The Bishop
Page 19
The two of them helped me put on the shirt and position my arm in the sling, I grabbed the notes I’d jotted down, and then went outside, eased off the sling, and called Doehring to ask if Anderson was available to take me to my car.
40
Tessa was getting frustrated.
Cheyenne had actually beaten her at chess.
Twice.
“Where’d you learn to play?” Tessa asked her.
“My dad. You know I grew up on a ranch? Well, he wasn’t too thrilled about us watching TV, so in the evenings we’d play games—mostly chess. He was nationally ranked in college. Over the years he taught me a couple strategies.”
A couple.
Yeah, right.
Tessa focused in, scrutinized the board. And made her move.
6:57 p.m.
Using an undercover car, which he proudly notified me was his typical vehicle, Officer Lee Anderson had dropped me off at my car about thirty minutes ago. The meds hadn’t really kicked in yet, and every time I moved my arm or shifted my weight it felt like someone was driving a giant needle through my arm and wrenching it back and forth.
Needles again.
Man, I just couldn’t get them off my mind.
To make matters worse, traffic had stalled. Maybe there was an accident up ahead.
I shifted my weight.
Needles.
Think about something else.
Okay. Ralph’s news: Basque and Professor Lebreau’s disappearance. Unbelievable.
For a flickering moment, I considered the possibility that Basque might somehow be involved in the crimes here in DC, this week. A quick calculation told me the drive time from Michigan would have been tight but workable.
But even as I considered that, I realized the scenario didn’t work. The build of the unidentified man pushing the wheelchair into the Lincoln wasn’t right: Basque was nearly my height and stocky; that man was shorter and had a medium build.
So . . .
What could I do from here to help find him?
At first I couldn’t think of anything, but then—
Ah yes.
Not me.
Angela Knight, my friend in the cybercrime division. She and her computer she’d named Lacey could find just about anyone.
Traffic was at a standstill, so I pulled up a few jpegs from Basque’s case files on my cell and then called Angela and started by telling her about the IPR-OMI license plate. She told me she’d gotten word that the NSA guys were on it. “I’m backed up here like you wouldn’t believe.”
Considering how busy she was, I wondered if I should even tell her the main reason I’d called, but since I really didn’t have anything to lose, I just went ahead. “One more thing—”
“Pat, I know what you’re going to ask, but I haven’t had any more time to work on your Patricia E. cipher.” She sounded exhausted.
“This is about something else.”
“Oh.” A pause. “Let me guess: you need confidential information, you need it now, and you don’t want to fill out any paperwork.”
“You’re amazing. You read my mind.”
“What can I say, I’m psychic.”
“I had my suspicions.” I took the phone from my ear and tapped the screen to email her the jpegs while I edged the car forward a few feet, holding the steering wheel in position with my knees.
A small sigh. “What do you need?”
“I need you to find Richard Devin Basque. I don’t care how you do it—credit card use, driver’s license, his cell phone’s GPS. Hack into his lawyer’s computer. Her name is Priscilla Eldridge-Gorman. I can get her address for—”
“Hold on. What’s this about?”
I told her about Dr. Lebreau’s possible abduction and the all-too-conveniently timed disappearance of Basque.
“Who’s the agent in charge?”
“Kreger’s on Lebreau. Ralph’s flying up there right now to help look for Basque.”
Traffic moved forward slightly, then stopped again.
“Then why isn’t he the one calling me?”
“He’s playing this close to the chest,” I said evasively.
“Oh. I see. Richard Basque is a free man and not—let me see, how shall I phrase this?” A slight sting in her words. “‘A person of interest in the case,’ so placing an official locate on him could be considered harassment.”
“I wouldn’t put it quite like that.”
“How about like this: Ralph is going about this within the bounds of the law.”
I heard a ping. The email with the attached photos I’d just sent her had arrived.
She noticed it. “What’s that?”
“Pictures of his victims. To help convince you to help me.”
“I’m deleting them.”
“No.”
“I can’t do this, Pat. He’s a free man.”
“This woman who went missing yesterday, she’s the one who uncovered the DNA evidence that helped free him. It’s very likely he’s involved somehow. Her life is in danger.”
“If this locate doesn’t come from Ralph, I’m going to need authorization from Assistant Director Wellington.”
“Open the jpegs,” I said. “Look at what he did to his victims.”
“He was declared not guilty.”
“The jury made a mistake.”
A small pause. I wondered if she was looking at the photographs. She said, “This missing woman, that’s not the only reason that you want to find him, is it?”
“Finding her, making sure she’s okay, that’s our primary concern.”
“But not the only one. Not for you.”
I felt an uncomfortable itch on the back of my neck. “Okay, yes. I need to talk with Mr. Basque.”
“Talk.”
“Yes.”
“That’s it? Just talk?”
“Angela, you and I have worked together for five years.” It wasn’t an answer to her question. “Trust me on this.”
“I know how long we’ve worked together, that’s why I’m asking you the question. I’m concerned you might do something reckless.”
