The Bishop pbf-4

by Steven James

  “I’ll draw attention to the brief nature of Paul Lansing’s relationship with Christie,” she said. “It was a short-lived love affair that lasted less than a month.” She nodded toward me. “During the last few months of your wife’s life, and ever since then, you’ve been Tessa’s caregiver-that’s more than twenty times longer than Paul even knew her mother.”

  “That’s a good point.” Tessa let her eyes bounce from me to Missy as if she were looking for support. “That’ll help.”

  “Yes, I think it will,” Missy said. “Also, Paul corresponded with your mother long after their relationship ended, yet never mentioned you or tried to find out if you were alive, so I believe we can show that he-”

  Tessa shook her head, the reassurance gone. “I already went through all this with him. He’ll just say he thought Mom went ahead with the abortion.”

  “Perhaps, but we’ll show that if he could find her, he could certainly have found you, or at least found out that Christie had delivered her baby. She never took any steps to keep it a secret from people, did she? That you were her daughter?”

  “No. Never.”

  I felt a shot of optimism.

  Missy was the real deal.

  “All right.” She looked at her watch, then promptly rose. “Their office is across town. Let’s go. I don’t want to be late.”

  Seated at her desk at the command post, Margaret Wellington clicked to Congressman Fischer’s website to read his issue statements.

  Last night she’d reviewed his voting record, but today, in light of what Agent Bowers had told her-or at least insinuated by his lack of an answer-about the congressman influencing Rodale, she’d decided to study the man’s votes and platform more carefully.

  From living in his district, she knew that he was for shrinking the military and FBI, decreasing the national debt, strengthening abortion rights, creating more green jobs, and expanding health care benefits to seniors, but she hadn’t been aware of how strongly he felt about justice reform until she saw his record of cast votes.

  Among other things, Fischer was adamantly against the death penalty.

  That one brought her pause.

  The man who’d tried to kill his brother had been a pro-death penalty advocate. After the assassination attempt, public opinion had pendulumed the other direction toward the congressman’s position, and Director Rodale had been one of those swayed to change his mind.

  During Richard Basque’s retrial, Margaret had gotten into a discussion with Rodale about the justice (or lack of justice) of the death penalty-something he’d grown to oppose but she supported. And, knowing she was for reducing the number of abortions, he’d challenged her: “How can you claim to be pro-life when you’re for the death penalty?”

  “Greg, we’re talking about the death penalty, not about-”

  “I’m only saying, Margaret, that your view is inconsistent.”

  “Frankly, I’m not sure it’s appropriate to compare-”

  “See?” He looked satisfied. “Your position is untenable.”

  “I am for life,” she said, “as well as for justice. With all due respect, Greg, how can you claim to be for either when you support letting the guilty live and putting the innocent to death?”

  Rodale had looked at her coldly. Had not replied.

  Even at the time, the fact that he’d confronted her in such a way had seemed inexplicable to her. Why was he so emotionally invested in the issue as it pertained specifically to Basque’s case?

  The computer screen stared at her and her thoughts switched from Rodale to Fischer.

  She turned back to his policy statements.

  He supported ways to “enhance human potential and reduce unnecessary suffering,” which included his endorsement, along with that of the National Science Foundation, of nanotechnology and transhumanism-the emerging field of genetically altering DNA to treat blindness, epilepsy, paralysis, cancer, and so on.

  Margaret wasn’t familiar with transhumanism, but it didn’t take her long online to discover that it was controversial since much of it involved not just augmentation but species advancement-through neuro-implants and gene therapy-creating humans with better eyesight, strength, or mental capabilities than the human race had ever developed on its own.

  Through genetic manipulation, scientists would soon be able to give people the reflexes of a panther or the strength of a gorilla or the eyesight of a falcon. And by implanting chips into their brains, provide them the ability to remember nearly everything they learned or experienced. Because of transhumanism’s ultimate goal of improving the human race, transforming it even, into a superior species altogether, some people were calling it twenty-first-century eugenics.

  Neuroscience. Nanotechnology.

  Metacognition.

  The primate research. Could the Gunderson Foundation be doing transhumanism research? Gene splicing with animals?

  Hmm.

  Perhaps approach this from a different angle.

  She’d heard that Vice President Fischer wasn’t exactly best buddies with his brother-resentful of how the congressman had tapped into his political clout to promote his own standing in the House. She decided it might not be a bad idea to have a chat with the former vice president.

  It took a few calls, but finally she found out he was at a climate change conference in Tokyo. His people said he’d return her call as soon as he could, but she knew how soon “as soon as possible” could be for a politician, so she wasn’t about to hold her breath.

  The congressman was pulling Rodale’s strings. She didn’t like Or maybe it’s the other way around.

  She paused.

  Now that was an interesting thought.

  Yes. Very interesting.

  She found Doehring and told him she was heading to her office at FBI headquarters for a couple hours to catch up on a few things.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll hold down the fort,” he said.

  “I know you will.”

  She left the command post with a realization that she was on a trajectory that would either end her career or just possibly land her in the job she’d been eyeing since she joined the Bureau.

