by John Douglas
I let her go.
24
A large house seems even larger after a fight, when you’re alone with the echoes of an argument and the sound of your own voice in your head. I needed to hear someone with more troubles than I had, so I put Billie Holiday on the turntable.
My father’s pistol was digging into my back so I pulled it from my belt and laid it on the coffee table in front of me. I thought of Bower, the showboat, packing a .22. Those were meant for men who did their work quickly and quietly, without a lot of banter. Clowns like Bower needed something bigger to get the job done. Like explosives, or a cannon like this GI, slab-sided .45. If he’d had this pistol this morning, I wouldn’t have made it out of that elevator.
What had saved me was the book. I remembered the confetti blowing around the elevator car.
I went out to the Land Rover, pulled the book from under the driver’s seat, and carried it back to the house. The corner, near the spine, was torn off and the pages shredded. Another bullet had lodged into the final chapter and dimpled my photo, right above the left eye, on the rear cover. I sat staring at the book for a long time, then picked it up and opened it. The pages separated stiffly. Those holding the single bullet stuck together in a slab. I riffled the corners with my thumb, as I had that morning. The numbers flew by like gray frames of a film. I turned the book over and did it again. This time the gray sequence changed. Frames had been altered. I stopped at one of the page numbers. Page 373. The 7 had been circled in red ink. I looked at the other numbers. Several had also been circled in red. I wrote down the numbers in sequence, first back to front and then front to back. There were twelve numbers, all single digits. Too many for a phone number. I stared at the two strings, trying to see a pattern, a code. I pulled my cell phone and wrote down letters that corresponded to the numbers. After all the Scrabble combinations I could come up with, the closest thing I got to a message was something about a P-O-E-T’s body part. If this was a new type of Rorschach test, I was one disturbed individual. But why the operator’s zero instead of the 6, with its alphabeticO? Then I saw that the first three digits were 703, the area code for northern Virginia.
I pulled my cell phone and punched in the number. A man answered on the first ring. “Shady Grove Motel.”
I hung up. Five minutes later I was standing at a pay phone outside a diner. I called the number again.
“Shady Grove Motel.”
“Room twelve, please.”
“Hold on.”
The phone rang. A man answered, “Took you long enough to figure it out, Donovan. Jesus. I’m about to go crazy in here. They don’t even have cable porn.”
“Callahan?”
“No time, Donovan. I figure, I got about five minutes to check out of here before some asshole with my Makarov knocks on the door.”
“You think someone’s tapping your phone?”
“No, Donovan. Your phone.”
“I’m at a pay phone. It’s safe.”
The man laughed. “Nothing’s safe.”
“Why don’t you turn yourself in, Callahan? No one will harm you, I promise.”
“Oh, right. Like no one would harm that literary agent I had for about ten minutes. Blew his fucking brains out, man.”
“That was an accident.”
“Bullshit. They thought it was me, man.”
“Why would someone want to kill you?”
“Because I have something. It’s my ex-wife’s computer. Her laptop.”
“Oh.”
“It’s what they all want. Even that congressman, that smiling fuck.”
“You mean David Jason?”
“The guy who hired you. Right. Look, the way I see it, I give you this computer and then it’s you they come after. So you want it?”
“Yes. Sure.”
“Good. You know where that fish market is, at the end of the marina in D.C.?”
“You mean the one under the Fourteenth Street Bridge?”
“That’s the one. Be there tomorrow after three. Look for the squid.” He hung up.
I stood by the phone for a minute, the dead receiver in my hand. Then I drove home, checked each room of the house again, and when I felt comfortable that I was alone, poured myself a stiff single malt to soften the throb in my shoulder.
It was after eleven when a car pulled into the driveway and stopped by the garage. When Katie opened the door, she was staring down the barrel of my father’s .45.
“Jeez, Jake, is that any way to welcome a partner?”
“Sorry, Katie, but I’m a little on edge.”
“What the hell happened to your shoulder? And your neck?” She touched the bandage under my ear and her fingers warmed my skin. I wanted to hold her and let her warmth take away some of the day’s pain.
