by Alan Lee
“Worst case scenario, we get noticed and tell the truth.”
“The truth?”
“We’re investigating Darren Robbin’s death. We catch bad hombres for a living, Beck. It’s the truth,” he said.
“It’s part of the truth. But it’s also a lie by omission.”
“Maybe I do the talking, we meet someone.”
The elevator dinged and the doors slid open.
A man was waiting on the car, ready to board. His eyes widened a fraction.
“Holy shit. Manny Martinez,” he said, loud and smiling. “The hell are you doing here?”
“Hola, amigo.” Manny grinned, pulling Beck off the elevator. “That’s on a need-to-know basis.”
“Hah, need-to-know. I was just talking about you, about the legendary deputy marshal in Virginia,” the guy said. Beck glanced at his belt—he wore a marshal’s badge like Manny’s. “Someone asked about the Jenkins apprehension and of course your name came up. You’re the one who shot him in the foot. I tell people I know you, they all ask questions. What’s he like? Is he really seven feet tall? Have you been in his car? You’re like a damn modern day Doc Holiday, Martinez.”
“Wyatt Earp, you mean.”
“You up here for Milo Wiggins? You caught him, right?” said the man.
“I did. Probably should’ve killed him, though.” Manny put his hand on the guy’s shoulder and gently pushed him into the elevator. “You giving testimony? Moving a prisoner?”
“Testifying. Court at 11. Christ, I hate these trials.”
Manny got him fully into the elevator, pushed the Lobby button, and stepped out. “Me too. The worst. Good luck, señor.”
“What are the odds, running into you here,” he said.
“My bad luck.”
The guy laughed as the doors closed. “Hey, want to get a beer after?”
Then he was gone.
Beck whispered, “Who was that?”
“No idea.”
A security guard in a blue shirt waited at the reception desk. He had a log sheet they wanted to avoid, so Manny flashed his badge. “Point me toward Darren Robbins’ office.”
The guy didn’t move. “Darren Robbins.”
“Assistant US Attorney.”
“I know who he is. Or was.” He picked up the phone and pushed a button.
“No need to call.”
“You’re friends of his?” the guard asked.
“Sure,” said Manny, his favorite caucasian word.
“We are. Or we were,” said Beck.
The guy mumbled into the phone and hung up.
The door leading into a beige hallway opened and a woman hurried through.
Manny knew a legal secretary when he saw one. She looked fifty, though with white women it was hard to tell, and she wore the button-down shirt and sharp jacket and skirt outfit. No jewelry except earrings.
“I didn’t think you’d ever get here.” The woman gave them a sad smile.
“You were waiting,” said Manny, off guard, “ for us?”
“I’m Rene Byrd, Mr. Robbins’ assistant. We didn’t know who we were waiting for, I suppose. Usually it’s the wife or parents. Sometimes the children. But with Mr. Robbins, we had no idea.”
Beck brightened a little. “You mean, to collect his personal items.”
“I thought it might be the gorgeous blonde, Veronica. They were almost married after all. I was awfully fond of her.”
Manny said, “She would, but she’s tied up right now.”
Beck elbowed him in the ribs.
Ms. Byrd didn’t notice. “It’s just so sad, the airplane crash.”
“So sad.” Beck nodded the way you have to when discussing tragedies.
“I wake up every day and remember it all over again. It still doesn’t seem real,” said Rene Byrd.
“Like he’s still alive,” Manny said and Beck elbowed him again.
One more time and he was going to elbow her back.
“You can follow me to his office.” And they did. The hallway was bland other than the mandated certificates and awards and pompous photos. “I knew he didn’t have much of a personal life. But none of us expected to discover he had no family or friends.”
“Only a few,” said Beck, “of us friends.”
She shrugged at Manny—this ruse couldn’t possibly work.
“It was awful, the accident. There wasn’t even a memorial service, other than what we had here in the office.” Ms. Byrd said it with a soft sigh.
“Darren had kinda fallen off the map,” said Beck. “Quit communicating. We only recently heard he died.”