  91

  6 hours left…

  3:29 p.m.

  Brad opened his laptop.

  He knew that the task force had unwittingly found the bomb.

  And he knew that ever since the anthrax scare nearly a decade ago, the FBI Headquarters and all of the field offices had been x-raying all incoming mail, packages, shipments, and deliveries as well as checking them for traces of biological or chemical compounds.

  However, the Bureau did not x-ray or bio-scan evidence that was collected at crime scenes unless the specific nature of a crime warranted such action, such as evaluating evidence from an arsonist’s or bomb maker’s home.

  And so.

  Good.

  Brad sent the email that would start the computer’s internal timer.

  An anonymous-looking Viagra ad.

  In exactly six hours, the bomb he’d prepared on Wednesday morning, the one he’d left for the task force to find, would go off.

  Now, he just needed to wait.

  The explosion would set up everything for the perfect ending to the game.

  He set his watch to vibrate at 9:29 p.m. so that whatever he was doing he would know.

  Dr. Calvin Werjonic.

  Gregory Rodale.

  Annette Larotte.

  A puzzle with so many interlocking pieces.

  And Bowers would see all the pieces laid so neatly in place.

  But only in retrospect.

  Only after it was too late to save the girl.

  The Law Offices of Wilby, Chase amp; Lombrowski

  Suite 17

  4:05 p.m.

  “I’m sorry.” Paul Lansing’s lead lawyer, Keegan Wilby, shook his head. “We simply cannot allow her into the meeting.”

  Wilby had a squarish face and a Clark Kent curl of black hair on his forehead that only served to
make him look like a middle-aged middle-schooler. His clothes told me he had wealth; his smug grin told me he knew it.

  We’d arrived on time, over half an hour ago, but incomprehensibly, Wilby hadn’t even shown up until 3:55 and had subsequently spent the last ten minutes arguing about letting Tessa attend the meeting. She was standing beside me, seething, but I had my hand on her shoulder to let her know she needed to keep quiet.

  Missy said sternly, “Mr. Wilby, tell Mr. Lansing that this is not up for debate. She comes in or we are leaving.”

  He drew in a sigh. “All right. I’ll go and speak with my client one last time.” He spoke condescendingly, as if Missy were a child. “But I am not guaranteeing anything.”

  He left.

  Tessa’s teeth were clenched. “I feel like I’m a piece of furniture people are trying to shuffle around.”

  “I understand,” Missy said. “However, Mr. Wilby does have a point. It would be highly unusual for the child-for you-to be present at a meeting like this.”

  “Yeah, well, unusual works for me.”

  Five minutes later Wilby returned shaking his head. “I’m sorry, my client said he does not want to upset her.”

  “Good.” Tessa strode toward the hallway to the conference room.

  “No, I mean by having you attend the meeting.”

  “ This is upsetting me!”

  “Tessa,” I said. “Come here.”

  She didn’t move.

  I signaled for her to join me. “Please.”

  At last she came, staring at Wilby with blisteringly hot eyes the whole time.

  “I’m sorry,” he said to her in that tone of voice people use when they’re not sorry at all. Then he directed his words to all of us. “I suppose if you insist that she be present, we will have to cancel this meeting.”

  “All right.” Missy picked up her purse. “Good day, Mr. Wilby.”

  However, I wasn’t so sure. I conferred with her for a moment and explained that I didn’t like the idea of putting this off. I wanted to hear what Lansing had to say, to clear up my questions regarding his Secret Service involvement. After a short debate, she gave in. “As long as it’s acceptable to Tessa.”

  I assured Tessa that she could sit in on future meetings, but for now to just let it be. “We need to get a feel for what’s going on here. I promise I’ll fill you in.”

  She was clearly not happy about it but finally complied. “When the meeting’s over you’ll tell me everything?”

  “I will.”

  As Wilby invited me and Missy to follow him, he had a satisfied look on his face that made it clear he felt like round one belonged to him.

  A wooden cabinet with a dozen cubby holes hung just outside the conference room door. Wilby unpocketed his iPhone. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave your mobile devices here. After far too many interruptions in meetings in the past, our law firm had to create a policy. I’m sure you understand.”

  That was definitely not going to happen and I was about to tell him so, but Missy beat me to the punch. “My client is a federal agent. His phone contains highly sensitive and confidential information, so quite obviously it cannot leave his person. And my phone contains his private number so I cannot leave mine either. I’m sure you understand.”

  I was really starting to like this lawyer of ours.

  “I’m afraid she’s right,” I said.

  Wilby looked like he might argue, decided against it and opened the door.

  Round two: Missy Schuel.

  As we entered the room, she said to me softly, “Now remember, let me do the talking.”

  I was switching my phone to vibrate.

  She paused. “Will you let me do the talking?”

  “I’ll try.”

  “Succeed,” she said, and we entered the conference room and I closed the door behind us.

  92

  Lansing and two additional lawyers were waiting for us at the far end of a sprawling steel and glass conference table. A south-facing window offered a spread of natural light to the otherwise institutional feel of the room. A pitcher of water sat on the table with seven glasses poised beside it. I assumed that the additional door on the other side of the room led to more offices.

