“She’s the real deal,” Marie said. “I think you should talk to her.”
A moment passed in which no one moved.
“Let’s sit,” Brady said, pulling a chair out for herself. With that, it was done. She’d let him vent a little, let Gail respond, and now it was time to get on with the business at hand.
Frank Schuler turned awkwardly to lower his butt into his chair. “I’m sorry for that outburst,” he said. “But I don’t know if you can imagine what it’s like to be where I am and hear that your child has been taken.”
“I’m sure that the worst I could imagine wouldn’t even come close to the reality,” Gail said.
Schuler relaxed a little. “Why a private dick and not a cop?”
“The police haven’t already talked to you?” Gail didn’t try to mask her surprise.
Brady answered for her client. “Remember the rules, Ms. Bonneville.”
“Please call me Gail.”
“And I’m Marie. This is Frank. Formality seems a little silly under the circumstances. But to answer your question, I’m sure that the police will get around to us sooner or later. I don’t think they consider us to be a priority at the moment. In fact, I’m a little surprised that you do.”
Gail chose not to offer a theory of her own, or to address the open question. She opened her speckled notebook and dug right in. “Do the names Evan Guinn or Arthur Guinn mean anything to your client?”
Marie nodded her approval to Frank. Clearly, this hands-off interview style was a common occurrence for them.
“Who are they?”
Gail started to answer, but stopped herself. “Can I answer him?” she asked Marie.
The attorney smiled. “Your questions and his answers are the only concern,” she said. “Not the other way around. Trust me, you’ll get used to it after a while.”
It sure felt weird now, Gail thought. “Evan is the other boy who was taken from the school,” she explained. “Arthur is his father. Do you know who they are?”
Frank Schuler looked off the side and scowled. When his gaze returned, the regret was obvious. “Nothing,” he said. “I mean, the name might be familiar, but how would I know? I’ve met a lot of people over the years. Are those the only names you’ve got?”
Gail invoked the name of the only shooter they’d been able to identify. “What about Sean O’Brian?”
Another moment of intense reflection, begun even before the nod from Marie. “Another common name. Who is he?”
Gail found herself on the precipice of the proverbial slippery slope. They had no legitimate trail to these identities. By answering the question, she’d be showing a card in her hand. To be evasive, though, would shove Frank into anger or insolent silence; neither of which would advance their case a bit. She decided to take a chance.
“We think he might have a connection to Sammy Bell. Does that-”
Marie’s hand shot up. “Stop. Move to your next question.”
“The mobster?” Frank asked.
“Frank, no.”
Gail moved quickly. “Yes, the mobster.”
Marie’s raised hand became a pointed finger. “Gail, you promised me.”
“He asked me,” Gail said, her palms upturned in a gesture of innocence.
“Do you think that Sammy Bell had something to do with this?” Frank pressed.
Marie slammed her hand on the metal table. “Damn it, Frank, stop it.”
He turned angry. “Stop what, Marie? This is my son we’re talking about. My only child. What would you have me stop doing?”
“I would have you stop talking!” she snapped. “Sammy Bell is a known mobster. Anything you say-”
“What?” Frank interrupted. “What could I possibly say that would turn my situation into anything shittier than it already is?”
“We still have an appeal left,” Marie said. “Anything and everything you say-”
“Fuck the appeal, Marie.”
The attorney looked like she’d been slapped.
“They’re not going to grant me a stay. In nine days, they’re going to tie me to a bench, put needles in both my arms, and they’re going to kill me. If I can die knowing that I’ve done everything I can to help Jeremy, then that’s a hell of a lot better than dying without knowing where he’s been taken.” Frank turned to Gail. “Ask your questions.”
“Goddammit, Frank-”
“Do I have to fire you, Marie?” he shouted. “I don’t want to, but I will, if that’s what it takes. The decision’s yours, but make it now.”
