The Survivors (20 page)

I asked about my parents' financial troubles, and Scottie comes up with this. Felix called him an idiot savant. I was beginning to believe he was a lot more than that, at least when it came to finding things out about people.

My father had gone into business with Clawson a year before he died, so the lawsuit had started later, the last few months he was alive. Half a million dollars to my family wouldn't have been trouble, it would have been a disaster. We did need to find out more on this.

I clicked the print command and went to the kitchen to make coffee. When I came back, I saw that the printer hadn't worked. The power light was off. I clicked the switch and got down to check the cord. It was plugged into the upper socket in the outlet. This was an old building, and some things didn't work—like that socket. That's why I always kept the printer plugged into a power strip.

I checked out the computer and the top of the desk, then the drawers. Everything seemed neat and orderly—pens and paper and clips, the few files I kept there. I made a slow circuit through the kitchen and living room. I ended up in front the row of bookcases. Scottie had said something last night:
You're some kind of neat freak
. The books were in perfect alignment, as if they'd been edged into place with a ruler.

I went back to the bedroom to the phone. Lawyers in Washington usually get a late start on the day, and Tim Regis was no exception. I dialed his home number.

He knew it was me from the caller ID. “Hey, buddy, what's up?”

“Answer a question for me. If, say, the FBI wanted to search my apartment, and I wasn't home, what would they do?”

“That's not a good question to start the day with. You want to tell me what's going on?”

“Answer first.”

“They'd get a warrant and just go in and conduct the search. They'd break the door down if they had to. Then they'd leave a copy of the paperwork taped to the door or some other conspicuous place.”

“They wouldn't try to hide the fact they'd been there?”

“Usually it looks like a train wreck after they're through. Now tell me what's happened.”

“Somebody got into my place yesterday.”

“Did they take anything?”

“No, and that's the creepy part. Every book, every piece of paper, every fork, knife, and spoon, is exactly where it should be. Too perfect.”

“The first thing you mentioned was the FBI. Has this got something to do with Scott Glass?”

“I can't come up with any other reason. He and I were together last night. We took a drive to Damascus to check some things out.”

“Not a good idea,” Tim muttered. “Obviously whoever broke in was trying to be careful. What do you think they were looking for?”

“I'm not sure. There's a lot of information on my computer, and I'm sure they did something with that. They switched the power cords around. Scottie has a big stack of research papers. We had those with us.”

“Are you going to call the police?” he said.

“I'll think about it, but right now I've got a session to get to.”

“The longer you wait, the less help they'll give you.”

“I want to think this through before I do anything. If it wasn't the FBI in here, it was somebody else. I've got a few candidates, and I could use your help on that. Could you find out everything you can about Braeder Design Systems? It's a defense contractor.”

“I've heard of it. Why Braeder?” In the background, I heard computer keys clicking.

“It's a name that keeps coming up. Focus on twenty-five years ago, anything out of the ordinary.”

“It's a big company. I'll do what I can.” The keys stopped clicking. “From what I see here, twenty-five years ago is about the time Braeder made its first public stock offering.”

“That's right.”

“Just when everybody started to get rich.”

NINETEEN

W
hen I got to the office, the lights were on in the file alcove behind Tori's desk. “Morning Tori,” I called.

“You're in big trouble,” she said.

She was on her knees, surrounded by stacks of files. “I told you to stay out of here.”

I put my hands up. “Not guilty, sheriff.”

“I suppose these files moved themselves.”

“Something was moved?”

“Cal, you're not going to weasel out—”

I took her hand and led her out to her chair. “Somebody got into my apartment last night. They didn't take anything, but they went through the whole place looking for something. Tell me what you found here.”

She blinked a few times with shock. “I noticed the insurance forms first. I always keep them in the middle of the basket, but they were shoved into the corner. Then I checked the cabinets. I can't find anything missing, but some of the files have been moved around.”

“Which ones?”

“I'll show you.”

We went back to the alcove. “These, and these.” She pointed into the two cabinets that held patient files. “I haven't been through the rest yet.”

“G and R,” I said. “Maybe they were looking for Glass and Russo?”

She shrugged. Her eyes were still bigger than normal.

I held her by the shoulders. “It's going to be OK. I want you to go through all of this. Make a list of everything you think was touched.”

The phone rang, and she gave a panicky look toward her desk. “I can handle the phone,” I said. “You take care of this.”

“Cal, I'm the only one with keys to these cabinets. I was sure I locked up.”

“I'm sure you did,” I said, and I hurried to grab the phone.

“Cal Henderson.”

“This is Jamie Weston. What the hell did you do last night?”

My first impulse was to hang up. Right then, I didn't need anybody yelling at me. But I remembered advice my Aunt Renee always gave: when somebody asks an angry question, give an inappropriately nice answer.

“My lucky day. Every good-looking woman I talk to is mad at me.”

“What? Stop doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“I don't know . . . Confusing me.”

“Why would I want to do that?” That got me a grudging laugh. “Anyway, I was just about to call you.”

“I hope it was to apologize.”

