by Stuart Woods
“But Holly, we’ve only been in the building for a couple of weeks; it’s brand-new. How could he associate it with us?”
“Maybe he saw someone he knew at the Agency going in or out,” Holly said.
“Or,” Lance said, interrupting, “maybe he researched the address on the Agency’s computers.”
“But we’ve locked him out of the computers,” Irene Foster said. “We’ve changed all the log-in codes.”
“Then I think that puts the ball back in your court at Langley,” Lance said. “Maybe the codes should be changed again.”
“Thank you, Lance,” Kate said, “and thank you, too, Holly; you’ve been a great help.”
“Thank you, Director,” Holly said.
Kate turned back to the group. “Call technical services and change the codes again. Irene, there are still a lot of people down there who knew Teddy. That would seem a logical place to start your internal investigation.”
“Yes, Director,” Irene said.
THIRTY-THREE
LANCE CABOT AND KERRY SMITH were in a meeting in the twelfth-floor conference room when a call came in. Lance picked up the phone. “Yes?”
“Director Robert Kinney for you or Agent Smith,” the operator said.
Lance pressed the speaker button. “Director, this is Lance Cabot; I’m here with Agent Smith.”
“Afternoon,” Kerry said. “Something has come up. Kerry, you remember the hangar at Manassas Airport where Teddy Fay had his workshop.” It wasn’t a question.
“Yes, sir,” Kerry replied.
“This morning we had a call from the airport manager down there. Apparently, Fay had a second hangar, where he kept the Cessna he blew up, and the manager found it on a routine check this morning. There’s a lot of stuff in the hangar, but the man says he didn’t touch anything. I’d like you—and Lance, if he likes—to take a couple of people, fly down there and process the scene, see what you can come up with.”
“All right,” Kerry said. “I’m on my way. Will you send a tech team from there to meet us? I suppose it will be about…three hours, before I can get there.”
“Director,” Lance said, “if it’s all right, I’m going to let Kerry handle this; I have a lot on my plate here.”
“Yeah, I heard about the Said thing,” Kinney said. “Send whoever you like.”
“Thank you, sir.” Lance punched off the call. “Kerry, why don’t you take Holly and Ty with you?”
“Okay. Do we have a chopper yet?”
“Not our own; we have a service that operates out of the East Side Heliport. I’ll have someone call and book one.”
HOLLY LOOKED OUT the window of the helicopter and saw Manassas Airport as they approached. It was a quiet little field nestled in the Virginia countryside. “Teddy had a workshop here?” she asked Kerry.
“Yeah. He also kept an RV and a souped-up Mercedes sedan there, too. He crashed the Mercedes, running from the scene after he killed the Speaker of the House and abandoned the car in a parking lot nearby. We don’t know what happened to the RV, and we didn’t know he had a second hangar. Apparently, he kept his airplane there. I should have ordered a search of all the hangars on the field.”
The chopper settled onto a taxiway on the side of the field opposite Dulles Aviation, the FBO that serviced local and visiting aircraft. Two rows of hangars took up most of the space there. A man in a warm coat met them and introduced himself as the airport manager.
“Your other people are waiting in a big van over by the hangar,” he said. “Come on, I’ll walk you over there.”
At the hangar, Kerry met the head of the tech team. “Are we worried about booby traps?” the man asked.
“I don’t think so,” Kerry said. “The manager has already been in there today, and he’s still with us. You take your people in first and establish a perimeter around whatever evidence is there, so we can get out of this cold.”
The man nodded and signaled for his three assistants to follow him. He opened the door of the hangar and looked around, then turned back to Kerry. “You can come in,” he said; “everything is down at the other end.”
Holly followed Kerry into the hangar, which was brightly lit. She stood just inside the door and waited for the head of the tech team to do a quick survey of the items in the hangar. He came back after a few minutes.
“Okay, we’ve got tire tracks of an airplane, Michelin tires, tricycle gear. That’s consistent with the Cessna 182 RG Fay was flying, until he blew it up. We’ve also got a set of Goodyear Wrangler tracks. That’s a truck tire often used on SUVs and RVs, and the width of the vehicle is consistent with an RV or a rental truck. When we have precise measurements, we should know which. There are also a lot of miscellaneous tools and scraps of materials.”
“Check everything for prints,” Kerry said. “To this day, we don’t have Fay’s prints, not even from his house in Maine.”
“How does somebody not leave prints in his own house?” Holly asked.
“We think he cleaned up the place before he left the last time. He had only been back for a few minutes when we went in. His house in the Virginia suburbs was also clean of prints, the first time I’d ever seen a house with no prints at all.”
“Yeah, I was the tech team leader on that one,” the tech guy said, “and I’d never seen that either. This guy is really something. By the way, I won’t put this in writing, but it’s my guess that the truck or RV was driven out of here some time after the airplane left.”
“Any idea how recently?”
“Days, is my guess. Why don’t you folks get a cup of coffee or something and come back in, say, two hours?”
Kerry nodded and led them out of the building. The airport manager drove them to the terminal, and they got sandwiches from the machines in the pilots’ lounge.
