So I opted for lawyerly. I really needed some black-framed eyeglasses but sunglasses were all I owned in that department. And I owned nary a single suit. Blazer over a tank top and khaki skirt had to do. I pinned up my braid at the back of my head and hurried down to the dining room for breakfast.
“I thought Sunday was family errand time,” the candelabra said with a distinctly ironic tone as I filled my plate.
“And so it is.” Since none of my family was down here for Graham to eavesdrop on, I was perfectly comfortable talking to a hunk of silver. That he recognized my street clothes ought to chill my bones. Instead, the fact that he noticed gave me a cheap thrill. “Saving my family home comes under family errands.”
“Give it up, Ana. You can’t afford to run a place like this. I own the house. You can have use of it. Your family needs to find their own lives.”
“I’m not content with having use of it, your royal highness. I want a right to it. So go back to bed. I’ll let you know if you can stay when it’s my turn.” I sat down to a lovely breakfast of English muffins and poached eggs while Graham growled and clicked off. That’s what he got for fogging up my dreams.
EG wandered in all sleepy-eyed and carrying a text on chiropterology.
I raised my eyebrows. “Rodents kept you up all night?”
“Bats are not rodents,” she said scornfully. “They’re mammals and more closely related to us than rats. Scientists ought to be using them for experimentation instead of mice.”
I figured I ought to get credit for guessing that her text was about bats, but arguing with a nine-year-old is batty. “Nice. I know a few mammals I could suggest for lobotomy experimentation. Why mutilate poor bats? Did you get the one out of your room yet?”
“I think he’s hiding in my closet.” She dropped the book beside her plate and poured juice. “What are we doing today?”
“You and Nick are doing laundry. I’m helping Oppenheimer win our case. We ought to send Patra grocery shopping just to keep her out of trouble.” I savored the last sip of my tea and wondered if donuts were an appropriate bribe at a jail. I’d never been inside an American one.
“They have a traveling bat exhibit at the zoo,” EG said, intruding upon my reverie.
And that was the kind of family expedition we were supposed to have on Sundays. Properly chastised, I grimaced and got up. “Okay, do the laundry, tell Patra she’s going with us, and we’ll check it out this afternoon after I get back.”
We were hardly the modern American family, but our time division involved the same kind of choices. Did I work long hours to keep our lavish home, or find a cheaper place and stay home with the kid on weekends?
I wasn’t any more temperamentally suited to staying idle than Magda was. I really had to quit blaming her for our miserable upbringing.
The D.C. Correctional Facility was on the opposite end of our mansion-studded area of town. I took the Metro to challenge my navigational skills. I’d already researched the facility and knew the only way I was getting inside today was by being a lawyer. I’d made a few phone calls. It’s amazing what a little advance legwork can do.
Because he was a lawyer, Reggie had been given a private cell. Or maybe because someone needed him alone to murder him, which might implicate jail employees in his murder. Not a happy thought.
A few months ago, I’d found a backdoor into police files, and I’d used it this morning to read the report on Reggie’s death. He’d been poisoned with cyanide — a really crude choice.
According to the police report, Reggie’s collapse had been public and noticeable. Cyanide poisoning is nasty. If Reggie’s jailers had acted a little faster, he might have lived long enough to have permanent brain damage. Instead, they assumed he was in withdrawal and ignored his convulsions too long, and he’d died at the hospital.
Someone had tried to make it very obvious that our boy had been murdered by our lawyer.
At the main entrance to the detention center, I produced the fake ID I’d created for myself when I was studying money laundering. Since I had already called ahead to get on the appointment roster, the guard had no reason to examine my credentials closely. I had even found the name of the occupant of the cell across from Reggie’s — Lemuel Hackman — and arranged a visit with my “client.” The success of my foray depended entirely on Hackman’s cooperation. I’d done my research there, too.
This was a facility for those prisoners who hadn’t yet been convicted. We’re all innocent until proven guilty, right? Some of us are just more innocent than others, or have friends with bigger wallets.
