The Bishop

“Don’t make your alibi airtight. Only a person with something to hide would remember the details of her whereabouts well enough to present a rock-solid alibi. The more perfect the alibi, the more suspicion it should draw.”

  “Good.”

  With Cheyenne we’d have another mind on Mollie Fischer’s murder. Another good mind . . . It shouldn’t be a problem clearing her to be part of the Joint Op program.

  A quick look at the clock.

  9:44.

  I had a break scheduled at 10:00.

  Yes. I would ask her then if she would like to join our team.

  I was confident she would agree.

  The two of us would work together again.

  18

  9:57 a.m.

  “Time to get up.”

  Brad gently shook the woman who, after being left alone in the pitch-black basement for nearly ten hours, had no doubt lost all sense of time.

  She groaned.

  “Come on, wake up.” He flicked on a heat lamp, and she cringed at the harsh, sudden light.

  He smiled at her. He had some things to tell her, some advice for how to prepare for her death in just over five hours. “I thought we could talk for a few minutes,” he said. “Now that we’re alone.”

  At the break, Cheyenne stepped into the hall before I could catch her, and hurrying after her seemed too middle-schoolish to me, so instead I fiddled around with my notes for a few minutes waiting for her to return, then decided to check my messages.

  Missy Schuel had not returned my call.

  I tried her number again but only reached an answering machine.

  After evaluating things, I decided that if I didn’t hear from Ms. Schuel by noon I would look for someone a little more responsive to potential clients.

  I did have one voicemail, however, from Tessa, bowing out of lunch: “It looks like things might take a little longer than I expected. Is it cool if we just connect tonight? That would rock. See you later.”

  Brief. To the point.

  All right.

  I felt a little let down but not frustrated—it freed up the middle of my day, and without a trip to the city I wouldn’t need to rush out of my 11:30 meeting with Ralph. Maybe we could actually make some headway on the Fischer case.

  The students were filtering back into the classroom.

  Just before the end of the break, Cheyenne returned, followed closely by Annette. They sat in the back, and since we were about to start, I figured it would be best to wait until after class to speak with Cheyenne. Until then, it was back to getting away with murder.

  Tessa found Paul Lansing waiting for her on the west steps of the Library of Congress’s Jefferson building.

  For some reason, when she saw him, she thought of how Patrick would describe him: Caucasian. Late thirties. Brown hair. Beard. Six-foot-one. Two hundred pounds. Blue jeans, hiking boots, checkered shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows.

  And then—even though she had to chastise herself for doing it—she thought of how she would: Paul Bunyan Visits the City. “Tessa,” he called. He was smiling. He ambled toward her and gave her a shoulder hug, then a kiss on the cheek, and even though he was her dad, he’d never kissed her before and it felt slightly awkward.

  “Hey.” She gave him a sort of half hug, then backed away. “How was your flight?”

  “Long. Got in last night, about 10:00. Two layovers. There aren’t any direct flights from Riverton, Wyoming, to Washington DC.”

  “No, I guess not.”

  All this just to see a sculpture your friend made?

  She wondered what kind of friend this was.

  But then, a realization that should have been obvious from the start: Duh, Tessa. He came to see you, not the sculptor. It’s not rocket science.

  He was still smiling. “So what about you? Are you all settled in for the summer?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Where are you guys staying?”

  “In the country, at this house near the Academy.”

  A nod. “Very good.”

  So.

  Her turn. “And you’re gonna be in town for a couple days, then?”

  “I fly out Saturday,” he said.

  “Okay.”

  A pause. “So,” he said.

  “So.”

  She waited.

  His turn.

  “Oh!” His eyes lit up. “I brought you something.” He retrieved a North Face hip pack he’d set on the step before she arrived.

  “You didn’t have to—”

  “No, no. I know.” He was searching through the pack like a kid through a cereal box. “Here.”

  He handed her a flat screen BlackBerry.

  “A phone?”