TWO HOURS LATER, they were back in the hangar. “Tell me about it,” Kerry said.
The tech team leader laughed. “Teddy’s done it again: not a print anywhere, and believe me, we’ve looked everywhere. The guy is a neat freak, paranoid to a turn.”
“Is there anything at all interesting here?” Kerry asked.
“We’ve determined that the vehicle was an RV, consistent in size with one manufactured by Winnebago. If you find it, we can match it to the tracks in here. One other thing, we found this.” He held up a small plastic bag with an object inside.
“Looks like a computer chip,” Kerry said.
“It is; automotive. It’s from the central computer of an SUV, a stock-standard chip, no alterations. Can you associate that with anything?”
Kerry thought for a minute. “Yes,” he said. “The Supreme Court justice killed in the automobile accident.”
“Right. The chip we recovered from that vehicle had been altered to reverse the commands sent from the onboard computer to operate the automatic stability control. If the car went into a skid, for instance, the ASC would cause one or more wheels to brake in order to correct the skid. The replacement chip did the opposite, causing it to skid even more. Fucking ingenious.”
“Well, anyway,” Kerry said, “it lets us tie Teddy to the death of Mr. Justice What’s-his-name.”
“It would, if we had found any material evidence that Teddy had ever been in this hangar,” the tech guy said. “Without prints or other evidence, we can’t prove he was here.”
“Better circumstantial evidence than no evidence at all,” Kerry said.
“If you say so,” the tech guy replied. “But this Teddy is really something, you know?”
“I know,” Kerry replied.
Holly knew, too.
THIRTY-FOUR
HOLLY GOT BACK SHORTLY before dark and took Daisy for a run, cutting over to Park Avenue. She liked the broad boulevard, with its garden down the center and its elegant apartment buildings. She wondered what a small apartment on Park cost, and if there were any small apartments. She could afford to buy something, if it wasn’t too outrageous, and she was getting tired of living in what
amounted to a dormitory. There was almost no privacy, unless she locked her door, and if she did that, she felt claustrophobic in her small room.
Back at the Barn, she picked up a New York Times at the front desk and took it upstairs with her. After feeding Daisy, she took a shower and stretched out on her bed with the paper. She came to the classifieds and, on a whim, turned to the real estate section. Almost immediately, an ad caught her eye:
Park Ave. 60s, est. sale, Lg 1 BR
w/wbf, sep. dr. fur. avbl. 650K.
She called the number, got a woman immediately and made an appointment for the following morning.
HOLLY ARRIVED AT THE BUILDING, which turned out to be a large, limestone-fronted edifice with a uniformed doorman who found a cookie for Daisy. He called the apartment and told Holly to take the elevator to the twelfth floor, apartment A. She was met by a well-dressed woman in her forties, whom she assumed was the real estate agent.
“I’m Clarissa Bonner,” she said, offering a hand. “Oh, what a handsome dog!” She stroked Daisy’s head. “I grew up with a Doberman, and they’re just lovely. Come and see the apartment.”
Holly followed her around the rooms, which were surprisingly large, with high ceilings. The place was furnished in a rudimentary way, but didn’t look lived-in. When they had seen the whole place and talked about the building, Mrs. Bonner offered her coffee, and they sat down in the living room in front of the wbf, which was blazing cheerfully away.
“Let me tell you what’s happened,” Mrs. Bonner said. “My mother had an eighteen-room apartment covering this whole floor, and when she died last year, we divided it, selling the larger one and keeping this one as a pièd-a-terre, just a place to sleep when we drive in from Connecticut for the theater. We kept some of her furniture, too. Then my husband was transferred to San Francisco, so we put it on the market and found a buyer almost immediately. Unfortunately, when she went through the application process, the co-op board turned her down. Her mother, a wealthy woman, was going to cosign the lease with her, but she declined to show the board her tax returns, so that was that. This happened forty-eight hours ago, and we have to be in San Francisco next week. We contacted the two other people who had made offers, but they had both bought other properties, so it’s back on the market, and you’re the first to see it.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know anything about how a co-op works,” Holly said.
“It’s like this: the building is incorporated, the corporation owns the building and leases the apartments. Each lessee owns a number of shares in the corporation, corresponding to the square footage of his apartment. Co-op boards can be very picky, but ours is generally all right. You would have to demonstrate a net worth and income that would show that you could pay the monthly maintenance, and you’d have to meet with the board.”
“How do they feel about pets?”
“No problem with that, as long as your dog is well-behaved, and Daisy certainly appears to be.”
Holly’s mind was racing. She loved the apartment, and she had a feeling Mrs. Bonner was desperate to sell, given her circumstances.
“Mrs. Bonner,” she said. “I believe I could demonstrate to the board that I’m qualified, and I’d like to make an offer right now, if we can agree. What is the lowest price you would accept for the apartment, furnished, as is?”
Mrs. Bonner didn’t bat an eye. “Six hundred thousand dollars,” she said, “if you can pay cash; I can’t wait for a mortgage to be approved. I have to tell you that if the place had a second bedroom we’d get a million dollars more for it; that was our mistake when we divided.”
Holly offered her hand. “Done,” she said. “What do I do now?”
