Call to Treason (40 page)

    Awaiting News from Home.

    Rodgers marveled at how different the world was, how different life was, when people had to wait weeks for an answer to a question like that. It was the reason men of great wisdom and even greater instinct had to be put in the field.

    "I think that answers my question," Kat said sullenly.

    "Detective, talk to us," Rodgers said. "If Ms. Lockley is correct, let us help. Whatever this is, we can fix it."

    "No," Howell said. "I made my choices. I will live with them. But I do want you to know that I had no idea Op-Center was going to get hit."

    "Did the same people do it?" Rodgers pressed.

    "I don't know," he admitted.

    "What do you know?" Kat asked.

    "Only that someone, a man, phoned one day."

    "When?" Rodgers asked.

    "Two and a half weeks ago. He had information about my service record that could have ended my police career if it were revealed. I was told the information would be removed from my record if I cooperated."

    "What did this cooperation entail?" Rodgers asked.

    "He didn't say," Howell replied.

    Of course not, Rodgers thought. That might have made him an accomplice to murder, far less desirable than a career scandal. "What did he ask for when he did say?" Rodgers asked.

    There was a final silence, but it was brief. "At first, just a level-one autopsy," Howell replied.

    "What is that?" Kat asked.

    "The body goes in and out, no fine-tooth comb," Howell said. "Your people wanted Wilson off the slab and out of the country, Ms. Lockley.

    They said it was to get attention from the senator as soon as possible.

    That sounded reasonable. It was apparently a heart attack. I saw no harm in helping to rush things along."

    "You said 'at first," " Rodgers pointed out.

    "Yeah. I did that one as a favor. Then your Mr. McCaskey came along and found out it was murder," Howell said. "At that point, I had already committed a departmental infraction. I might have been able to smooth that one over. But then they hit me with the other thing."

    "The service record," Kat said.

    "This is a scary town," Howell said. "You both know that. I did not want to end up a small-town sheriff somewhere, and I hoped no, I prayed that Darrell McCaskey could smoke these boys out."

    "He still can," Rodgers said. "Ms. Lockley isn't pressing charges.

    Let him go. Help him."

    "How?"

    "That depends. Did you get the sense that these crimes were part of a larger operation?"

    "Probably," Howell said. "They told me I would be informed when my 'interface," as they put it, was no longer required. I received no such notification."

    "So more killings may be planned," Rodgers said. "Detective, are you able to contact them?"

    "No. I don't even know who I was talking to. Their ID was blocked."

    "It was someone who had access to your service record," Rodgers said.

    "Correct."

    "So that means it could have been Link," Rodgers said. He did not think the admiral was the point man, however. That would be too risky.

    "When was the last time you spoke with this person?"

    "Just now," Howell said. "He wanted to know if anyone had been asking about the case."

    "How recently is 'just now'?" Rodgers asked.

    "Right before you called," Howell said. "I hung up on him to talk to you."

    Rodgers felt a chill. It was not fear. It was like an electrical current flowing along his neck as his brain started making connections.

    He wished that he had a firearm. Or an EM bomb, something that would shut everything down until he could have a thorough look around.

    "Detective, did you tell the man that we were on the other line?"

    Rodgers asked.

    "Yes," Howell replied. "He asked."

    "All right. I need two favors, Detective," Rodgers said. "I need you to release the McCaskeys."

    "I cannot do that without the proper documents," Howell said. "I will fax them to Ms. Lockley "

    "There is no time for that," Rodgers protested. "Come on, Detective.

    You know they are not criminals. Call it a false arrest and let them go. Say they had permission to be on the premises."

    "They did," Kat said impulsively. "I said it was okay."

    "All right," Howell said. "What is the second favor?"

    "If your guy calls back, try to find out who he is," Rodgers said. He started moving toward the door. "Let Darrell know."

    "I will," Howell said.

    "Thanks. Talk to you later."

    Kat terminated the call as Rodgers jogged along the short entranceway.

    He stopped by the front door and listened. He heard nothing. Kat had followed. She stood at the other end of the small hallway.

    "What's wrong?" she asked.

    "I'm not sure. I want you to stay here," Rodgers said.

    "Why?"

    "Because I'm going out, and there may be trouble," Rodgers said. "If there is, I need someone who can bail me out."

    "What kind of trouble?"

    "I have no idea," Rodgers said as he cracked the door. "But there is one thing I do know. What happened in Washington was just the preliminary. The big show is going to be here."

    

    Washington, D.C. Wednesday, 4:42 p.m.

    There is an impunity that comes with being once-removed from danger. A lock on the door. A police officer on the beat. A man of influence standing between you and those who want to hurt you.

    In each case, it is an illusion. Darrell McCaskey knew that from his years at the FBI. He was betting that the young and inexperienced Lucy O'Connor did not. Before the afternoon was over, she would.

    McCaskey and his wife had been released from the holding cell at the First District Substation. Detective Howell personally drove them to their car, which had been taken to the DMV impound lot at 65 K Street NE. The detective called ahead to have it released and waiting.

    Howell was surprisingly forthcoming about what had happened. McCaskey felt as though he had suddenly been drafted as father confessor. Not that he minded, as long as he did not have to keep any of the intelligence a secret.

    McCaskey did not judge the man. Fear and self-preservation always colored people's reactions. On the FBI he had seen countless crimes of passion that were conceived, executed, and regretted within the space of five minutes. That did not absolve the perpetrator, but McCaskey understood the drive.

    McCaskey was sitting beside his wife in the backseat of Howell's car.

    When the detective was finished, Me Caskey asked him what he expected in exchange for his cooperation.

