The Fix

  “Mr. Amaya, we met before. I’m Alex Jamison. I manage the building.”

  Behind him Decker could see Danny Amaya poke his head around the corner.

  “Yes?” said Amaya again, still blocking the doorway.

  “We understand that you had an issue with two men in the parking lot yesterday morning?”

  “Is-shew? No entiendo,” he added sharply.

  “She means the guys who attacked you, Dad.”

  Amaya turned to see his son standing behind him, holding a sketchbook in his right hand and a pen in the other.

  Amaya started speaking rapidly in Spanish to his son, who paled, turned, and raced back into the shallow depths of the small apartment.

  Amaya turned back to Jamison and Decker. “I have no is-shew with nobody.”

  Before Jamison could respond, Decker said, “They attacked you, like your son said. The car they were in was stolen. They had guns. They’re bad guys, obviously. We can help.”

  Amaya looked up at Decker. “I don’t need nobody’s help.”

  “You needed my help yesterday,” replied Decker. “If I hadn’t intervened, they might have killed you.”

  At this Amaya began to shut the door.

  Decker wedged his big foot into the opening before it could fully close.

  “What about your son, Mr. Amaya? What about Danny? What if they attack him next? You going to wait and let that happen?”

  Amaya screamed, “Vete ahora. Ahora!”

  Decker removed his foot and the door slammed shut.

  Jamison scowled up at Decker. “Thanks for letting me do the talking.”

  “He’s one scared and angry man,” said Decker as they walked back up to their apartment.

  They turned when they heard footsteps behind them. At first Decker thought it was Tomas Amaya, but it was Danny. He had on faded jeans, a white T-shirt that accentuated how thin he was, and ripped and dirty sneakers that were too large for his feet.

  “Danny, are you okay?” asked Jamison.

  He nodded. “I’m sorry for how my dad was.”

  “No need to be. He’s obviously in a difficult situation.”

  “Do you know who those men were?” asked Decker.

  Danny shook his head. “But I know my dad knows them. I’ve seen him talking to the shorter one in the parking lot. The big guy has been around too a few times. But my dad never lets me get near them.”

  “Until this morning,” said Decker.

  Danny nodded. “I was so scared. I…I didn’t know what to do.” He looked down. “I should have tried to help my dad, but I didn’t.” He looked up at them. “I’m not very brave, I guess.”

  “You’re a kid,” said Decker. “I’m a big guy and even I was scared. And I had a gun.”

  “Did your dad say anything to you about what those men wanted?” Jamison asked.

  Danny shook his head. “One day my dad picked me up from school, but he had to go back to work for a bit. So he drove me there and I did my homework in the car. It’s at a building he’s working on near the waterfront. I saw the short man there. He passed in front of our car, but didn’t see me. He had on a suit and a hard hat like my dad wears when he’s working.”

  “He was wearing a suit yesterday morning. You think he works at the building?”

  “Or maybe is one of the owners?” added Jamison.

  “I don’t know. He went up in one of the construction elevators.”

  “Where exactly is the building?” asked Decker.

  Danny told him and then said, “I’ve got to get back.”

  “Wait a minute, Danny, I got this for you.” She pulled the sketchpad and charcoal pencils out of her handbag.

  He took them with a look of surprise. “Why?” he asked.

  “I know you’re an aspiring artist and I thought you could use them.”

  “Thanks.”

  Decker was studying the boy closely. “Where’s your mother?”

  Danny slid the pencils into his jeans pocket before answering. “She’s dead.”

  “What happened to her?”

  “She was killed. Before we came here.”

  “Killed? In an accident?”

  “It wasn’t an accident.”

  Before Decker could say anything else, Danny turned and rushed back down the stairs.

  Decker and Jamison stood there for a few moments before turning and heading to their apartment. When they got there they sat in the living room area looking out the window. The sun had begun its descent, blistering the sky with red and gold.

  “How’s the multitasking going?” asked Jamison.

