Final Sins (19 page)

The cover-up implied consciousness of guilt. Moreover, if this scenario was correct, then Abby knew the man she killed was a law officer. She had known it, in fact, as soon as he arrested her, if not before—which meant she knew it when she killed him. To save herself from jail, she had murdered a federal agent in cold blood.

Or maybe not. Maybe there was some other explanation. But whatever the truth, there could be no doubt that Abby was mixed up in something illicit and ugly. Last time there had been only suspicious circumstances. In this case there was physical evidence. And physical evidence did not lie.

“Oh, Abby,” Tess whispered. “Damn it, Abby, you’re in deep this time.”

She no longer had any doubt about her next move. She had to go to the field office and tell what she knew. And she had to do it fast—because when Abby returned home, she would find out that her apartment had been searched, and she might take off.

Tess went back into the living room and told Vince she was finished. “You taking those things?” he asked, looking at the plastic bags in her hand.

“I am.”

“Miss Sinclair is in trouble, isn’t she?”

“Vince ... I’m afraid she is.”

The federal building, also in Westwood, was only a few blocks away. Tess reached it in less than ten minutes, delayed only by the ever-present L.A. traffic. She left her rented Camry in the outdoor parking lot, because the underground garage was reserved for the agents stationed here and for official visitors. She became at least semiofficial after obtaining a security pass in the lobby.

With the ID tag pinned to her lapel, and her collection of evidence in her briefcase, she rode the elevator. She noticed that she was still wearing her bolo tie—fine in Denver, out of place in L.A. But she had bigger things to worry about than her fashion sense.

At suite 1700 she was buzzed in by the agent on duty. He was nonplussed when she said she had to see the
ADIC
right now. Nearly all other field offices were run by a special agent in charge, but the L.A. office, in recognition of its size and prominence, was run by an assistant director. At the moment, the
ADIC
was Richard
Michaelson
, a man adept at Bureau politics, if not at anything else.

“I’m not sure that’s possible,” the duty agent said.

“I have information pertaining to the death of an L.A. field operative last night.”

“If you could brief me—”

“I’ll brief the Nose.”

The Nose was
Michaelson’s
nickname, a tribute to his most prominent facial feature.

The agent on duty disliked hearing the nickname. He glanced around self-consciously, as if afraid the reception area was bugged. Hell,
Michaelson
was paranoid enough; maybe it was.

Eventually he relented and used his key card to admit her to the rest of the suite. She remembered the way to the director’s office. When she entered the anteroom,
Michaelson’s
secretary recognized her and frowned. The frown was nothing personal, merely an acknowledgment of her boss’s antipathy to Tess.

“I need to see him,” Tess said, nodding at the closed door to
Michaelson’s
office,

“I’m afraid you don’t have an appointment—”

“Skip the power play.” Making her wait was one of those games that personal assistants indulged in when they could. “I’m in from Denver, I have a lead in an ongoing high-priority investigation, and I’m going to see him now.”

The secretary didn’t like it, but she announced the visitor on the intercom, then told Tess to go right in.

Michaelson
looked up from behind his desk, doing his best to show no surprise. “Tess. What an unexpected pleasure.”

“Pleasure is all mine, Richard.”

For two people who detested each other, they sure knew how to make nice.

“What brings you to L.A.?” he asked, straining for an idle conversational tone.

“Peter Faust.” She sat in an armchair. “I understand you lost an agent last night.”

Michaelson’s
false smile faltered. “There’s no way you could possibly know about that.”

“And yet I do.”

“How?”

“Even in Denver, I’m not entirely out of the loop. I hear things.”

“All right. What does that have to do with you?”

“It has nothing to do with me.” She drew a breath, hating what she had to say next. “It may, however, have something to do with Abby Sinclair.”

Michaelson
sat very still for a moment. Then he rose, his hands locked together in front of him. Tess noticed that his fingertips were squeezed red with pressure.

“Sinclair is mixed up in this?” he said softly.

“She may be. Let me tell you what I’ve found out.”

