Total Control (55 page)

"So that's what you think it's all about? Beautiful, brainy babe turns veteran agent to mush?" Jackson didn't respond, but the answer was clearly painted on his face. "Old, divorced fart wants to jump in her panties, Ray? And I can't do that if she's guilty. Is that what the hell you think?" Sawyer's voice was rising.

"Why don't you tell me, Lee?"

"Maybe I should throw your ass through that window over there instead."

"Maybe you should goddamn try," Jackson shot back.

"You sonofabitch." Sawyer's voice shook.

Jackson reached across and grabbed his shoulder. "I want you to get your head on right. You want to sleep with her, fine. Wait until after the case is over and she's proved not guilty!" Jackson shouted at him.

"How dare you!" Sawyer shouted back, ripping Jackson's hand away. Sawyer then jumped up and cocked a very large fist, a fist that stopped in midair as Sawyer realized what he was about to do. Several of the other restaurant patrons stared in shock at the scene.

Sawyer's and Jackson's eyes remained locked until finally Sawyer, his chest heaving, his bottom lip trembling, lowered his fist and sat back down.

Neither of them spoke for several minutes. Finally Sawyer looked embarrassed and sighed. "Shit, I knew I was going to regret giving up the smokes one day." He closed his eyes. When he reopened them, he was looking squarely at Jackson.

"Lee, I'm sorry. I'm just worried about--" Jackson abruptly stopped as Sawyer held up his hand.

Sawyer began speaking slowly and softly. "You know, Ray, I've been with the bureau half my life. When I first started out, it was easy to tell the good guys from the bad. Back then, kids didn't go around killing people like they were yesterday's lunch. And you didn't have smooth-running drug empires worth hundreds of billions of dollars, enough money that just about anybody will do just about anything.

They had revolvers, we had revolvers. Pretty soon they'll be toting surface-to-air missiles as standard equipment.

"While I'm at the grocery trying to decide what lousy TV dinner to eat and looking for which beef is on sale, about twenty new corpses are created for no better reason than somebody turning down the wrong street or a bunch of unemployed kids going at each other over a block-long piece of drug turf with more firepower than an Army battalion used to carry around. We play catch-up every day, but we never gain any ground."

"Come on, Lee, the thin blue line is still around. As long as there are bad guys."

"That thin blue line is a lot like the ozone layer, Ray. It's got mountain-size holes punched all through it. I've been walking that line for a long time. What do I have to show for it? I'm divorced.

My kids think I'm a lousy father because I was out running down a plane bomber, or hauling in some slick-smiling butcher who likes to line his trophy case with human specimens, instead of helping them blow out candles on their birthday cakes. You know what? They were right. I was a lousy dad. Especially to Meggie. I worked ungodly hours, never around, and when I was, I was either sleeping or so zoned out on a case I probably never heard half of what they were trying to tell me. Now I live all alone in a crummy apartment and most of my paycheck I don't even see. My stomach feels like it's got a bunch of meat cleavers stuck in it and while I'm sure that's just my imagination, I do happen to have several pieces of real lead permanently embedded in me. On top of that, lately I find it real hard to go to sleep unless I've had a six-pack of beer."

"Jesus, Lee, you're always the rock at work. Everyone respects the hell out of you. You go into an investigation and see stuff I never do.

Wrap the whole picture together while I'm still getting my notebook out. You've got the best instincts of any one I've ever seen."

"Good thing, Ray. Considering it's really the only thing I have left. But don't shortchange yourself. I've got twenty years on you.

You know what instinct is? Seeing the same thing over and over again until you start to get a feel for things. A little extra step.

You're way ahead of where I was with just a half dozen years under my belt."

"I appreciate that, Lee."

"But don't misinterpret this little episode of venting. I don't feel sorry for myself and I'm sure as hell not looking for any pity from anybody. I had choices and I made them. Just me. If my life's screwed up, it's because I screwed it up, nobody else."