  “I’m hungry. Let’s go multitask dinner.”

  * * *

  Walking, they reached a hole-in-the-wall place about a half mile from their apartment. It was a seat-yourself establishment and they took a table near a window facing the street. The place was only a quarter full. The menu was written on a chalkboard.

  When the waitress came over, Decker said, “Cheeseburger medium, with the works, steak fries, and onion rings. And a Budweiser, full strength.”

  He looked almost defiantly at Jamison.

  “Make it two,” said Jamison, staring right back at him.

  When their beers came, they each took a long drink before settling back in their chairs.

  “No salad tonight?” asked Decker.

  “There’s lettuce and tomato on the burger, Decker. So what about the Amayas?”

  He shrugged. “If the guy in the suit works at the construction site we can have him checked out.”

  “I wonder what his beef is with Tomas?”

  “It could be lots of things.”

  “So we’re going to try to help them, right?”

  “I think the answer to that is pretty obvious, don’t you? But we also can’t let that distract us from our day job, Alex.”

  “I know, I know. And I can run some of the stuff down on the Amayas. But I won’t do anything dangerous,” she quickly added. She took another drink of her beer and set the bottle down on a coaster. “What do you really think was on that flash drive?” she asked.

  “Answers to a lot of our questions about Anne Berkshire. Answers that now we don’t have,” he added grimly.

  “We can find them another way, hopefully.”

  Decker did not look encouraged by that comment.

  When their food came they ate in silence. As Jamison finished her last French fry she moaned and said, “I’m going to need to work out all week to compensate.”

  Decker eyed her. “Anne Berkshire had a stock and bond portfolio worth north of twenty million,” he said. “Todd checked.”

  “Damn,” said Jamison, licking salt off her fingers.

  “The thing with financial accounts is you need Social Security numbers and valid personal information. And all of hers seemingly checked out, at least well enough for her to open an account with a management firm.”

  “Did she ever meet with anyone there?”

  “Todd looked into that too. Because of the size of her portfolio she was assigned a person, a financial account manager, but he said he only met with her once. The office she opened it with is on the West Coast. And the interest and dividends from her portfolio poured directly into her checking account. And she’d pay her bills from that. She paid cash for the condo and the car, so her monthly bills weren’t that much. The cash flow from the portfolio easily covered everything, with a lot left over.”

  “Must be nice,” said Jamison ruefully. “Like I told you before, when I look at my account at the end of the month, all I see are zeros. I don’t know where my money goes, I really don’t.”

  “Well, we know where Berkshire’s went. She opened her current portfolio about eight years ago with ten million dollars. There were no other cash infusions by her. So it’s more than doubled over that time, even with the outlays for the condo and car. Todd said that’s entirely possible because the stock market’s been on a tear the last seven or eight years. Apparently she put her money
in companies like Amazon and Apple and Google and more recently Facebook. They’re all up huge during that time period.”

  “Well, lucky her,” said Jamison.

  “Not so lucky since she’s dead. The point is, her initial wealth seemed to come in a lump sum. I know there are laws in place that you have to show where money came from. If someone walked into, say, Merrill Lynch, with ten million and wanted to open an account, there would have to be questions answered and a record of where the money came from.”

  “You mean because of the possibility of money laundering?”

  Decker nodded. “So she presumably passed the smell test with her current management firm. At least according to Todd. All of her records seemed to be in order. But when he checked into the background of those records—her old address, for instance—it didn’t pan out.”

  “And the financial management firm didn’t discover that?”

  “I don’t think they looked as hard as the FBI did. I mean, come on, it’s not like they were going to work very hard to turn down a ten-million-dollar account.”

  “Right. But did they say where she told them the money came from?”

  “Yes. Savings, investments, and a small inheritance.”

  “Okay.”

  “She bought the condo in Reston four years ago. The car was purchased a year after that. She lived in Atlanta previously and Seattle before that. At least we think she did. But we only have her past going back ten years. Before that, nothing. It’s like she didn’t exist. But then she has a résumé stretching back to college that passed the muster of the school’s background check.”

