Nothing to Hide (A Roland March Mystery Book #3)

by Bertrand, J. Mark

  “March,” she says. “March.” She clutches my arms in her hands, shaking me, looking up at me like she’s gone crazy. “Are you listening to yourself? Are you serious? Don’t you get it?”

  I grab her wrists and pull her hands away. She tries to twist free, but I hold her.

  “Get control of yourself,” I say.

  “Let go.”

  “Bea, I mean it.”

  Her shoulders slump and the mask falls over her features again. “I’m fine. Let me go.”

  I release her wrists.

  “We’re going in there,” she says.

  After a long, silent standoff, that’s what we do. There’s no way to stop her, and I need her cooperation. Without that, I don’t have a next step. If I go along with her this time, the forced entry will hopefully burn up some of her rage and I can reason with her before we move on. She gives the door a final kick while I look on.

  We clear the house, which is unoccupied, then work our way back through the various rooms. While all the furniture, appliances, and clothing are still in place, there are no computers or phones. The garage is empty, too. Nothing I see suggests this is anything other than the home of a lone woman in her fifties with a fondness for her grandchildren. There are even toys strewn across the living room floor.

  “Look at this,” Bea says, beckoning me over to an upright piano tucked against the wall. On top, a line of framed photographs, mostly of the two kids I recognize from the ex-wife’s apartment. There are two gaps in the row. Missing photos. “There used to be one of Brandon here. And there was one of him and Miranda with the children.”

  She finds a pack of plastic bags in the kitchen and starts filling them with random small objects, anything that might yield fingerprints or trace evidence. Then she goes into the master bathroom in search of combs and brushes for stray hair.

  “We’re going to find out if Hilda’s in the system,” she says. “Maybe we can get a real name on her.”

  Given the fact that her supposed son was in the database, I seriously doubt that. But it’s worth a try. When she’s finished, we go out the way we came in, pulling the busted door shut. She stores her samples in the trunk of my car.

  Back on the road, I ask if she wants to talk.

  “What I want to do is find him,” she says.

  We hit a series of locations, places she thinks he might be: a chain of bars and restaurants and cigar lounges along the Sam Houston Tollway, Hempstead, and Tidwell. She shows his picture around, but gets nothing. She has me drive slowly through the parking lot of several hotels along the Northwest Freeway without explaining why she’d expect to find him in these particular spots. None of this is likely to bring results, of course, but I’m humoring her in the hope that once she simmers down, she’ll be forthcoming with information.

  “He’s going to be anywhere associated with his old life,” I finally tell her.

  “You think I don’t realize that?”

  “What next, then?”

  She thinks it over. “We should have a talk with Miranda.”

  “And tell her what? Her husband’s not dead? I think she’s the last person who’s gonna have a line on his whereabouts.”

  “I don’t know,” she says. “He loved those kids.”

  She turns her face back to the window, elbow on the sill, her balled fist pressed against her lips. Then it all catches up to her and she doubles over. She doesn’t cry, doesn’t sob out loud. She just tenses up like a woman in labor, only instead of giving birth, she’s trying to hold something inside. The gravity of the betrayal, the weight of her own misjudgment—whatever it is, she’s overcome. I put a hand on her back.

  “I want to help you fix this,” I say, “but I need you to work with me.”

  She sits up, burying her face in her hands. “I can’t do this. Take me back.”

  “Bea, I need you.”

  “Just drive me back. I can’t think. I can’t even breathe.”

  I point the car in the direction of the Water Wall, trying to argue her out of it the whole way. She’s determined, though. Whatever force was driving her to the brink, overcoming all her instincts toward secrecy and self-preservation, now it’s gone. Perhaps she’s even a little scared of herself, afraid of the consequences of what she’s learned and what she’s done.

  Just when I think I’ve lost her, pulling up to the curb behind her car, she turns in her seat and touches my arm.

  “If I find anything, I will let you know,” she says. “You have to promise me to do the same. And remember: you’ll wreck us both if you’re not careful who you talk to.”

