Mortal Faults (30 page)

“I had nothing to do with it,” Tess said again.

“Well, regardless of how it happened, the spin on the story is that Tess McCallum, already famous for her earlier exploits in Los Angeles, foiled the abduction and took Andrea and the congressman into custody—all on her own.”

“Nice work, Tess,” Abby said warmly.

Tess regarded her with a sour look. “Shut up.”

“Witnesses saw a second woman with Reynolds in the hotel lobby. The second woman, we are told, was Agent McCallum, undercover. It was apparently Agent McCallum who pursued the congressman and shot it out with him and Mr. Shanker in the garage. It was Agent McCallum who made the arrest. Another triumph for you, Tess—though of course,” Michaelson added, “you weren’t responsible for leaking any of these details.”

“The leak originated in D.C. You said so yourself.”

“You have friends in D.C.”

“Not friends who could put that story in the pipeline.”

“Perhaps you have a guardian angel. How nice for you. The bottom line—”

“The bottom line,” Abby said, “is that you guys have got a story that makes the Bureau look all nice and shiny like a brand new car, and you don’t want to spoil it by revealing that some unlicensed civilian did the real heavy lifting.”

Michaelson’s distaste for her was becoming almost palpable. It exuded from his body like ectoplasm. “We are concerned with the Bureau’s reputation, yes. And there are certain benefits to the positive publicity accruing to Agent McCallum—”

Tess got it. “You can’t touch me, either. That’s right, isn’t it? You can’t even discipline me without risking a media inquiry.”

“No final determination has been made—”

“Don’t use Bureauspeak on me. You can’t suspend me, let alone fire me, let alone charge me with anything criminal. Not without opening the whole can of worms. And you know it.”

Michaelson’s eyes shut briefly, as if in anticipation of a headache. “You won’t be punished. But you won’t be going places, either. Any other agent who’d reaped a public relations bonanza like this would be headed straight to upper management.” He leaned in close to the sofa. “Not you, McCallum. You’re going to stay in that cow town of yours for the rest of your career.”

Tess stared back at him, a faint smile on her lips. “Believe it or not, Richard, that’s just the way I want it.”

He believed her. Abby could see it in the way he straightened too abruptly and turned awkwardly away. “Attach an administrative section to your report on MEDEA. For the director’s eyes only. Leave nothing out. I want the full extent of your misconduct on the record—even if it never sees the light of day.”

“Anything to oblige a friend.” Tess got up.

Abby followed her lead. “I guess I’m free to go, huh, Dick?”

He winced at her use of the nickname. “You can go. But remember, Ms. Sinclair, you’re not so low-profile anymore. We’re aware of you and your activities. And we will be watching you.”

“Remind me to shut my blinds.”

She and Tess didn’t speak again until they were out in the hall.

“Well,” Abby said, “that worked out better than expected.”

Tess looked at her, a confusion of emotions on her face. “Abby ...”

Abby waved off whatever the next words might have been. “Sorry. I'm not in the mood for a heart-to-heart. I'm going to reclaim my belongings and get out of here.”

“I did what I thought was right.”

“That's the problem,” Abby said quietly.

She walked off, leaving Tess behind.

52

Tess returned to the squad room, where she was, predictably, the object of stares and the subject of whispered asides. She ignored them. Crandall was watching her with peculiar intensity. She ignored him, too. Hauser’s secretary let her in to see the squad commander, who looked as if he hadn’t slept all night. Then again, neither had she.

“I just wanted to say I’m clearing out,” she told him. “And to say you did a good job on this case. I’m sorry if I made it more difficult.”

Hauser looked up at her from his desk. “I know you’re not being disciplined, Agent McCallum. I want to say ... I still think you did the Bureau wrong. And I’ll never respect you again.”

He returned his gaze to the paperwork in front of him. After a moment she let herself out.

In the hall outside the squad room, Crandall caught up with her. “Hey, Tess. Heading home?”

She was surprised by the friendly tone. “Battered but unbowed.”

“Said your goodbyes to Hauser?”

“More like a good riddance, from his point of view. It appears I’m more of a persona non grata than ever.” She smiled. “How about you, Rick? Will you ever respect me again?”

“I’m not as much as a hardass as Hauser. Tess, if I’d known you were going to come clean to Michaelson, I never would’ve—”

“How could you have known? Even I didn’t know what I was going to do until I did it.”

“I still feel bad about it.”

“You shouldn’t.”

“I do. But I’ve taken steps to redeem myself.”

“What steps?” She studied him, an idea forming. “Rick, are you the media’s anonymous source?”

“Me? What kind of media contacts do I have in L.A.?”

“The leak didn’t originate in L.A. It came out of D.C.—where Ralston Crandall is currently posted as deputy director.”

“Let’s not bring my father into this.”

“The question is,
did
you bring him into it?”