Sawyer got up, walked over to the counter and exchanged a few words with a skinny, wrinkled waitress. In a moment he was striding back, cupping his hands together, a thin line of smoke floating up. He sat back down and held up the cigarette. "For old times' sake." Slowly grinding out the match in the ashtray, he sat back and took a long pull on the cigarette, a barely audible chuckle escaping his lips.

"I go into this case, Ray, thinking that I had it pretty much nailed from the get-go. Lieberman's the target. We figure out how the plane went down. We got a lot of motives, but not so many we can't follow up, sift through until we nail the sonofabitch responsible.

Shit, we get the actual bomber gift-wrapped and delivered to us, even if he's not breathing anymore. Things are looking pretty damn good. Then the floor falls out from under us. We find out Jason Archer pulled off this incredible heist and turns up in Seattle selling secrets instead of being in a hole in the ground in Virginia. Is that his plan? Seems pretty likely.

"Only the bomber turns out to be a guy who somehow slipped right through the Virginia State Police's computer system. I get hoodwinked into going to New Orleans and something happens at Archer's house that I'm still in the dark about. Then, when you least expect it, Lieberman gets thrown back into the picture chiefly because of Steven Page's apparent suicide five years ago that doesn't seem to fit into the puzzle except for the fact that his big brother, who can probably tell us a lot, gets his throat handed to him in a parking lot. I talk to Charles Tiedman and maybe, just maybe, Lieberman is being blackmailed. If true, how the hell does that tie into Jason Archer? Do we have two unconnected cases seemingly connected through a coincidence: namely, Lieberman gets on a plane Archer has paid someone to blow up? Or is it all one case? If it is, what the hell is the connection? Because if there is one, it sure as hell has escaped yours truly."

Sawyer shook his head in unconcealed frustration and took another drag on his cigarette. He exhaled smoke up to the grimy ceiling and then put his elbows on the table and looked over at Jackson.

"Now two other guys we figure are trying to rip off Triton Global check into the hereafter. And the common denominator in a hell of a lot of it is Sidney Archer." Sawyer slowly rubbed a finger across his cheek. "Sidney Archer .... I know ! respect the woman. But maybe my judgment is getting a little clouded. You're probably right to kick me in the ass over it. But I'll let you in on a little secret, friend." Sawyer tapped the end of his cigarette into the ashtray.

"What's that?"

"Sidney Archer was in that limo. And whoever killed those three guys let her walk. Her pistol ends up with the police." Sawyer made an imaginary gun with his left hand and pointed at various parts of it with his cigarette as he continued to speak. "Smudged prints on the part she would've held if she had fired it. Clear prints on the barrel only. What do you make of that ?"

Jackson thought quickly. "We know she handled the gun." The truth suddenly dawned on him. "If somebody else fired it, and they were using gloves, her prints would've been smudged on those areas but not the barrel."

"Right. The tape gets left behind. They probably did use it to blackmail her, I'm not arguing with you over that. She would've known they had it, they would've had to play it for her to make her know the threat was real. You think she would've left something like that behind? That's slam-dunk evidence of enough felonies to keep her in prison until she's a hundred. I'm telling you, she or anyone else in that situation would've lifted that damn limo clear up in the air to get to that tape. No, they let her go for one reason only."

"To set her up for the killings." Jackson slowly put his coffee cup down.

"And maybe to make sure our focus doesn't wander again."

"That's why you wanted the GSR test done."

Sawyer nodded. "I needed to be sure that one of the dead guys wasn't the shooter. You know, there could have been a struggle. From the looks of it, the wounds were all instantly fatal, but who the hell really can be sure? Or one of them could have done it and then committed suicide, for all we know. Freaked out over what he'd done and decided to blow his own brains out. Then Sidney, in a panic, grabs the gun and throws it down a sewer drain. But that didn't happen.

None of the stiffs fired that weapon."

They sat in prolonged silence before Sawyer stirred. "I'll let you in on another secret, Ray. I'm gonna figure this sucker out, even it if takes me another twenty-five years walking that thin line. And when that day comes, you're going to find out something really enlightening."

"Such as?"