“Jake.” Rob stood out on the sidewalk, in the shadows. “I came to say I was sorry. You know, about taking a swing at you.”
I saw the encouragement in Katie’s eyes, something I couldn’t resist, so I said, “That’s okay, Rob. I’m sorry, too.” We shook hands.
“Trevor’s on his way,” Katie said, “and Jerry and Dom should be here soon. We all flew up inThe Broken Wing.”
“How? I thought we were grounded?”
“Frederick, Mrs. De Vries’s man, sent us enough money to refuel and fly home. By the way, what is Frederick to Mrs. De Vries? Is he her butler? Driver? Manager? Boyfriend? What?”
“He’s her majordomo,” I said, “and our angel. Anything else is none of my business.”
Katie and Rob sat on the stools at the kitchen counter and let me pour the Scotch, one-handed.
“So, what happened to your wing?”
“A guy shot me,” I said, coming to enjoy the surprise on people’s faces when I told them. “Shot me twice.”
Trevor stuck his head in the door. “Who shot who?”
“Someone shot Jake,” Katie said.
“Jake, you all right?”
“Why wouldn’t Jake be all right?” Dom came in carrying a pizza box.
“Someone shot him,” Trevor said.
“Where?”
“In the parking garage in Crystal City,” I said.
“I meant, where on your body?” Dom said.
“Whose body?” Jerry came in carrying a bag full of Chinese takeout. Up until then, I hadn’t realized how hungry I was.
“My body,” I said.
Jerry stopped, looked at me. “Jake, what happened to you?”
“I was shot.”
“Twice,” said Trevor, taking the takeout.
“Where?”
“In Crystal City,” Katie said, getting out plates and glasses.
“How come everybody knows about this but me?” Jerry said.
“I don’t know anything,” Dom said.
“We just got here ourselves,” Trevor said. “So tell us, Jake, what happened?”
“I was shot.”
“Twice,” Jerry said. “We know that much.”
“Well, have a seat and I’ll tell you about the car bomb, too.” It took the next hour, with interruptions for drinks, more chicken, and to order a pizza, to tell the story, and to show off my wounds. “One grazed my neck,” I said.
“An inch in,” Dom said, “and it would have pierced the jugular.”
“The other,” I said, “bounced off my clavicle and went through my trapezius muscle. Came out the other side.”
“Bower is a busy man,” Trevor said.
“What do you mean?”
Katie opened her notebook. “The prostitute who was killed at the beach was a Bridget Barton, from Gainesville, Florida. Her prints match the prints found at the motel where William Rush was killed. Bridget’s address was twelve Magnolia Lane, University View trailer park in Gainesville.”
“Bower’s last known address,” I said. “She was living with Bower.”
“Rush and Barton were both killed with the same .357,” Dom added.
“And we found fibers from the first motel in the
second motel,” Jerry added, “plus, hair from a wig we found at the first motel matches a wig we found in the victim’s luggage.”
“Weller got the phone records from the motel in Durham and the one on the coast. One number came up in common. An apartment in Durham. Guess who rented that apartment.”
“Bower?” Jerry said.
“Not under that name,” Katie said. “But we ran his prints, and it was him. Weller showed Bower’s picture around the neighborhood and got a confirmed ID.”
“The phone records from that apartment led us to the SWAT cop who killed Sid Whare,” Trevor said.
“And he’s missing,” Katie said. “Weller and Snead found out he’d had money problems right up until the day before yesterday. Suddenly, he has ten thousand dollars wired to his account from a bank in the Caribbean.”
“Wait a minute.” Rob pressed his palms against his temples. “My head’s starting to hurt.”
“It’s simple,” Katie said, pulling one last shrimp from the bottom of a carton with her chopsticks. “Bower pays the prostitute to take William Rush—”
“The researcher,” Trevor said.
