Savich looked down at John Doe. He looked so very young, helpless. He now clearly remembered him saying I’m an enigma. Was that what the E stood for? And the 2? Was there another enigma who came before him? Savich pulled out his cell and called Ben Raven at Metro. “Ben, are you in the field?”
“Yep. A beating, domestic. I hate these. What’s going on?”
“Do me a favor. I’m worried about our Mr. John Doe from yesterday. He’s still in a coma, completely helpless. He claimed someone was out hunting for him, that they wanted him back, and Kara Moody. If he’s right”—he didn’t want to sound ridiculous, so he only said—“it’s possible someone doesn’t mean him well. Could you assign an officer to him?”
A pause, then Raven said, “This is your gut talking, Savich?”
“Yes, that and a couple of odd things, inexplicable things about him.”
“I’ll check with my lieutenant, get a guard cleared with hospital security for a couple of days.” Savich could see Ben’s grin as he said, “Guess you didn’t want to ask Mayer?”
“Not in this lifetime. Can you get him here as fast as you can?”
“Hang on.”
Savich looked at John Doe as he waited for Ben Raven to come back on the line.
“Okay, it’s a go. We already have an officer on premises. He’ll be right up. Officer Tommy Sharpe is his name.”
“Thanks, Ben.” Savich punched off. He wished John Doe were FBI purview. Even more than that he wished he’d had the foresight to turn on the recorder on his cell phone when he’d been in Kara Moody’s house. With the urgency, the adrenaline rush, he simply couldn’t remember exactly what John Doe had said.
Savich pulled up a chair close to John Doe’s bed and texted Cam for a status report. Her reply came back:
Still alive, about to land at Magee Field in Kentucky. Cabot appears competent, at least he hasn’t crashed us yet. Sick sense of humor.
Savich grinned, texted back,
Let me know when you’ve reached the national forest. Give me your take on Duke and Harbinger.
Then he texted Jack much the same thing, not expecting an answer from the air, and punched off. He slipped his cell back into his pocket and studied the needle marks that ran up and down John Doe’s arms. What’s wrong with you? Do you need some kind of drug that can’t be swallowed in pill form? What drug?
Savich looked up when he heard Detective Aldo Mayer’s familiar voice at the door. “What are you doing here?”
7
BOWLER, BOWLER, AND BOWLER
CORNER OF K STREET SW AND 17TH STREET NW
WASHINGTON, D.C.
MONDAY AFTERNOON
Duce Bowler’s law offices on the fifth floor of the older, nondescript Blackthorn Building were a surprise. Agents Ruth Noble and Ollie Hamish stepped into an eighteenth-century French drawing room, with gilt sofas and chairs and classic paintings on the pale yellow walls, the three windows framed with floor-length gold brocade draperies looped open with long golden cords. Even the reception desk was eighteenth-century gold and white, with graceful curved legs, the desktop holding only a state-of-the-art computer monitor, a keyboard, and two phones. There were no clients waiting in modern dress to spoil the effect.
Ruth and Ollie crossed the expanse of glossy oak floor toward a tall, lanky young man dressed in a black suit, white shirt, and gray tie, who was rising from his gilt chair behind the desk. He smiled uncertainly at them. “Good afternoon, sir, madam. I am Kendrick. I’m afraid no one is free to assist you. May I set up an appointment for you?”
Ollie wouldn’t have been surprised if they’d made Kendrick wear a wig and knee pants. “We’re here to see Mr. Duce Bowler, Kendrick. I don’t see any clients waiting. Business is bad?”
“No, sir. An appointment is necessary, particularly on days when Mr. Bowler is prepping for a court case.”
Ruth handed Kendrick their creds and made introductions. “We’ll see him now, Kendrick.”
“You’re really FBI agents? You look so nice, I wouldn’t have guessed. Well, never mind that. Mr. and Mrs. Bowler are in the conference room.” Kendrick looked at his watch. “He might be taking a break. I took him his bear claw a couple of minutes ago. Maybe I could ask if he can spare the time to see you.”
“Just show us the way, Kendrick,” Ollie said. “Now would be good.”
