After twenty or so miles, Duarte said, “Wish we had time to visit Manassas.”
“Why?”
“It’s a great Civil War battlefield. I got to visit once when I was in the service.”
“What’s so great about it?”
“Just to see the ground that they fought on, and it helps me visualize the accounts that I read.”
“You certainly aren’t excited about much but I can tell you love your history.”
He nodded like a kid who’d been caught doing something wrong. “It is interesting.” He quieted down as the trip progressed.
As they approached the entrance to Classics Land amusement park, he seemed to perk up and take in all of the surroundings.
He asked, “What’d you think when you saw this crime scene?”
“What’d you mean?”
“Did the local cops do a good job containing it? The reports looked good.”
“Oh, I see what you mean. I didn’t come out.”
“Was it before you were on the case?”
“It was the start of the case, even though it was the second bombing. Mr. Morales started getting calls to start an investigation in case it was a serial bomber. He made the connection to labor organization, and assigned me personally.”
Duarte nodded, looking out at the vast, nearly empty parking lot.
They parked off to the side, where a security guard sat at a shaded podium. He radioed ahead so they could cut through the park to the administration and business building. Caren liked how Duarte waited for her and opened doors without thinking. He was just polite; there was really no other way to describe it. He even stood in the road, like he would shield her from a car, if necessary, as she came up to the wide sidewalk. He stopped and turned to look at a Toyota pulling out of the lot.
Caren asked, “What is it?”
He didn’t turn his head but said, “I dunno. Something about that guy was familiar. Did you see him? Dark hair, dark-skinned, like a Latin maybe.”
She shook her head and headed toward the gate. They walked back to the administration building together, and he held the door open once again. She smiled, and thought, I wish he seemed more interested in me. I don’t want to go on the offensive here. But he was all business, finding the right person to talk to.
After finding a tall, leggy manager named Lisa Simpson—like the cartoon character only stunningly good-looking, to the point that even Caren admitted to slight feelings of envy—they sat down in her busy, small office.
Lisa said, “Sorry for the confusion; we just had a little incident with the Immigration Service and a fugitive.” Her perfect smile and blue eyes were nearly mesmerizing.
Caren asked about the immigration activity, but Duarte seemed anxious to get to the point. He said, “Did you know the people killed in the blast?”
“Oh yes, I handle payroll too, so eventually I meet everyone.”
“Can we see their files?”
She stood immediately. “The police have the originals, but I have copies.” After a quick search through a standing cabinet, she handed the three files to Caren.
“I thought there were four victims.”
The beautiful manager said, “Three employees, and the tram driver who worked here at the park but was employed by McKeague Transportation. On busy days, the employees park in a lot about two miles away. We provide transportation for them.”
Alex nodded and took a few notes, so Caren decided to ask a good question as much to impress Duarte as to find the answer. “Were the victims helping to organize the union?”
The manager looked confused, and said, “I don’t know. I mean, we didn’t care if they had a union or not. I guess they could’ve been involved.”
Duarte said, “That was the only violent incident?”
“I guess. I mean, I didn’t think it had anything to do with the union myself. Even the local cops didn’t. It was only the papers, and some guy from Washington kept saying it.”
Caren knew it was time to wrap this up and move on per instructions from the boss. Duarte seemed willing to move to the crime scene too. As usual, he stood before her and then opened the door as he turned and thanked the manager. Caren saw him look at the beautiful manager and now felt quite satisfied he wasn’t gay. Then that brought up the next problem: why didn’t he ever give her those kinds of glances?
13
IT HAD BEEN A LONG DAY. THE WASTED TIME AT MORALES’S office, the ride out to Fredericksburg, interviews and finally walking the scene. There wasn’t much to see except a charred sidewalk where the flaming tram came to a stop. Sometimes, when Duarte surveyed the site of some terrible event, he felt like he could feel the victim’s pain and terror. He had never told anyone this. Not even his pop. It was just a faint buzz in his head that he often felt emotionally. He knew when he first noticed it. On the side of the Drina River, in Bosnia, as he watched a grown man cry. Now, even thousands of miles and many years later, he always thought about that whenever he looked at a blast.
This blast scene was twenty-six days old. He had read the files of the three dead workers and calculated that there were now two grieving husbands, one grieving wife, four kids missing a parent—and that didn’t count the driver who was just doing a simple job and not even paid by the amusement park.
He rubbed his fingers across the black spot on the sidewalk, as he sat on his haunches and looked toward the park.
Behind him Caren Larson said, “Can you really learn anything by an old smoke stain?”
He shook his head.
“You want to go over to the state police lab and look at any of the evidence tomorrow?”
He nodded.
Her tone changed. “Hungry?”
He nodded and stood.
An hour later, they sat in the small restaurant of his hotel with a bowl of hummus and chips in front of them. A nice man with a slight Italian accent pretending to be the Greek chef had come out to chat with his only customers of the night so far.
“I have great lamb with couscous.”