  “So we can stay in touch.” He patted his pocket. “Bought one for myself too.”

  “I already have a phone.” She wasn’t trying to be rude, but from what she knew, Paul wasn’t rich and maybe he could return it and get his money back.

  “Yes, I know. But this way—”

  Patrick won’t be able to find out about the calls.

  “—we can talk anytime we want to.”

  “We can do that already.”

  She could see the air slowly going out of his balloon. “It’s got that Google GPS thing on it so if we get separated we can find each other.”

  Okay, that was just plain stupid. “You can just call me on my normal phone.”

  He looked defeated, undercut by the obvious. “Sure, yeah.” A man-sized puppy whose tail had stopped wagging. “I should have thought of that.”

  Oh, boy.

  He held out his hand. “Here, I’ll see if I can—”

  Go on, Tessa—

  “Actually, you know what? This is way better than the phone I have.” Accepting the gift felt like another slight betrayal toward Patrick, but she didn’t want to get off on the wrong foot with her dad. “Seriously, it’s sweet. Thanks.”

  He waited for her to put the BlackBerry into her purse, then gestured toward the Capitol. “So are you up for a tour?”

  “Listen, I was kinda wondering: how do you know someone who works here when you’ve lived in like the middle of Nowhere, USA, for six years?”

  “It’s from another life.”

  For a fraction of a second she thought he said “from another lie,” but then caught herself.

  What is wrong with you? Just chill!

  “I lived in this area for a while,” he added, “a long time ago.”

  “Oh, cool.”

  He gave her a curious look. “Is something wrong?”

  “No. Sorry. Um . . .” She pointed to the Library of Congress’s Madison building. “As long as we’re here, let me get a reader’s card first. Then maybe we can go do the tour thing or check out your friend’s sculptures.” She wasn’t exactly into sculpture because so much of it was sophomoric or abstruse, but she knew it was important to her dad. “I’m sure they’re cool.”

  “So, a reader’s card.” He held out his hand to indicate that she could go first, and she started down the steps with him beside her but slightly behind her.

  “I’m really glad you could make it today,” he said. She could tell he was trying overly hard to be friendly, but she didn’t hold it against him. It would take them time to connect. It’d taken Patrick and her almost a year to feel natural around each other. “Ever since you and your stepfather showed up at my—”

  “Patrick.”

  “Sorry?”

  “His name is Patrick.”

  But even as she said the words, it occurred to her that her comment probably sounded rude. “I mean, maybe if you could call him Patrick instead of ‘your stepfather,’ that’d be cool. I call him Patrick.”

  “Sure, right. I meant no disrespect.”

  “I know.”

  They crossed Independence Avenue.

  “Well, ever since you two showed up at my cabin, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you.”

  “Okay.”

  “We’ve got a
lot to talk about.”

  “Yes.”

  Paul Lansing put a hand on her shoulder. A friendly gesture. That was all.

  Something a father would do.

  For his daughter.

  But when a clutch of businessmen approached them, she gently eased away from him so that the men could pass between them.

  “Cheyenne, hang on a sec.”

  Class had just finished, and she was on her way to the door with the rest of the students. When she heard me call her name she paused and glanced my way. She didn’t normally wear makeup, but I noticed that she’d put on lipstick today. “Yes?”

  “Thanks again for taking Tessa home last night.”

  “No problem.”

  My thoughts corkscrewed between her and Lien-hua, bothering me in a way that didn’t exactly bother me. “Listen, last night you asked me if there was anything you could do regarding this case. Were you serious?”

  “Of course.”

  “Well, I think I can get you into the Joint Op program; it’s where NA students—”

  “Sure. Consult on cases in conjunction with NCAVC.”

  “You know about—”

  “It’s covered in the application process, Pat. It’s not a state secret.”

  “Oh. Right.”

  “And, yes. I’d love to work with you.”

  I noted her choice of words: “with you” not “on the case.”

