Mortal Crimes 1

by Various Authors

  It didn’t surprise her in the least that the man had doublecrossed Franklin. But Franklin was still outraged and bewildered that the man hadn’t let his mother go as promised. The takeaway there, she mused, as she trotted across the street against the light, was that Franklin had believed the man would keep his word. The man, whoever he was, came across as someone of substance and some measure of integrity, at least according to Franklin.

  She stopped in front of a gorgeous Dupont Circle mansion that had been carved into apartments, tucked the thought away, and took a deep breath before hitting the buzzer for Apartment 602.

  Before she could smooth her windblown hair out of her eyes, Mitchell’s voice sounded through the speaker.

  “Hello?”

  She swallowed. “Mitch, it’s Aroostine. I’m sorry to just show up like this. I … need your help.”

  There was a pause—not a long one, but not exactly a short one. She had time to regret what she’d done.

  “Now, that wasn’t so hard, asking for help, was it? Come on up.”

  The buzzer sounded and the door unlocked, saving her from formulating an answer.

  As she walked through the vestibule she froze and wondered if Franklin was monitoring this building, too. She shook it off and started moving again. If he was watching, so be it. She had to trust him. Just as she had to involve Mitchell. She had no choice.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Franklin was beyond exhausted. He hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep since the night his mom disappeared. His stomach was sour and his brain was coated in fur, but anxiety and adrenaline had prevented him from resting. When he tried to sleep, his whirring mind took over and his heart began to race.

  Tonight, though, he could just feel that sleep was in his reach. Talking to Aroostine, enlisting her help, had eased his overloaded central nervous system. He’d returned home feeling almost hopeful. He didn’t know what she planned to do, but she projected such a competent air that he believed she could somehow get him out of this mess. She reminded him of his mother—and if there was one word that described his mom, it was ‘capable.’

  So when his dry eyes grew heavy, he turned out the lights, climbed into bed, and burrowed under his blankets.

  The covers were warm and heavy. The room was quiet. His mind was still. He closed his eyes.

  He was drifting between sleep and consciousness when the cell phone chirped to let him know he’d received a text. His brain rejected the sound.

  Ignore it. Sleep.

  He kept his eyes shut tight, but his pulse ticked up.

  It’s him. You can’t make him wait. Remember what he did last time.

  The pain in his mother’s voice after the man had broken her fingers echoed in his ears. His opened his eyes and groped around his bedside table until his hand brushed up against the phone.

  He pushed himself up to sitting and braced himself for the text message.

  It was a video this time.

  Please, God. Please let her be okay.

  He was too afraid to hit play, terrified it would be a recording of his mother being tortured. He froze, his finger hovering over the arrow displayed on the screen.

  I can’t do it.

  He reached over and flicked on the lamp, unable or unwilling to watch whatever it was in darkness.

  Do it, already. Don’t waste time, he ordered himself. He exhaled shakily and played the video.

  And he began to tremble with relief. A shape appeared in frame, but it wasn’t his mother, it was Joe Jackman. A ragged, pale Joe Jackman, staring sullenly into the camera.

  For a second, defiance sparked in his eyes, so briefly, Franklin thought he’d imagined it. Jackman’s expression flattened into resignation and he began to speak tonelessly:

  Aroostine, listen carefully. I am unharmed. You need to dismiss the charges in the case. You know which one. If you do, I will walk out of here alive. If you do not, I will not. The same applies to the woman. Please take this seriously.

  Jackman finished reciting the lines and gave a baleful look to someone off camera. Then he glanced back and spoke directly to Franklin:

  Your mother is fi—

  The screen went black. Franklin sobbed. He could tell that Jackman had been ad libbing at the end, and he prayed that the man hadn’t made him, or Franklin’s mom, pay for that bit of insubordination. At the same time, he was grateful beyond measure to know that, at least when the video had been made, his mom had been okay.

  The phone sounded in his hand. Another text:

  Forward to the lawyer.

  Franklin began to shake again—this time, from fear. Forwarding this video to Aroostine might break her resolve. And if she decided not to go after the man, where would that leave him?

  He walked out into the kitchen and flicked on the overhead lights. So much for sleep.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Mitchell put a kettle on for tea, while Aroostine marveled at the fact that he owned a teakettle and at his sleek, modern apartment. In stark contrast to the historic building that housed it, his place was all blond wood and geometric lines.

  He peered at her through the pass-through that connected the kitchen to his living area.

  “Earl Grey or chamomile?”

  “Chamomile would be great, thanks.”

  She warmed her hands over the hissing radiator while he rattled around in the cabinets, getting cups and saucers, spoons and sugar. He came into view holding a tray of cookies.

  “Want one while the water heats?”

  She shook her head.

  “Double chocolate chunk,” he wheedled. “And they’re homemade.” He pushed the tray toward her.

  “You made them?”

  “I’m a man of many talents.”

  She reached for a cookie. “Impressive.”

  “So, what’s going on?”

  He rested the tray on an end table and leaned forward with an expectant, serious expression.