Caren smiled and said, “That sounds perfect.”
Even Duarte smiled at the man and had to ask, “What town are you from in Italy?”
The fifty-year-old man paused and smiled. “Is obvious?”
“A little.”
“Naples.”
“Why not run an Italian restaurant?”
“Too many around. The hotel management wanted Greek. I change a few recipes, make peace with lamb and rice, and got a good job here. Now, what about it? Lamb?”
Duarte nodded his approval as another waiter brought over a bottle of red wine and two glasses.
Duarte held up a hand.
Caren said, “C’mon, live a little. You worked hard today.”
He shrugged and allowed the waiter to pour a glass for him. Then Caren had the waiter leave the bottle.
He took a sip of the red liquid and made a face.
Caren laughed. “If you’re not used to Merlot, it takes a little while. Keep trying; it’ll grow on you.”
He took another sip, but it still tasted like fruit juice that had gone bad—only this time the swallow was followed by a warm sensation that washed over him. He’d gotten drunk before, usually on beer, but this was a new sensation. He took another sip.
Caren said, “You haven’t given me the slightest hint of what you learned today.”
“Because I didn’t learn much. So far, it was all in the reports. I started reading the police and lab reports you got me from the Seattle incident and they seem pretty thorough too.”
“Should we try to fly there from here?”
He shrugged and nodded. “I was wondering what value the entire trip would have. I mean, so far the only thing I’ve done up here is waste time.”
She smiled. “Some men wouldn’t mind wasting time with me.”
He took another drink and realized exactly what she meant. “If I didn’t have a job to do, believe me you are exceptional company.” That was probably
the nicest thing he had ever said to anyone he wasn’t related to. He took a gulp of wine and then refilled the glass as the rush of warmth flowed over him.
“You can be charming. In an oddly official and formal sort of way.” Caren finished her glass and said, “I still don’t know much about Alex Duarte the person. I’ve seen your army record, your ATF file and your work habits. I’ve even seen you handle yourself in a fight. But I still don’t know much about you.”
“Like what?”
She used one finger to twist her hair as she made a show of thinking up a question. “How’d you get that scar?”
“Which one?”
“The long one on your arm?”
“Accident.”
“That’s not much of an answer.”
“It wasn’t much of an accident.”
“What exactly happened?”
Duarte took a breath and started, “I was in Bosnia, outside Broka, doing some recon before we blew some old buildings. I was low-crawling on a slight rise and didn’t notice some razor wire looped through a bush. Before I knew it, I had the wire wrapped around my forearm.”
“Ouch.”
“Yeah, it hurt. But the stitches at an aid station hurt almost as much.” He looked at her as he unconsciously traced his scar with his finger. “Anything else?”
She didn’t hesitate. “Why don’t you have a girlfriend?”
“Who says I don’t?”
“You did when I asked you in Florida.”
“Oh. I was right.”
They both laughed and drank a sip of wine. And he hoped the question would just die. He hated talking about his personal life. But he should have known that a Department of Justice attorney like Caren wouldn’t let it drop.
Finally she said, “I’m waiting for an answer.”
He started to shrug, and she said, “Don’t shrug me off like you do everything else. I asked you a simple, direct question. Why don’t you have a girlfriend?”
He thought about it and said, “You said it yourself. I don’t have much experience. I learned that I’m busy, and girlfriends expect a lot.”
She stared at him. “You ass, of course they do. We give a lot so we expect a lot.”
“Then I need one that doesn’t give too much or expect much.”
“That’s not a bad answer there, Alex. At least it’s not the typical bullshit men throw around.” She lifted her glass. “I toast your honesty.”
He lifted his glass, and they both finished them.
“What about you? You interested in anyone?” He realized it may have been the first personal question he had ever asked a Department of Justice employee.
She let a slow smile cross her pretty face. “If you’re asking if I’m dating anyone, I’d have to say no one special.”
“What about Tom Colgan? He always had women falling for him.”
She stared at Duarte, then said, “You’re a little jealous of him, aren’t you.”
He shook his head.
“C’mon, he’s awfully handsome, and very bright. He’s going places in the Bureau.”
Duarte nodded. He could relate to ambition. He just didn’t see the FBI man deserving it based on his performance for the two years he had known him prior to his transfer to Washington. He took a gulp of wine and decided to let the whole thing slip from his mind.
Caren smiled and said, “I had a fairly serious boyfriend in law school.”
“What happened?”
“I don’t know. I got this job. He had other interests. He’s got a little personal-injury practice in Ohio, kinda near where I grew up.”
“Where’s that?”
“Cincinnati.”
“I’ve never been to the Midwest, other than training at Fort Leonard Wood.”
“Where’s that?”
“Missouri.”
“Did you get to see much of the country?”
“No, I concentrated on training.”
“So you were like this from an early age?”
“Like what?”
She took a sip of wine as she figured out what her response would be. “So serious.”
“Is that what I am?”