"That Sidney Archer has no more of a clue to what the hell is going on than you or I do right now. She's lost her husband, she's lost her career, she stands a better than even chance of standing trial for murder and about a dozen other felonies and spending the rest of her life in prison. Right now she's scared out of her wits and running for her life, not knowing who to trust or believe. Sidney Archer is in fact something that, if you just looked at the evidence in a superficial manner, you would conclude she couldn't possibly be."

"What's that?"

"Innocent."

"You really think that?"

"No. I know it. I wish I knew something else."

"What's that?"

Sawyer stabbed out his cigarette at the same time he let out a final mouthful of smoke. "Who really killed those three guys." Sawyer's mind drifted away as he said the words. Sidney Archer might know. But where the hell is she?

As the two rose to leave, Jackson put a hand on Sawyer's shoulder.

"Hey, Lee, for what it's worth, I don't care how long the good guy/bad guy odds ever get to be. As long as you're willing to walk the line, I will too."

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

Looking through her binoculars, Sidney surveyed the street in front of her parents' house and then checked her watch. Dusk was rapidly gathering. She shook her head in disbelief. Could the FedEx shipment have been delayed because of weather? Snowfall in coastal Maine was usually heavy, and because of its proximity to the ocean, it was usually very slushy. That often made for hazardous driving conditions when the slush froze. And where were her parents? The problem was she had no way to communicate with them while they were traveling. Sidney hurried to the Land Rover, dialed information on the cellular phone and got the 800 number for Federal Express.

She gave the operator the names and addresses of the sender and recipient of the package. After Sidney listened to computer keys clicking, the operating delivered her astonishing answer.

"You mean you have no record of the package?"

"No, ma'am, I mean, according to our records, we didn't receive the package."

"But that's impossible. You had to get it. There must be some mistake. Please check again." Sidney listened with growing impatience to the sounds, once again, of the keyboard. The response was the same.

"Ma'am, perhaps you should check with the sender to make sure the package was actually sent out."

Sidney hung up, got Fisher's number from her purse in the house, went back out to the Land Rover and dialed it. There was little chance that Fisher would be there--he had undoubtedly taken Sidney's warnings to heart--but he would most likely call in for messages.

Her hands were shaking. What if Jeff had been unable to send out the package? The vision of the gun pointed at her in the limo blasted into her mind. Brophy and Goldman. Their heads exploding.

All over her. For a moment, in her despair, she rested her head on the steering wheel, then picked up the phone and dialed.

The phone rang and then was answered. Sidney prepared to leave a message on the machine when a voice said hello.

Sidney started to speak until she realized the voice on the other end was a live one.

"Hello?" The voice said again.

Sidney hesitated and then decided to go ahead. "Jeff Fisher, please."

"Who is this?"

"I'm... I'm a friend of his."

"Do you know where he is? I really need to find him," said the voice.

The hackles on the back of Sidney's neck went up. "Who is this?"

"Sergeant Rogers of the Alexandria Police Department."

Sidney quickly cut off the call.

The interior of Jeff Fisher's townhouse had seen drastic changes since Sidney Archer had been there, chief of which was that not one single piece of computer equipment or files was left in the place. In the middle of the day, neighbors had seen the moving truck. One of them had even talked to the movers. Thought it was all legitimate.

Fisher hadn't mentioned that he was moving, but the movers had been so open about it, took their time, boxed things up, had paperwork on a clipboard, had even taken a smoke break in the middle of the job. Only after they had left did the neighbors get suspicious.

When Fisher's next-door neighbor had gone inside to check on things, he had noticed that none of the furniture was gone, only Fisher's extensive computer system. That's when the police had been called.

Sergeant Rogers scratched his head. The problem was, nobody could find Jeff Fisher. They had checked at his job, with his family up in Boston, with his friends locally. No one had seen him in the last couple of days. Sergeant Rogers had received another shock during his investigation. Fisher had actually been in custody at the Alexandria Police Station on a reckless driving charge. He'd posted bail, been given a court date and been released. That was the last anyone apparently had seen of Jeff Fisher. Rogers finished writing up his report and left.