Founders' Keeper (A David and Martin Yerxa Thriller - Book 1)

by Ed Markham

  She looked at him thoughtfully. “You know, the two of you aren’t that different.” He made a face, but she went on, “Don’t get me wrong. You are in a lot of ways. A lot of ways. But there are similarities too. You look alike, for one thing. And I can tell you have the same drive and the same morals.” She smiled. “You’re both a little arrogant. And when you walk into a room, you both take control of it in the same way. And it’s not because anyone gives you the authority. Neither of you has to say a word, and even if the other people don’t know who the hell you are, they know right away that you’re the guys in charge.” She stopped talking abruptly and brushed her hair back from her face.

  David could tell she was a little embarrassed—as though she’d betrayed too much forethought on the subject. She added, more casually, “And you’re both a pain in the ass to work with.”

  They both smiled, and she said, “Did I hear you were in the Foreign Service?”

  He nodded. “Pristina, Kosovo, from 2000 to 2002.”

  “What was that like?”

  “Complicated.”

  She laughed. “I bet. Why’d you quit it? They wouldn’t let you wear T-shirts every day?”

  “It wasn’t what I expected.”

  “What had you expected?”

  “I’m not sure now.” He rotated his half-full beer on his coaster, recalling that time in his life. It was a period that haunted him, and there was a lot about it he couldn’t describe to Lauren. “I’d finished college and I needed a change. So I applied for the Foreign Service and ended up in Kosovo. It was all right for a while, then it wasn’t.”

  “What happened?”

  He took a long drink from his beer. “I was a public diplomacy officer, which mostly involved developing relationships with local civic leaders and businessmen to promote American interests. Generating good will toward the United States, that sort of thing. But then 9/11 changed the dynamic. Our focus shifted to the Middle East. And where I was posted in the Balkans—where things were still pretty volatile—there was a big push for us to maintain the appearance of stability and friendly relations, regardless of the circumstances.” He tapped his thumb on the side of his bottle. “At first that wasn’t a big deal. I understood it. But in June during my second year there, a local contingent that didn’t appreciate our presence managed to take down one of our Apache helicopters. Two American soldiers died. The FSO in charge of our team, a man named Rick Cantrick, told me it was imperative that the American public and the rest of the world consider the Kosovar people and government stable and appreciative of our involvement. He told me we would officially acknowledge the Apache attack as an unfortunate accident—pilot error—and not a hostile act. The incident was glossed over by the press, mostly thanks to our office’s work, and the families of those dead soldiers still think their sons died because they fucked up.”

  “Jesus,” she said, shaking her head.

  He finished off the last of his beer. “After that, a job at the FBI seemed straight-forward and honest.” He scanned the tabletop, searching for the right words. His father’s came to mind. “We chase people who hurt people. If we do our jobs, we stop them.”

  Lauren regarded him for a time without speaking. “You know,” she said finally, “I can tell you’re always holding something back.”

  David felt his neck grow cold.

  She squinted at him. “Everyone else thinks you’re unsociable, or just kind of a dick, but that’s not it.” She smiled, “Or maybe that’s just part of it, but that’s definitely not all of it. You’re being guarded. I mean, this is the most I’ve ever heard you say about yourself, and I can tell you feel good opening up a little bit. But at the same time, I can see something you don’t talk about is weighing on you—holding you back.”

  For almost half a minute, neither of them spoke. David knew Lauren was waiting for him to respond, and finally he broke the silence. “There are these people in South America—Peru I think, or Chile—that think about time differently than we do.”

  She cocked an eyebrow at him.

  He went on, “You and I talk about the past being behind us, and the future lies ahead—as if the future were something we’re walking toward. But for these people, the past is in front of them. It has to be because they can see it. It’s already happened. But the future is at their backs, out of their field of vision. They can’t see it, so it’s behind them, almost like they’re walking backwards toward it.” He paused. “I like that. I think that makes more sense. When we’re young, we’re all running backwards and not worrying about tripping or falling or slamming into something that might hurt us. But we slow down as we get older. We learn there are things that could knock us down, and we remember because our past is always right there in front of us, reminding us to watch our step.”

  Lauren grinned. “Is this your weird way of telling me to mind my own business?”

  “Maybe,” David said, smiling back at her.

  She raised her hands and sat back in the booth. “You’re right. I’m out of line. That’s what you get for having drinks with a behavioral psych major.”

  Hoping to change the subject, he said, “Okay, a behavioral psych major. Let’s hear the rest.”

  “What, my story?” She blew up her bangs. “Well, I was a daddy’s girl. Big time. My mom died of leukemia when I was three, and my dad never remarried, so it was the two of us and my older brothers. My dad was Maryland’s state prosecutor for eight years—the first Hispanic man appointed to that position.” She smiled, obviously proud of her father’s accomplishment. “I was his part-time paralegal by the time high school started, and I was sure I’d follow in his footsteps.”

  “Older brothers,” David said, sizing her up. “That makes a lot of sense.” She laughed, and he added, “So you were headed for a JD. What changed your plans?”

