looking around.”
Rufus was already going through a file cabinet using the flashlight he had brought with him from the truck. Josh went into Rider’s office. The first thing he did, after checking the street for activity, was close the drapes. He pulled out a flashlight of his own and started searching. He came to the locked desk drawer and jimmied it. He gave a low whistle as his hand closed around the packet that had been taped to the underside of the desk drawer. He went to the doorway. “Rufus, I got it.”
His brother rushed in and took the papers. He scanned them under the flashlight’s arc.
“You still ain’t told me how having these pieces of paper is gonna help your butt any which way.”
“I ain’t thought that all the way through, but I’d rather have them than not have them.”
“Well, let’s get out of here before somebody has us.”
They had barely made it to the receptionist area when they both heard the footsteps, two sets of them. They glanced quickly at each other. Josh pulled the pistol and punched off the safety. “Cops. They know we’re here.”
Rufus looked at him and shook his head. “It ain’t the cops. And it ain’t the Army. Building’s deserted. If it was them they’d come in here sirens going and the next sound we’d be hearing is glass breaking when the tear gas canisters come through the damn window. Come on.” Rufus led the way back into Rider’s interior office and softly closed the door. All they could do now was wait.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Chandler walked around Michael Fiske’s apartment. He knelt down and examined the gouge mark in the floor caused by John Fiske’s swing with a tire iron. If the blow had found its mark, this mystery might have been solved. Chandler rose and shook his head. It was never that easy. His men were putting the finishing touches on the apartment. Black carbon dusting powder lay everywhere in piles like magic sprinkles, which in a way they were. They had taken Michael Fiske’s prints for purposes of elimination. They would have to get his brother’s as well. Since John Fiske was a lawyer licensed in Virginia, his fingerprints would be on file with the Virginia State Police. He should get Sara Evans’s prints as well, he figured. She had undoubtedly been here too. He looked down the hallway. In the bedroom, perhaps? However, his inquiries had revealed only that the two had been good friends.
He had met with Murphy and his clerks. They had gone over all the cases Michael had been working on. Nothing really stuck out. That line of investigation would simply take too long. And people were dying.
John Fiske’s unwillingness to confide in Chandler had cost him. As Fiske had earlier deduced, Chandler had cut off the flow of information to him. Chandler had played fair with the Feds, though, and passed along what he had to McKenna, including his newfound information on Rufus Harms’s escape from prison and Michael Fiske’s earlier calls to the prison. He had also informed McKenna of the missing appeal Fiske had told him about. McKenna had thanked him but had been unable to add any new information of his own. As if on cue, he heard a sound at the front door and the FBI agent walked into the room — after showing his ID card to the uniform outside and being added to the crime scene list, Chandler assumed. Crime scene. Well, it was one of sorts, Chandler said to himself.
“You’re working late tonight, Agent McKenna.”
“So are you.” The FBI agent’s gaze swept the area, starting at the center and marching outward grid by grid. “So, is the director of the FBI just a little bit on your butt, or a lot, to get this thing solved?”
“Same as your boss. In the Bureau you get double kudos if you solve the crime in time for the evening news.” McKenna flashed a rare smile, although it was as though his mouth didn’t know quite how to manage it, because the effect came off as lopsided.
Chandler wondered if the man did it on purpose to throw people off. Because he’d had a weird feeling about the guy, Chandler had discreetly checked out Warren McKenna. His career at the Bureau was first-rate in all respects. He had been assigned to the Washington Metropolitan Field Office at Buzzard Point for eight years after transferring from the Richmond Field Office. Before his career at the FBI, he had done a brief stint in the military, then completed college. Since that time McKenna had done nothing except make positive impressions on his superiors. One curious thing Chandler had found out: McKenna had refused several promotions that would have taken him out of the field.
“You’re lucky John Fiske hasn’t slapped you with a lawsuit yet. He still might.”
“Maybe he should,” was McKenna’s surprising reply. “I probably would if I were him.”
“I’ll be sure and tell him that,” Chandler said slowly.
McKenna’s gaze darted all over the place for a couple of minutes, seemingly absorbing every detail like a sheet of Polaroid, before he glanced back at Chandler. “What are you, anyway, his mentor?”
“Didn’t know the man until a couple days ago.”
“You make friends a lot faster than I do, then.” McKenna inclined his head at Chandler. “Mind if I look around?”
“Go ahead. Try not to touch anything that doesn’t look like it’s got a pound of print dust on it.”
McKenna nodded and stepped carefully around the living room. He noted the mark on the floor.
“Fiske going after his purported attacker?”
“That’s right. Only I didn’t know he was purported.”