Hackman had been charged with a drive-by shooting. He had priors and his bond was off the charts. Read between the lines and you see gangbanger and someone the cops want off the streets — even if he didn’t commit the crime with which he was charged — under the assumption that he was undoubtedly guilty of others. That’s what happens when you hang out with the wrong crowd.
The guards led me to one of those rooms with a glass wall down the middle and telephones on either side. Lemuel didn’t look surprised to see me when he picked up his phone. He was even younger looking than I’d expected, although the reports said he was eighteen. He was slight, with a burgeoning goatee and a gang symbol shaved into his cropped nap. “You from the public defender?” he asked.
“No, I’m better, Mr. Hackman. I can get you bail. Convince me you’re worth it.”
I’d give him credit for intelligently narrowing his eyes with suspicion. “How?”
“First, if I get you out of here, what are you going to do?” I had ulterior motives on top of ulterior motives, but I wasn’t letting a murderer into the street if I knew about it.
Correctly guessing that was a loaded question, he didn’t pull the bluffing thug act. I gave him another point. He shrugged. “Run,” he said. “The state’s got evidence that points to me. I can’t prove I didn’t do it. And the guy who did do it will figure I squealed and kill me.”
“I’ve been worse off,” I said with a similar world-weary shrug. He looked disbelieving, but that was pure honesty and the reason I had the audacity to follow this game. “You’ve got nothing to lose if you trust me. I’ve got a lot of money to lose if you run. If you can give me the information I want, I’ll bail you out, find you a safe place, and you can squeal like a pig so we can lock up the gun-toting cretin. Fair?”
“What you want?” He emanated suspicion like bad body odor.
“I need a list of everyone who visited the guy who died in the cell across from you, and I mean jailers and anyone who just looked ugly passing his cell that day.” I sat back and waited. I figured my chances were fifty-fifty that he’d spill. Far less that he’d provide what I needed.
He nodded slowly. “I can do that. I’d be real happy to do that. Just get me out of here and somewhere safe.”
“You’re good.” I smiled in approval. “But I’m the one with the money and the safe place and you’re the one with incentive to run. What I’m asking costs you nothing. You either trust me now, or we have no deal.”
He weighed his options. He didn’t have many. “Okay, but if you don’t come through, my homeys are gonna find you.”
“No, they aren’t, but they won’t need to. I’m straight up.” I took a notebook and pen out of my hand. “Spill.”
He’d been bored that day, apparently. He began listing every guard who walked past their cells from the moment he woke up. This kid needed an education for that brain of his. I took notes. I tried not to flinch when he hadn’t named anyone whose name I knew by the time he reached Reggie’s departure to visit Oppenheimer.
Reggie had been acting as his own lawyer — a fool’s job but his only alternative had been a public defender. He wasn’t allowed any visitors except a lawyer on weekends. He’d agreed to see Oppenheimer on Saturday. I couldn’t see how Oppenheimer could have passed anything poisonous through this glass wall, as the police report suggested, but maybe real lawyers knew the protocol. Or maybe they’d
been given a private room and the report was wrong.
“When the guy got back to his cell,” the kid continued, “his preacher came by to talk to him. That’s the last I saw before he started screaming and throwing up and causing a racket,” Hackman concluded.
His preacher! I almost smiled. “And did you catch the name of his preacher by any chance?”
Lemuel just shrugged. “He just called him Smitty.”
Smitty?
I recalled Dr. Smythe of the R&P had a religious doctorate of some kind. Reggie’s preacher?
“Tell me which bail bondsman you recommend,” I said in satisfaction, “then tell me what the preacher looked like.”
Sixteen
I called Nick from the Detention Center and arranged for him to have one of his buddies pick up Lemuel after he was released on Monday. Our family bank account was badly hit by the kid’s bondsman and would be more so after we paid one of Nick’s chronic moocher friends to take Lemuel on as a roommate. But I was counting on Lemuel being a smart boy and willing to stay on the opposite end of town from his usual haunts until the real drive-by killer was caught.