“Have I ever done anything reckless?”
“Are you being serious?”
“Okay, but I mean, apart from those times—whichever ones you’re thinking of.”
I heard a small snort-laugh.
Ah, good.
A chink in her armor.
“Help me out here, Angela. If anyone can find Basque, you and Lacey can.”
Angela treated her computer as if it were a real person. She claimed Lacey had emotions, good days and bad days, and was self-aware. I’d seen them work together enough to wonder if Angela might actually be right.
A pause. “We could get in trouble for this, you know that.” I wondered if “we” referred to me and her, or her and Lacey. “I could lose my job.”
“Your skills are very transferable. I wouldn’t worry too much.”
A small sigh. “Remind me again why I’m friends with you?”
“My scintillating personality.”
“Really.”
“Probably, that or my striking good looks.” I guided the car down the Garrisonville exit. “As soon as I hang up, I’ll send you everything I have on Basque.”
“Pat, if I find him, you have to promise you won’t hurt him, that you won’t do anything that would make me regret helping you.”
“Angela—”
“Promise, or I’ll wait to hear from Margaret, and we both know that’s something that’s not going to happen. Give me your word and I’ll trust you.”
I weighed my options.
“Pat?”
“I promise I won’t hurt him,” I said.
“Then I’ll find him.”
I thanked her and then the conversation was over. I sent her the information and then spent the rest of the drive home wondering how I would keep both my promise to her and my promise to Grant Sikora.
And I couldn’t think of any way to honor them both.
41
At the house I found Tessa and Cheyenne in the living room, seated across from each other at a chessboard.
“Check,” Tessa said, moving her knight to h7. When she looked at me, her gaze went immediately to the bandages on my arm. “What happened?”
“I got a little scrape. How are you doing?”
“A scrape?”
Cheyenne gave me a look of concern. “Is your arm all right?”
“I’m good.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
“A scrape?” Tessa repeated.
“I’m all right.”
She considered that for a moment, then her eyes drifted to my new T-shirt. “Wow. You’re really stylin’ tonight.”
“Pink is the new black.”
“Really.”
Cheyenne momentarily went back to examining the board.
“It’s hip,” I assured Tessa.
She grimaced. “Hip?”
“Trust me. I have my finger on the pulse of all that is cool.”
“Please tell me you did not just say that.”
Cheyenne slid her rook across the board, took Tessa’s knight, and said, “Mate.”
Tessa refocused on the board, and her mouth gaped open.
“Seriously, Pat.” Cheyenne rose, came toward me. “Are you okay?”
“It’s fine. I’m fine. Now, no more questions about my arm.”
Tessa evaluated the board, then let out a groan. “You were setting that up for like five moves.”
“Six.”
Nice.
Tessa slumped back in her chair.
Cheyenne stood beside me now, closer than a mere co-worker would have stood. The proximity spoke for itself. “Is there anything I can do for you?” she said. “I could stay if you want, I’d just need to make a couple calls . . .”
Man, was that tempting. “I’ll be all right. But thanks. Really.”
She didn’t look like she exactly believed me but seemed willing to let it drop for the moment. “I brought your laptop back from the NCAVC meeting.” She pointed to the kitchen. “It’s on the table.”
“Great. Thank you.”
A slight awkwardness filtered its way into the room, and even though I’d just told her that I didn’t need her to stay, I felt a growing desire to rescind that. Cheyenne picked up her purse. “Well, I should probably be going, then.”
“Wait,” I said. “Did you guys eat yet?” It was a lame attempt at finding a way to tell her I wouldn’t mind if she hung around. “Do you need some dinner?”
“Actually, I’m supposed to be meeting someone for dinner in the city.”
“Oh.”
“Lien-hua.”
“Oh.”
“We really hit it off this afternoon. Seems we have a lot in common. She’s going to fill me in.” I expected her to elaborate, but she stopped abruptly, leaving her words open for interpretation.
Unintended consequences.
“Well, I’ll walk you to the door.” I glanced toward Tessa. “Hey, can you get your mom’s diary?”
“Why?”
“Please.”
She gave me a disapproving look but at last left for her bedroom.
Cheyenne and I crossed the room. “There’ve been a lot of developments in the case,” I said. “I’m sure Lien-hua will bring you up to speed.”
“Actually, I spoke with your boss on the phone about twenty minutes ago. She gave me a rundown.”
“Margaret?”
She nodded. “I handed in the Joint Op paperwork this afternoon. She said that as the head of the task force, she wanted to introduce herself. She told me to attend class in the morning and then come to the afternoon briefing with the rest of the team.”
“So you’ve never met her before?”
“Uh-uh.”
Huh.
“What time is the briefing?” I asked.
“It’s scheduled for 2:00, but I think it’ll depend on how the investigation progresses in the morning.”
My class started at 2:00. “I won’t make it, but maybe we can connect afterward. Catch up on the case.”
“Sounds good.”
