"Is that legal? To share with me?"
She glanced over at me. "Who gives a shit? I'm not going to tell anyone. Are you?"
"I guess not."
"What's your plan if I don't find anything and you don't find anything?"
"Our best bet is still Kransky," I said. "He's got access to all of the networks that you and I don't."
"And what if that doesn't pan out?"
I gazed out my window, watching car rental offices and parking lots slip past. "Then we go into reactive mode, which is what we're in anyway. We shield Amanda, but he gets to make the next move."
"Then?"
"Then we hit him so hard and so fast there's no time for him to think."
"Is that possible with two guys?" she asked.
No, I thought, probably not. Out loud I said, "We'll have to make it possible."
It took us another fifteen minutes to get to Old Town. We spent it complaining about the Redskins, which I found to my surprise was one of Julie's favorite topics. Several times she reached for her jacket pocket, where I saw the outline of her cigarettes, and pull her hand away. As we got nearer to the clinic, conversation tapered off and we were quiet except for my occasional directions, but it had more of a companionable silence to it and less of the awkwardness of the start of the drive. In a few minutes, we arrived at Demitri's office. She pulled up to the mossy sidewalk and I got out, then leaned my head back in.
"Thanks, Julie," I said. "You didn't have to do this."
"I don't mind. Well, not that much," she said, then smiled.
"I can get a cab back."
"That's stupid. What's it take two, three hours?"
"About three."
"I brought the transcripts with me," she said, pointing towards the back. Her tatty briefcase lay on the seat. "I'll find a Starbucks and come back at eleven."
"You really don't have to."
"Shut up and do your chemo, Marty," she said, then looked surprised, as though shocked she'd used my name.
"Well, when you put it that way."
"Look, the only nice things I get to do are for guys who hit other people with pipes. Would you let me do this thing, at least?"
I smiled. "Okay."
"Good," she said, then held her hand out. I reached across and grabbed it but it seemed stupid to shake, so I held it. She didn't pull back and we stayed that way for a minute. Her hand was cool and dry and felt small in mine. I imagined I could feel her pulse through the contact we'd made. We looked at each other and I got an odd sensation in my chest. Then she squeezed my hand and I shut the door. I stood on the sidewalk and watched her car roll away in the rain.
. . .
Three and a half hours later, the rain was still going strong and as we drove north on the George Washington Parkway, splitting gray puddles in half and throwing arcs of water into the other lane. We talked about neutral topics that kept us both safe, like the waiting times at airports and the price of houses. But I was swimming in the chemo funk and ended up paying more attention to the sound of her voice than the words. She had a low, late-night whiskey voice that I had thought contrived when she'd been behind the defender's table at Wheeler's trial, but now seemed perfectly natural. I sat and listened, grunting or throwing in single-syllable answers to keep her going. Traffic in the middle of the day was practically non-existent and we made it back to my place in half the time it had taken to drive down.
She parked at the curb, then turned to me. "Are you going to be okay?"
"I'll be fine," I said. "A nap, a shower, and it'll be like it never happened."
"I'm going to keep working on the transcripts. At this pace, I'm hoping to get through them in another day."
"Call me as soon as you find anything," I said. "Any time, day or night."
"I will."
I got out of the car and shut the door. She smiled and pulled away, leaving me on the curb. I watched her go, getting a curious knotted-gut sensation that had nothing to do with cancer or chemo or Michael Wheeler. Something fundamental had just changed, a corner in my life had been turned. But the rain can do that to you. The clean smell of water on pavement, the haze that tints everything in view; it makes everything seem dramatic. But I stood on the sidewalk anyway, the drops hitting me in the face, until long after her car's taillights winked and were gone.
. . .
Hours later, after a nap and a shower had brought me back to life, I peeked out the window in time to see Kransky and Amanda pulling up to the curb. We went through our street-watching routine and then the two of them came inside, talking all the way from the car to my house. I let them in and opened my mouth to add something to the conversation when my cell phone rang. I fished it out and walked out to the kitchen.