    "A way back out," Howell said plaintively.

    "That may not be so easy. When we get these people, you know they will finger you," McCaskey pointed out.

    "I know they'll try," the detective said. "I've been thinking. I can pretty much cover my own actions. If you two will say that I was working undercover and feeding you information from the start, that will neutralize their charges."

    "When you cornered us in the apartment, you did not give us the option to explain things to you," Maria said angrily.

    "They had me on a leash," Howell said. "I'm sorry."

    "If General Rodgers did not call, we would be standing in front of your district attorney right now instead of driving to our car," she went on.

    "I would have found a way to make this go away," Howell said.

    "You say that as if it is an upset stomach," Maria said. "This would have been with us the rest of our lives."

    "Yes, but in fairness, you did enter the woman's apartment unlawfully."

    "We picked a lock to get a leg-up on something big and ugly," McCaskey interjected. "On the Richter scale of crimes, that is one point zero."

    "Look, I already said I screwed up," Howell told him. "Hell, I screwed up in the military, too, which is what got me in this fix. What I did then wasn't even a crime. The tribunal made it one to give some punk kid absolution for feeling guilty about consensual sex."

    "A punk kid," Maria said. "You mean a boy? A man?"

    Howell nodded as they pulled up to the lot. "I took the hit for him because I knew what he was going through. I cared about him. I could have appealed the decision, but I didn't. Then these bastards dig it out and throw it back at me. I felt only for a moment, but that was long enough that I had earned myself a free pass for one future misdeed. This one. If I thought it would grow into what it did, I would never have agreed to help them. It was wrong. If you help me, I can make amends through continued public service. I've done a damn good job till now. If not, I'll atone in prison, which doesn't help anyone." He looked back at McCaskey. "The blue line, Darrell. Stick with me on this one. Please."

    McCaskey opened the door and stepped out. He walked around to the driver's side. Howell rolled down the window.

    "If I did what you asked, I would not be able to look Mac McCallie's widow in the eyes," McCaskey told him. "I will fight for you, Detective, I promise. But I will not lie for you."

    Howell's face flushed, but he did not reply. He simply rolled up the window and drove away.

    Maria took her husband's hand. "You did the right thing," she said. "I am proud of you."

    "Boy, I wish that made it all better." He sighed. He watched the detective's car as it turned the corner.

    As afraid as Howell had been when he made that decision, McCaskey imagined it faded to insignificance beside the fear and loneliness he was feeling now. He wished there had been another way out. Maybe he should have bucked it up to Paul.

    "Or maybe he should have behaved himself," Maria said.

    "What?"

    "I know you," Maria said. "You are standing there wishing this all could have been different. Detective Howell made his choices. People died. He has to live with the consequences."

    "I know," McCaskey said. "You know, I love what I do, but I there are times I hate what I have to do."

    Maria gripped his hand more tightly and gave him a quick, reassuring smile.

    The couple went and got their car. They nosed into the thickening traffic of rush hour.

    There was little McCaskey could do for Robert Howell but, ironically, there was still one thing he could do for Mac McCallie. And McCaskey intended to do it.

    He would find and punish the people who put this tragedy in motion.

    

    San Diego, California Wednesday, 2:02 p.m.

    No sooner had Rodgers entered the hallway than Kat ran after him.

    "General, I have work to do," she said. "I can't stay here."

    "You have to," he said. "I don't know who is at risk and, more important, by helping someone, you may be an accessory to a criminal conspiracy."

    "I cannot believe the senator is behind this."

    "You cannot prove he is not," Rodgers said. "Please. I don't have time to debate this. I need to do some checking."

    "I'll wait an hour," she said. "No more."

    Rodgers did not answer. For all he knew, Kat Lockley would leave the room as soon as he was out of sight. Rodgers did not know whether she was truly blameless or just feigning innocence. Before heading downstairs, he stopped and pounded on Eric Stone's door. There was no answer. He did not know where the convention manager was or what he might be planning. There was a lot Rodgers did not know. Too damn much, in fact.

    Rodgers took the stairs to the lobby. That was not a consideration for personal security. If McCaskey called, Rodgers did not want to be standing hip-to-hip with nosy USF delegates.

    The general reached the courtyard, which was encircled by tall, slender palm trees and brilliantly lit by a peach-colored sun. People were moving in all directions, and cars were stacked two deep in the sweeping entranceway. This was not the way to find Eric Stone. He went back inside to the registration desk and asked if anyone there had seen him. They said they had not. Rodgers did not believe they would have been told to lie. Stone had not come this way. He thought of checking the hotel security camera but decided that knowing where Stone had been was not going to help him right now. Rodgers had to find out where Stone was going.

    Rodgers went back outside. He looked over at the convention center. It was probably a circus by now, with conventioneers arriving for free lunch followed by the opening speeches. Mobile media vans were outside, recording the event. It might be possible to use their multiple camera feeds to try to spot Stone. Since it was all Rodgers had, he decided to give it a try.

    "General?"

    Someone was standing behind him. He turned. It was Stone. He was holding a walkie-talkie and wearing a smile. Faint but sharp-edged voices crackled from the handheld device, the cross-talk of convention workers.

    There was a move in the chaos gambit, Rodgers thought. An unexpected move that took control of the board. What Rodgers did not know was whether it was the luck of a novice or the seasoned improvisational skills of a professional.

    "I understand you were looking for me?" Stone said, smiling.

    "I was," Rodgers said.

    "What can I do for you?"

    Rodgers looked around. "First of all, how did you know where I was?" the general asked. He was trying to spot the nearest surveillance camera or a tail.