“We’re understaffed, so there’s no rush to clean out his office.” Ms. Byrd used her key to open a door adorned with a placard—Darren Robbins, Assistant US Attorney. “And, of course, replacing him hasn’t even come up yet.”
“Gracias. We will look quickly.”
She took a second look at him. “How did you know Mr. Robbins?”
“Work stuff. Here and there. We go back a while.” Manny waved noncommittally.
“How far back?” Her tone took on a speculative quality.
Beck caught it too. The woman wasn’t suddenly suspicious, but she could use some reassurance. Beck said, “We knew his wife and his son, John.”
“Did you! How about that. We sure miss her. He used to bring little John to work once a week and show him off, so proud.”
“Really?”
“Really. It was the happiest we’d ever seen him. Or maybe, the only time we’d ever seen him happy,” said Ms. Byrd.
“You don’t have an address for his ex-wife?” asked Manny. “Would make our life easier, getting mementos to Darren’s son.”
“I don’t, no. Otherwise I would’ve contacted her.”
“Thank you, Ms. Byrd. We won’t be long.” Beck said it in a tone politely asking for privacy.
“Of course. Do you need to speak with the US Attorney? She’s in a meeting but I could get her a message.”
“No,” said Manny.
“No,” said Beck. “Thank you, that’s not necessary.”
“Would you like coffee?”
“We had some.”
“Take your time, then. I’ll check back later.” Rene Byrd took one more look at Manny and closed the door.
“This office sucks,” he said, looking out the window at a construction site across from the FBI building.
Beck picked up a framed photograph. Of Darren Robbins smiling with Veronica Summers. His smile was bigger than his trophy fiancée’s. On a shelf sat a photo of a little boy. There were also two photographs of Fenway Park mounted on the wall.
That was it—no other personal touches to the office. Not even a framed diploma. Just books and binders and stacks of paper.
“This office does suck,” she muttered. “But I think he really loved his boy.”
“Can you break into his computer?”
“No need. These federal computers can be accessed remotely, and I did last night. There was nothing of interest.”
“You can do that?” said Manny, impressed.
“I’m NSA. I shouldn’t do it, but I have the ability. I read through his emails and browser history and files. It’s clean. He wasn’t using his work machine for anything related to his other profession.”
Manny leafed through a stack of papers. They needed a hint, a clue, anything that would point them in the direction of answers.
What was Darren doing with MS-13?
And why did he need his ex-wife?
Ten minutes of hunting and they found deposition transcripts, court orders, briefs, motions, and banal correspondence. The trash can had been emptied. Manny searched the shelves for anything hidden—the books, full of majority and minority opinions rendered by state and federal courts, were dusty and just for show, considering the state of technology. He took the backs off the photographs—found nothing.
Beck checked under the desk and went through drawers. She discovered a stapler, p
ens, pencils, a pencil sharpener, a cell phone charger, note pads, paperclips, loose change, a calculator, a baseball calendar from last year, Tylenol, an unopened airplane bottle of whiskey, broken sunglasses, a disused coffee mug, and highlighters.
“He’s good at keeping his worlds apart,” she muttered.
In the bottom of a filing cabinet, she found tax forms from 2018. “Ah hah.” She ran her finger down the paper. “Bingo, his home address. He lived here in DC.”
Manny peeked over her shoulder.
“Ay! US attorneys make a lot more than deputy marshals,” he said.
“Doesn’t seem fair, does it. They don’t get shot at.”
“Soon enough, Señorita Beck, this one will be.”
“Do you really believe Mackenzie will kill Darren? For revenge? I can’t picture it,” she said.
“I don’t think he can. So I’ll do it for him.”
“Could you? Murder an unarmed and defenseless man?” she said.
“If that man’s Señor Robbins, with pleasure.”
Ms. Byrd knocked a minute later and stuck her head in without entering the room.
“I hope you’re finding everything you need?”