  To work with me.

  “But I’ll be in class most of the time this summer,” she said. “Almost every day.”

  “We’ll catch up in the evenings.”

  A slight pause, and with it, a smile. “That sounds doable.”

  “Great. So, actually I’m on my way to NCAVC right now for a briefing. If you’re not doing anything, why don’t you come along? We can put the paperwork through and I’ll show you around.”

  She hesitated. “That’d be nice, but the thing is . . .” She flicked her thumb toward the dining hall. “I missed breakfast. I need to grab a bite or I’ll never make it through the afternoon.”

  “We’ll pick up something on the way. My treat. For helping me out by taking Tessa home.”

  “Pat, you don’t owe me anything.” Her words had become taut. I might have offended her. “I told you before. I was only trying to help.”

  “Okay, then. You can treat me.”

  With my comment, the mood of the conversation softened, and she gave me a light, conspiratorial smile. “And why would I do that?”

  I thought for a moment, made a decision. “In exchange for me not prying into why you’re really here this summer.”

  “Well, then, your car or mine?”

  “Mine.”

  We started down the Gerbil Tube. “And where exactly did you have in mind?” she asked. “For lunch?”

  “Billy Bongo’s Burger Hut. It’s right on the way.”

  “Billy Bongo’s Burger Hut? You’re kidding me.”

  “Nope. Fastest fast food in town.”

  She shook her head. “You and your cheeseburgers.” That’s what she said, but underlying her words was a subtle message: I know you. What you like. We have a history together.

  “Well, I never get any burgers at home—one of the disadvantages of living with a teenage PETA member. I have to sneak out for one whenever I can.”

  “So now I know your dirty little secret.”

  “Everyone needs a couple of those.”

  And we stepped outside, into the day.

  Okay, so something wasn’t right.

  When the Library of Congress staff member asked to see the driver’s licenses of the couple in front of them in line, Paul whispered to Tessa that he needed to make a quick call and that he would be back in a minute, would meet up with her by the door. “You’re going to be all right?” he asked.

  “Sure, yeah.”

  “Good. Okay, I’ll be right back.”

  And as he walked away Tessa felt a quiet, tiny twitch inside of her, in the part of her where she needed most to feel safe. She didn’t know this man very well. Patrick was suspicious of him. She wasn’t supposed to be here, in the city, alone with him.

  Just chill.

  He’s your dad.

  She reminded herself that her mother had trusted him enough to sleep with him. And if her mom could trust him, she could too.

  Tessa moved forward in line, pulled out her wallet, and handed her license to the man.

  19

  The NCAVC building was actually an old warehouse that still had a sign out front for Tarry Lawnmower Supply. Posters of lawnmowers still filled the front lobby, the receptionist still answered the phone, “Tarry Lawnmower Supply, how can we meet your lawn service needs?”

  No sense advertising the headquarters for the FBI’s investigative group dedicated to studying and solving the nation’s most violent crimes, as well as the location of ViCAP, and the offices of the fifteen top behavioral profilers in the world.

  Cheyenne and I passed through security, I picked up the Joint Op paperwork at the front desk, signed the recommendation forms, and told her, “You’ll need to fill out the rest of these. Don’t worry, Ralph’ll send ’em through.” I handed her the pack of papers. “Try not to get writer’s cramp.”

  She weighed the stack in her hands. “I’ll try to not throw out my back first.”

  Ralph was on the phone when we entered his office. He gave Cheyenne a quick glance, and I realized that even though he’d visited me in Denver, the two of them had never met. I signaled to him that she was with me, then pointed to the Joint Op forms in her hand and he waved us through to the conference room.

  I led her inside.

  And found Lien-hua sitting at the table, paging through a file folder.

  Oh.

  She looked up as we entered. Her eyes flitted to Cheyenne.

  The phrase “unintended consequences” came to mind.

  “Lien-hua.” I said. “This is Detective Warren. From Denver.”