“Hold on. The case agent needs to be here for this.” He buzzed his assistant. “Have Agent Hauser get in here now.”

“Hauser is in charge?” Tess asked.

Michaelson
caught the sour undertone of her question. “You don’t like him?”

“
He
doesn’t like
me
. Last time I was here, he told me I’d betrayed the Bureau by secretly working with Abby.”

Michaelson
leveled his gaze on her. “He was right.”

“You don’t believe in forgive-and-forget, do you, Richard?”

“That’s never been my style. You showed your true colors when you hooked up with Sinclair. The media may think you’re a hero, and you may have your partisans in D.C. But I know you, McCallum. I know you for what you are.”

Tess sighed. “It’s so good to be back in L.A.”

The door opened, and Ron Hauser stepped in, his crew cut a little grayer than Tess remembered, his face more sallow and lined. He must be pushing the Bureau’s mandatory retirement age of fifty-seven, but he was one of those guys who would hold on to the end.

Tess had liked him when they met nine months ago. She still did. But the feeling was no longer mutual, as demonstrated by the frown that crossed his face as soon as he saw her in the room.

“McCallum. What the hell are
you
doing here?”

Tess managed a smile. “Hello to you, too, Ron.”

Hauser ignored her, looking at
Michaelson
. ’What’s going on?”

“Tess thinks she has some information on the Faust case. It involves her friend Abby.”

Hauser sat down slowly in the armchair beside hers. “I’m listening.”

“We both are,”
Michaelson
said.

Tess told them about Abby’s phone call, her visit to the condo building, the blood in the car. She opened her briefcase and passed around the bagged items of evidence, explaining each one. When she was finished, there was a moment of pained silence.

“Shit,” Hauser said finally. It seemed as good an assessment as any.

Michaelson
rubbed his forehead as if a headache were coming on. “So Sinclair killed Brody ...”

Brody—the undercover agent. Tess hadn’t known his name.

“We don’t know anything for sure,” she said. “There may be some reasonable explanation.”

“Reasonable, my ass.” Hauser was fuming. “We need to pick up Sinclair and grill her hard. We need to find out what she did and what she knows.”

“We do,” Tess agreed. “And I’d like to be part of it.”
Like
was, of course, the wrong word. She
needed
to be part of it.

She expected opposition from the two men, neither of whom was exactly a charter member of her fan club. But the Nose surprised her.

“You know her better than anyone. You should be involved. You can work with Agent Hauser.”

This was unusually magnanimous of him. Naturally Tess suspected a double-cross. The Nose was always playing the angles.

“I’ll need more information,” she said. “I don’t know what kind of operation Brody was conducting. Actually, I don’t know anything at all, other than what I’ve told you.”

“Hauser can brief you. Tell her everything, Ron.”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea? She hasn’t exactly proven herself trustworthy.” Charming, the way he was speaking of her as if she weren’t even there.

Michaelson
waved off this concern. “She brought us this lead, didn’t she? So play nice. I don’t want personal animosities interfering in this investigation. We’re talking about an agent who lost his life. And,” he added as if personally affronted, “it happened on
my
watch.”

Now Tess got it. Brody’s death made
Michaelson
look bad. He needed to wrap up the investigation as soon as possible to salvage his reputation. And he was willing to work with anyone, even her, in order to do it.

“Understood,” Hauser said curtly. He said nothing more until he and Tess were out in the hallway. “What do you say we pay Sinclair a visit?”

“She wasn’t home an hour ago. I doubt she’ll be there now. I’d advise sending evidence technicians with a warrant for the Hyundai and the apartment. While they’re getting started, I’d like to see the crime scene.”

“That’s a half-hour drive.”

“You can fill me in on the way. Oh, and we’ll need a photo of Abby from the files.”

“I’m surprised you don’t keep one in a locket around your neck. I mean, seeing how close the two of you are.”

“That’s it, Ron. Just keep baiting me. Very professional.”

He gave her a cold stare. “You’re the last person who’s going to talk to me about professionalism.”

“I’m sensing a certain hostility.”