“He is until we have a corroborating account. At least that’s how I work.”
Chandler unwrapped a piece of gum and popped it in his mouth, slowly chewing over both the agent’s words and the gum.
“Sara Evans reported to me that she also saw a man flee from the building and that Fiske was chasing him. Is that good enough for you?”
“That’s convenient corroboration. Fiske is one lucky guy. He should run out right now and play the lottery while he’s so hot.”
“I wouldn’t call losing your brother being lucky.”
McKenna stopped walking and looked at the pantry door, which was ajar and covered with print dust. “I guess it depends on how you look at it, doesn’t it?”
“What the hell do you have against him? You don’t even know the guy.”
McKenna’s eyes flashed at him. “That’s right, Detective Chandler, and you know what? Neither do you.”
Chandler wanted to say something back but couldn’t think of anything. In a way the man was right. This thought was interrupted by one of his men.
“Detective Chandler, we found something I think you might want to see.”
Chandler took the sheaf of papers from the tech and looked down at it. McKenna joined him.
“Looks like an insurance policy,” McKenna said.
“We found it on one of the shelves in the pantry. No food in there. Guy used it for storage. Tax returns, bills and stuff like that are in there too.”
“Half a million bucks worth of life insurance,” Chandler muttered. He flipped rapidly through the pages, passing by the legalese until he got to the end, where more specific information was set forth.
“Michael Fiske was the insured.”
McKenna’s finger suddenly stabbed at the bottom of the page. Chandler paled a little as he read the line the man had so energetically indicated. “And John is the primary beneficiary.”
The two men looked at each other. “Would you like to take a walk and hear a theory of mine?” McKenna asked.
Chandler wasn’t sure exactly what to do.
“It won’t take long,” McKenna added. “In fact, some of it you’re probably thinking right now, I would imagine.”
Chandler finally shrugged. “You got five minutes.”
The two men walked out onto the sidewalk in front of the row house. McKenna took a moment to light up a cigarette and then offered one to Chandler. The detective held out his pack of gum. “I can be overweight or I can smoke. I like to eat, so there we are.”
They strolled along the dark street as McKenna began talking. “I found out that Fiske doesn’t have an alibi for the probable time his brother was murdered.”
“Might be something in his favor. If he killed his brother, he would’ve worked hard to establish one.”
“I disagree for a couple of reasons. First, he probably never thought he would become a suspect.”
“With a half-million-dollar life insurance policy?”
“He might have thought we wouldn’t find out. We go down a different trail and that’s it. He waits awhile and then collects his money.”
“I don’t know about that. What’s your second point?”
“If he had some perfect alibi — which there is no such thing if you’re guilty — then a hole would come up in it somewhere, sometime, somehow. So why bother? He was a cop and now a lawyer. He knows all about alibis. He says he doesn’t have one and then he doesn’t have to worry about it blowing up in his face. And then he counts on everybody reaching the conclusion you just did, namely, that if he’s guilty he would’ve concocted a good one.”
McKenna took a long drag on his cigarette and looked up at the few stars visible in the sky. “So he’s got motive and, by his own admission, opportunity. I checked him out. He’s got a dip-shit law practice in Richmond, defending the scum of the earth. Guy never even went to law school. He’s third-rate at best. Unmarried, no kids, lives in a shithole. A real loner. Oh, and he left the Richmond police force under a somewhat dark cloud.”
“How do you mean?” Chandler asked sharply.
“Let’s just say that there was a shooting incident that was never fully explained other than the fact a civilian and another police officer were dead as a result.”
Chandler looked shaken, but recovered. “So why does he come up and offer his assistance in the investigation?”
“Again, a cover. Fiske’s position would be, ‘How could I have pulled the trigger? I’m up here working my butt off to find the person who murdered my brother.’”
“How does that explain Wright’s death?”
“Who says it has to? Like you said, the two murders could be unrelated. If they are, then if I were Fiske I’d jump on it and argue that they are connected. See, he’s got an alibi for Wright’s murder.”
Evans again, Chandler thought.
McKenna continued, “So if we believe they’re connected, he’s home free.”
“And Sara Evans? Remember? She said she saw the guy running out of Michael Fiske’s apartment building. You say she’s lying too?” McKenna stopped walking and so did Chandler. McKenna took a last puff of his cigarette and then crushed it out on the sidewalk with several twists of his foot. “Sara Evans too,” McKenna repeated Chandler’s words, eyeing the detective closely.
Chandler shook his head. “Come on, McKenna.”
“I’m not saying she’s in on the whole thing. I’m saying maybe she has a thing for Fiske and she’s doing what he tells her to.”
“They just met.”