“Actually I was going to tell you my apartment was broken into last night. I came to the office this morning and found the same thing here. There doesn't seem to be anything missing, but somebody's been through the files and, at least at my apartment, the computer. The only explanation I can think of is that they're after information about a patient. The way things have been going lately, that points to Scott Glass. I've got other things going on, but all of it's pretty ordinary.”

“Ah, hell.” The anger was gone from her voice. “We should talk. Are you free?”

“Right now? Where are you?”

“DC may be the capital of the free world, but it's really just a small town. I'm house-sitting for my ex-boyfriend. C Street Northeast. I'm leaving now.”

“I've got a session in thirty minutes.”

“I'll be there in ten.”

She made it in eight and didn't break a sweat. After stopping to talk with Tori, she came into my office. She was dressed down in a standard-issue blue pantsuit. The jacket on this one was cut so the lump from her gun was more obvious. “Anything gone in here?” she asked.

“I don't keep files in this room, but I'm sure the computer was used. I close everything back to the desktop before I leave at night. When I started it up a minute ago, the browser was open.”

She sat behind the desk. “Do you keep it password protected?”

“No.”

She shot me a look.

“I guess I should.”

She clicked the mouse a few times and frowned. “The diagnostic shows the CPU in flatline all night. That means it wasn't turned on. You're sure about the browser?”

“Yes.” I checked what she was looking at, some multicolor graph from the operating system. “The sound is switched on. I always leave it muted.”

She clicked through a few more screens then shut it down. “There's nothing that shows it was used.”

“Somebody was in here. I might make a mistake about the computer, but Tori wouldn't about her files.”

“I only said there's no trace in the machine. I'm sure there's a way that could be rigged, but it would take somebody with a lot of know-how. Do you know anybody like that? A patient or someone who works in the building?”

“No, but when I first noticed someone had been in my apartment, I thought of you.” I watched for her reaction.

She easily held my stare. “Think again. If I wanted something from you, I'd just ask. If you refused, I'd get a warrant. Simple as that.”

“Then how about someone you work with?”

“At the Bureau? No way, or I'd know about it.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“Sure, I—” She caught herself and laughed. “You're right. But this isn't our style. The Bureau doesn't travel on kitten's paws. This is too slick.” Her face became thoughtful. “But maybe not . . .”

She went to the window and looked out at the parking lot.

“What is it?” I said.

“Maybe not so slick,” she said. “At first, it seems like a high-end job. In and out and leave no trace. But you spotted it at your apartment and your secretary knew as soon as she walked in here. No offense, but neither of you are experts at this sort of thing.”

“So what are you saying?”

“What if somebody wanted you to know they'd been here, but they didn't want to leave hard evidence you could take to the police.”

“Why would someone do that?”

“I'll bet you've got information here that could ruin people's careers, their whole lives. If nothing is actually missing, whoever broke in could have taken copies. You've already thought about that, haven't you?”

“That's why I asked Tori to figure out which files were moved, so I'd know who's at risk. But I'm not going to have any handle on how bad it is until I know who got in here and what they were looking for.”

“If they just wanted information, they would have taken what they were after and not left a trace. Maybe instead it's about you. They want to get inside your head, have you worrying about what's coming next.”

“Great, and I don't have a clue who
they
are. So what should I do?”

“This is a DC police matter. If you bring them in, they'll dust for fingerprints, check the locks, run some tests on that computer. If they don't find evidence of a break-in, and nothing is missing . . .”

“They're not likely to do much follow up.”

“That's the way I see it. Once you file a police report, everything's out in the open. Your landlord will have to know, and the other tenants in the building.”

“And all my patients, not just the few who had their files messed with.”

“It's your choice, but I know what I'd do,” she said.

I went to the sofa, and she sat next to me. Her eyes seemed a colder blue than usual. “I said I needed to talk to you. At five thirty this morning, I had a call from my boss. He was in a real snit, and, let me tell you, you don't want to be anywhere
near
him when he's having a snit. He had a call—even earlier—from the Justice Department, an Assistant Attorney General. The AAG had been contacted by someone at Braeder Design Systems. They want to know why the hell Scott Glass is snooping in their business. And I thought you were going to keep Glass under wraps.”

“I did. After we talked, I was with him most of the time. No, all of the time.”

She gave a slow roll of her eyes. “Is there such a thing as a contradiction in psychology, or do you people just toss facts like a salad?”

“Scott tried to contact a woman named Lois McGuin. She worked for Braeder a long time ago. He phoned her, but she refused to talk to him, just like Russo. That all happened weeks ago.”

“Then why are the people at Braeder in a huff now?”

I hung my head. “That would be my fault. I went to see McGuin last night. Scott was with me. He let me talk to her alone, but she saw him. She must have connected the dots.”

“You promised me—”

“I promised to keep him away from Russo. McGuin was supposed to be a distraction, to get him thinking about something else.”

She frowned, trying to process it. Her boss must not have told her any of the particulars. For instance, she didn't know that, in another lifetime, I'd been Davie Oakes. What a swamp a single lie can lead to.