“Damn right you are. I gave you wide leeway in the Medea case, and the thanks I got was having you go behind my back to work with Sinclair. As you may have noticed, the
ADIC
isn’t your biggest fan. I took a risk trusting you, and I ended up getting screwed.”

“That was never my intention.”

“I don’t give a
damn
about your intention. You betrayed me, and you betrayed the Bureau.
Michaelson
was none too pleased with me, I can tell you. You, he couldn’t touch. You’re golden. Since he couldn’t take it out on you, he went after me.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Well, then, that makes everything okay. You know I was hoping for a transfer to D.C., a move up? Not going to happen now. I’m stuck at this post, and at my age I’ll be ending my career here, as a middle manager with a permanent black mark on my record. And a permanent enemy in Richard
Michaelson
.”

“
Michaelson
must trust you somewhat. He made you the case agent on the Faust investigation.”

“Only because I begged him for it. And I don’t like to beg, McCallum. It pisses me off. I’ve given everything I have to the Bureau. Never had time for a wife and kids. It was all work, twenty hours a day. Now I’m going out as an object lesson in how
not
to supervise a field agent. Maybe they’ll teach a class about me at the Academy. They can call it ‘Don’t Let This Happen to You.’”

“There’s nothing I can say, Ron.”

“Why should you
say
anything? It worked out for you. You’re a goddamn hero.”

“A hero who’s posted in Denver for the foreseeable future, because I’m considered too unreliable for further advancement.”

“Denver is exactly where you want to be. You and I both know it. If you ever got transferred, what would happen to your love life?”

She froze. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you’re not as good at keeping secrets as you think.”

He walked off. She followed, shaken.

She wondered how much he knew. He might have heard only rumors. She hoped so, but ... but she hadn’t thought there
were
rumors. Hadn’t thought anyone suspected. Hadn’t heard anything.

But then, how would she know? She and Josh would be the last ones to hear any gossip at their expense.

And Hauser, a man who blamed her for his career meltdown, was in on the secret. Was holding it over her head.

Oh, yeah, this trip was working out just great.

Cafe Eden hadn’t changed. It seemed to Abby that the exact same clientele were occupying the exact same tables as last time.

For this meeting Faust had arrived first. He, too, was ensconced at the table they’d used before. A cup of coffee rested near his hands, which lay flat on the table, manicured nails gleaming.

She slid into the chair opposite him without a word.

“I hope,” Faust said, “we may dispense with introductory chitchat. My curiosity, Miss Sinclair, has been piqued.”

“I’m so glad I could make your life more interesting.”

“Tell me, please, why you should ask if there are police or reporters in my neighborhood.”

“Because the man who was stalking you lived only a block away.”

“So close? How bold of him. And yet I never noticed him in the area.”

A waitress—the girl with metal doohickeys in her face—drifted by to ask Abby if she wanted anything. Abby shook her head. When the girl had left, Abby said, “He was a recent arrival. Renting a guesthouse.”

“You use the past tense. He is gone now?”

“He’s dead now.”

“Is he?” He lifted his coffee cup and took a complacent sip. “Well, then, it appears our problem has been solved.”

“That’s it? That’s all you have to say?”

“And what am I expected to do? Express my condolences? Bewail our common mortality? Launch into Hamlet’s soliloquy about the undiscovered country from which no traveler ever returns?” He set down the cup, smiling. “Incidentally, Shakespeare got it wrong. Someone did return. Hamlet’s own father had come back in the form of a ghost. Odd that Hamlet should forget a thing like that.”

“You don’t seem too interested in how he died.”

“Hamlet’s father? As I recall, he was poisoned by Claudius. Some nonsense about poison poured into his ear.”

“Your stalker. You haven’t asked about the circumstances of his death.”

Faust stared into his coffee cup as if seeing visions there. “He is greatly overrated, Shakespeare. But then, all genius is overrated. Genius is merely a deviation from the statistical norm. As is perversion, for that matter. Or great goodness. Or great evil.”