“Is that right? You know that for sure?”
“Actually, no.”
“Okay, he convinces her he’s done nothing wrong, but some people might try to frame him.”
“Why do you have such a thing against Fiske?”
Now McKenna erupted. “He’s got a smart mouth. He comes off as holier than thou, the defender of his brother’s memory, only they seemed to have no contact recently. He and Evans spent the night at her house doing who knows what the day after his brother’s body is found. He’s got a shotgun for some reason. He’s nosed his way into the investigation, which means he knows just about everything we do. He’s got no alibi for the night of the murder and five minutes ago we found out he’s a half million bucks richer because his brother is dead. What the hell am I supposed to think? Are you saying your cop radar’s not even tingling over this?”
“Okay, you’ve made your point. Maybe I have been too lax with him. Rule number one: Don’t trust anybody.”
“Good rule to live by.” McKenna paused and then added, “Or die by.” He walked off leaving a very shaken Chandler staring after him.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Fiske knocked on Rider’s office door. He squinted through the glass. “Dark inside.”
“He’s probably at home. We need to find out where that is.”
“Well, the guy also might be eating dinner out, or out of town on business. He might even be on vacation. Or — ”
“Or something could have happened to him,” Sara said.
“Don’t get overly dramatic.” Fiske clasped the doorknob and it turned easily. He and Sara exchanged a significant glance. Fiske looked up and down the hallway. That’s when he saw the cleaning cart and relaxed slightly. “Cleaning crew?”
“And they’re cleaning in the pitch-dark because …?” Sara responded.
“That’s just what I was thinking.” He pulled Sara away from the door and over to the cart. He rummaged around, before pulling out a pair of Vise-Grips from a toolbox.
Whispering, he said, “Go down near the exit stairs. If you hear anything, run to the car and call the cops.”
She grabbed his arm and whispered back, “I have a much better idea. Let’s go call the police together right now and report a burglary.”
“We don’t know that it is a burglary.”
“We don’t know that it isn’t either.”
“If we leave, they could get away.”
“And if you go in there and get killed, what exactly is that going to accomplish? You don’t even have a gun — you have that thing, whatever the hell that is.”
“Vise-Grips.”
“Great, they could have guns and you have a tool.”
“Maybe you’re right.”
“Lady is for sure right. Too bad you didn’t listen.”
Fiske and Sara whirled around.
Josh Harms stood there, his pistol aimed at them.
“Wall’s mighty thin. Figured when we heard the door start to open, and then all that whispering, you two were going to go for the cops. Can’t let you do that.”
Fiske studied him. He was big but not bulky. Unless they had run into a routine burglary, this man had to be Josh Harms. He eyed the gun and then scrutinized Josh’s features, trying to size up quickly whether he had it in him to pull the trigger. He had killed in Vietnam; Fiske knew that from reading the news reports. But killing them would have to be in cold blood, and Fiske just did not see that in Josh Harms’s eyes. But that could always change. Mouth, do your magic, he told himself.
“Hello, Josh, my name’s John Fiske. This is Sara Evans with the United States Supreme Court. Where’s your brother?”
Behind him, from the open doorway leading into Rider’s office, appeared a man of such huge proportions that both Sara and Fiske knew he could only be Rufus Harms. He had obviously heard Fiske’s words.
“How you know all that?” Rufus said while his brother kept his pistol tightly on the pair.
“I’d be glad to tell you. But why don’t we talk inside the office? You have that APB out on you and everything.”
He motioned to Sara. “After you, Sara.” Out of the Harms brothers’ line of sight, he gave her a reassuring wink. He only wished he could feel as confident on the inside. They were confronted with a convicted murderer who had been in a hellhole for twenty-five years, which had probably not made him any nicer, and a wily Vietnam vet whose trigger finger was looking itchier with every passing second.
Sara walked into the office, with Fiske behind her.
Josh and Rufus eyed each other quizzically. Then they followed the pair inside and shut the door behind them.
* * *
The Jeep sailed through the back roads on the way to Samuel Rider’s office. Tremaine was driving; Rayfield sat beside him. The two-seater Jeep was Tremaine’s private vehicle. They were both off duty now and had decided against checking out a military vehicle from the motor pool. In case anyone came upon them while they were searching Rider’s office, they had settled upon a cover story: Sam Rider, Rufus Harms’s old military attorney, practiced in the area and had recently visited Harms in prison for an unknown reason. Rider and his wife had been killed. Harms and his brother could have committed the murders; perhaps Rider had mentioned to Harms that he kept cash or other valuables at his home or office.
Tremaine glanced over at Rayfield.
“Something wrong?” Tremaine asked.