"Singer," I answered.
"It's Julie."
Already? "I don't have chemo again for a while, Counselor."
"Shut up and listen. How much money do you have in your wallet?"
"Depends. For what?"
"Enough to pay for dinner at a nice restaurant?"
"If there's a good reason, sure," I said.
Her voice was breathless, excited. "Start counting, then. Because I think I know where Michael Wheeler is."
Chapter Twenty-one
Julie refused to tell me anything over the phone, instead holding out for the big dinner. I agreed we could meet her at Fitzroy's, a steak place and Irish bar in a strip of shops called Pentagon Row. It was halfway for both of us. I hung up with her and went out to the living room to tell Kransky and Amanda.
"She knows where he is?" Kransky asked.
"That's what she says," I said. "Can you make it down there with us?"
He glanced at his watch. "If she gives us something useful by six. I have to do some work before they fire my ass."
I turned to Amanda. She looked some parts excited, some parts sick. "Progress," I said. "Finally."
She smiled. "And we get to go somewhere besides your house or school."
I told Kransky to give us some time to clean up. I shaved with elaborate care, then put on my best pair of jeans and an over-sized, zippered turtleneck that covered my gun in its waistband holster. I should've probably worn a blazer and an underarm rig but, for once, I didn't want to look or feel like a cop when I left the house. I had a good vibe going for the first time in weeks, though I tried not to notice that my jeans hung on me like a hangar and I was now using the last notch on my belt.
Amanda changed into black slacks and some kind of green, silky blouse thing that looked trendy and expensive. Sophisticated, knee-high boots put her over six feet and a black leather jacket gave her the look of a runway model on the prowl. We trooped out to the Town Car Kransky was driving. Amanda went to sit in the back, but I waved her up front. I wanted to be able to watch the streets and roads around us for a tail as Kransky drove. When we hit the highway, he stayed in the right lane so we could make a quick exit if we had to. It also let me face out so I could alternate between scanning the back and driver's side windows every ten or fifteen seconds. I tracked each car going back fifty yards, noting its make and model, if it sped up or hung back, if the driver seemed too careful.
I kept up the vigil the whole way, looking for the odd-car-out. It wasn't easy. Like everywhere in the DC Metro area, people drove like complete nutcases, passing on the far right, poking along in the passing lane, swerving for no good reason. Some decided to camp out in our blind spot; I watched these until I was sure they were idiots and not legitimate threats. After a few minutes, Kransky got off the highway and took a series of back streets, even stopping and sitting with the lights off at one point. We stayed there for five minutes while I peered at the passing cars.
Kransky looked at me in the rearview mirror.
"Looks good," I said. "Even for a couple of paranoiacs." We'd pulled more evasive moves than an FBI training course. If Wheeler could follow us through all that, he deserved to get us. Kransky put the car in gear and we made a beeline for the parking garage at P
entagon Row. Our precautions had doubled the time it usually takes to get there. Kransky drove around the garage before he found a corner spot under a light, then parked so badly he took up two stalls, ensuring plenty of empty space around the car when he came back.
Pentagon Row is a strange place. An artificial corridor forces pedestrians past shops and windows before opening up onto the place's most distinctive feature, a vast courtyard filled with a scene right out of a Currier and Ives print: wooden benches; gas lamps with wrought-iron curlicues; and an ice-skating rink. Shops and several restaurants, including Fitzroy's, faced the rink so that patrons could feel the ersatz magic. We stopped short of the courtyard to scan the crowd.
After a second, Kransky said, "Well, shit."
I concurred. The pre-fabricated cheer of the ice-skating rink had done its thing. There were easily two hundred people in the area. Three or four dozen were skating endless loops on the ice to show-tunes that tinkled out of pole-mounted speakers. The constant swirl of bodies and colors from the rink was distracting and made it hard for me to get a feel for the place. I let my eyes relax and, instead of people, concentrated on patterns and anomalies. Who was moving too fast, or not moving at all? Who stayed in one position and didn't participate in the normal nose-scratching, head-nodding habits that everyone everywhere uses when they interact with others? Nothing jumped out at me, but that didn't mean much.