Abby leaned forward. “You seem to want to talk about anything except what happened to the man who was stalking you.”

“I assumed that you would prefer to keep such incriminating details to yourself.” He looked up, his gaze frank. “You
did
kill him, did you not?”

She’d known this question would come, and how she would answer it. “I’m not a killer.”

“
Quoth
the jungle cat.”

“I didn’t kill him. I found him dead in the guest cottage last night.”

Faust seemed to see through her pose. “It must have been difficult for him to let you in, given his condition.”

“I let myself in. I thought the cottage was empty. It was dark inside, no sign of activity. I found him there. He’d been shot.”

“Tragic.”

“The fact that there are no police or media in your neighborhood probably means the body hasn’t been discovered yet.”

“I imagine his landlord will find it soon enough. When does the rent come due?”

“This is a joke to you, isn’t it?”

Faust sighed. “Life is a joke to me. Life—and death also, of course. There can scarcely be one without the other.”

Abby watched him. It seemed to be as good a time as any for her to try her bluff. “It’s crossed my mind that you killed him.”

He barely reacted. “Has it?”

“Unlike me, you
are
a killer. And you had motive. You wanted to protect Elise.”

“Motive perhaps, but not opportunity. I did not know the man’s whereabouts. As I recall, you stubbornly and rather unsociably declined to share that information.”

“You could have found him by following me the first night. You knew I was going to meet him at the art gallery. You could have followed us back to his place.”

He pressed his lips together, making a
tsk-tsk
sound. “You went back to his cottage with him on that very night? Miss Sinclair, I am beginning to think that you are not the sort of girl one brings home to Mother.”

“Yeah, I know. I put the
pro
in promiscuity. Stick to the subject. You
could
have followed me. You could have found out his address, then sneaked in during the day—”

“And shot him? Had you troubled yourself to do even the most rudimentary research, you would know that guns are not my style.”

“Not when you’re killing a woman who’s half your age and half your size. Against a guy like Brody, it could be a different story.”

His eyebrows lifted. “Brody? Was that the gentleman’s name? How very American. Like a GI in one of your World War Two movies. Stalwart Sergeant Brody leading his platoon ashore on Omaha Beach.”

“So far you haven’t exactly denied killing him.”

“I deny it. There. Are you satisfied?”

“Hardly.”

“What more can I do?” He spread his hands in a charming gesture of helplessness.

“You can tell me what’s really going on.”

“I fail to comprehend your meaning.”

“Brody was no ordinary stalker. And I don’t think he was hassling Elise. He was after
you
. I want you to tell me why.”

Faust sounded bored. “I am sure I do not know.”

Abby got up. “Okay, nice gabbing with you. If you’ll excuse me, I need to see a man with a badge.”

He leaned back in his seat, luxuriating in his private amusement. “You, go to the police? A most incredible supposition. You operate strictly outside the law.”

“I have contacts in law enforcement. I can pass on some info without getting myself directly involved.”

“What sort of ‘info’?” He placed a slight, sardonic emphasis on the term.

“The fact that you had a problem with Brody, to begin with. And now he’s dead, just a few doors down from your house. And you’re a murderer. You know, that kind of thing.”

“Such an accusation would be as unwise as it is baseless.” He didn’t sound quite so bored anymore.

“It’s no accusation. Just a statement of fact, or actually several facts. I’ll let my friends in blue connect the dots. You know they will. They’ve been wanting to get you for a long time.”

He shifted in his chair. “They can prove nothing.”

“Only that Brody was harassing you, and he got killed. Are you alibied for yesterday,
Petey
?”

“I was at a book signing, as you well know.”

“All day? Every hour, every minute? I got to the cottage after your book signing started. Brody was already dead by then. He’d been dead for some time.”

“This is absurd.”

“Don’t worry. You’ve got the dough for a legal dream team. Too bad Johnnie Cochran’s not around these days. Maybe you can hire Robert Blake’s lawyer. That guy’s a miracle worker. And a miracle may be just what you’ll need.”

She took a step away, sure he would stop her.

