by James Ponti
“Why don’t we tell her that the birthday gift was such a hit for your mom that now we’re looking for something for Marcus?”
“That could work,” I said. “Although do you think it’s a good idea to mention him? She’s setting him up.”
“Right, but she doesn’t know that we’re involved,” she said. “I think it would be good to see her reaction to hearing his name. It might rattle her.”
“She’s been undercover in this country for most of her life,” I said. “I’m not sure anything rattles her.”
“What are we looking for at the store?” asked Margaret.
“A big pile of stolen CIA files would be nice,” I said. “But other than that, we need to connect her to each aspect of the crime.”
“And if Alistair Toombs rode with her to North Carolina, we need to figure out if they’re in it together or if he’s just a friend who doesn’t know what’s going on.”
“That’s a lot,” I said. “Good thing we had those smoothies.”
“No doubt.”
The rain had stopped, but it was still overcast as we walked from the Metro to the bookstore. I kept running through our previous encounters with Brooke King in my head, trying to think of the pieces of TOAST to connect her to the crime.
“I just thought of something,” I said. “The book on the theory of relativity was old, but the pocket on the back page had a stamp that said ‘DC Public Library.’ It looked brand-new. I remember thinking it was strange at the time.”
“It’s because she’d just repaired it,” said Margaret. “She probably put on a new pocket and stamped it.”
“You know all that equipment she had on the table in her studio? I bet she’s got a rubber stamp in there. If we get it and give it to the FBI, they should be able to compare the two and see if it’s the same one.”
“I like that,” she said. “That would definitely work. They could run an analysis and—” Then Margaret did something that only she could do. She interrupted herself. “Stop!” she said as though a bolt of energy had just run through her. “I just figured out how she got into the Riverses’ basement.”
“How?”
“When Marcus first told us about her, he said that one time his parents’ basement flooded and a whole bunch of books, including the family Bible, had been damaged.”
“And Brooke came and repaired them,” I said. “While she was helping, I bet she got a key to the basement.”
Suddenly the little pieces were coming together. Right before we entered the store, Margaret gave a coach’s pep talk on the sidewalk. “We’re going to find that key and find that rubber stamp!”
Unfortunately, we didn’t find Brooke.
The only person in the store was a young woman in an American University sweatshirt sitting behind the counter doing her homework.
“Hi,” I said, trying to get her attention. “Is Brooke King here?”
“She’s in the mountains,” she said as she continued reading her textbook.
“Doing what?”
She finally looked up. “I’m sorry. Are you some close personal friend or something?”
“Oh, no,” I said, scrambling. “I was just curious if she was going to another estate sale. Last weekend she did, and she got some great books. If that’s what she’s doing, I want to make sure to come back early next week.”
She studied me for a moment. “You’re a weird kid, you know that?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I get that a lot.”
“No need to rush back; she’s just relaxing in her cabin.”
She went back to her book, while Margaret and I pretended to browse the shelves.
“What do we do?” whispered Margaret. “We can’t wait until Monday. Admiral Douglas only gave us twenty-four hours.”
“One of us needs to get into the back room to look for the rubber stamp.”
“You want me to try to distract her?”
“She’s already pretty distracted,” I said. “But I still think she’d notice me going back there.”
“I’ve got it,” she said, her voice rising slightly before she caught it. “Tell her you have to go to the bathroom. It’s in the back room.”
“Why me? Why not you?”
“Because you’ve already built a rapport.”
I nodded and walked back over to her. “I’m sorry to interrupt you again, but I just drank an extra-large strawberry-banana smoothie and I really have to go to the bathroom.”
“Our bathroom is for employees only.”
I gave her my best desperate look. “It was really big.”
She looked up at me and rolled her eyes. “Straight back and to the right.”
“Thanks,” I said.
Brooke had cleaned up her workstation, and I didn’t see any rubber stamps out on the table. There were all types of glue and tape, as well as some little tools and machines that did who knows what. I was trying to make sense of it all when something occurred to me.
The room itself was about twice the size of my bedroom. There was the bathroom on one side. Her workstation was in the middle. One wall was bare with a couple book posters. And there was a bookcase right next to the rear door. I was confident that I could see everything, which left me with a serious question.
Where was the safe?
When Marcus ran the financial records for all the suspects, he mentioned that when she’d opened the bookstore, Brooke had bought all sorts of equipment and furniture like bookcases. One of the most expensive items was a large safe.
But where was it?
I went back out in the bookstore and looked to make sure there was no area I had overlooked. There wasn’t.
“Thanks,” I said to the woman behind the desk. “Have a nice weekend.”
She mumbled something and kept reading her textbook.
“Come on, Margaret,” I said. “Let’s go.”
Margaret was reading a brochure about the store and looked surprised at my sudden wish to leave. But when she saw the urgency on my face, she followed suit.
“Did you find it?” she asked once we were outside. “The rubber stamp?”
“No,” I said.
“The key to the basement?”
