The Survivors (29 page)

“You say you don't know what the problem was. Have any guesses?”

He took a sip of coffee while he thought it over. “Ned's a businessman; Eric's a lawyer. Take everything that means for normal people and multiply by ten. Ned sees everybody as if they're dressed in uniform—his team on one side and the rest of the world on the other. Eric's got no sides. For him, everything is open to negotiation.” He smiled faintly. “I once heard Griffin O'Shea call them ‘the original yin and yang.'”

“You know O'Shea?” I said.

“Sure. And if you've met him, I'll bet he told you the story about the snakebite.” He touched his right wrist.

I nodded.

“Always out to prove how tough he is—that's Griffin O'Shea. Even way back then, he was Eric's back-alley man. He was the one who brought me their final offer to my lawsuit, this place or I could go screw myself.”

He glanced at his watch, and I did the same. I needed to get to my office.

We stood up together. “This has been useful. Thanks.”

“Glad to help.”

He walked me to the door, where a young man was arriving, sweaty-faced from hurrying in the growing heat of the day. “Good morning, Dr. Sorensen,” he said. “I'll have those articles you wanted in just a few minutes.”

“Yes, right away,” Sorensen said dryly.

He stepped onto the porch with me. “You said you were going to meet with Ned.”

“That's right.”

“I'd appreciate it if you didn't mention that we've talked.”

“OK, if you want. Mind telling me why?”

He looked down and kicked his toe at a loose bit of paint. “Simple enough. I don't need the trouble.”

He kept his eyes averted while he shook my hand. “Good luck to you, Dr. Henderson.”

TWENTY-NINE

W
hen I got to my office, Tori was in the file alcove, kneeling on the floor like yesterday. She didn't have any files out but was staring at the open cabinets.

“What's going on?” I said. Then I bent and saw she'd been crying.

This was one time when I decided it would be all right to touch her. I took her hand and led her to the couch in my office. She pulled a tissue from the box and made a delicate honk as she blew her nose.

“It's all my fault about the files.”

“How's that?” I said.

“I came back here after you left Wednesday night. The Internet's been out at my apartment, so I came in here to use the computer.” Her eyes sparkled with tears. “I was doing some shopping. This stupid online sale for shoes.” A drop leaked down her cheek. “I must have left the door unlocked when I left.”

“What about the locks on the file cabinets?” I said.

“My fault too. One morning a couple of months ago, I left the file keys at home. That whole day was a hassle. So I started leaving them in my desk drawer. That's where they were Wednesday night, right where any idiot could waltz in and find them.”

She seemed so forlorn, I pulled her chin around so I could look at her. “Hey, everything's OK.”

She shook her head sadly. “No it isn't. But you know, you could give me a hug. It wouldn't break any rules.”

I wasn't sure about that, but I did it anyway.

She nestled her head into my shoulder. “It's so stupid. All to save forty bucks on a pair of Jimmy Choo knock-offs.”

“You don't have to sneak back here to do your shopping. I don't care if you do it during the day.”

“Better not say that. You wouldn't get any work out of me at all.”

She snuggled a little closer, then patted my chest. “Thanks for this. And speaking of work, I should get to it.”

We stood up. I was still holding her hand. “I don't believe you did it—left the door unlocked. You're too careful.”

She smiled, but her eyes were still wet.

“It wasn't random, Tori. Somebody broke into my place, too. I've got a meeting set up with the guy I think is responsible. I'll find out how it happened. Even without that, I'm sure it's not your fault.”

Her face brightened; the tears were gone. She slid closer. “You know, you're pretty good at this.”

“Being a psychologist?” I said.

She sketched a line on my arm with her fingernail. “That too.”

The outer door opened—my first appointment. I tipped my head, sending her on her way.

The day flew by. I had a make-up appointment at noon, so Tori picked up a sandwich for me for lunch. I barely had time to think about the meeting I wasn't having, with Scottie and Jamie Weston.

Tori called in a new locksmith, a guy who knew how to keep his hands to himself. He finished installing the locks about four and left an estimate for a remotely monitored office security system. Twenty-six hundred dollars. I'd have to think about it before I made that kind of investment. At six o'clock, my last patient left, and Tori left too. I packed up my things and headed down to my car.

Washington is known for a lot of things, including, for the locals, having some of the worst traffic in the nation. Not only is it bad, it's unpredictable: clear sailing one commute and a deadly slog the next. This was one of the bright nights. I hit only two red lights all the way up Massachusetts Avenue.

I was a block from Dupont Circle when my phone rang. I didn't recognize the number.

“Hello?”

“Cal, you there?”

“Hi Felix. I'm on my way to your place. Why aren't you calling on your own phone?”

“I'm at a neighbor's—Jolene.”

He added a little saccharin to “Jolene.” That was the widow he was sweet on, and she must have been standing within earshot.

“What's Scottie up to?” I said.

“Damned if I know.”

“What happened?”

“He lit out of here a while ago on his bicycle. I figured he'd come back, but he didn't. Then I noticed my phone was gone. He must have taken it.”

“Why did he leave?”