  “What’s my next step?” I ask.

  But she doesn’t know. “If you could figure out who that John Doe really is, it might help. Or get an ID on the guy you killed.”

  “They won’t let me near the case. Is there anything you’re not telling me? Anything that could help?”

  “I’ve told you everything I know.”

  “What about Nesbitt? What’s his connection?”

  “I don’t know who that is.”

  Near as I can guess, she seems to be telling the truth. I fill her in on the shooting death of the self-proclaimed CIA agent and the fact that John Doe’s finger was found pointing toward the scene of his death.

  “I don’t have a clue,” she says.

  “Well, see what you can find out.”

  She agrees. And she takes the bagged samples out of the trunk, too, suggesting she hasn’t abandoned the effort altogether. She just needs time, I tell myself. Once she’s had a chance to process everything I told her and figure out a way to collaborate without jeopardizing herself, she’ll come around.

  ———

  My first partner, Stephen Wilcox, ended the relationship by leaving Homicide for Internal Affairs. We’d been through a lot by then. He had accompanied me on my early successes and then, following a personal tragedy of mine, watched my gradual decline. As my work became sloppy, he covered for me, but when he discovered my extracurricular vigilantism—nothing illegal, though I was pursuing some private vendettas at the expense of my casework—he decided he’d finally had enough. While he never came out and accused me of misconduct, he was pretty free with the accusations in private, especially among his new colleagues in IAD.

  Over the years, as I’ve regained my balance, I have also made efforts to reconcile with Wilcox. The problem is, no matter how friendly and forgiving he seems, the old frustration is always bubbling under the surface. He can’t let go of it. As a result, I try to give him as much space as I can.

  As he pulls into his driveway and sees me parked along the curb, the brakes on his Land Rover light up. He gets out, leaving the motor running and door open, bounding toward me with tight-lipped determination. I buzz my window down.

  “What do you want?” he asks.

  “Can we talk?”

  He glances up and down the street, like he’s afraid the neighbors will notice. “You really think that’s a good idea? There’s an ongoing investigation into your shooting.”

  “You’re not on that.”

  “No,” he admits, “but I still think it’s a bad idea. If it’s professional, I can’t help you. And if it’s personal . . .”

  “Hey, Stephen,” I say, “last time we met, you were all worked up about the Fauk case. You ever hear how that turned out?”

  He sighs. “Yes, I did.”

  When we were partners a decade ago, we made headlines by putting Donald Fauk away for murdering his wife. Last December, it looked like that conviction was going to unravel, and instead of backing me up, Wilcox was only too happy to throw me under the bus. In the end, I not only kept Fauk behind bars, but I managed to hand the Harris County Sheriff’s Department the name of a serial killer who’d been flying under the radar. The detective who broke that case, Roger Lauterbach, went on record giving me the credit. And I’ve never heard a squeak of apology out of Wilcox in all this time.

  “It gets old after a while,” I say. “Me offeri
ng a hand of friendship, you spitting on it. We’re on the same side, whether you realize that or not. It would be nice if you’d at least hear me out before pitching a fit.”

  “Fine,” he says. “Let me get my keys.”

  Instead of inviting me inside, where I might be seen by his wife and kids, Wilcox has me drive in circles around the neighborhood while we talk. I ask him what he knows about Andrew Nesbitt’s shooting, and even though he didn’t conduct the investigation himself, he seems very well-informed. I imagine that one received plenty of airtime around the IAD water cooler. And since it’s old news and I haven’t been forthcoming about the nature of my interest, he can’t see the harm in humoring me by answering a few questions.

  “That one’s gonna go down in the records as one of the strangest incidents in HPD history. You would not believe how many people behind the scenes are divided over it. This Nesbitt guy wasn’t some random crank. He was well known by people in law enforcement. He was on the payroll of a couple of the big energy companies, where he did some very hush-hush consulting. As far as anybody in this town was concerned, before the night of the shooting he was exactly what he said he was: a retired CIA officer. In fact, a pretty senior one.”