I needed to see if I could find the kid an anonymous dishwashing job so he didn’t take to pawning his new roomie’s TV. I’m no bleeding heart. I didn’t expect anyone to be pure of soul. But given a choice, the smart ones discovered work was simpler than a life of dodging the law and gangs.
Once I returned to my basement, I ran a quick Google on Dr. Smythe and printed out a photo. I’d show it to Lemuel for verification once he was out on bond, but Smythe fit Lemuel’s description.
It was Sunday, and I didn’t know how to reach Oppenheimer to relay the information of a possible killer to him. There wasn’t much he — or the police — could do about Smitty anyway. The good reverend was a hugely popular advisor to politicians. I needed real evidence or the preacher had pretty much accomplished the perfect crime — as had my grandfather’s killer.
When I learned Patra had taken off to pry files out of Mrs. Bloom, I wasn’t too happy. But I wasn’t too happy about her being a walking target for her father’s enemies either, so I sucked it up. EG and Nick had done the laundry, and I owed EG a visit to the zoo.
We’d earned our afternoon off.
Patra’s perspective
Patra straightened the boxy jacket that concealed her figure and nervously tried to ignore the gray cat twisting around her bare ankles. Her long, flowered skirt had been a Goodwill purchase. It was nasty enough to attract cats and small rodents.
This was her one and only chance to retrieve Bill’s papers. She would not kick a cat.
“We are so sorry for your loss, Mrs. Bloom. With more time, I’m sure your son would have seen the error of his ways and returned to the fold. It’s always tragic to see a young man cut off before he achieves his prime.”
Patra didn’t dare look at Sean. Last time, he’d crossed his eyes at her and stuck a finger down his throat as if he wanted to puke — juvenile behavior for a grown man. Fortunately, Mrs. Bloom couldn’t see him. He stood behind their hostess, keeping an eye on the street outside.
“Bill was smart,” Mrs. Bloom said with a sniff. “I’d hoped he would make something of his fancy education. But then he dropped out and fell in with the wrong crowd.”
Yeah, he fell in with educated people with open minds. Patra nodded. “It happens. I understand. But Dr. Smythe fears those papers in your possession might contain anti-Christian propaganda. If you would entrust them to us, we’ll see that they’re shredded. And I believe a small payment has been authorized for your service to the cause.”
Mrs. Bloom frowned. “I told that other nice girl that I’d call her…”
“Oh, she works for us. She’s the one who told Dr. Smythe about the papers. I’ll call her now if you’d like to talk to her.” Patra produced her phone while frantically trying to remember if Ana had told her the name she’d used when visiting Bill’s mother. Ana never used her own name.
“Oh, that’s all right, then. Ken is out in the garage. He’ll help you load them into your car. He was planning on burning them in the fireplace this winter, but it’s probably safer if you shred them.”
In relief, Patra stood up, nudging the cat away from her pump. “We’ll dispose of the boxes, and you’ll be receiving a small check in the mail. It’s been a pleasure meeting you, Mrs. Bloom. This country needs more righteous citizens like you.”
Even Patra was gagging on her own poppycock by the time they had loaded the trunk of Sean’s sports car and waved farewell to Bill’s surly brother. Ken had scarcely spoken a word despite her best efforts to charm. He was on the phone when they backed out and didn’t even notice her wave.
“How do you plan on sending a check from the R&P?” Sean asked as they drove away.
“I don’t. Let her pester the bigots for the money. Give them something to do figuring out who we are. With Riley following me around, it’s only a matter of time anyway. We just need to work faster.” Patra sank deeper into the classic MG’s leather seat and watched the road behind them over her shoulder. “I’d rather not lead strangers back to the house, though.”
“To the batcave?” he asked incredulously. “I don’t think anyone short of the CIA has the know-how to get past Graham’s fortress.”
“They won’t need to go near Graham if they catch us first. Shiny white Cadillac sedan two cars back.”