Felix put his hand over the mouthpiece and mumbled something. He came back on a few seconds later. “There, Jolene's gone. Scottie didn't have a quiet day like you hoped. He was in a fit from the start. Wouldn't eat, didn't want to rest or read. I hid the scotch like you suggested, and that annoyed the hell out of him.”

“What did he do?”

“Mostly he played around with that pad computer of his. The longer he was at it, the madder he got.”

“Did you see what he was up to?”

“Some kind of research. Old newspaper articles and official-looking web sites. He wouldn't talk about it. Finally he got so riled up I took the damn thing away from him.”

“Uh-oh.”

“I thought he was going to punch me, no joke. Instead he cursed me out. He's got a really foul mouth, you know that? And my scotch? He found it about two this afternoon. Drained the better part of a fifth. But there was more going on than the drinking. I haven't seen many people wound as tight as he was—and I've seen some real jobs. It was like he was trying to figure something out, but he kept losing his way. Before he took off, he spent over an hour pacing around talking to himself.”

“Did he say anything about where he was going?”

“Only to get the hell away from me. Oh, and he said if I wouldn't let him use his computer he knew who he could talk to to get some answers.”

I let out a long breath, trying to stay calm. “Did he take his backpack?”

“Yes, why?”

“It's not important.” I wasn't going to mention the gun, or where I thought Scottie was headed.

“Go back home and wait for him. If he shows up, give me a call.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Play a hunch.”

I was headed north on Connecticut Ave. I dialed Felix's cell. It rang until it switched to voice mail, so I hung up. Before I'd gone another block, my own phone buzzed. It was Felix's number.

“Scottie?”

“Cal, was that you who just called?”

“Yes, where are you?”

He whispered something, but I lost it. “You'll have to speak up. You're cutting out.”

“They'll hear me if I talk any louder.”

“Are you at Russo's place?”

“Yeah. They all showed up right after I did and went inside.” I heard shuffling that sounded like feet moving.

“Don't go closer to the house!”

“I'm all right . . . rose bushes here. Nobody can see me.”

“Stay back. I'll be there in a few minutes.”

“I'm by the driveway.” His voice was very low but clear now. “There's a window. I should be able to hear them.”

“Dammit, Scottie, just wait for me!”

“She could be gone by then.”

“
Who?
” I shouted at the phone.

“Weston. I looked up her picture. And two other men showed up. There I—”

I heard a yelp. A rose thorn? Then there was fast rustling.

“I couldn't get close enough.”

“Scottie?”

“I'm OK. Other side of the street. I just—Wait, they're coming out. Oh crap, they're headed this way.”

I heard footsteps running, then a clatter as if the phone had been dropped. A few seconds later there were more footsteps, lots of them. A man shouted, “Over there! Circle around!”

The footsteps faded, and everything was quiet except the chirping of a bird.

THIRTY

I
left my car three blocks from Russo's house. It was late enough that the light was fading. In that neighborhood of tall houses and stately old trees, there were plenty of shadowy places where someone could hide.

I decided to walk, slow and steady. Running would draw attention. I checked the yards and driveways. “
Scottie,
” I hissed. “
Are you there?
” The only sound was the faint thrum of traffic on MacArthur Boulevard.

I found his bicycle partially hidden behind some boxwood shrubs. I left it where it was. Then I rounded a bend and saw someone—a man in a midtone suit—cross the street and disappear between two houses. That gave me a shot of hope. If they were still looking, they hadn't found him yet.

I came to the last block, a long, winding stretch. A man appeared on the sidewalk twenty paces in front of me. He must have been crouching between parked cars. That would be a good place to keep an eye on that whole section of the street. He was turned away, so I couldn't recognize him, but he wasn't the same man I'd seen before.

I slipped up the nearest driveway to the side of the house there. From inside, I could hear a television—a piping child's voice, canned laughter.

The man looked around and started to walk away from me. At that moment, the garden lights came on. They were bright enough for me to see it was Tyson Cade, Jamie Weston's FBI partner.

A black car came rolling up the street, and Cade stepped out to meet it. One of the rear windows buzzed down. Cade and the passenger exchanged a few sentences, and the car continued on its way.

Cade looked around again and reversed course, walking up the street in my direction. I slipped back along the wall of the house. If he glanced to his right as he crossed the mouth of the driveway, I'd be in plain sight.

There was a detached garage at the back of the drive where I could hide. I started to run, and a spotlight flashed on, catching me right in its cone.
Damn.
Security light, activated by a motion sensor. Cade's footsteps were nearly at the driveway.

I turned and ducked along the back of the house, hoping whoever was inside watching television wouldn't see me.

The far end of the yard was bounded by a tall, wrought iron fence. I was looking for a way over it when I heard a whimper. Through the hedge on the other side of the fence, I saw Scottie. He was cowering down, holding his half-open backpack up to protect his face. Jamie Weston stood twenty feet away with a gun leveled on him.

I trusted Weston to do the smart thing, but not Scottie. I sprinted around the fence to the next-door driveway, forgetting Cade and the security lights. By the time I reached the backyard, Weston had moved closer to Scottie. “Get on your knees,” she said.