Gail realized that she hadn’t taken a breath in a while. For her part, Marie Brady looked injured, on the verge of tears. “It’s only over if we give up,” she said, but the words trembled.
Frank Shuler’s eyes burned hot. “You were talking about Sammy Bell,” he prompted Gail.
She swallowed hard. “Um, well…Marie?”
“He’s the client,” she said with an angry flick of her hand. Even though it looked petulant, Gail recognized it as resignation.
She returned her gaze to Frank Schuler. “Yes, we think that Sean O’Brian was an affiliate of Sammy Bell, the mobster.”
“Is he dead now?”
Marie threw up her hands. “Jesus.”
“Is who dead?” Gail asked. This conversation was beginning to feel like a windstorm.
“This Sean guy. You referred to him in the past tense.”
Oh, shit, Gail thought. “I meant that as in he used to work for Sammy Bell.” She hoped her poker face held.
“What did he do for him?” Frank asked.
Gail took a deep breath and sighed. “Look, Mr. Schuler-”
“Frank.”
“Okay, Frank. I know you’re anxious to learn as much as you can, but I need to ask you to let me ask the questions.”
“You have something to hide?”
Jesus, Gail thought, this guy is sharp as a tack.
“We all have something to hide, don’t we?” she countered. As she asked the question, she offered a coy smile.
He acknowledged her with a little nod. “Yes, I suppose we do.” He regrouped. “I do know who Sammy Bell is-and for the benefit of the transcriber, I’ll note that you, too, Mr. Transcriber, have also probably heard of him-but Sean O’Brian still means nothing to me.”
Off to her left, Gail noticed that Marie had relaxed a little. She looked like a dental patient whose procedure hadn’t hurt as much as she’d feared.
Frank continued, “But if you believe in six degrees of separation, I’m only two away from Sammy Bell.”
Marie sat tall in her seat. “Holy shit, Frank.” Relaxation gone; welcome, raw horror.
“Actually, maybe I’m three degrees separated. I guess it depends on how you count.”
Marie said, “As your attorney, I am advising you in the strongest possible terms to shut the fuck up.”
Frank laughed-a deep, throaty laugh that showed he was genuinely amused. “Marie, I love you. And I agree that ‘shut the fuck up’ ranks right up there with the strongest possible terms.”
Gail found herself laughing along with him.
When the moment passed, Frank continued, “My wife, Marilyn, used to work for one of Sammy’s mouthpieces. One of his attorneys.”
Gail clicked her pen open. “What was his name?”
Frank’s face folded into the now-familiar faraway scowl. “Navarro,” he said, snapping his fingers as the name returned to him. “Bruce Navarro.”
Gail made her note. “Do you know what his legal specialty was?”
“Keeping crooks out of jail, I would guess.”
Obvious enough, Gail supposed. “I was hoping for something more…”
Frank waved off her words. “I know what you were looking for. I was just being an asshole. He did contract law, whatever that means.”
“It means five hundred bucks an hour,” Marie grumped.
Gail continued, “And what did your wife”-she consulted her notes-“Marilyn do for him?”
He shrugged. “Clerical stuff. Secretarial stuff. Nothing terribly important. I just thought it was interesting that Bell’s name came up.”
Something churned in Gail’s distant memory, something from the notes she’d read from the research file. Something about Bruce Navarro. More specifically about Navarro amp; Associates.
“Aaron Hastings,” Gail said.
Marie groaned, “Oh, please shut up.”
“Marilyn’s lover,” Frank said. “He’s also the man who I think killed Marilyn and framed me for it.”
Gail had read that such had been Schuler’s claim all along, but there’d always been problems with his argument. “But you don’t know why,” she reminded.
“The whole world doesn’t know why, because the police decided from the very beginning that I was their man. They never bothered to investigate anyone else.”
Gail looked to Marie for confirmation and got a nod. “From Day One, Frank was the only suspect in their crosshairs,” she said. “Remember how the system works: The Commonwealth doesn’t have to be right; they only have to convince a jury that they’re right.”