  “But they denied that after he was dead?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Which doesn’t mean anything, right? They always deny it.”

  He shakes his head. “It’s not like when a spy is caught in enemy territory. There are plenty of retired intelligence people around, and the government doesn’t deny their existence. I mean, if they did, it would be pretty hard for these people to cash in. And believe me, they do. All those contacts built up over the years really pay dividends when you go into the private sector.”

  “You sound bitter.”

  He laughs. “In this case, though, the government went out of its way to disavow the man. It wasn’t just a question of saying ‘We can neither confirm nor deny.’ They had people on the ground. There was a liaison to the investigation. All these retired intel folks who’d been telling us before that Nesbitt was a pillar of the community started coming forward to recant. They’d all been duped, they said. Even the ones who’re on record saying they’d served with him in the past. The end result was, pretty much everybody in Internal Affairs is convinced the dude was a spook.”

  “And what about the uniforms who shot him? The video was released, and there are people on the Internet who think it was a hit.”

  “Yeah,” he says. “People are crazy.”

  “There’s nothing to it?”

  “What do you think?” He laughs again. “Sure, a couple of HPD patrolmen are hiring themselves out as underworld hit men.”

  “There’s such a thing as a corrupt cop,” I say. “I don’t have to tell you that.”

  “Seriously, this was a righteous shooting. Nesbitt drew and fired. Case closed.”

  We round the block, turning back onto his street. “I wish it was always that easy.”

  “You mean your own shooting?” He adjusts his seat belt so he can face me. “I was sorry to hear about what happened to Lorenz. I didn’t know him that well, but he was a good man. I know that can’t have been easy for you.”

  “Thanks,” I say, really meaning it. “They’re coming down on me pretty hard.”

  “We really shouldn’t talk about that.”

  “What was I supposed to do—let him put one in Jerry’s head?”

  “It’s the automatic weapon,” he says. “They found something like sixteen entry wounds.”

  “Sixteen?” It’s the first time I’ve heard the exact number. “It was over in a heartbeat. I didn’t even know the gun was full-auto. I just grabbed what was near to hand.”

  I pull up in the driveway behind the Land Rover. He reaches for the door handle, but doesn’t pull it.

  “Listen, Roland. I shouldn’t even be saying that. There’s a lot of pressure on our people. We’re not stupid. You shot a cop-killer in the middle of the act. Nobody wants to come down on you for that. A lot of us think you deserve a medal. But like I said, there’s a lot of pressure from up top. They want every aspect of this thing scrutinized.”

  “It’s like a traffic stop,” I say. “They’ve got me on one thing and they’re trying to turn it into something bigger.”

  “Pretty much. So keep your head down.”

  He opens the door and starts to exit.

  “One last thing. You heard about Hedges, I assume? Now Wanda Mosser’s in charge. I’m not sure why, but she seems to be gunning for me, too. I don’t suppose you have any insight into the back-room deals?”

  “All I know is this: Hedges made a big play during the runoffs, thinking he had a shot at the chief’s office. I assume some promises were made, but I can’t say. In the process, he put a target on his back. Meanwhile, Wanda has a lot of friends in the new mayor’s office. Homicide was her reward for backing the mayor’s choice for chief. I think you’re wrong about her gunning for you.”

  “It looks that way from where I’m sitting.”

  “Well, you still have a job, don’t you?” He gets out of the car and shuts the door, then leans back through the open window. “If she wasn’t looking out for you, I’m not sure you’d even have that.”

  “Thanks, Stephen.”

  He taps the roof. “Just don’t make it a habit.”

  CHAPTER 14

  As a testament to how well our conversation went, before I’m home Wilcox calls me with the name of a contact—an ex-intelligence man—who proved immensely informative during the investigation of Nesbitt’s death. “His name is Englewood and he’s the real deal.” Apparently the club of retirees Nesbitt had chaired appointed this Englewood as an informal liaison, empowering him to give the detectives the lay of the land, answering questions with surprising candor, though always off the record. Wilcox only met him once, but kept the man’s card. He rattles a phone number off while I copy it into the open Filofax on my lap, trying not to steer into one of the parked cars on my right.