Kendrick looked flustered, as if he didn’t know what to do, but he shrugged and led them down a long pale-gray-carpeted hallway past a series of niches in the walls, each with a bust of a famous eighteenth-century Frenchman, beginning with Louis XV and Voltaire, each labeled with their dates of birth and death.
“Those wigs must have been hot,” Ollie said. “Makes my scalp itch to look at them.”
Kendrick turned, grinned, and pointed to the last bust set in a place of honor: Marie Antoinette. “This one’s Mrs. Bowler’s favorite, and the only woman. Mrs. Bowler says she wore enough perfume to float a boat. They didn’t bathe much back then. Mrs. Bowler also said the real Marie Antoinette didn’t have that much bosom.”
They passed a half-dozen gilt-edged doors, heard voices as they passed. Kendrick said, “All the doors are closed because Mrs. Bowler likes everyone to keep themselves private, clients and secretaries included. The world has ears, Mrs. Bowler says.”
Kendrick opened a set of double doors, stepped into a conference room, and announced, “Mr. Duce—ah, Mr. and Mrs. Bowler, two FBI agents are here to see you. I’m sorry, but they insisted.”
A thin, basketball-tall man rose, a half-eaten bear claw in his hand, sputtering as he wiped his mouth. “Kendrick, what is this? These agents did not call to request a meeting. I have nothing to say to them.” He waved a thin hand at piles of papers on the table. “I’m very busy, Kendrick. Take them away.”
Ruth smiled. “Mr. Bowler. Mrs. Bowler?” She introduced herself and Ollie. They handed over their creds, waited, saying nothing more until Mr. Bowler, scowling, handed them back.
Mrs. Bowler she said as she rose, “My husband does not have time to speak to you. He’s preparing for a very important court case. You do understand, don’t you, that he is not obliged to speak to you?”
Ollie nearly spurted out a laugh. Mr. Bowler was a good six feet six inches, and his wife and partner topped out at no more than five feet, her head barely reaching his armpit. She was about the same age as her husband, early fifties. She was dressed as elegantly as her husband, both of them proud products of Barneys, if Ruth didn’t miss her guess. Unlike her husband, Renée Bowler wasn’t holding a bear claw.
Kendrick said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Bowler, but they were insistent, sir.” Kendrick, no fool, slipped out of the room quickly, closing the double doors behind him.
Ollie said, “We’re here to speak to you about Manta Ray—Mr. Liam Hennessey. You are his lawyer, isn’t that correct, Mr. Bowler?”
Bowler drew himself up and threw his head back, trying to intimidate, but he couldn’t pull it off, what with his pale eyes darting back and forth between Ruth and Ollie. Still, even though they could tell he was worried, he kept his voice calm and professional. “I was Mr. Hennessey’s lawyer, but I no longer represent him. Like every other citizen of the District, I heard it on a news bulletin when he escaped federal custody. Incredible incompetence on law enforcement’s part, I have to say. I did my best by him, a prison term rather than a lethal injection, but that was enough. I’ve washed my hands of him, removed him from my client list, and I will have nothing more to do with him. So I have nothing more to say to you, either. Now, if you don’t mind, I have work to do.”
Ruth saw a sheen of sweat glisten on Bowler’s forehead. She pulled out her stone face and said, in a voice colder than an ice floe, “Mr. Bowler, you will either speak to us here or we will escort you to the Hoover Building. The venue is up to you.”
He stared at her for an instant, a deer in the headlights, before looking at his wife. Despite her size, Ruth recognized at once it was Mrs. Bowler who drove this bus. Maybe m
ore rottweiler than bus driver, even in her four-inch stilettos.
Ruth turned to her. “You are aware your husband was the only one listed as visiting Mr. Hennessey at the Northern Neck Regional Jail. We’ve checked the video cams, of course, and there was no doubt it was your husband who visited him on several occasions. Only your husband could have brokered a deal between Mr. Hennessey and whoever arranged Hennessey’s escape. We suspect it was in return for the contents of the six safe-deposit boxes he robbed a month ago, isn’t that right?”
Bowler’s forehead continued to shine with sweat while Mrs. Bowler examined the bright pink polish on her thumbnail. Then she frowned a bit. Had her nail polish chipped? Ruth watched her toss her bobbed blond hair. “Surely you have some understanding of lawyer-client privilege, Agent Noble. Shall I recite the statute to you both, Agent Hamish? Mr. Bowler had no role in Mr. Hennessey’s escape from federal custody. It would be unethical for him to answer any questions about his conversations with his client. You need to leave now.”