  The dinner bill came and Decker paid it, refusing Jamison’s offer to chip in.

  “I corrupted you tonight,” he said. “Let me pay for the privilege.”

  She smiled, a smile that faded as someone approached their table.

  Harper Brown looked directly at Decker. She was dressed in jeans, a leather jacket, and a white blouse. Narrow-toed boots raised her height a few inches.

  “Mr. Decker, I wonder if I could speak with you.” She glanced at Jamison for an instant before staring back at Decker. “Alone.”

  “I can wait outside,” said Jamison, not looking very happy.

  “You can head on, Ms. Jamison. I can drive your friend home.”

  “I don’t mind—”

  Decker said, “I’m sure that’ll be fine. And I probably won’t even have to give directions, since I’m pretty sure you know exactly where I live.”

  Brown took a step back, smiled, and gestured to the door. “Shall we, then?” She glanced at Jamison. “Don’t worry. I’ll take exceptional care of your colleague.”

  “You better,” said Jamison grimly.

  CHAPTER

  21

  THEY DROVE IN silence for five minutes.

  She glanced at him. “You don’t talk much, do you?”

  “You said you wanted to talk to me. I’m waiting.”

  She smiled and looked ahead.

  Brown’s ride was a late-model BMW 7 Series sedan. He looked at the car’s interior. “Nice car. This would be like almost two years’ salary for me.”

  “I lease. It’s a lot less financially onerous.”

  “I guess.”

  “And I tend to get tired of things after a few years.”

  “Then never get married.”

  “Are you still working the Dabney/Berkshire case?”

  “You mean you haven’t cracked it yet? What’s taking DIA so long?”

  She pulled to the curb and put the car in park. She turned to look at him.

  “One of my assignments was to liaison with the Bureau. I’m trying my best to do that.”

  “I was under the impression that being a liaison involved more than kicking a ‘sister’ agency off a case.”

  “Is that what Agent Bogart thinks?”

  “I don’t know because I haven’t asked him. I’m just telling you what I think.”

  “These are very delicate matters, Decker. We all must tread extremely carefully.”

  “Well, according to you, we can’t tread any longer.”

  “I was speaking generally.”

  “Then let me speak specifically. Does DIA use guys who can shoot long-distance?”

  She looked puzzled. “Out of all the possible questions I thought I might get from you, that was not one of them. Why in the world would you want to know that?”

  “Let’s chalk it up to my being a very curious guy. So does it?”

  “We’re a military support organization.”

  “So I’ll take that as a yes.”

  She gazed at him curiously for a few moments. “I’ve read your file.”

  “I didn’t know I had one.”

  “The moment you step on the federal playing field, you have a file. You have a fascinating background, what with the hyperthymesia and synesthesia.”

  “Some might call it fascinating, I wouldn’t.”

  “What would you call it?”

  “Different. Painfully different.”

  Brown’s features lost some of their cocksure manner. “I know about your family. I’m very sorry. I’ve never been married or had children, so I could only imagine how devastating that had to have been for you.”

  Decker looked out the window. “All of this is pretty far afield from the matter at hand.”

  “Granted. But you still haven’t answered my question about working on the case or not.”

  “And if I refuse to answer? Which I guess I’m entitled to do.”

  “Then I may take that as an answer in the affirmative.”

  “I wasn’t aware that the DIA could tell the FBI to stop work on a case. Maybe I’m wrong.”

  “No, I doubt that you are wrong. At least technically. But other channels can be employed to make the directive more authoritative.”

  “You’re speaking a different language. What the hell does that mean?”

  “SecDef is cabinet-level. He makes a call to someone, and that party leans hard on the FBI director.”

  “So that’s how it works in D.C.?”

  “Pretty much. You’re from Ohio.”

  “I know I am. The flyover land between the coasts.”