Sean shot her a frown before checking his mirror. Two demerits, Patra thought, using Ana’s old system of rating character. For safety, one always checked out the credibility of the warning first, not the messenger.
“What’s wrong with a Cadillac?” he asked warily.
“I’m not familiar with DC, but humor me. Try going around the block and come up behind the Caddy. In this traffic, he can’t get too far, and if he’s heading for the freeway, he should be easy to follow.”
Sean made a sharp left turn in front of oncoming traffic, floored the little car through a yellow light, made a left at the next intersection, then made two more lefts to take them back to their original route.
She couldn’t see the Cadillac. “Well done, grasshopper. Those left turns should have shaken him for a while.” Patra scanned the side roads they passed.
“It could have turned off anywhere,” Sean argued.
“A pricey car like that does not belong in this neighborhood.” She gestured at the dirty Ford Econ-o-vans and battered pickups around them. “Cadillacs would only be passing through on the way to the interstate, which is straight ahead, if I remember correctly. Continue as if we’re going home. I think darling Ken called a tail.”
Patra pulled out her phone and rang Ana. She got voice mail. Nick, the same. She didn’t have a message to leave. Yet.
Sean took the entrance ramp. Still slumped below the seat back, Patra studied the traffic behind them in the side-view mirror. “Convertibles make a rotten getaway car, especially if the villains start shooting. There he is, three cars back, coming up the ramp. He knew our route and waited for us to pass him.”
“Not that I’m buying your family paranoia…” Sean floored the MG, passed a semi on the left, swerved back to the right lane in front of the truck, and recklessly caught the next exit ramp.
Patra almost swallowed her tongue as the semi came a hair’s breadth from rear-ending them. “You’re too visible. The Cadillac saw us. But nice maneuver.”
Sean swore vividly as the Caddy veered right and off the ramp at the last minute. “That should screw anyone waiting for us on the usual route, at least.”
“They could have picked up Bill’s papers anytime, just the way we did,” Patra said, brain cranking as genuine fear set in. “It’s us they’re after.”
“Yeah, that was my conclusion, too. The papers were bait. They just waited to see who was interested and hooked Ana. And then they waited for her to come back for them. Or us, as it turns out. But you were the first one at the scene of Bill’s apartment that night, so you’re more likely who
they were expecting.”
“I’m not as sneaky as Ana,” she admitted with a shrug. “People notice me, so I play it.”
“Play it with someone else, please. I don’t relish turning gray before my time.” He zipped the car into a shopping center, took an alley back to the Dumpsters, bumped across a parking lot edger, over a grass divider, and into a parking lot behind an apartment house.
“You’ll tear the bottom out of your pretty car,” she protested, trying not to look impressed.
“My office is out here. I know the shortcuts.”
Torn between wide-eyed awe at his ability to dodge garbage bins, and watching over her shoulder for the white Caddy, Patra was working on a bad case of neck strain. She almost fell over in relief when he rolled the midget car into an underground garage.
“I hate leaving my baby like this, but let’s get these boxes upstairs. Maybe I can send security down.” Sean jumped out and began unloading the convertible.
“Don’t suppose you have any friends to help us with these?” Patra complained when she tried to balance one box too many on her stack.
“Sunday, remember? Nearly empty garage?” Arms full, he gestured with his chin at the few old clunkers occupying the enormous space.
Slamming the trunk, Patra shut up and followed him to the elevator, expecting the Cadillac to run them down any minute. She didn’t breathe until the elevator doors closed. Remembering the horror of her scorched apartment, she shuddered. “Do you think they’d torch a newspaper office?”
“They can’t know there’s anything of interest in these boxes or they’d have destroyed them first and worried about you later.”
“Theory,” she argued. “Why me?”
He glared at her. “Aren’t you the one who had her apartment burned? Wasn’t Bloom your contact? Wasn’t he doing some spy work for you? Why not you?”
Undercover Genius Page 12