“—to the motel in Durham where Bower kills him. Bower then kills the prostitute and hires the SWAT shooter to kill Callahan, except Callahan’s hired an agent, Sid Whare, and Sid gets popped in Callahan’s place.”
Trevor said, “And we have witnesses who put Bower in Callahan’s neighborhood.”
“But what about the two people in Alexandria?” Rob said. “If Callahan didn’t kill them, and Bower was in North Carolina, who murdered Mrs. Callahan and her government-issue boyfriend?”
“I don’t know.” I shrugged and it hurt like hell.
“Can I get you something?” Katie put her hand on my unhurt shoulder.
“I have some Percocet here.” I fished the bottle out of my jacket pocket.
“I’ll get you some water.” Katie took away my Scotch.
“What we haven’t talked about,” I said, “is who is behind this.” The team looked somber and nodded. “You all know who I mean.”
“Napoleon,” Dom said.
“But why, Jake?” Trevor had found the one thing that indicated I might be wrong. “I know you think Napoleon’s the only one who would play games like planting your prints at a murder scene, but even if that’s true, why in God’s name would he hire a clown like Bower?”
“I’ve been wondering that myself,” Katie said, handing me a glass of water and two Percocets. “Bower should have never shown himself to you the day before he bombs your car. That’s amateur night.”
“And,” Dom said, “he comes at you today with a gun, when all of his experience is in explosives.” Dom shook his head. “It doesn’t add up. Napoleon would hire a pro. That’s what makes him so dangerous.”
“I know,” I said. “I’ve been thinking about this and I think Napoleon has contracted this out to someone else, someone who might not have all of his usual connections.”
“Somebody with a limited criminal Rolodex,” Jerry said.
Trevor nodded slowly. “It could be. But you could also think it’s Napoleon because that’s what you always think.”
“Yeah,” I admitted, “I thought of that, too.”
“So, what do we do now?” Dom carefully crossed his legs, pulling at the crease so his pants wouldn’t bag at the knee.
“I don’t know if there is awe,” I said. “The AG pulled what little authority we had. And there’s no money to pay you guys.”
Dom snugged his tie. “We were talking about that on the flight up.”
Katie said, “We each have money saved. We’re prepared to ride this out as long as it takes.”
I looked around the living room at my team of Broken Wings: Dom, the impeccable dresser and the man who spoke eloquently for the dead. Jerry, who had cataloged every tire type, fabric swatch, and hair sample in the FBI files. Trevor, a disciplined analyst you could count on to watch your back when things got bad. And Katie, a woman who didn’t compete in a man’s world because, as she put it, “the only person I care about beating is the person I was yesterday.” It’s what made her the best there is.
Combined, these four were an investigative team second to none, in or out of the Bureau. I was proud to call them colleagues, and even prouder to call them friends.
Trevor said, “So, what do we do now, Jake?”
I swallowed the Percocets with a gulp of water, then said, “Let’s go get the bad guys.”
25
Katie would go to Gainesville and see what shook loose around Bower and Bridget Barton’s place. Jerry would check in with his colleagues in Alexandria for information from that crime scene. Dom would speak to the ME who had performed the autopsies. I told Trevor to take some time with his family. He nodded, knowing without asking why it was important.
“I can run all of Bower’s known associates through the computer at home,” he said.
“Good. And speaking of computers, is there anyone we can trust to break into Janice Callahan’s laptop?”
That caught them by surprise.
Katie blinked. “You have Janice Callahan’s laptop?”
“Not yet. But I will tomorrow. But we need someone who can get by its security.”
Rob said, “I know someone.”
I shook my head. “No, Rob, although I appreciate the offer. You’re still with the Bureau and doing this kind of favor for us won’t exactly earn you any points right now.”
Jerry said he had a guy he trusted at Langley.
“CIA?”
Jerry nodded. “He’s all right. I trust him.”
“Great.”
Trevor said, “Are you going to tell us how you’ve come by this computer, or do we have to read about it in your next book?”
I told them about the phone call. “I’m meeting him tomorrow at that fish market next to the marina.”