  She broke off a corner of the cookie and nibbled at it while she considered how much to tell him. She hadn’t really planned this part. She knew she needed help. She didn’t want to involve Rosie in a scheme that could prove to be career-limiting. Mitchell had been around longer; he’d developed a reputation and a network. If this blew up in their faces, his career would survive. She hoped.

  She abandoned the cookie and studied his face.

  “Well, for one, I think you and Rosie are on the right track with the corporate structure stuff.”

  “How so?”

  “Apparently, SystemSource received an infusion of cash from a private investment group right around the time that the Mexican bribery attempt took place. From what I understand, that transaction may not have been reported—I don’t know the details, so it may not have been something they were required to report as a material change—but it was certainly material inside the company.”

  “Because of its size, you mean?”

  He leaned forward, eager and excited, like a greyhound with a rabbit in its sights.

  “Not exactly. It’s more that the investors had a particular interest in one aspect of the company’s business, and that put pressure on certain departments.”

  He twisted his mouth into a knot of exasperation. “Don’t be coy.”

  “I’m not trying to be. It’s just … I have someone inside the company helping me. I don’t want that person to be exposed.”

  He seemed to bristle at the secrecy, sitting up straighter, but said, “Okay. Go on.”

  “The investors were most excited about SystemSource’s ability to monitor and modify its systems remotely.”

  “You mean the customer’s ability to monitor and modify their systems remotely,” he corrected her.

  “No. I mean what I said.”

  She waited while comprehension filled his eyes.

  “You mean—?”

  “Yes. SystemSource’s software contains a critical vulnerability. And I think the investor bought into the company specifically so he,
or they, or whoever, could exploit it at will.”

  He blanched. She recognized the queasy expression on his face from her own reaction when Franklin had told her.

  She forged ahead. “Somewhere, somehow, the FCPA case must expose that.”

  “Is it in the motion in limine?”

  She nodded, impressed by how quickly he was piecing it together.

  “I think so—either in the motion or our opposition. And I know what I have to do, but I can’t involve Rosie. She’s my direct subordinate, and it’s too big a risk. But please don’t feel like you have to do it, though, okay?”

  He sighed. “Aroostine, I told you. I want to help you. What’s the favor?”

  “Okay, I swear it’s not witness tampering, but what I need goes way beyond a favor into, um, possibly sanctionable conduct.” She paused to let that statement sink in.

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah.”

  He tilted his head and looked at a point over her shoulder for a moment, considering what she’d said.

  Then he snapped his eyes back to hers. “Okay.”

  “Okay? Just like that—okay?”

  He nodded and opened his mouth to speak but the shriek of the kettle releasing steam sounded from the kitchen.

  “Hang on. I’ll be right back.”

  She trailed him out into the spotless galley kitchen and leaned against the refrigerator while he poured the water and fixed the tea. She watched his precise, economical movements and wondered if he could possibly be serious about taking the risk she was about to ask him to take.

  He turned, balancing a saucer in each hand, and started when he saw her standing there.

  “Oh, hey, here,” he passed her a blue Fiestaware mug on an orange saucer.

  “Thanks.”

  “Let’s go sit,” he nodded his head toward the living area and waited for her to lead the way back.

  She returned to her spot on the sofa near the window. To her surprise, instead of taking the mid-century chair across from it, he sat next to her.

  A sudden worry that his help might come attached to strings flitted into her mind.

  “I’m married,” she blurted. Her skin grew hot as soon as she said the words, and she knew her face was red.

  His eyes widened and the lemon slice he’d been squeezing into his tea slipped out of his hand.

  “Oh? Well, you’re just full of surprises tonight, aren’t you?”

  She set the saucer and mug carefully on the table and resisted the urge to hide her face in her hands. Instead, she straightened her spine and met his curious gaze.

  “I guess so. While I’m sharing, here’s another tidbit. I’m a member of the Lenape Nation. My parents drank themselves to early deaths, and my grandfather took care of me until he died when I was seven.”

  A sad shadow crossed his face, and she knew he was feeling sorry for a little Native American girl. She hurried on with the story.

  “He was good friends with this white couple—the Higginses—who adopted me.”

  “I thought that was frowned on—taking a minority kid out of her own culture?”

  She had neither the time nor the inclination to engage in a discourse about white aggression toward native culture or the fact that the Lenape Nation wasn’t officially federally recognized—or that Pennsylvania officially had no Native Americans at all. It was all too complicated, politicized, and irrelevant to the issue at hand.

  She shrugged off the question. “They were good parents. Anyway, they paid for me to go to this liberal arts college about thirty minutes away, and that’s where I met Joe—my husband.”

  Mitch picked up his cup and sipped it but made no comment, so she pressed on.

  “We got married the summer before I started law school. Joe was very supportive of my career”—she paused and cleared her throat before continuing—“up to a point.”

  He waited.

  “When I interviewed for the position at Justice, he came with me to check out the city.”

  “But—?”