Kransky glanced at me. "She beat us here?"
"Probably," I said. "You want to check the bar?"
"Give me a minute," he said, then headed for the entrance to Fitzroy's, a big oak door twined with Celtic knots and harps. A blast of noise--flatware on plates, conversation, laughter at the bar--spilled out into the courtyard as he went inside. I pulled back into another doorway and tugged at Amanda's sleeve.
"Are you that worried?" she asked as she followed me. "You two are acting like I'm the President. I mean, I appreciate it, but I don't want you to lose your minds looking out for me."
"Not worried," I said. "Cautious. If I were worried, we'd be in my basement with a shotgun pointed up the steps."
"But I thought you said we were safe? That he couldn't have followed us."
"He didn't."
"Then why the paranoia?"
"Because he could've followed Julie. Why look for the needle in the haystack when you could follow the haystack? If he's still thinking like a cop, he might be at the point where his best option is to latch onto someone close to the case and see where it takes him. We used to do it when we didn't have anything else to go on. When in doubt, ride it out. In this case, if he followed Julie, he'd hit the jackpot."
"So, you're cautious."
"We're cautious."
Kransky appeared at the door again and raised his chin, looking for us. I stepped out of the doorway. He saw me and gestured with his head. Come on. We crossed the courtyard, weaving our way in and out of couples and families out for the evening. As we walked, I kept my body between Amanda and the crowd while scoping out the darker corners of the courtyard.
She was right. It was extreme. We probably could've driven straight to the restaurant, parked on the street, and waltzed right in. Gone for a spin on the ice-rink. But I'd known for a while that I wasn't on my A-game. As bodyguards go, I was definitely sub-par. The only way to compensate for that was by going overboard. Skirting paranoia. Exaggerating every precaution. Doubling every effort. And even that might not be enough.
We reached the door and Kransky held it open for us, watching our backs as we went inside. The noise we'd heard before was doubled now, the raucous sound of a popular restaurant at prime time. I stumbled a bit as I stepped inside. The smells of a steakhouse going full throttle bore down on me, odors of spilled beer and grilled steaks and melted butter hitting me in the gut like a fist. I blinked and took a breath. Which was a mistake.
Kransky grabbed my elbow and yelled, "You okay?"
I nodded, waved him away. He raised his eyebrows, shrugged, then leaned in again. "Booth. In the back."
He led the way through the maze of tables, dodging waiters in white shirts and long black aprons. We steered clear of the crowd near the central bar, a glass, brass, and oak monstrosity the size of a bowling lane. Julie was in an odd nook where they'd stuffed a booth to maximize the seating, but which put us away from the blare of the bar and the ruckus coming from the kitchen. Her head, bowed as she dug through the papers in her attaché case, lifted as we came near. Excitement sparked in her eyes, though they dulled when she saw Kransky.
"Evening, Counselor," I said, hesitated, then slid in next to her, figuring that Kransky didn't want to sit near her and Amanda would want to face Julie while she talked. The booth was small and I took up more than my share. I tried to keep my distance, but even so my thigh was pushed up against hers from hip to knee. I looked across the table as the others sat down. Amanda's face was cautiously hopeful, Kransky's a flat mask. I squirmed in place, as disconcerted by my gun digging into my side as I was by the warmth of Julie's leg against mine.
"Detective," Julie said, inclining her head in Kransky's direction.
"Counselor."
Amanda looked from one to the other. "You know each other?"
"It's a small world down in the halls of justice," Kransky said.
"Detective Kransky and I have met," Julie said to Amanda. "Though usually on opposite sides of the bench. Sort of like now."
He smiled without humor. "I'm on duty in a half hour, Atwater, so you won't have to put up with me for long."