“You’re actually beyond serious, but that will do for a start.”
He smiled at the comment a little and shrugged.
An hour later, once they had finished what was essentially lamb in marinara sauce and two more bottles of Merlot, Caren said, “I’m not sure I should drive home.”
Duarte remained silent.
Caren frowned and said, “This is where you say, ‘Why don’t you come up to my room.’”
“Then what do you say?”
“Okay, but only for a little while until I sober up.”
He fought with her over paying the bill, finally allowing her to yank it away from him but secretly relieved he wasn’t having to pay for the three thirty-dollar bottles of wine. She locked arms with him on the way to the elevator and rested her head on his shoulder on the ride up. The combination of behavior had caused his heart rate to rise as well as his excitement. He had consumed too much wine to drive, but not enough to inhibit him otherwise. He was not particularly experienced in these situations, but this one appeared to be pretty clear.
At his door, as he paused to retrieve his key, Caren leaned toward him and kissed him on the mouth. He fumbled with the key, and they both popped into the room. They kissed again, and he felt his blood rush through his head and other places. Her firm body pressed against his as their lips met again.
Then Caren said, “Uh-oh.”
“What?” was all he got out as she rushed to the bathroom, shoving the door shut behind her. The room spun for him a little too and he sat on the bed. So this is where wine and women get you: alone and awake on your bed. Not much different than any other night for him.
Mike Garretti sat at the pay phone in a Denny’s restaurant outside Petersburg in southern Virginia, looking out the small window at his Toyota he had just reclaimed from Alberto Salez. The only problem was that he found he missed his nameless, silent passenger. He sighed, realizing that she wouldn’t have been easy to keep around much longer. He had used the Lysol he had purchased in Jacksonville to good effect, but that hadn’t been doing the job completely.
He checked his watch. Seven o’clock. He had a ten-minute window to call from a pay phone. He dialed the number, and it rang three times before he heard the familiar voice.
“Yes?”
“I missed him.”
“How is that possible?”
Garretti swallowed his comments. “It just is.”
“Any leads?”
“That’s why I was calling you.”
“I have nothing. I’ll contact you the usual way if I do. Check tomorrow at noon.”
Sensing the call would be coming to an end, Garretti said, “I saw the ATF guy.”
“Where?”
“At the park.”
“Great. I can’t believe we’re using you to clean up this mess. You’re worse than the others.”
Garretti didn’t say a word and let the silence speak for him. He knew they needed him. He was tired of this shit anyway.
Then the man said, “Did Duarte recognize you?”
“Negative. He’d never make the connection to meeting me at the apartment in Florida.”
“Okay, that’s something anyway. Just move on to the next one.”
“Oneida?”
“Yeah. Then we’ll figure out where Salez is hiding.”
“Oneida is in Los Angeles. I have to go home for a few days first.”
“Why?”
“Feed my cats, check on my mom.”
“Are you serious? We need this taken care of.”
“It’s been three years. What’s the hurry?”
“Don’t worry about it, just finish up.” There was a pause and he said, “Is there anything else?”
Garretti smiled knowing how this would make him squirm. “Yeah, I spoke to Salez.”
“You spo
ke to him and couldn’t shoot him?”
“Long story. Anyway, I spoke to Salez, and he told me he had a file that covered all this shit. He gave me the old ‘If anything happens to me’ speech.”
“You’re not serious?”
“I’m just telling you what this asshole said.”
“We’ve got to get that file.”
“If it even exists.”
“We can’t risk it. Catch Salez and make him talk. I’ll send you help if you need it.”
“Isn’t that how we got into this in the first place?”
The line went dead, and Garretti knew he’d have a busy week after few days of R & R.
14
DUARTE TWISTED HIS NECK TO GET THE KINKS OUT. THE floor had been hard on him, but it was the polite thing to do, as Caren was up and down all night on her way to the bathroom. He didn’t want to mention it, and now after almost a whole workday she had avoided the entire subject of the night before. She had left the hotel before six, gone home, cleaned up, changed and picked up Duarte before nine. He was impressed.
The Virginia police had not provided any more insight into the bombing. They were efficient and professional but had little to work with other than the device and the theory provided by the Department of Justice. What really amazed him was Caren. With a major hangover, all one hundred and fifteen pounds of Caren Larson had been moving nonstop all day—including lining up airline tickets to Seattle in the morning. They were scheduled to land in Seattle at ten in the morning due to the time change. He had asked her to make an early reservation because he was interested in moving the case along, and now he realized he wanted to move along his growing feelings for the young attorney. This was a new experience for him. Sure, he had dated, but he hadn’t felt like this since high school, and back then he hadn’t done anything about it. He had just watched the beautiful Joni Livingston from afar. Even when he ran into her at a restaurant last year, he had a hard time talking to her. He knew she was married to a schoolteacher, and she never realized he had a crush on her but he still felt awkward around her. With Caren, it was different. He believed she also felt an attraction to him. But then he thought he could be mistaken.
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