  “From Denver,” Lien-hua said.

  “We’ve worked together a few times.”

  “Seven,” Cheyenne said.

  “I see.” Lien-hua stood, extended her hand to Cheyenne. “Lien-hua Jiang.”

  Cheyenne shook her hand convivially. “Cheyenne Warren. So you must be the profiler Pat talks so much about.”

  “Really?”

  She gave Lien-hua a warm smile. “It’s all good, though, I assure you.”

  Lien-hua looked like she was about to respond, but before she could, Cheyenne added, “Pat and I just had lunch together, and he offered to show me around the center.” She held up the Joint Op papers. “And it looks like I’ll be helping with the case.”

  “Welcome to the team, then,” Lien-hua said in a tone that was impossible to read. “Detective.”

  “Thank you, I’m glad I’ll have the chance to work with you.” The two women had started talking around me, as if I weren’t even in the room.

  “And where did you go?” Lien-hua asked.

  “Oh, we just got here.”

  “No, for lunch.”

  “Billy Bongo’s Burger Hut.”

  For some reason I felt like I needed to defend myself. “It’s right on the way.”

  “Of course.” Lien-hua gave Cheyenne a wink. “Let me guess: he got the Ultimate Deluxe Classic Cheeseyburg Extreme, curly fries, and a medium Cherry Coke?”

  Cheyenne looked at Lien-hua oddly. “Right on the very first try.”

  “Old habits die hard,” Lien-hua said.

  Okay. This was officially awkward.

  I heard heavy footsteps just outside the door, and I was relieved when Ralph flung it open and joined us. He tossed a stack of bulging manila folders onto the table and looked like he was about to launch right into the case, but took a moment first to introduce himself to Cheyenne, and based on my recommendation, he immediately signed her forms. “Finish it up, hand it in tomorrow,” he mumbled, but I could tell something was definitely weighing heavily on his mind.


  “Thank you,” she said.

  “So here’s what’s up.” His tone was rough and hard. “That was Doehring on the phone. They just found Rusty Mahan. Dead. Hung himself sometime last night. Left a note confessing to Mollie’s murder.”

  A stretch of elegiac silence filled the room. Lien-hua slowly lowered herself into one of the chairs circling the conference room table. “Where was he found?”

  “Underneath the Connecticut Avenue bridge, near the riverbank. He was hidden in the trees. Never would have found him if the phone in his pocket hadn’t started ringing. A jogger heard it, saw the body.”

  “Was the note handwritten or typed?” I asked.

  “Typed. On his phone.”

  “Did we identify the caller?”

  “No.” He shook his head. “I know, it’s all too convenient, but Doehring doesn’t think so. The kid had motive, means, and opportunity. You know Doehring. And here’s the clincher: he’s planning to go public with this at the top of the hour.”

  He glanced at the clock on the wall.

  11:35.

  “Just twenty-five minutes before this thing explodes,” Lien-hua said.

  Ralph motioned for us to take a seat. “That’s what we have to stop from happening.”

  Cheyenne chose the chair between me and Lien-hua.

  “Quick update,” Ralph said. “Margaret is in DC running point on the joint task force. We’ve set up the command post at Metro PD headquarters, third floor. So far we’ve got FBI, Metro PD, Capitol police, US Marshals on this.” He shook his head. “Probably call in the freakin’ Boy Scouts before this thing is over.”

  A deep breath, then he flipped open one of the folders. “All right. Here we go. Here’s what we know so far.”

  The woman wasn’t being cooperative.

  Okay. Enough with that.

  Brad forced a gag into her mouth.

  Tugged it tight.

  Looked at his watch.

  11:39.

  “You have until 3:00 this afternoon to live: three hours and twenty-one minutes left to reflect on eternity.” He took a breath. “I was hoping it wouldn’t have to go down this way. If you’d been more willing, things might have turned out differently.”

  She tried to cry out, but the gag swallowed the sounds.