  “Ted Kaczynski.”

  He blinked a few times, and she laughed again.

  “When the FBI arrested Kaczynski in Montana,” she said, “I was seventeen and taking a criminology course as part of my freshmen-year curriculum at UMD. We followed the Unabomber case for the rest of the semester, and that was it for me. I was hooked. I majored in criminal justice, and followed that up with a master’s in behavioral psychology.”

  “Was your dad disappointed?”

  “Not a bit. He’d always told me and my brothers to follow our own paths, and he could tell I was into it. He had plenty of friends at the Baltimore County P.D., so that’s where I spent my first eight years after college. I started in Violent Crimes, and then moved on to Homicide. But I was set on working federal cases.”

  “I remember when you came on board.”

  “Almost six years ago now. Time flies.”

  “What does your dad think about your working this case?”

  Her mouth tightened. “He passed away about four years ago.”

  David was quiet for a moment. “I’m sorry, Lauren.”

  The waitress appeared then with a fresh round of drinks. “Compliments of that guy,” she said, nodding back to where Steve stood, arms crossed, behind the row of beer taps. The bartender smiled and raised his hands to either side of his mouth. “Don’t let that little daisy run outta here before you’ve made your move,” he shouted to David.

  “Don’t worry,” Lauren shouted back. “I won’t.”

  That brought cheers and laughter from half the bar, and David laughed along with them—really laughed for the first time in months.

  Lauren smiled at him, and a rare blush reddened her cheeks, making her green eyes glow. They both took long swallows of their fresh drinks.

  Chapter 5

  FORTY MINUTES LATER, David and Lauren left the bar together.

  “Where’d you park?” he asked her.

  “Not far.” She grinned and looked at him sideways. “Why? You going to walk me there?” Before he had time to answer, she looped an arm through his and started off down the street. “You only have to put up with this for thirty seconds,” s
he said, clutching his arm tighter. “Let me pretend I’m a regular girl with a regular job on a regular date, not meeting with a colleague to discuss some fucked-up murders.”

  Walking side-by-side, they moved away from the bustle of King Street and into the solitude of the surrounding neighborhood. Somewhere out on the Potomac, a boat horn sounded long and low. The side streets of Alexandria felt peaceful and safe, and neither of them spoke.

  After two blocks, she slowed as they approached a black Ford SUV. She let go of his arm and turned to face him. “I had a nice time tonight. It feels a little messed up to say that, considering the circumstances. But I did.”

  Seeing the look in her eyes, David could feel the way things between them were moving. A big part of him wanted to keep them moving in that direction. But another part of him was making noise now, shouting at him to get out of this while he still could without making anything awkward between them. But before he could do that, he had something to say to her.

  “I want to thank you for backing me up last week with Carl.”

  “What? Over your suspension? That was just—”

  “It meant a lot to me, Lauren,” he said, cutting her off. “Truly.”

  She smiled archly. “You know, that’s the third time tonight you’ve called me Lauren.”

  This surprised him. “You look different tonight than you normally do,” he said. “I guess Butch doesn’t fit.”

  “I look different?”

  He didn’t want to answer that too specifically, so he said, “You look nice.”

  She glared at him, pretending to be offended. “I don’t normally look nice?”

  He smiled. “Normally we’re working. I think it’s against Bureau regs for me to notice how you look.”

  “But it’s allowed now? Since we’re not working?”

  “Sure, but only because I’m suspended.”

  She nodded as though his logic made perfect sense. “So what else is allowed while you’re suspended?”

  He waited for her to laugh this comment away, but she didn’t. She looked at him candidly, almost searchingly. Then she stepped forward and kissed him.

  It happened quickly, as though she’d rushed through an open doorway that was about to close.

  For a moment, David was knocked out of his own head; the whole world and all the awful things in it evaporated, and the only thing he thought of was the feeling of Lauren’s lips on his own. But after a few seconds, the world leaked back in and he put his hands on her shoulders and moved her away very gently. His brain was still trying to recover its balance when he heard himself say, “This is a bad idea.”

  She took a step back from him but her eyes never left his. He told himself it would be a good idea to look away from those green eyes, but he couldn’t manage it.

  “You’re right,” she said. Without much sincerity she added, “Sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”

  He could tell she was waiting for him to initiate things now—that it was his turn to take the lead. And he wanted to, very badly. His heart and mind and body were all urging him forward. But his past held him back.

  When Lauren realized he wasn’t going to kiss her, she turned and started to unlock her truck, her movements abrupt and a little hostile. But then she stopped and turned back to him. “Actually, that’s bullshit. I was thinking, and I’m not sorry.” She ran a hand through her dark hair. “I like you, David. But if you’re not interested in me, I’ll understand that and I’ll move on.” Her eyes searched his face. “But I don’t think that’s it. I think you like me too, but that thing you don’t talk about is fucking with you’re head. Now you can tell me about it or not. But either way, I’m not sorry about this.”

  She held her chin up, sure of herself and defiant, and a part of David—the part that, for the past fifteen years, had kept him away from situations like this—finally relaxed its grip.