I turned in my seat to face her, but couldn't get much more than halfway, so I had to throw an arm along the back of the booth just to talk to her. "Now that the introductions are over, what did you find that's worth a steak dinner?"
Julie leaned forward. "I've had no luck the last few days, since I wasn't even sure what I was looking for. And I wasn't holding out much hope that whatever I found was useful, since even if I found an address or a phone number or something, it was going to be so old it would be useless."
I nodded.
"So, I checked the usual places and tracked down what I could find. The only thing that was relevant was Wheeler's apartment address at the time he was arrested, but it was in a building that was torn down in 2002. Likewise, phone numbers he gave were reassigned or out of service."
"A dead end."
"On that stuff. Then I wondered about my interviews with him leading up to the trial. It was my first major case, so I was paranoid about keeping notes and transcripts of everything, making sure I was not only above-board, but meticulous."
"What do you mean transcripts?" Kransky asked. "Did you tape the interviews?"
"Yes," Julie said simply. "He didn't know it, but after he turned creepy I wanted some kind of record. Inadmissible in court, but maybe enough to start an investigation if I needed it."
"What did you find?" Amanda asked.
"It was early on in my defense prep, when I was asking him about character witnesses, people who could put in a word for him. I also wanted to know who might crawl out of the woodwork and offer to testify for the prosecution. When I pressed him hard, he mumbled something about a sister."
"What?" I said, glancing at Kransky, who had straightened up in his seat. "Wheeler didn't have a sister."
"Well, there's someone he feels close enough to for him to call her that." She dug through the case next to her, then pulled out a thin sheaf of papers, which she handed to me. "Here."
My pulse jumped a notch or two, hitting me like a physical thing. I took the papers and turned them sideways so the other two could read. The type was old and faded from too much photocopying, but still legible and laid out like a play for two actors. I skimmed it, lost, until Julie pointed out the important part.
ATWATER: Mr. Wheeler, I need you to give me the names of anyone that could help us in your defense or harm us by helping the prosecution. Are you sure there isn't someone you're overlooking? Someone you haven't told me about?
WHEELER: [mum
bling]
ATWATER: What was that?
WHEELER: Layla.
ATWATER: Layla? Layla who, Mr. Wheeler?
WHEELER: Layla Green. My sister, lives south of here. I don't want her mixed up in this. Not that she'd help me out, but she's close enough to DC that the media might sniff her out. Make her life hell.
ATWATER: That's good. What else can you tell me? Would she help us?
WHEELER: Probably. But I don't want you to use her unless you absolutely have to.
I lifted my head from the paper and turned to Kransky. "You remember anything about a sister?"
He was already shaking his head. "Nothing. Never found any family."
"Any way we could've missed something like that?"
"No way," he said. "Granted, this"--he flicked at the transcript with a finger--"was twelve years ago. We didn't have shit for resources. What passed for a thorough background check in ‘96 would be an hour's work on the internet today. But, still, a sister? No way in hell we would've missed that."
"What's he talking about, then?"
"Maybe it's figurative?" Amanda said. "You know, my brother, my sister. Somebody close to him, but not necessarily related."
"Wheeler?" I said, making a face. "Stranger things have happened, I guess, but I don't see it."
"Could be he was just lying," Kransky said. "It'd fit his personality to say something stupid like this, even to his attorney."
"Julie, did you check the name at the time?" I asked. "Did he give you an address?"
She shook her head. "You can tell he didn't want me to contact her. He said he'd give me the information only if we needed it later. And we didn't, so I never got it. I did a quick search online when I found this transcript today, but came up empty."
I turned to Kransky, but he was already sliding out of the booth, reaching for his cell phone. He spoke while he dialed. "I have to go anyway. I'll call the name in, see what the system can find. Maybe we did miss it the first time around. If I get a hit, I'll get back to you."
A Reason to Live (Marty Singer1) Page 16