He did. “Sit down.”

“Sorry. Got a date with a cop.”

“Sit.”

She relented. Now she was the one wearing a smile. “Feeling more cooperative?”

Faust regarded her coldly. There was no merriment in his eyes any longer, merely infinite disdain.

“I had thought I would like you, Miss Sinclair, at least insofar as it is possible for me to like anyone. But I was mistaken. I detest you.”

“I’m crushed.”

“You are ... common.”

“And you’re sweating just a little. Which is uncommon—for you. Tell me about Brody.”

“There is nothing to tell. I know no more about him than what I told you on our first meeting.”

“That’s your story, and you’re sticking to it?”

“It is the truth.”

She was pretty good at reading people. She didn’t think he was lying. “So you never meant to kill him?”

He hesitated. “Had you given me his address ...” His shoulders lifted. “I will not mislead you. The man was frightening Elise. And I do feel rather protective of her. Killing him would have disturbed me not in the least. But I never had the chance. Someone else, it appears, did my work for me.”

He spoke the last words while looking right at her, leaving no doubt whom he took to be the culprit.

Abby tried a new tack. “Who recommended my services?”

Faust shook his head, confused by the switch of topics. “How can that datum possibly be relevant?”

“Let me worry about the
datums
—I mean data. Just give me the name.”

“I prefer not to.”

“Why not?”

“It is a matter of honor.”

“You don’t have any honor. You’ll have to come up with a better excuse.”

“I was pledged to secrecy. I will not betray a confidence.”

“I can still go to the cops,
Petey
.”

“Do you imagine you are intimidating me? You are merely a distraction.”

“Yeah, you’re looking fairly distracted, all right.”

“You bait me, goad me. You seek to exploit my perceived weaknesses. You remind me— It is no matter.”

“Who do I remind you of?”

He waved a long-fingered , hand, as if swatting a fly in slow motion. “An FBI agent who interviewed me a few years ago. She also tried to—how do you say it?—get under my skin. She failed, just as you have failed.”

“Tess McCallum.”

“Why, yes.” He looked pleased. “It appears you have done your homework on me, after all.”

“Funny you should bring up her name right now.”

“Is it? Why?”

“Because
she’s
the law-enforcement contact you mentioned.
She’s
the one who told you about me.”

Faust laughed, a hearty, robust sound that instantly deflated her suspicions. “Agent McCallum? That is scarcely plausible. We did not exactly, shall I say, hit it off. There was no kismet, I am afraid. And how ever would she know of you, anyway?”

Abby ignored the question. So it hadn’t been Tess. “If not her—who?”

“I will not say.” He folded his arms across his chest, a classic signal of defiance. “This is what happens, Miss Sinclair, when the irresistible force meets the immovable object.”

“All right then.” She stood up again.

Faust managed a theatrical yawn. “Off to see your friends in the police department?”

“Not exactly. You going home after this?”

“I expect to, yes.”

“Good. Stay there.”

“Why should I do this?”

“You’ll see.”

She left the cafe, climbed into her Miata, and drove to another coffee shop in the neighborhood, one that wasn’t so weird. She didn’t want coffee. The place was a Wi-Fi hot spot. She booted up her laptop and jumped online, tracing the name Elise
Vangarten
. It took only a couple of minutes to track down the modeling agency that employed her.

Faust had said Elise was at work. The question was: Where?

Abby called the agency and represented herself as Elise’s roommate, who needed to get in touch with her because someone in Elise’s family had taken ill. “She must have turned off her cell, or the battery’s dead. I can’t get through. Can you tell me where she’s working today?”

The receptionist probably wouldn’t have given the information to a man, no matter what his cover story. But a woman seemed safe. There were advantages to being a member of the fairer sex.

Elise was doing a photo shoot at an address in the Valley. Abby knew the neighborhood—a less-than-upscale corner of Sylmar. It seemed like a funny place for a photography studio. She said as much.

“Oh, it’s not a studio,” the receptionist explained. “They’re shooting in a graveyard.”

Of course they were.