  He stepped forward, taking her face in his hands and bringing it to his. When he did, he felt her whole body press against his, and her hands came up to his forearms. She stepped back, pulling him until they were leaning against her truck. They stayed there until an audible cough reminded them they were out on a public street.

  David turned to find a young black man wearing a Nike running outfit and carrying a navy backpack. He nodded to the man while Lauren failed to stifle a laugh. “Uh oh,” she whispered to him. “Busted.”

  David waited for the runner to leave, but the man had stopped and was staring back at them. “What can I do for you?” David asked him.

  The runner looked around as though he were trying to collect his thoughts. “Don’t you think you should take this inside somewhere?” he said finally.

  “I don’t think—” David started to say, but the runner cut him off.

  “Lotta eyes and ears out on the street.” He looked around again, and then back at David. “You never know who might be paying attention when you’re out and about instead of inside your home.”

  Then it clicked for David. He could hear Carl’s voice warning him that Special Affairs might keep tabs on him during his suspension: Listen David, they won’t monitor you at home, but they may have someone on you when you’re out of the house.

  “What’s your problem?” he heard Lauren say to the runner. He touched her arm to let her know everything was fine.

  “You’re right,” he said, nodding to the man. “We probably shouldn’t be out on the street like this.”

  “Don’t mean to be rude,” the man said. “None of my business of course, or anyone else’s if you ask me. You folks have a nice night.” He turned, and jogged up the street without looking back.

  “What the hell was that about?” Lauren asked.

  He told her, and her eyes grew wide. “Are you fucking serious? Talk about Big Brother.” She looked up and down the block. “You live nearby here, right?” When he nodded, she took his arm and said, “I want to see your place.”

  Chapter 6

  DAVID AND LAUREN embraced the moment they were inside his house. They ended up lying on the wooden staircase that led to the second floor, and they worked their way up the hard stairs on heels and elbows, jettisoning articles of clothing as they went.

  When they eventually made it to his room, they collapsed in a tangle on the bed. Lauren’s elbow landed on the television remote, and the screen flickered on. Philip Goodman’s deep voice filled the bedroom.

  She shrieked in surprise. “You watch this guy?”

  “Only during sex.”

  She laughed. “So this is what it takes to bring out your sense of humor?”

  He smiled and picked up the remote control and turned to switch off the television. But something stopped his finger from pressing the Power button.

  “What is it?” she asked, looking at him and following his eyes to the television screen.

  He held up a hand to quiet her.

  It was the same taping he had seen earlier in the evening at Gilroy’s. Goodman was standing on an outdoor stage a hundred yards in front of Independence Hall in Philadelphia. The host was gesturing toward a large flat-screen television mounted near his stage desk. On the screen, graphic arrows marked the progress of his show’s Founders’ Tour—from the Carolinas to Maryland and Delaware, on to New Jersey, up into New York and then over into New England.

  David watched as the host’s hand waved down the length of the East Coast, following the arrows and indicating his plan to move from Pennsylvania to Washington.

  “Butch,” David said.

  “Oh, now it’s Butch again?” She looked from him to the television screen and shoved him on the shoulder. “What is it?”

  “You need to get on the phone with Carl and Jared Campbell,” he said. “Right now.”

  Chapter 7

  LAUREN SAT IN the lone chair in David’s bedroom, still only partially clothed. Her first call was to Carl Wainbridge, who answered almost immediately though his voice was a little hoarse with sleep.

  “Carl, I just got a call from
David Yerxa,” she said. She glanced at him as he paced back and forth in front of her. “Are you familiar with Philip Goodman’s television program?”

  “I’m familiar.”

  “He’s been on a tour of the East Coast for the last two weeks. Something about celebrating the Constitution.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “David noticed his tour schedule matches the path of our murders. Same states in the same order. Considering the crimes haven’t been geographically linear, that’s a pretty amazing coincidence. Our subject has also been taking off weekends, just like Goodman’s show.”

  There was a long pause on the other end of the line. Lauren looked at David and said into her phone, “Carl? Are you still there?”

  When Wainbridge spoke, the fatigue was gone from his voice. “I want you to handle this Goodman lead.”

  “What?”

  “Jared Campbell is in Massachusetts following up on something, and I don’t want to pull him away from that.”

  “But the deputy director—”

  “I don’t want to bruise your ego, Lauren, but Deputy Director Reilly doesn’t know who you are. And besides, you’re not a permanent member of David’s team. If I reassign you to Campbell, no one’s breaking any rules.”

  “Should I start on this tonight?”

  “Right now. I want our people to be wherever Goodman is within two hours.” He paused. “Considering the ideology of his program, we may be chasing an obsessed fan. Goodman or a member of his staff may be able to help ID our suspect. We’ll need access to his production people so we can talk to them and review audience lists and video. Go to work, and call me back when you have something.”

  “I will,” Lauren said. She started to hang up, but then added, “One more thing, Carl. This was David’s find.”

  David stopped pacing and turned to her.