somehow it seems all the more disturbing considering the fact that she had so little contact with us . . .’ He shook his head. ‘I suppose you must feel that sort of thing all the time in your work . . . the sense that there might have been something you could have done that would have made a difference. Not that that makes any particular sense, but you can’t help but feel that . . .’ Forrest’s voice trailed away. He could not explain what he felt, but Miller knew what he meant.
‘Always,’ Miller said. ‘You can’t help feeling that you could have done something.’ He thought of Jennifer Irving, of Natasha Joyce. He even thought of Car
l Oliver.
‘If there’s anything else . . .’ Forrest added.
‘Thank you. I can find my own way back,’ he said, and started walking. Didn’t want to look back at Forrest, wanted Forrest to remember as little about their meeting as possible, wanted Forrest never to think of mentioning it to anyone at all. Miller knew that that would not be the case. Forrest would mention it at lunchtime, perhaps at an internal meeting. Did you know that one of our customers was murdered . . . That wouldn’t mean anything. He could tell everyone in the bank, but that didn’t mean it would go any further . . .
Miller went out through the front door and couldn’t help looking over his shoulder.
The night before. The feeling that he was being watched. Same thing. Same sensation . . .
He made his way back toward the west of the city, headed for the Nineteenth Street post office, trusting in his badge, his official status, the fundamental belief of the vast majority of people that they should cooperate with the police. Sometimes it worked, other times not.
Miller’s luck was in. He found a young man who seemed more interested in the manner of Catherine Sheridan’s death than whether Miller had the right to obtain post office box details.
‘Murdered? Murdered how?’ he said. His name was Jay Baxter, had a gold-colored name tag on his shirt.
‘You don’t wanna know how she was murdered,’ Miller said.
Baxter smiled. ‘Sure I do. Interesting stuff, man . . . real interesting. How often do you get the chance to actually get an inside line on some of the shit these people do?’
‘You’re interested in murder?’
Jay Baxter laughed. ‘Not so interested to find out first hand,’ he said, ‘but you know, the whole psychology behind this kind of thing. Read a bunch of books, was gonna major in Psychology, but then I started figuring out what a bunch of horseshit that stuff was. They don’t know what makes people do that shit, right?’
Miller shook his head. ‘No, they don’t . . . I think you’re right there.’
‘So tell me . . . trade-off, right?’
‘Cut her head off,’ Miller lied.
Baxter’s eyes were wide. ‘No shit!’
‘Clean off,’ Miller said. ‘We think it was a machete . . . maybe a samurai sword. Clean as anything you’ve ever seen.’
‘And you saw her? Saw her . . . you know . . . like without her head and everything?’
‘Sure I did. That’s what we do. We go look at the god-awful shit that people do to each other.’
‘Fuck it,’ Baxter said. ‘Fuck it . . . Jesus, you ever like puke or something?’
Miller smiled. ‘I puked a few times, yes . . . you deal with it after a couple of times, and then it doesn’t bother you any more.’
‘And I’m gonna read about this in the papers, right?’
‘Sure you are.’
‘So the deal with the PO box . . . what’s the scene there?’
‘A lead,’ Miller said. ‘You’re helping me follow up a lead on this.’
‘No shit?’
‘No shit.’
‘Cool . . . good, yeah sure . . . I mean whatever, you know, whatever help we can give you. Give me the name again.’
‘United Trust,’ Miller said. ‘PO Box 19405.’
Jay Baxter, eyes still wide, wanting to ask Miller more questions perhaps, but feeling like he shouldn’t, typed the number into the computer on his desk and paused for a moment.
‘United Trust . . . registered to the office of United Trust Incorporated Finance, 1165 E Street, junction of Fourteenth, you know where that is?’
‘I can find it.’
‘Box taken in the name of Donald Carvalho.’ Baxter spelled the name as Miller wrote it down.
‘Great help,’ Miller said, rising from his chair.
‘No problem.’
Miller paused at the door, looked back at the young man. ‘Do I need to read you the riot act on confidentiality?’
Baxter smiled, shook his head, made like a zipper on his mouth.
Miller returned the smile. ‘Good man,’ he said, and closed the door behind him.
It was then, as he was making his way across the reception lobby and toward the main exit, that he saw the raincoat man.
Miller noticed the man merely because the man appeared to notice him. Once again there was the feeling of being watched as Miller walked past him, and at the door he turned for a second and felt the man’s eyes on him as he went out, and down the steps to the street.
The man had been leaning against the wall, appeared to be reading something, and he’d stood straight as Miller passed. From Miller’s passing glance he estimated he was somewhere in his mid-forties, his hair dark, greying a little, dressed in a black suit, white open-necked shirt and a tan-colored raincoat.