Ollie said pleasantly, “If Mr. Hennessey and Mr. Bowler were conspiring to set Hennessey free, there is no privilege, Mrs. Bowler, as I’m sure you know. Mr. Bowler, your firm isn’t in financial trouble. You, personally, do very little criminal work. The question I have is why you would accept carrying out anything as dicey as this since you had to know we’d come knocking on your door. I doubt you’d want to risk leaving a financial record, so I would guess you’ll claim your work for Mr. Hennessey was pro bono. Tell me, did whoever put you up to this threaten you, or perhaps know about something you would rather no one found out about?”
As he spoke, Ollie handed Mr. Bowler a sheet of paper. “You’ll recognize these two names because they’re your clients. Both of these individuals are under investigation for money laundering for MS-13, the Salvadoran drug cartel. The federal prosecutor seems to think you were involved, and he’s working hard to nail it down. That doesn’t put you in a very good position. Disbarment, prison—more than enough to motivate you to cooperate with us. If you do, we’re sure the federal prosecutor would be willing to close his file on your involvement.
“Now’s the time to show good faith. Who were you really representing, Mr. Bowler? Who paid you to broker a deal with Liam Hennessey?”
Mrs. Bowler said, contempt in her voice, “There are no charges against us, and if there ever are, they’ll be proved groundless. We are a reputable firm.”
Ruth ignored her. “Mr. Bowler, you have to know that when we apprehend Mr. Hennessey, he will tell us in great detail how you helped facilitate his escape. He will throw you under the bus without any hesitation. And if he should die instead, you can be sure we’ll investigate you until we find every piece of dirt hidden under your expensive carpets. We’ll investigate your clients until they realize you are a liability. I doubt your Russian clients, in particular, will be pleased with you, and I hear they’re not known for their forbearance.”
Mr. Bowler’s Adam’s apple worked frantically above his Gucci tie. Ruth leaned forward. “You wouldn’t do well in prison, Mr. Bowler. You are not a young man. You wouldn’t be able to defend yourself against the predators. For your own sake, you should tell us the name of the person who hired you to broker the deal with Hennessey.”
Mrs. Bowler laid her small hand on her husband’s arm. “Ignore her, Duce.” She whirled back to face them, her palms flattened on the table. “You will listen to me, Agent Noble. My husband did not broker any deal. Hennessey is a resourceful man. He obviously had ways to reach his cohorts on the outside. My husband had nothing to do with Mr. Hennessey’s escape.”
The double doors flew open. “Mother? What is going on here? What is Kendrick going on about?”
Ollie and Ruth turned to see a young Amazon stride into the conference room like a force of nature. She was six feet tall, with long dark brown hair clipped away from her face, strong sharp features, not above thirty. She was the image of her father, and the third Bowler listed in the firm name. They’d know quickly enough if she was her mother’s daughter.
Ruth knew exactly who she was, but she asked, “And who are you?”
“I am Magda Bowler.” A sculpted eyebrow went up. “And you are?”
Ruth and Ollie introduced themselves and put their creds in her outstretched hand. She studied them closely, handed them back. “Why are you here?”
Ruth said, “We are questioning your father about his arrangements with Manta Ray—Liam Hennessey.”
“You are wasting your time. We no longer represent Mr. Hennessey. I’m sure my parents already told you that. I came in to put an end to your harassment.”
Ruth smiled at her. “Trust me, you do not know what harassment is.” She flashed a look at Mrs. Bowler. “There are no nail salons in prison, Mrs. Bowler. As I’m sure you already know, the person who hired you is dangerous. You and your husband will want to think about this very seriously, before it’s too late.”
“Too late?” Magda Bowler planted herself in front of them, hanging on to her control by a thread. “I don’t like your threats, especially after you’ve already proven yourselves incompetent by letting Hennessey escape.”
“Magda, come here!” Her mother’s voice drew her up short. So Mrs. Bowler did drive the family bus.