“No.”
“Then what did you see?”
“It’s what I didn’t see that’s got me thinking,” I said. “I didn’t see anyplace for a safe.”
She looked confused. “But didn’t she buy a big safe when she opened the store?”
“Yes,” I said. “So where is it?”
“Maybe it’s at her cabin in the mountains,” she said, half-serious, half-joking.
“Right, except why keep your books in a safe so far from the store?” I said. “It doesn’t make sense.”
“Unless she’s keeping something else there.”
We looked at each other and said it at the same time. “A pile of stolen CIA files.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere,” I said. “We’ve got to figure out where her cabin is.”
“Well, this might help,” she said, holding up the brochure. “It’s about the store. Let me read you the little part about Brooke’s bio.” She read aloud from it. “ ‘Brooke King is a native Virginian who has loved books since her childhood in Richmond. She carried this love on to college, where she earned dual degrees in English and art conservation at . . . James Madison University.’ ”
“Harrisonburg,” I said. “That’s why the letters are sent from there. That’s where her cabin in the mountains is located.”
“We’ve got to figure out how to get out to Harrisonburg,” she said. “Do you think your mom would be game? She really got into it yesterday.”
“She probably would be, but that wouldn’t be enough,” I said. “We have to figure out how to get the FBI to go to Harrisonburg with us.”
“Which will be kind of hard considering we don’t have any proof except our theory and a brochure.”
We stood there on the sidewalk and tried to come up with something
, anything. In some ways we were so close, but in reality we were way too far away. At least 120 miles.
“We could try to convince Agent Dawkins,” she said.
“I don’t think she’d go for it,” I said. “She wouldn’t want to risk us being wrong and blowing up the case she’s building.”
“What about Marcus?” she said. “He’d believe us.”
“Yes, but he doesn’t want us working on the case. And even if he did, I don’t think he could get the Bureau to come along. They think he’s guilty.”
She let out a big sigh of frustration. “Well, you keep shooting down my ideas. Do you know someone who can get the FBI to go out to Harrisonburg?”
I grinned.
“In fact, I do.” I found the business card in my wallet and dialed. Nic the Knife answered on the second ring.
“Hello,” he said.
“This is Florian Bates. Margaret and I need your help. We need a ride out into the mountains.”
He didn’t hesitate. He simply asked where we were, and I gave him our location. He told me he’d be right there, and I said one last thing before I hung up.
“Make sure the FBI is following you!”
33.
Ferrari
WE HEARD NIC THE KNIFE before we saw him.
We were standing on the sidewalk in front of Palace Books when the roar of a sports car engine announced his impending arrival. We turned to look as he came around the corner in a matte black Ferrari.
He stopped right in front of us, his engine rumbling, and the passenger window slid down. Reading our expressions, he said, “What? You thought I’d come in a minivan?”
I peeked through the window and replied, “I thought you’d come in a car that had a back seat.”
“This has a back seat,” he said as he gestured toward it. “Just not a big one. Besides, you said you wanted me to make sure the FBI was following. This one stands out. It makes it easier for them to keep an eye on me.”
“I got front!” said Margaret.
I squeezed into the back while Margaret luxuriated in the passenger seat.
“This is a Ferrari, right?” she asked him.
“Yes,” he said. “I’m part Romanian and part Italian. Since the Romanians don’t make a sports car I like, I decided to get this.”
“Florian and I are part Italian too,” she said.
I caught a glimpse of his reaction in the rearview mirror and could tell that just hearing this affected him. “Well, that’s good.”
“What’s your favorite Serie A team?”
“Juventus, of course.”
Margaret smiled. “Us too!”
“Great minds think alike,” he said. “Now that I am here, what are we doing?”
“We’re luring the FBI out to Harrisonburg, Virginia, to catch a deep-cover Russian spy and clear the reputation of our friend Special Agent Marcus Rivers.”
I’d only told him we needed a ride when I called, and now I was worried he’d refuse. But instead he smiled and said, “Sounds like a fun Saturday afternoon.”
He put the car in gear, and we took off down the road. “You know Juve beat Roma three to one today.”
“Nice,” said Margaret.
Despite feeling like a sardine in a can, I enjoyed riding in the Ferrari. It hugged the road during turns and felt cooler than any vehicle I’d ever been in. I also enjoyed watching Nic and Margaret talk. She thanked him for the improvements to the field, and he talked about how great she’d played that day.
“That’s two times I’ve seen you play,” he said, referencing the city championship, which he’d seen as well. “And both were spectacular.”
“Thanks,” she said bashfully. “I really love playing. And playing on the new field is wonderful. Why’d you do it? The donation for the field, I mean.”
He was quiet as he thought about his answer, and for a moment I thought he might just break down and tell her the truth.
“In my life, I’m surrounded by a lot of bad things, you know that?”
“Yes,” she said.
“I’m not a good person,” he said. “But if I can do something that is good—something that helps other people—then at least there is a little bit of good in my life. Like when you see a flower grow in the crack on the sidewalk.”