We were at the door. “Hey,” I said, “you’ve really been a big help to me. Last night and then tonight, coming to my rescue again.”
“Didn’t I tell you? It’s my new hobby.”
“In addition to target shooting and line dancing.”
“A girl’s gotta be well-rounded.” She gave me a concerned smile. “You sure your arm is all right?”
“Yes. Listen, did Tessa tell you anything about what was going on with her this afternoon? Anything I need to know?”
Cheyenne shook her head. “She didn’t say, but it did seem to help that I was here.”
I hesitated for a moment. “I hate to keep asking you for favors, but you mentioned you’re having dinner in DC?”
“Yes.”
“Could you come to my rescue again?”
“Any time.”
I pulled out Missy Schuel’s card and jotted her home address on a sheet of paper, then handed it to Cheyenne. “Can you take the diary to Missy? She’s a lawyer for—”
“A lawyer?” Tessa was standing at the end of the hallway, holding the diary. “Why are you giving the diary to a lawyer?”
“I’ll explain everything in a couple minutes.”
“Now is good.”
“Tessa.” I tried to sound stern, fatherly. “Detective Warren needs to go.” I held out my hand. “The diary. Please. And then we can talk things through in a few minutes.”
After a brief consideration, Tessa gave me the diary, I paged through it to make sure that the letter Paul Lansing had written to Christie was still inside, then slipped a scrap sheet of paper in to bookmark it and handed the diary to Cheyenne.
Tessa watched.
“Okay,” Cheyenne said. “See you soon.”
“Thanks again.”
Then she left and Tessa and I were alone.
“All right.” My stepdaughter had her hands on her hips. “What’s going on—why did you give her my mom’s diary?”
42
“In a minute,” I said. “You first. I want to know why you were so upset this afternoon and why you were so eager for me to get home.”
She seemed to debate with herself whether or not to press me but then said, “Okay, so I have something to tell you, but I don’t want you to get mad.” Her eyes focused on the thick bandage again. “What’d you scrape your arm on, anyway?”
“A bullet, and I can’t promise that I won’t get mad until I know—”
“You got shot!”
“Yes, but right now we’re not talking about me, we’re talking about—”
“Who shot you?”
“One of the bad guys. Now, listen—”
“Are you okay? Seriously?”
“Tessa.” I’m sure my tone reflected my growing impatience. “I did my best to hurry home because you were anxious to tell me something. What is it?”
She stared at me for a long uncertain moment, then unexpectedly left the room, returned with her laptop, set it beside me on the couch, and tilted the screen so I could see it clearly.
Her email application was open, and she’d highlighted a thread of messages.
When I saw who they were from, a sharp bite of anger cut through me.
“You’ve been emailing him!” Paul Lansing’s first email had been sent the day after we’d visited Wyoming. I scrolled down the list and saw that the most recent had been sent less than twenty-four hours ago. “I specifically told you not to email him without letting me read over—”
“Does it hurt?”
I went back to the top of the list and started scanning the messages. “What?”
“Your arm. Does it hurt?”
“Of course it hurts. A bullet went through it. I can’t believe you’ve been—”
“Ew.” She looked pale. Sat down. “I wish you hadn’t told me that.”
With every email I read, I felt a fresh surge of betrayal.
“How could you do this? Go behind my back and email him like this?”
“Why is it going behind your back to email my dad?”
“Because I didn’t give you permission to.”
“He’s my . . .” She paused, must have reconsidered what she was about to say because she left the sentence unfinished, stranded there in midair between us.
“Anything else?” I said. “Any other bombshells you want to drop on me?”
She hesitated for a moment.
“Well?”
She leaned over, tapped the keyboard to open an Internet browser window, clicked to her facebook page.
Another email.
From 2:21 p.m. this afternoon.
Tessa,
I’m sorry I got angry at you today at the museum. I just wanted to make sure you were safe. I tried calling the phone I gave you, but you didn’t answer. (Don’t worry, I found it.) I’d rather not call your cell, I don’t want your stepfather to find out we met. I wouldn’t want him to get mad and then take it out on you.
But we need to talk. Call me or email me as soon as you can.
Love,
Dad
I felt a rising quiver of rage. “You saw him? That’s why you went to DC? To see Paul? That’s why you cancelled lunch with me?”
“I . . .”
“You lied to me.”
“No, I just—”
“You said you were going to the Library of Congress.”
“I did.”
Half truths.
Deception.
“Love, Dad” . . . He signed the message “Love, Dad.”
I could feel my whole body growing tense, the ache in my arm tightening.
Tessa watched me uneasily. “I’m sorry.”
I pointed to the computer screen. “What is this about him giving you a phone?”
“I threw it out.”
I waited.
“No. I did. I promise.” She pointed to the screen. “He even says he found it.”
“And just when exactly were you going to tell me about all these emails?”
“I tried to this afternoon, but—”
“You’ve been emailing him for three weeks!”
“I was scared you’d be mad.”