To someone outside the system, the statement might have seemed overly cynical, but Gail understood that Marie was stating fact. The entire industry of private investigation-such as it was-was built around the all too frequent occurrences of prosecutorial misconduct. At the end of the day, lawyers on both sides were merely human; and humans were hardwired to reject failure. Gail had known a dozen or more prosecutors in her time-at both the local and federal levels-who would consider a win at the expense of justice to be a perfectly fair deal. Even the venerated FBI had recently been caught fabricating evidence for the purpose of convicting those who were presumed guilty.
Gail didn’t want to let him go that easily. “You have a theory, though? For why Aaron would have killed Marilyn?”
He gave a tentative glance to Marie, then took a deep breath. “Theory is too strong a word,” he said. “I have questions, though, and I think that by stitching them together with answers, you’d have her real killer.”
“I’m listening.”
“Did you know that Bruce Navarro disappeared around the same time that Marilyn was murdered?”
“What do you mean, disappeared?”
“I mean just that. He was around one day, fat and happy with a flourishing practice, and then he was gone. Nobody ever heard from him again, as far as I know.”
“You think he was killed?”
“I don’t know one way or the other,” Frank confessed. “But there’s a guy in here who swears that there’s a contract on Navarro’s head that would pay a fortune. You don’t put that out for someone who’s already dead.”
“Anyone can say anything,” Gail observed.
“True enough. But this is a guy who would know.”
“Who?”
Frank shook his head. “Not your concern.”
“But if I could talk to him-”
“No. Being in this place on these terms, I don’t have much, but I won’t turn into a rat in my last days on the planet. You’ll have to take it from me that if you talked to him, he’d tell you what I just said. I got no reason to lie. Not to you, anyway.”
Gail searched his face.
“You’re not seeing it, are you?” Frank pressed. “I can see it in your eyes.” He leaned in closer to the table and rested his forearms on it. “Navarro, Hastings, and my wife all worked together for a law firm with mob connections. Now, they’re all missing or dead. You say you’re a private investigator, Gail. How big a stick do you need to be hit with?”
Gail turned to Marie. “How did the police just write that off?”
She shrugged. “They had the guilty party they were after.”
“Have you ever tried to trace it all to ground?”
Marie’s expression said, Give me a break. “Of course we have. But the time for suppositions and alternative scenarios passed the moment a jury found Frank to be guilty. It takes a twelve-to-nothing vote to make that happen. In Virginia, once the jury has spoken, it takes truly incontrovertible evidence to turn things around. DNA is working for wrongly accused rape convicts, but even that can be hard to get introduced into the system. Too many political careers get harmed when a prosecutor is found to have made a mistake. Some would rather see an innocent man die than look in his eyes and apologize for countless years lost to wrongful incarceration.”
The cynical words stung. Gail had been a part of that system for long enough to know that the threads of truth within the bitterness were thick and strong.
“I think it might be even worse than you think it is, Frank,” Gail said.
His face darkened as he connected the dots for the first time. “Oh, my God.”
Gail said it out loud for both of them: “They’re all missing or dead, but you’re in prison scheduled to die, and now Jeremy is-” She stopped herself. They’d left him for dead, she didn’t say.
Frank’s eyes filled with tears. “Oh, Christ, they’re going to kill him, aren’t they?”
“No,” Gail said. Her tone was too emphatic for the ruse she was trying to sell. “I won’t let that happen,” she added.
Marie’s eyes narrowed. “You know something,” she said.
Gail felt her heart rate double. She’d never been a good liar; she wore her thoughts on her forehead. She stared straight into Frank Schuler’s eyes. “I think you need to have faith that Jeremy will be fine.”
Frank scowled. He started to say something, but when Marie rested her hand on his arm, he swallowed the words.
“Do you have any more questions for us?” Marie asked.