Outside the post office Miller crossed the street and walked down to the junction of Nineteenth and M Street, simply to see if the raincoat man followed him out of the building. He did not. Miller tried not to read any significance into the event. Merely a man attending to his business, a man who’d happened to look up as Miller passed, perhaps had recognized him from a newspaper photograph after the Thomas case, perhaps had mistaken Miller for someone else . . .
Rationalize it as he did, Miller nevertheless felt a growing sense of disquiet.
He hesitated for a few moments more, and then hurried to his car.
FIFTY-SIX
To his right the Willard Hotel, on his left the National Theater. Up ahead was Freedom Plaza, the White House Visitor Center, the Ronald Reagan Building. Two hundred yards and he’d be on Constitution Avenue, two blocks from the FBI Building, the National Archives, the Federal Triangle.
Detective Robert Miller, his heart in his mouth, stood on the sidewalk with the certainty that he was being watched.
He kept thinking back to the moment he’d seen Carl Oliver on the gurney, the medics awkwardly maneuvering him down the stairway to the street. A life and all it stood for extinguished in a second. As simple as that. Marilyn Hemmings’ expression - he could remember it too vividly. How she’d raised her hand and smiled at him. A simple smile of recognition, nothing more nor less. He’d seen her for moments, and then she was gone.
He remembered the slick of blood on the floor outside Robey’s apartment. Could picture Al Roth’s expression, the tone of his voice, the words he’d used: ‘When you’re ready you better come in and take a look at this.’
All of it.
Up close and personal.
Miller stood in the heart of the intelligence community, up ahead a narrow-fronted building. It was from here that United Trust had paid Catherine Sheridan. And Don Carvalho? Was that another Robey alias, like Michael McCullough? Was this yet another piece of the seemingly infinite puzzle that Robey had created for the world?
Miller crossed the street and entered the front door of the building.
United Trust had a mailbox in the lobby, but the feel of the place was unmistakable. The building smelled musty and forgotten. There was some sort of activity behind a frosted-glass door to his right, the sign silently announcing Amalgamated Federal Workers Union. Up on the third floor he found United Trust’s offices. There was no sound from within, no silhouettes against the frosted glass. A narrow corridor ran to left and right, similarly unoccupied offices on each side, and he knew that though Catherine Sheridan’s income might have originated here, United Trust was a name, and that was all.
The frustration was almost unbearable. A thread, small though it might have been, but a thread nevertheless, a tension as you pulled, the feeling that this time there would be something at the end, something of substance . . . but suddenly the tension released and the thread came away in your hands.
It had been the same every step of the way, as close to nothing as he could imagine.
Miller wanted to scream. He wanted to kick the door through . . .
He held his breath for a moment.
He stepped away from the door and felt the facing
wall against his back.
He took a step forward again and tried the door handle. It was firm, but the door itself was not heavy. A pane of frosted glass in its upper half, the lower half nothing more than a wood panel inset. He would later tell himself that he had known. He would later rationalize it, take it out of the realm of intuition and instinct, and tell himself that Robey had predicted this all along. That’s the only explanation he could find, for nothing else made sense. Nothing of this made any sense at all unless John Robey had orchestrated every single step of this thing.
Life wasn’t easy on the uncertain, the meek, the quiet. Sometimes things were done because there was nothing else to do.
The sudden sound of splintering wood, a sound that reverberated through the building and brought people from the Amalgamated Federal Workers Union running up the stairs to investigate what was happening - that sound never actually occurred. What did occur was a dull tearing noise as Miller kicked a good shoe-sized hole in the panel. He reached his arm through and upward to unlock the door from within. It was a single latch, nothing more, and when Miller felt the latch snap back from the striker plate there was something akin to relief, the feeling that now there was no going back. He had violated the law on two occasions in a single case. The hairbrush from Robey’s apartment, and now this. Internal Affairs appeared in his thoughts once more. He was a dirty cop who colluded with corrupt city officials.
Miller stepped back and opened the office door.
A single desk, a plain deal chair. A room no more than forty or fifty square feet in size. The window so dirty he could barely see down into the street, its ledge littered with numerous dead flies. It smelled of dust, the age-old haunt of cigarette smoke perhaps, and beneath that the mold taint from carpets that had lain uncleaned for some interminable time.
On the right-hand side was a single file cabinet, grey metal, three drawers. Miller took a latex glove from his inside jacket pocket, and opened the lowest drawer. That and its neighbor were empty, but in the upper drawer was a single white envelope. He lifted it out carefully, turned it over. It was sealed, but there was something inside.