  I dial while idling in my own driveway, mentally preparing myself for some song and dance. Just because he’s helped the police once doesn’t mean there’s a permanent shingle out on his stoop.

  “This is Tom,” a voice says.

  “Tom Englewood?” I introduce myself, mention the fact that I’m a homicide detective, and launch into a vague soliloquy about lingering questions surrounding the Nesbitt shooting. He cuts me off midsentence, leaving me to expect the worst.

  “Tell you what,” he says. “You know the Downing Street Pub? I’m usually there between ten and eleven, enjoying an evening cigar. Why don’t you drop by this evening and we’ll have ourselves a little chat.”

  “I’ll see you then.”

  ———

  In the first ten minutes, Tom Englewood reveals himself as a former Northeasterner, an Ivy Leaguer who during the course of a rich and varied life sloughed off his regional identity, trading it for what I can only describe as Latin elegance. Engine-turned cuff links sparkle at his wrists, and his watch has a skeleton face that reveals the jeweled movement inside. A puff of silk erupts from the breast pocket of his glen plaid suit jacket, with a sterling clip holding his silk-weave tie in place. He wears his hair slicked back and keeps a tightly trimmed mustache.

  He holds down his side of the table like it belongs to him. I wouldn’t be surprised if there was a brass plaque on the edge with his name on it. When he offers me a cigar, he clips the cap himself before passing it over, like he doesn’t trust anyone else to do the job right.

  Before I can ask any questions, he starts lecturing me on the virtues of American bourbons, switching in midstream (after catching my glance at the band on the cigar in my hand) to a denunciation of anyone who says the best Honduran cigars don’t equal or better the much-vaunted Cubans. During the 1980s, he says, he spent a lot of time down in Honduras (wink, nod) and during the cigar craze of the nineties considered going back to get something going on the cigar front—easy enough t
o do, he hints, with contacts like his.

  “Mr. Englewood,” I say.

  “Please. It’s Tom.” He makes a flourish with his cigar hand, leaving a trail of smoke in the air, granting the favor of his first name with noblesse oblige. “I know you didn’t come out tonight to hear my theories on life. You said you have questions about Andy Nesbitt, is that right?”

  “There seems to be some confusion about whether he really worked for the CIA or not.”

  Englewood gives me a big smile. “Uh-huh.”

  “Where do you come down on that question?”

  “I knew Andy really well,” he says, “but only after I settled down here. That doesn’t mean much, of course. My own work was more of an analytical nature—I was a big-picture guy—whereas he always claimed to have been operational. Wherever he got his experience, I can tell you he was good at putting together networks and producing high-grade intelligence product.”

  “He continued to do that kind of work, you mean? After retirement?”

  “None of us retires. Not if we can help it.”

  There are two paths, Englewood explains, which he dubs the High Road and the Low Road. Returning to the private sector, a former intelligence officer can sell his services to the government, either through an existing private security company or by creating his own. Since 9/11, there are plenty of opportunities for ex-officers with Middle East experience. “And even if they don’t have it, there are ways and means.” This kind of work, suckling at the government teat, whether directly through the intelligence community or indirectly via government contractors, is considered the High Road.

  “And the Low Road?”

  “Corporate money,” he says. “A lot of us in H-Town, we’re Low Roaders, I guess you could say. The energy companies do business all over the world, so wherever you happen to have contacts, there’s usually somebody you can provide with some added value. Think about it: you could spend your whole career with Langley, sweating it out at some station in Africa, a thankless backwater where you could always be kidnapped and shot just for being seen at the embassy, without any of the compensating charms. . . .” He chuckles at the thought of said charms, but doesn’t elaborate. “And when you retire, there’s a Houston oil maverick looking to drill wells off the coast of your old stomping ground, and only you can tell him which palms to grease. It’s a beautiful thing.”