Mrs. Bonner went to a desk, opened a drawer and pulled out a manila file. “Here is the application. I urge you to answer every question fully and to supply copies of your bank and brokerage statements and your tax returns. The board is meeting again the day after tomorrow, for the last time before Christmas, and I think it would be a good idea if you brought Daisy along to your interview.”
“Is there a broker involved?” Holly asked.
“No, you can give me a check for ten percent as earnest money, and there is a standard purchase contract in the folder.”
Holly wrote the check. Mrs. Bonner filled in the blanks in the contract, and Holly signed. “I’ll have the application and the other documentation to you by the end of the day.” She stood up and offered her hand again.
“It’s a pleasure doing business with you,” Mrs. Bonner said. “Oh, I forgot to tell you: the monthly maintenance is twelve hundred and fifty dollars, and fifty percent is tax deductible. Oh, and another benefit is that the building owns a garage around the corner, and your monthly rate will only be two hundred dollars, if you have a car. That’s less than half what you would pay if you had to use a commercial garage.”
Holly hit the street, practically at a run. As she left the building she collided with a man in a sheepskin coat, a tweed hat and big sunglasses. “Oh, excuse me,” she said.
“Quite all right,” the man replied. He gave Daisy a pat. “Beautiful dog.”
“Thank you.” She got a cab back to her building and went looking for Lance. She had the money, all right, but she couldn’t list all the cash in the Caymans account on her financial statement.
HOLLY EXPLAINED EVERYTHING to Lance. “So, do I use my own name? Do I tell them who I work for? Is my two-million-dollar net worth going to be enough to satisfy the co-op board?”
“Yes, use your own name, but not the name of your employer,” Lance said. “We have a front outfit that is, ostensibly, in a private investment firm at this address. We’ll make you a senior vice president. How much are you paying for the apartment?”
“Six hundred thousand.”
“I don’t know whether or not two million will do it with the board, so we’ll set up a paper account in your name with the firm and show a list of stocks and a balance of, say, six million? We’ll produce a monthly statement for you, and you can include that with your application, and we can supply you with three years’ tax returns, too, federal and state. When you’re questioned by the board about your job, say that the firm manages the money of one extended family, whose name you may not divulge. I’ll get you some letters of recommendation from real people, too. Our security people will have to vet the building, of course, but I don’t anticipate a problem with that; it’s the kind of building they like.”
“Thank you so much, Lance; I really appreciate this.”
“Take some time off and get all the paperwork together and make your financial arrangements. I’ll set up everything else and get your letters of recommendation before the day is out.”
TWO DAYS LATER, Holly, dressed in a black Armani suit, rang a doorbell on the top floor of the apartment building, and was escorted into the living room by a maid. There were a dozen men in the room, all in business suits. Holly shook their hands and allowed Daisy to say hello.
“Ms. Barker,” the president of the board said, “we’ve reviewed your application, and we thank you for completing it so quickly. Your financial qualifications are excellent and your recommendations are impressive.”
“Thank you.”
Many of our shareholders have dogs, but I’m sure you can understand that we insist on their being well-behaved.” He glanced at Daisy, lying quietly at Holly’s feet. “Your dog doesn’t seem to be a problem.”
“Daisy is very well trained.”
“Does she bark much?”
“Never, unless asked to.”
“Dobermans have a reputation as rather dangerous guard dogs. Is there any of that in Daisy?”
“If I were attacked, Daisy would take serious exception, but she would never harm any person or animal, except in those circumstances.” That was not entirely true. Daisy would be happy to rip the man’s throat out if commanded.
“Very good. What sort of work is it, exactly, that you do?”
“I’m a senior vice pres
ident of Morgan and Bailey, a private investment firm.”
“And what sort of clients do you work with?”
“We handle the investments for one extended family—a couple of dozen members—and we advise them both as a group and individually.”
“The family name?”
“I’m afraid that must remain confidential,” she said. “It’s a condition of my employment.”
“I understand.”
Twenty minutes later she was out of there, and an hour after that she received a phone call from Mrs. Bonner.
“I’m delighted to tell you the board has approved your application,” she said. “I must say, you got everything together breathtakingly fast. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
Neither had Holly. “I’m ready to close whenever you like,” she said.
“Tomorrow, ten a.m. at my lawyer’s office.” She gave Holly the address.
“Can you give me the firm’s trust account number? I’ll wire the funds today.”
“Yes, I have it right here.” Mrs. Bonner read out the number.
“I’ll see you tomorrow morning then,” she said. She hung up and hugged Daisy. “We have a home, baby!” Daisy approved, wagging all over. Holly called her broker, told him to sell five hundred and forty thousand dollars of her investments and wire the money to New York.
THIRTY-FIVE
TEDDY WALKED INTO HIS APARTMENT, took off his coat and leaned against the wall. He was sweating. He went into the kitchen and got himself a glass of ice water and sat down. He was seeing way too much of this Holly woman, and the string of coincidences was driving him crazy.
First, the opera, then the record shop, now coming out of an apartment building a block and a half away. He habitually maintained a high level of paranoia, as a means of survival, and alarm bells were ringing all over the place.