“I’m not going to lie to you, Tess.” He left that statement hanging enigmatically in the air, then clapped her on the shoulder and added, “Have a safe trip. And stay in touch, okay?”

Crandall went back inside the squad room, and Tess was left thinking that, despite it all, she still had one ally in this town.

53

By nine in the morning Andrea had run out of ways to distract herself. Watching television was out of the question. She’d made the mistake of turning on the TV and had caught part of a report on the arrest of Congressman Reynolds, which included a garbled recap of what the newscaster called “the MEDEA child murders of twenty years ago.” Radio was even worse. The call-in talk shows were a fever swamp of speculation by the uninformed and the self-styled experts, none of whom understood a thing.

She couldn’t sleep with the constant noise and couldn’t concentrate enough to read or to work a crossword puzzle. All she could do was pace the floor and occasionally sneak a glance through the curtains. The crowd of journalists and curiosity seekers surrounding her house never grew smaller. If anything, it had increased in numbers as the story spread.

After the attack on her home, there had been three or four TV news vans and a few other reporters. Now the vans lined the streets, representing not only the local TV channels but national cable outlets. Every news radio station had sent somebody, as had every newspaper within five hundred miles, it seemed. Not to mention half the population of the Valley, who apparently had nothing better to do on Sunday morning than stand outside her house. Enterprising vendors had already set up carts selling hot dogs and tamales, and somebody had printed T-shirts with her picture on them from twenty years ago.

What did they all want from her—the journalists and the spectators tramping on her lawn and snapping photos of her porch? Well, the answer was obvious enough. They wanted a comment, a statement, or failing that, a sighting, a few seconds of footage to run on their next newscast or a blurred image to print on the newspaper’s front page.

She knew better than to give it to them. They would not be satisfied with only one statement or one appearance. They would want more, always more.

Of course, it might be in her interest to cooperate. She could tell her side of the story, get the truth out to the public after two decades of lies. But she couldn’t be so pragmatic about it. The simple fact was, she hated the press. They had hounded her for years. They had forced her to change her name and live in hiding. She would give them nothing now. They could go to hell.

Her phone rang again. She was so tired of that sound. And yet—she blinked in surprise—her phone couldn’t be ringing, could it? Hours ago she had unhooked it from the wall.

It was her cell phone, then—the one Abby had given her. And only Abby knew the number.

She found the phone amid the items she’d brought home from the downtown hospital where she had been examined for injuries suffered in the car crash. There had been nothing serious, only a few scrapes and bruises. She had endured a long interrogation by a nice young man named Crandall and, much to her astonishment, had been released with no charges filed.

On the eighth or ninth ring she answered. “Hello,” she said tentatively, ready to end the call if a reporter had somehow gotten hold of the number.

“Hey, kiddo. How’s tricks?”

“Abby. Where are you?”

“Eating a late and much needed breakfast at a yogurt shop in Westwood. It’s within walking distance of the federal building, which is good since my Mazda is still in an alley downtown. Unless it’s been towed by now.”

“I was afraid you were in trouble. They said something about pressing charges against you.”

“They were bluffing. You know these Eliot Ness types. All talk, no action. I hear they let you go, too.”

“Yes. Though I’m still not sure why. I abducted Jack Reynolds. I
shot
him.”

“You weren’t yourself.”

“I know. I was acting crazy. I don’t even know what I intended to do. I mean, I thought I was going to kill him, really
kill
him, but if that’s all I wanted, why did I bother to make him go anywhere? I could have killed him at any time. It doesn’t make sense.”

“Want my take on it?”

“Even if I said no, it wouldn’t stop you.”

“True enough. I think you were conflicted. Part of you wanted revenge on Jack. Another part wasn’t willing to pull the trigger. So you compromised. You put off taking any final action.”

“I would have had to choose eventually.”

“You weren’t thinking that far ahead. And if you have chosen, you would have made the right choice.”

“You believe that?”

“I really do.”

“Well I hope you’re right. You probably are. You’ve been right about most things. But I wouldn’t have thought that kind of explanation would get me very far with the authorities. There was no way I expected to be released. I’m still thinking they’ll show up at any minute and take me back into custody.”

“They won’t. What you’re not taking into consideration is a little thing called extenuating circumstances. To prosecute, they have to be reasonably assured of a conviction. Now, what jury is going to convict you after hearing the tape I made?”

“I suppose that’s true. I have to admit, though, that I was prepared for the worst.”

“Well, that makes two of us. But you know what they say. Always prepare for the worst, and most of the time you’ll be pleasantly surprised.”

“They advised me not to say anything about you if I talk to the press.”

“That’s a good idea. But you’re not going to talk to the press, anyway, are you?”

“Of course not.”

“Didn’t think so. You weren’t too eager to be interviewed the night I pulled that stunt to get into your house.”