“Thank you, but it’s as we expected. Professional and bare. Isn’t that just like Darren?” said Beck.
Mr. Byrd gave a sad sigh. “It was. Such a simple man, wasn’t he.”
Manny grunted. “So simple.”
Beck surreptitiously glanced at the tax form. “We’re visiting his home next, on…S Street. Have you ever been?”
“I took him chicken soup once, over a year ago.” Another sad sigh. “He was sick and of course had no one to care for him.”
“Of course,” said Manny.
“Do you know if he had other residences we don’t know about? An apartment on a ski slope? A lake house? Anything that would help the executor of his will?” said Beck.
“I doubt it. He was far too committed to his work. Everyone said it. He had nothing else. And after he broke up with the gorgeous blonde, he had no one else. He was all alone.”
Darren Robbins lived, or used to live, in Dupont Circle off S Street, a two-story brick building. He had the entire bottom floor, which looked less than two thousand square feet. From the outside, stamping in the cold, Manny guessed it would sell for a million dollars soon.
A white BMW parked on the street behind Manny’s Camaro and a woman got out. She left her door open and the engine running.
Manny said, “Mamie Bowen?”
The woman, overweight and waddling and breathing heavily through her mouth, said, “That’s me.” She was the Bowen in Ellis, Steele & Bowen Trust and Estates. According to a phone call from Rocky, she worked closely with the Kings and was the executor of Darren’s will.
She huffed to Darren’s front door and unlocked it with her key. An alarm inside beeped. She pressed four buttons to deactivate it.
She peered at Manny and Beck through bulbous watery eyes. “All yours.”
“Thank you, Ms. Bowen,” said Beck.
“Don’t thank me. I do as I’m told, but I was never here. I know nothing about this. I’m alive because I see nothing and hear nothing and say nothing.”
She waddled back to the car, sank into it, and drove away.
“Not alive for much longer, she don’t quit eating cheeseburgers,” said Darren.
“Sinatra, don’t be judgmental.” Beck went inside, carrying a briefcase.
“Facts are facts, Beck. Passenger seat had a hundred burger wrappers. America has few faults, but fast food restaurants are one of them.”
The apartment was simple but decorated better than the office. Pictures of Darren everywhere, posing with George W. Bush, posing with Barack Obama, with John Ashcroft, with Eric Holder, grinning at a baseball game. Several photos with Veronica Summers. Two photographs of him holding a baby boy when he was younger.
Beck found two abandoned laptops, both MacBooks. One new, one older. She set them on the kitchen island. She plugged them in and next to them she arranged hers, taken from her personal briefcase.
Manny opened the rear door. The alarm chimed.
“This parking lot, back here, it’s hidden from the neighbors. Perfect for a pimp, bringing chicas.”
“You think he had clients serviced here? Doesn’t seem big enough,” said Beck, eyes on her computer screen. She connected her machine to the first MacBook via a thunderbolt cable.
Manny considered the parking lot and the main floor of the house. “You’re right.” He stepped into the little parking lot in the back. The top floor of the house was a separate unit, reached by a rear staircase. “I bet he owns the top floor too, for his whores. For his sordid whores. I’ll search it next.”
He came back in.
“Sordid’s a good word,” he said. “Mack would say it’s not, but it is.”
Beck said, “You used it redundantly, though.”
“Focus on your computer, Beck.”
Manny checked the guest bathroom then moved to the master bedroom. He called, “The place is too clean. Right? I’m not an investigator, I just run the bad hombres down. But even I can tell the bad hombre had packed everything important, like he knew he was never coming back. It’s obvious.”
“Obvious to us, because we already know.”
“Qué chévere!” he shouted. “I’m taking this pillow. This is the nicest foam I’ve ever felt. I can’t wait to go to sleep.”
“Good grief, that was easy,” muttered Beck, typing. “I’m already in.”
Manny returned to the kitchen, holding a foam pillow. “Cracked the laptop? How?”
“A simple password spraying program. It took twenty seconds.”
“What is it?” asked Manny.