Gail knew that she’d blown the secret, but she couldn’t help but feel relieved. No one should be allowed to think that his child is in danger when it simply is not true. “No more questions,” she said. She stood.
The others stood with her.
“Thank you,” Frank said. “For whatever you’ve done. Whatever you’re going to do.”
Gail scooped her notes into her arm and shook Frank’s hand. “I think there’s an injustice under way here.”
“Welcome to our very small club,” he said.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Jonathan arrived ten minutes early.
The Maple Inn on Maple Avenue in the heart of Vienna, Virginia, had been a meeting place for spies and miscreants for decades. Known locally for its chipped floors and do-it-yourself coffee station, the Inn poured more beer than restaurants three times its size, and hauled cash in by the bucketful, one chili dog at a time. Actually, it was two chili dogs at a time, because no one had the willpower to stop after one.
Situated six and a half miles south of CIA Headquarters, the Maple Inn provided neutral ground, where known sworn enemies could occasionally sit down and discuss matters that would forever remain off the record, even as they changed the course of history. Jonathan had first come to know the place back during his days with the Unit, when his own duties occasionally required him to eavesdrop on conversations that weren’t as off the record as the participants might have thought.
He loved the food and the cheerful atmosphere, and appreciated the unofficial role it played in shaping policy and strategy. Dozens of such hangouts existed throughout the world, but this was the closest one to Fisherman’s Cove, and it was therefore a common place for him to break bread with his contacts.
As he approached across the packed parking lot, he noted the unmarked black government vehicle backed into a spot close to Maple Avenue, and knew that Wolverine had beaten him here. The beefy guy sitting behind the wheel with the pigtail wire in his ear looked none too pleased to be excluded. Jonathan thought about offering him a friendly little wave, but in the end opted for discretion. Venice would have been proud.
Jonathan pulled the door and entered, unleashing the wall of noise that was typical at lunchtime, which at the Inn ran from noon to midnight. Even though he knew where he’d find Wolverine, he made a cursory scan of the inhabita
nts to reassure himself that it was safe to proceed. His concerns had little to do with violence-given the clientele, if you pulled a gun in this place, you’d be torn in half by the cross-fire. What he really worried about were nosy observers with cameras.
It would advance no one’s agenda for Jonathan and Wolverine to be spotted together. They never spoke on the record, which was why Dom D’Angelo always made the arrangements for them to make contact.
Confident that his anonymity would be maintained, he navigated through the first line of booths, and then around to the far side of the bar, where he saw Wolverine nestled into the farthest, darkest corner on the left. Whether by happenstance or design, the acoustics of the corner made it ideal for clandestine conversation. You didn’t have to shout to be heard, yet the ambient noise of the room made casual eavesdropping virtually impossible.
When she saw him, she smiled. And what a smile it was. Wolverine was a holdover code name from years ago, when Uncle Sam had been a client. While they’d occasionally found themselves on opposite sides of certain tactical decisions, Jonathan had always liked her. Now that she was the Irene Rivers, director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, he admired her even more. Not only was she the first female to hold the seat, she was the only director in history to actually step out for occasional field work.
He leaned in for the cheek-peck that would sell their cover, and as always, he sensed that she kind of liked it. “Hi, Irene,” he said as he sat in the seat that placed his back to the room. He much preferred to be oriented the other way, but if anyone could cover his back-literally-Irene would be as good a choice as any.
“Hi, Digger. Long time, no see.”
He smirked, “Well, with you being a rock star and all, I figured you didn’t have time for us little guys anymore.” The last time they’d worked together-if that’s what you could really call it-Jonathan’s discovery of a cache of chemical weapons had brought a lot of great press to the Bureau in general, and to Irene in particular.
“Alas, fame is such a fleeting thing. Things are changing since the new sheriff came to town.” He knew she was referring to the new president. “The way we used to do things doesn’t fly anymore.”
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