Ruth and Ollie watched Magda Bowler walk stiffly to stand between her parents. The three of them stared silently after Ruth and Ollie as they left the conference room, shooting death rays between their shoulder blades. Ruth said to Ollie as they walked past Marie Antoinette’s bust, “Mr. Bowler’s ready to break. He’s scared.”
“You know what I think?” Ollie gave Kendrick a wave as they walked out of the offices, to the elevator. Once inside, he said, “I don’t think Mr. Bowler ever believed his off-the-books client would be able to break Manta Ray out of federal custody. Are all three of them in on it? It’s hard to imagine that Mr. Bowler acted by himself. You’re right, Ruth. If any of them break, it’ll be him.”
She pulled out her cell, dialed Savich. “If that’s true, Ollie, we should get some surveillance on Bowler. Who knows? Maybe we shook him up enough so he’ll schedule a meet with whoever hired him.”
8
WASHINGTON MEMORIAL HOSPITAL
MONDAY AFTERNOON
Kara Moody could hardly believe how giddy she felt when she held her son, Alex. Suddenly everything made sense; her life had purpose. She was happy, excited about the future. She hadn’t felt anything like it in a very long time.
In the past year, her life had flown out of control, and she’d floundered and questioned everything, turned herself into an emotional fruitcake. She could admit it to herself without rancor because none of that mattered now. There was no doubt in her mind her decisions to keep Alex and leave Baltimore were the best decisions she’d made in her life. She had no friends who really understood her choices. As for Aunt Elizabeth and Uncle Carl, they only saw she was alone and pregnant, and treated her like a scandalous teenager from thirty years ago. They’d wanted her to have an abortion, as did most of her friends, and she’d broken with them, no choice. As for her mother, she now lived in Oregon with her husband and two children, and they rarely spoke. Kara couldn’t imagine her caring one way or the other.
So she’d taken it all on her own shoulders, made some calls, found a part-time job at the Raleigh Gallery in Georgetown, packed up her Honda, and headed south. In addition to her savings, she had a small inheritance, enough to afford the rent on the house in Georgetown. And to her surprise, she soon found buyers for her own paintings through the gallery. Her art career had seemed to flourish with each week Alex grew inside her.
Dr. Janice Hudson, her next-door neighbor, had been with her, her coach through the long labor, there to cheer when Alex was born. Dr. Janice had whispered to her when she’d first held Alex in her arms that she’d just come through the most profound experience granted to humans. She should never forget she was in charge of two people now, she and no one else. And Dr. Janice had contacted her b
oss at the Raleigh Gallery, and now she had three huge bouquets of flowers, with congratulations to her and Alex.
Alex. Her beautiful boy had a mop of dark hair, the same shade as hers, the same shade as her father’s had once been before the cancer had taken him so quickly. She’d named her son Alex Ives Moody, after her father and her grandfather, both good men who’d encouraged her to stay the course as an artist, both gone now. It saddened her that they’d never see her miracle, that Alex would never know them.
She found she couldn’t look away from Alex’s bassinet even though it was empty for the moment. A nurse had come in to take him for an ultraviolet-light treatment to prevent him from getting jaundice, she’d told Kara, which sounded scary to her, but the nurse had assured her it was a common treatment that couldn’t hurt him, she wasn’t to worry. It had only been ten minutes and she already missed him. She loved having him in her room, not ten feet away from her, ready for her to feed him, sing to him, tell him she would love him with all her soul forever.
She looked up when a nurse came back into her room with Alex in her arms. “He’s asleep, the little angel. The treatment went fine, he slept right through it. Let him sleep for a while more, Ms. Moody, say thirty more minutes until he wakes up by himself. He’ll be ready to eat by then.” She carefully placed him in his bassinet. “Can I get you anything?”
“No, thank you. You’re sure he’s all right?”
“He’s perfect.” The nurse nodded, smiled at her, and left.
Kara sat up on the side of her bed, her feet dangling, staring at the bassinet. She wanted to hold him now, watch him smack his lips as he had that morning when she’d sung him a Scottish ballad, but she forced herself to wait a bit longer. She thought instead about the series of Tuscany vineyard oil paintings she’d very nearly finished for the reception area of the Alonzo Group’s new Washington office. Exactly what they wanted, one of the VPs told her, and she’d basked. She thought about all the portraits she’d paint of Alex. Life was good.