  “I don’t know what happened. He said he was on board with the move, but when it came time to actually pack his stuff up, he said maybe we should make sure I was going to like it here—you know, before he upended his entire life. To be fair, I wasn’t at all sure I was cut out for the Department of Justice. I’d never lived in a big city before, and prosecuting federal crimes isn’t exactly what I’d had in mind when I opened my little law office. So, we agreed I’d give the AUSA job a try, like a probationary period, and if it turned out to be something I really wanted, he’d make the move.”

  “And?”

  “And it was, but he didn’t. So, I’ve been living here, and he’s been living back home.”

  She traced a circle around the saucer with one finger.

  “So you’re in a holding pattern? I don’t see a wedding ring.”

  She laughed. “We were twenty-two and broke when we got married. I said I didn’t need a symbol of ownership to prove anything.”

  A small grin creased his face. “Young love.”

  Her own grin faded. “A week ago, I probably would have said a holding pattern was a good way to describe the situation. But on Tuesday, I was served with divorce papers at work.”

  “This Tuesday? Like the day after your botched surgery?”

  She nodded. “It’s been a bad week.”

  “That’s an understatement.”

  He started to reach for her shoulder, maybe to give her a sympathetic squeeze, but drew his hand back stiffly.

  “And then it got worse.”

  “Now, that sounds impossible.”

  She swallowed around the lump in her throat and forced the words out. “Someone’s been tracking me. He’s using SystemSource’s programs to remotely stalk me. I think it’s the investor I told you about, or someone connected to the investor. He’s behind everything that’s happened lately. My missing filing, the fire, my dental surgery, all of it.”

  Mitchell let out a long, low whistle.

  “Yeah. And he found out about Joe.” She stared down at her lap and ignored the tears that began to fall. “And somehow, he managed to abduct him.”

  Mitchell’s warm hand found hers.

  “I believe you, but you realize how crazy this sounds, right? Are you sure?”

  She extracted her hand, pulled her phone from her bag, and said, “he texted me a picture of—”

  She stared down at the screen. The world froze in place. Her heart caught mid-beat.

  “Aroostine?”

  His voice sounded distant, faint and garbled.

  Her pulse was hammering in her ears like a trapped bird beating its wings.

  “Sorry. I have a new text. It’s from … him.”

  It was from Franklin, actually, she knew, forwarding the man’s instructions. But she didn’t want to get sidetracked into a discussion of who Franklin was and how he fit into the picture—not with her heart thrumming in her ears so loudly it was making her dizzy.

  He scooted closer to her on the couch and peered over her shoulder, his leg brushing against hers. This time, though, the contact had no effect. Her eyes were pinned the video that began to play.

  Dark circles ringed Joe’s sunken eyes. Stubble on his chin and cheeks didn’t quite hide the sallowness of his face. He looked spent and dirty. But not injured, she hurried to reassure herself.

  He began to speak in a stilted, mechanical voice. He sounded like Joe imitating a robot.

  “He’s reading this,” Mitchell whispered.

  She nodded but didn’t move her eyes from the video.

  Joe’s rage shimmered under the surface as he recited the man’s demand that she throw the case. He finished his assigned lines and glanced away from the camera for a moment, then he looked back and said, “Your mother’s fi—.”

  The video ended.

  They sat in silence for a moment.

  Mitchell exhaled shakily and spoke first.

  “How’s your mother mixed up in this?”
he asked.

  Aroostine closed her eyes briefly and considered her response. Full disclosure, she decided. He had the right to know what he was getting into.

  “Not my mother. Franklin Chang’s mother.”

  Mitchell stood.

  “I don’t know who Franklin Chang is, but I know I’m going to need something stronger than herbal tea for the rest of this story.”

  As he walked toward the kitchen, he turned and shot her a look over his shoulder. “I’m thinking Scotch. Should I pour one or two?”

  This response, she didn’t need to consider.

  “Two.”

  ________

  It was nearly midnight when she stood to leave, a little unsteady on her feet from the combination of booze, emotion, and exhaustion. He insisted on bundling up and walking her down to the street to wait for a cab.

  They stood shoulder to shoulder in tired, drained silence and stared out into the gray half-light. She wondered if she’d ever get used to the lack of true darkness that attended the city at night.

  After a minute, a Red Top cab cruised down the block slowly, probably circling Foggy Bottom’s bars and restaurants in search of a fare going back to Arlington. He flagged it down, and the driver eased to a stop at the curb.

  “Good night,” she said as she slipped into the backseat, feeling awkward all over again.

  He grabbed the door and held it open while she leaned forward to tell the driver her address. As she settled into the backrest, he leaned in and studied her face.

  “I meant what I said. I’ll help you. But you need to think this through. Are you sure you need to risk your entire career? If you want to go to the police, I’ll go with you.”

  The cab driver turned his head to the side and stared studiously out toward the street as if he weren’t listening.

  She opened her mouth to respond, but Mitchell shook his head.

  “Don’t answer tonight. Sleep on it.”