Margaret studied him. “Maybe you are a good person,” she said. “After all, you helped with the case when our friend got kidnapped. Maybe if you just did the good things and stopped doing the bad things, maybe you’d have a much better life. Instead of a flower in the sidewalk, it could be like a whole garden.”
He smiled.
“What?” she said.
“You have a good heart,” he said. “And I would never hurt you or Florian, but you need to know this: I am not a good person.”
“That doesn’t mean you couldn’t become one.”
We were driving west on Interstate 66, and it was so cramped in the back seat, I had to wiggle and twist just to try to look out the back window.
“Are you sure they’re following you?” I asked.
“Silver SUV four cars back in this lane,” he said. “Plus the black sedan about a half mile behind him. They swap places every five miles or so because they think it keeps me from spotting them.”
“Do you normally have two?” asked Margaret.
“No,” he said. “Florian wanted me to make sure, so I made some calls because I knew they were listening. I made it sound like I was going out to the mountains to meet Carmine Santangelo, a mob boss they would very much like to find out about. They’re probably alerting others as we speak.”
It was such a strange situation. We were working for the FBI, yet we were getting help from a crime boss and tricking the FBI into following us. As crazy as it was, we needed to make sure we did whatever it took to help Marcus.
“Where are we going when we get to Harrisonburg?” he asked.
“That’s the hard part,” I said. “We’re not exactly sure where she lives.”
“Right,” said Margaret. “All we know is that she has a cabin in the mountains near Harrisonburg.”
“That’s not much to go on,” he said. “Why do you want the FBI there?”
“Because she has a big safe, and we think it’s full of government secrets that she passes along to the Russians.”
“And this affects your friend Marcus how?”
“They think he’s corrupt,” I said.
He gave me a look in the rearview mirror. “I have met him. He’s not corrupt. That should be obvious to anybody.”
“We know that,” said Margaret. “But we have to prove it.”
He thought about all of this for about a mile.
“What kind of safe?”
“What?” I asked.
“You said you think she has a big safe. Do you know what kind it is? How big it is?”
Margaret looked at her phone, where she’d taken pictures of all the evidence that Marcus showed us in the Underground. When she found the notes for Brooke’s finances, she enlarged it and read it off to him. “It’s called a Worldwide Super Fortress Safe.”
He seemed surprised. “That’s a very good model,” he said. “Extremely big.”
“You know safes that well?” Margaret asked, surprised.
“Well, in my line of work I have to know about them.”
“Oh,” she said. “Because you break into them?”
At first he looked surprised, but then he laughed deeply. “No,” he said. “Because I run a construction company and build buildings like banks that have them.”
Margaret looked horrified. “I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be,” he replied. “It’s very funny.”
He thought about it for a moment more. “You know, not just anyone can install a safe like that. You have to have special concrete, large equipment. It’s not a job for a handyman or small builder. When did she buy the safe?”
Margaret looked at the picture. “Three years ago in March.”
He went to turn on his hands-free phone, but first told us to be quiet for a moment. “We don’t need anyone but the FBI to know you’re in the car with me,” he said.
“Got it,” we both answered.
He called one of his construction foremen and described the situation. He said a woman in Harrisonburg installed a Worldwide Super Fortress Safe three years ago around March or April. He wanted the foreman to make some discreet calls to see if he could find out which company did the job and what the name and address of the customer were.
About thirty minutes later the foreman called back with the address, which Margaret typed into the navigation system.
“Did you get the name of the customer?” asked Nic.
“Yes,” he replied. “Brooke King.”
“Thank you, Radu,” he said as he disconnected the call. “Is that the right name?” he asked us.
“Yes,” said Margaret.
“Okay,” he replied. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”
I got out my phone and started to type up a text.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Trying to make sure we have some friendly faces there for when this all goes down.”
“Good idea,” he said. “But you should probably leave my name out.”
The text I wrote to Melinda Dawkins was simple and straightforward.
We came up with another way to find the spy. It’s Brooke King. FBI agents from organized crime will be there. Would like to see you, too! Then I put her address. Right before I pressed send, I added two names to receive the text—Marcus and Kayla.
“Have you two eaten?” he asked.
“We each had a smoothie for breakfast,” said Margaret.
“You must eat healthy and take care of your body,” he said. “I know a place up here.”
He pulled off at an exit and took us to a hole-in-the-wall barbecue joint.
“This is healthy?” asked Margaret.
“Well, it’s good,” he said with a laugh. He handed me two twenties and said, “Eat in there. Don’t take too long.”
“Aren’t you coming in?” I asked.
“No, I need to make some more calls,” he said. “Ones you two cannot hear.”
We went inside, and I had the best pulled-pork sandwich of my life. Margaret got a chicken plate that looked equally delicious. While we were eating, I watched Nic making at least five or six different phone calls. He stood outside his car and kept his eye on the road leading back to the interstate.
