Myth Man (34 page)

CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT

P
RESTO HAD HOPED TO speak to Danko alone. As fate would have it, he lost the bladder battle, and the deputy chief inspector arrived as Presto dried his hands. When he left the men’s room, all three agents were already around Danko, who had a large duffel bag hung around his shoulder. The welcome committee was quick to make the detective feel unwelcome.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” raged Bailey.

“There aren’t any donuts here, Danko,” quipped Donavan.

Danko bristled then smarmily said, “And I thought we were friends.”

They glared at each other.

Ridgewood remained silent and then saw Presto emerge. She went to him. “I’ll let the testosterone run its course.”

Presto did not reply. He heard the voices rise in volume and vulgarity.

“Gentleman,” declared Presto, “lets keep this inside not outside.” He pointed to the room Bailey had recuperated in.

As soon as the door shut, Presto was quick to speak. Loudly. He needed to quell this minirebellion now. He was the one person who had an allegiance to both parties.

“Enough. Let’s start by acting professionally.”

Bailey was not easily quieted. “First, we have to respect each other as professionals,” he pontificated.

Presto took advantage of the impasse. “The room,” he gesticulated toward an open door.

The party looked around. Other agents at various levels stared at them. The place was a zoo. Reason took hold, and the troops trudged into the room Presto had called Danko from.

Everyone glumly sat down like they were adults who had been assigned detention.

Presto did not relish the words he was about to say, and the first few words tumbled out of his mouth like a feeble roll of dice. “Er, uh, we need to remember that until told otherwise, this is our case. The men and women in this room have a decision to make. Yes, this was a disaster, but even in defeat, we owe our professional best not to succumb.”

Presto felt a small air of confidence. No one had interrupted him. “Malcolm, I respect you more than anyone in this room, but Donavan is right. Your career is too distinguished, and the way I see you—if you’re in command of a sinking battleship, you’d be steadfast and resolute to the end.”

Bailey tied to speak, but Presto had to get the second part out. “Sorry, Malcolm, but Frank has a job to do. Let’s not forget that you were victims in this tragedy too. Frank found evidence on one of the dead rabbis. It’s quite possible there are traces on your clothes as well. Let forensics do their thing.”

“Dominick’s right.” Ridgewood agreed.

Thinking of Camille’s New Age persona, Presto sent her a futile ESP thank you.

Ridgewood asserted, “Now is not the time for turf battles and egos. Let’s hear Frank out.”

Both Bailey and Donavan glared briefly at their partner before they turned to Danko.

Danko jumped up, which caused Donavan to tense. “Hey, bud. Let’s keep things relaxed.”

Undaunted. “I’m relaxed.” He winked. “I think on two feet.”

Danko smiled broadly. Bailey and Donavan did not.

“First things first.” He pulled the duffel bag onto the chair and unzipped it. He pulled out clothes. He smiled again. “It may not be up to your high fashion, but I brought sweat pants, shirts, and flip-flop sandals. I want everyone’s clothes and shoes. The men can all change in here. Ridgewood can use the restroom.”

At first no one spoke. Then, “This is bullshit,” Donavan snorted. “But have it your way, thrift shop boy.”

“Cool it, boys,” snapped Ridgewood as she left the room.

Presto was tense, not just from the friction in the room, but also because he was uncomfortable undressing in front of others. The last time he undressed in front of anyone was back in the days of dreaded gym class.

Bailey spoke. His tone was calm. Serious. “I’ll keep my cool, but I’m going to say my peace.”

Danko’s voice replied in kind. “Fair enough.”

Bailey’s shirt was now off, and despite his age, he was in fantastic shape. His lightly haired chest was solidly contoured, while his stomach was cut and fat free.

Presto gulped. All three of them were fine physical specimens. He hoped he could dress under the covers of the conversation.

“Why not lay your cards on the table, Frank? Talk to us. I want to clear the air, because you’re not treating us like partners anymore. You’re behaving like we’re suspects.” Bailey finished and removed his pants.

“Yeah, Frank,” said Donavan. “What’s with the third degree, buddy? You’re looking at us harder than you stared at those beautiful tits that day at the topless bar.”

Donavan the speed dresser had already changed. He looked at home in the beat-up sweats and T-shirt. Bailey did not. He looked like a guy who slept in a suit.

Danko pulled up his sweats. “I found some evidence. There are so many unanswered questions with this case, but one thing we know is Myth Man’s framed people before. He tried to get Dom thrown off the case.”

“And, if it wasn’t for us, he would have succeeded,” reminded Bailey.

“Agreed,” Danko conceded.

They looked to Presto. He shrugged. “Thanks,” he said sheepishly. His outfit stretched to the limit. He didn’t care. He was reclothed.

There was a knock on the door. Ridgewood called. “Okay, boys?”

“Yes,” said Donavan. As the doorknob turned, he added, “We’re all naked and ready for you, Ridgewood.”

She walked in and over to Bailey. “No matter where we may be reshuffled in the deck, when this is over, I’m reporting his behavior.” She looked her superior in the eye. “If you were smart, you’d take action first.”

Ridgewood saddled up to Presto. “So, Frank,” she said. “We’re ready for a slumber party. Tell us what you got.”

Unfazed by Ridgewood’s threat, Donavan smirked. “Looks like we know whose bed you’re sleeping in Agent Ridgewood.”

Before Ridgewood could reply, Danko spoke. “Let’s do that.”