  Seven glasses on the table.

  Perhaps they had been expecting Tessa.

  Either that, or someone else.

  Missy and I took seats facing Lansing and his lawyers. After introductions, Wilby thanked us for coming, which seemed a little disingenuous since he hadn’t done so in the reception area when we first arrived, and we’d already been here for nearly forty-five minutes.

  “All right.” Missy gestured toward me. “Our agenda today is to find out what Mr. Lansing wants-”

  “He wants custody of his biological daughter,” one of Wilby’s associates said tersely.

  She looked at him with cool curiosity. “What was your name again?”

  “Seth Breney.”

  “Well, Mr. Breney, please refrain from interrupting me and this will no doubt be a much more productive meeting for all of us.” There was no question who was in control of this room.

  Wilby cleared his throat. “Primarily, my client wants what is best for Tessa.”

  “That’s good to hear.” Missy was writing something on her legal pad in that scribbly shorthand of hers.

  In the momentary silence following her statement, Lansing spoke up, “Patrick, before we begin here, I’d like to tell you how thankful I am for all you’ve done for Tessa ever since Christie passed away.”

  “It’s kind of you to say that.”

  “Whatever the results of this custody case, I hope you will agree to stay involved in her life.”

  Oh man, did I want to respond to that one, but I rounded a conversational corner instead. “You didn’t run for cover, did you, Paul?”

  “Pardon me?”

  “Six years ago. At the hotel.”

  I watched his reaction.

  Despite what you might see on TV, when detecting deception it isn’t so much what the subject does-looking into one corner of the room or the other, pushing up his glasses or peering over the top of them-but it’s that he does something different than when he’s telling the truth. There are always perceptible subconscious physiological changes that occur, even though they’re different for different people.

  Now, as Paul looked at me, I could see his Secret Service training in the coolness of his eyes, but he was lightly tapping his right thumb and forefinger together, which he had not been doing a few moments earlier. “We can discuss this later, Patrick.”

  “Yes,” Wilby agreed emphatically.

  “No time like the present.” I shrugged. “We’re all friends here.”

  Lansing said nothing.

  “So, then…” Wilby said.

  Lansing tapped his finger and thumb.

  Thought so.

  I jotted a note of my own on Missy’s legal pad.

  She glanced down, read it. Nodded.

  “Back to the matter at hand.” Wilby conferred with his stack of notes, although what he said afterwards didn’t seem all that difficult to remember. “My client is Tessa’s biological father. You do not dispute this, do you?”

  “We’ll want another DNA test to be done by an agency of our choosing,” Missy said. “Just to make sure.”

  Wilby glanced at Breney, obviously his subordinate, who made a note of it. The third lawyer who was sitting beside them said nothing, simply sat there looking clueless.

  Wilby said, “When Agent Bowers and his stepdaughter showed up last month at my client’s home, they had a diary that contained a letter my client had written to Christie Ellis, the girl’s mother.”

  “Tessa,” I corrected him. “The girl’s name is Tessa.” The whole letting-Missy-speak-thing wasn’t going so well.

  “Yes,” Wilby said. “In the letter, my client stated that he wanted to play an active role in the upbringing of the as-of-yet unnamed child Christie was c
arrying. From the very beginning, even before she was born, Mr. Lansing willingly offered to care for both mother and child, both relationally and fiscally.”

  “The letter only offers broad intention,” Missy responded, “not specific design. And he never made any efforts to follow up on those vague promises.”

  “When Tessa’s mother left him, he searched for her, but seventeen years ago, without the Internet, it wasn’t easy to locate someone who didn’t want to be found. My client didn’t even know that the girl-Tessa-was alive.”

  Missy waited, one eyebrow raised, and I could tell that her silence was a way of controlling the conversation. “Anything else?”

  Wilby flipped through a stack of papers. “I have here a copy of Dr. Bowers’s work schedule for the first six months after his wife’s death.”

  I felt a small quickening of my pulse.

  How did he get that?

  Then he addressed me directly, as if Missy were not in the room. “It looks like you spent quite a bit of time traveling, Dr. Bowers. Speaking at law enforcement and forensic science conferences.”

  “I spoke some. Yes.”

  “How many weekends did you leave Tessa with your parents while you went to consult on a case or speak at a conference?”

  “This has nothing to do with-” Missy began.

  “I traveled a couple weekends a month,” I said.

  “Fourteen weekends,” Wilby pointed out. “Fourteen weekends in six months. That’s more than two weekends a month.”

  “Which means,” Missy countered, “Dr. Bowers was home nearly 80 percent of the time. And whenever my client was gone, Tessa was well cared for.”

  “I’m not here to argue about the competency of care that Dr. Bowers’s relatives are able to provide. That’s not the issue here.”

  Okay, this guy was really starting to get on my nerves.

  “Tessa needs a more stable and secure home life than an active FBI field agent can provide.” Wilby referred to his notes again. “According to police reports, last October she was almost killed by a serial killer whom Dr. Bowers was tracking in North Carolina.”

  Anger rising.