“John8281974. His son’s name plus Darren’s birthday. Maybe he was meticulous in keeping his worlds apart, but his cyber security is pathetic.”
Manny found a clean pillowcase in the spare bedroom. He slipped it on and set the foam pillow by the front door so he wouldn’t forget.
“Sinatra, you aren’t searching.”
“I bet the pillow cost two hundred dollars, Beck. Some things in life are important. Saving Ronnie is one of them. But so is rest.”
“You sleep on the floor,” she mumbled to herself. “On my floor, sometimes.”
“Gonna be doing it with more style, now.” Manny checked the tag. “Made in China. Damn it.”
Beck worked in intermittent bursts of keyboard activity, followed by scanning. Manny pulled a stool into the kitchen for her to sit on.
“Based on file dates, he quit using this computer a year ago,” she said. “He deleted everything but I’m finding the files anyway.”
“You can find deleted files?”
“Usually. Most users don’t realize the files still exist in the hard drive. Deleting them only erases the pathway the computer takes to get the data. But the data is still there.”
“Find anything incriminating?” asked Manny.
“Oh yes. Financial records. Databases with names. Blackmail letters, I think this is. Photographs. Yuck,” she said.
“A shame we aren’t ringing him up on trafficking or racketeering charges.”
“We could. Why wouldn’t we?” asked Beck.
“He’s dead. Right? We’re discovering what he’s doing right now, with MS-13. Not uncovering evidence for a grand jury.”
She grunted quietly, eyes still scanning her screen. “That’s true. I’d forgotten.”
“Besides, we use any of this then your boyfriend would never speak to you again.”
“Rocky is not…but I see your point.”
“Be good if you find the number of the cell phone he’s using to conduct business.”
She kept clicking her machine.
Manny found keys in a kitchen drawer. He went outside and up the staircase. With the keys, he opened the upstairs door.
The strong scent of bleach wafted out. The layout was similar to the main level but this floor was
empty. Nothing but hardwood floors and recently scrubbed walls. Not a single cup or pan in the kitchen. Extensive resources had been spent, expunging the place of DNA.
Most likely Darren had been letting some Washington elites meet with girls upstairs. Be hard to prove now.
He returned and Beck said, “I’m looking at his browser history now. And…ah hah…he has a gmail account. How on earth does he have a gmail account.”
Manny frowned. “What’s wrong with gmail?”
“Because of his criminal activity, he should be using HushMail or Posteo or Proton, something other than gmail. He needs two-step authorization to guard against people like me. This is too easy and…I’m already in. He used the same password. Unbelievable.”
Manny’s frown remained. “I always use the same password.”
“I know. But you shouldn’t.” She stood and unhooked her computer. “I got everything copied. Plus I can access his email anywhere now. It’ll take us a while to read through, which we can do at the hotel. But I’m confident we’ll find something to help Mackenzie.”
“Wait. What did you mean, I know? Why’d you say you know? You know my password?”
Beck slid her laptop into the black case and started wrapping cords, her cheeks a little pink. “Can you return those two MacBooks? They were next to the couch. And wipe them down for fingerprints. We were never here.”
He picked one up, his frown firmly in place. “Beck. Do you know my password?”
“What?”
“My password, señorita.”
“What about it?”
“Do you know it?” he said.
“Why?” She shoved the coiled thunderbolt cord into her bag and zipped it closed. “Did you forget? I can help you recover it.”
“You aren’t looking at me.”
“I’m packing!”
“Beck.”
She slipped the bag’s strap over her shoulder. “Let’s go. We’ve been here too long.”
“Beck. You know my password, don’t you.”
“I don’t remember.”
“Yes you do.”
“It doesn’t matter!” She pulled open the front door, eager for fresh air. She’d begun to sweat.
“Okay. But listen…” He followed her out, pulling the door closed. “I made that password when I was younger. It’s stupid, I know.”
“We all do stupid stuff in our twenties, Sinatra. I don’t care what your personal password is.”