“Let’s,” Bailey said with sarcastic relish.

Danko ignored the jab. This was a rejuvenated man. Finally, the spotlight was his again.

“As I said, we found some evidence. And as I also said, Myth Man has framed people before. There may be evidence that he framed one of you. If he did, I’m bringing the information to you firsthand. And,” he said quickly, “even if the odds are less than 1 percent that anyone here could be involved, I’d be negligent not to do this by the book.”

“We wouldn’t want it any other way, Sherlock,” quipped Donavan.

Bailey snapped. “Agent Donavan, do not speak unless you’re asked to. When called upon, you will answer without commentary. That is a direct order. Do you understand?”

“Yes. Sorry.”

Presto sensed Donavan was hurt or angry. Maybe both.

Bailey nodded to Danko. “Continue.”

Sincerely. “Thanks,” Danko said. “Other than Ridgewood, I’d like to see everyone’s shoes.”

Presto sensed Bailey’s unease, but he cooperated. The four men put their shoes on a desk at the front of the room.

Bailey grunted. “Frank, you can skip the formalities. Whatever you’re checking, we damn well sure know it is not on your shoe. Put them back on.”

Danko opened a folder he’d placed on the desk. Out came a photo—the bloody heel print.

“Someone stepped in blood and walked into the bathroom in the rabbi’s study. I found one clean print.”

Danko grabbed one of his shoes, black leather and squared toe. He turned it over. “As you can see, the prints in the photo are very clean, tightly spaced ridges that angle toward the toe. My Clarks are obviously much different with that wide boomerang-like pattern.”

“I see,” Bailey grumbled. He grabbed his own and turned it over.

“May I?” asked Danko, who now had latex gloves on.

Bailey handed his shoe over. His eyes looked away but flashed with anger, like a distant but oncoming thunderstorm.

Danko turned the shoe over again. His jaw dropped. No need for analysis. It was a dead ringer. Not only was the symmetry the same, but also the left side of the heel was identically worn. And there was dried blood.

“Holy shit,” Donavan said. He then looked to Bailey and shrugged. “Sorry.”

Danko did not hesitate. He put the shoe in a plastic evidence bag. “All this means is this shoe left this print.”

Bailey snapped. “Of course that’s all it means. What do you think? I killed these men?” His voice raged as his face grew red.

Danko looked to Presto. “I make no assumptions. I learned from the best.”

Ridgewood put a hand on Bailey’s arm. “Take it easy, Malcolm. We know you didn’t kill anyone.”

Bailey relaxed and managed a weak smile. “Thanks. I don’t remember going to any bathroom.”

Danko nodded. “That’s why we need to piece this together.”

They sat down again.

Danko looked to Bailey again. “I have a few more questions for you. Please don’t take offense.”

“Should I call my attorney?” Bailey half-joked. “Go ahead.”

“Your face.” Danko pointed at Bailey’s wounded cheek. “There’s a scratch.”

Bailey caressed his cheek, which had been treated. A beleaguered look told Danko to continue.

Presto noticed that despite the tension, Danko did not press. This was diplomatic for the old bull. Still, he feared where his former nemesis appeared to tread.

Danko cast a somewhat sympathetic look, for a bald, bearded, tough, prickly guy. “Do you recall how you got it?”

“Frankly, Frank, I don’t recall,” he shrugged. “I woke up with it. I assume it was not self-inflicted.”

Danko let the answer pass. “Your jacket,” he said. He went over to the chair that held Bailey’s sport jacket. He came back with it. “I know this may be morbid, but could I ask you to put this back on?”

Bailey put his sport jacket on like it was a straightjacket. He stood erect and posed as if to look fashionable, which was not a funny sight with the bloodstains and the sweat pants.

“Go on, Frank. It can’t get much worse.”

Danko approached. He pointed at the jacket’s lapels. “The blood—there’s a good amount of it. It’s not smudged, giving the appearance that it was sprayed and scattered.”

He stepped back to allow Bailey more personal space. The FBI director filled the vacuum.

“Fuck you.”

Ridgewood gasped.

“Easy, Malcolm,” cautioned Donavan of all people.

Torn, Presto felt compelled to say something. “Let’s relax,” he said feebly.

Nobody relaxed, but Danko tried to offer an olive branch. “You can take the jacket off.”

“Damn right I’m taking it off,” Bailey huffed. “In fact, if you don’t get to the point, I’m taking off, period.”

All eyes turned to Danko. Silence. His bushy brows bunched up as if conflicting pressures collided. His foot tapped twice. He stretched his jaw.

Finally, words came. “No problem,” he said flatly. “I won’t apologize for my methods, and you should know that I act without relish.”

“Cut the sentiment, Frank,” Bailey urged. “I don’t believe it’s personal. You carry an air of dubious suspicion.” He waved a beckoning hand. “Please.”

Again, they waited on Danko. This time, they did not wait long.

“Okay, here it is. There was the heel print and a spot of blood on the toilet. That infers someone went to the bathroom. I don’t think during or after this carnage that someone stopped to take a leak. Something else was flushed.”

Presto watched Bailey boil, but Danko pressed on.

“Then I see your jacket. You had a wound to the back of your head and a nice, but superficial scratch on your face, but the bloodstains are on the front of your jacket.”

Danko was on a roll. His mouth picked up speed like a downward soapbox car. Now that he was pressured to divulge his hand, he would do so without interruptions.