“You need backup, Jake,” Trevor said.
“I can do it,” Katie jumped in.
“No, I want you in Florida ASAP. And Trevor, I want you close to your wife and kids for a few days. This is not negotiable. I’ll be fine.”
Trevor reached into his jacket, pulled out his SIG-Sauer, and offered it to me, grip first. “Since the cops have your .38, take this.”
“No, no thanks. I’ve got my own.” I pulled the .45 from my belt.
Trevor took it, ejected the magazine, cleared the chamber and sighted on a small china figurine at the far side of the room. “Man, this is a museum piece. Real live Colt 1911, government-issue. Sweet.” He pushed the magazine back into the grip and handed me the pistol. “You got a carry permit for the District?”
“Not anymore.”
“Yeah,” Trevor said, “that’s what I thought. Last thing you need is to be caught with that in D.C. without a permit.”
“You have an idea?”
Trevor raised an eyebrow. “You know I do.” He punched a number into his cell phone and, when his party answered, said, “It’s Trevor…. Yes, sir.” He listened. “I know it’s late…. Yeah, I got a watch. Let me look at it…. Uh-huh. Mine says Patek Philippe on it, what does yours say?…That’s what I thought.” Trevor listened again, scowling. “I won this fair and square, Judge. It’s not my fault you back a full house when I’m holding four of a kind.” We could hear laughter on the other end. “Listen, I need a favor. You know Jake Donovan?…Uhhuh. Right…. Deep shit, yeah. That’s why I called you. He needs a shield…. Uh-huh. Tomorrow…. No, no pay. Right…. So, swear him in and let him go on vacation.” Trevor listened for a long time, pulled out his notebook, jotted down a few lines, and finally said, “Brother, I owe you…. Right…. What’s that?” Trevor laughed. “Oh, no,I keep the watch…. Right…. Uh-huh. And, Judge, don’t let the man get you down. Oh, that’s right, youare the man.” More laughter, they made their good-byes, and Trevor hung up.
He handed me the page from his notebook. “Go there tomorrow morning and by lunch you’ll be a detective in the Metro Poli
ce. Congratulations, Jake, you’re getting a gold shield.”
The next day the judge with the bad sense to play poker with Trevor introduced me to a young woman who walked me through the paperwork, and by lunchtime, just as Trevor had promised, I raised my right hand and was sworn in as a detective in the Metro Police.
By two-thirty, I parked the Land Rover in the parking lot of the fish market and got out, the gold shield in my pocket and the .45 hidden inside my sling.
With the Fourteenth Street Bridge high overhead, and tons of sculpted marble within walking distance, the humble fish market sat on the Potomac. It was a square chunk of land, wide as a football field and covered in asphalt, where cabinet members rubbed elbows with taxi drivers and clerks. Covered barges wallowed in the water on three sides, enclosing the space. These barges, tied up forever, had been so completely converted into fish shops that it was hard to tell where they began and the land ended.
This was where local restaurants, good and bad, bought their seafood; where the recently singled staffers found that perfect piece of halibut; and where the intern, fresh from Smith, found the octopus for sushi negri that horrified her parents from Tulsa.
This is also where I was to meet Callahan. He was supposed to be carrying a laptop whose contents, according to him, were worth at least five people’s lives.
“Look for the squid,” he’d said.
I strolled through the afternoon crowd, looking into the barges below me, their counters crowded, two and three deep. Sea bass and yellowfin, flounder and skate, stared blankly up from iced beds. Mountains of oysters and clams waited for the bag, the boil, or the knife. Some counters served up fresh chowder or stew, poor boys, shrimp, clam strips, or raw oysters. The air was a mix of fish, steam, mollusks, marina water, and diesel.
Look for the squid.
It was shoulder to shoulder in front of the steamed-crab station. One of the men behind the counter, enjoying his work, flirted with the women. “Honey, you don’t know how to cook these. Jack come home with you, show you how it’s done. You ain’t never had it done right till Jack do it.” He filled a paper sack with crabs. The women smiled.