“I held a gun on you. I’m sorry.”

“All in a day’s work. So who are you going to be from now on?”

“What?”

“Andrea ... or Bethany?”

“I don’t know. I suppose it doesn’t matter.”

“No, it doesn’t. What matters is how you feel.”

“How I feel?” Andrea closed her eyes. “Well, I’m encircled by those jackals from the press. There are television vans parked up and down the street. People won’t stop ringing my doorbell. I think they’d climb in a window if I left one open. I had to disconnect my phone. Every time I turn on the TV or radio I see pictures of myself from twenty years ago. I can’t even think of looking at a newspaper. I’ve become a celebrity again. Only this time I’m not Medea anymore. This time no one is saying I killed my babies. They know I didn’t. And I know I didn’t. I know I never killed anyone.”

“So how
do
you feel?”

“Free, Abby,” Andrea whispered. “I feel free.”

54

After finishing her breakfast, Abby hiked from Westwood Village to the Wilshire Royal, where she found Vince and Gerry on duty at the front desk. They were both properly outraged by the search of her condo last night. She told them not to worry about it. “Just a minor misunderstanding,” she said lightly. They pretended to believe her, the same way they pretended to believe she was a sales rep. Denial could be a beautiful thing.

She checked the garage and found her Hyundai still in its reserved space. Later she could bum a ride off Wyatt and pick up her Mazda. At least for now she had her backup car.

The elevator took her to the tenth floor. She opened up her condo after stripping off the crime scene ribbon festooned on the door.

The place was a mess, of course. The feds had not been gentle when searching the premises. Every drawer had been opened, the contents strewn on the floor. For some unaccountable reason her sizable collection of CDs had been scattered. The clothes formerly hanging in her bedroom closet had been cast around like rags. Her computer was gone, taken to a crime lab for analysis, though she’d been given assurances that it would be speedily returned.

The search had never posed any threat to her. She wasn’t careless enough to leave incriminating information in her home. Sensitive material—ID kits, client lists, illegal weapons and eavesdropping devices—was kept in Santa Monica in a storage locker she’d registered under an assumed name. Electronic data of a private nature were stored on a secure Internet site. No one could find the site by examining her PC; a sophisticated program permanently erased all record of her online activity with every shutdown.

She’d worked too many cases where a stalker had stashed incriminating photos under his bed or left damaging emails on his computer’s hard drive. She wasn’t going to make the same mistake.

Still, the impossibility of finding anything to use against her hadn’t stopped the
federales
from trying.

With a sigh, she set to work cleaning up the mess. She had succeeded in reorganizing her music collection when the intercom buzzed.

“Yes?” she said.

Gerry answered. “An agent from the FBI is here to speak with you.” He made no effort to conceal his disapproval of the visitor.

Abby frowned. Just what she needed. Another feeb to make her life hell.

“Send him up,” she said in resignation.

She placed the last few CDs back on the shelf before the doorbell rang. When she opened the door, Tess was there.

“Oh,” Abby said. “It’s you.”

“It’s me.”

“You’re looking well.”

“Cut the crap, Abby. May I come in or not?”

“Make yourself at home.” She gestured at the disaster that was her living room. “Your fellow jackbooted thugs already have.”

Tess entered and stood awkwardly amid the disorder. “I’m sorry about that.”

“Yeah, I’m sure you’re real broken up. It wasn’t too long ago that you thought I was good for Dylan Garrick’s murder.” Abby knelt and began gathering up her smaller but still considerable collection of DVDs.

Tess spread her hands helplessly. “What else was I supposed to think? Everything pointed to you.”

“Tess, if you would watch more TV, you’d know it’s never the most obvious suspect.”

“Well, forgive me for taking the evidence at face value.”

“You could have tried taking
me
at face value.”

“You were lying.”

Abby started putting the DVDs in alphabetical order. “Not about anything important. I told you I didn’t kill Garrick. That part was true.”

“You should have told me the rest.”

“Couldn’t risk it. You might not have believed me.”

“Maybe I would have. I never wanted to think you were capable of murder.”

“And yet you thought it, anyway. You’re always underestimating me. But I can’t entirely blame you. Sometimes I underestimate myself.”

“Now,
that
I don’t believe.”

“You should.” Abby arranged the first third of her DVD library, from
A
to
H
, on the shelf. “Remember how, in the Boiler Room, you asked whether my conscience was enough to keep me in line?”

“I remember.”

“Well, it was a fair question. In fact, I started wondering the same thing after Friday night. Wondering if maybe I’d become too much of a desperado. Whether I need somebody to ride herd on me. Whether I’m getting out of control.” She put titles
I
through
P
on the shelf. “I came pretty close to shooting Dylan Garrick. Closer than I admitted to you.”

Tess took a step forward. “How close?”

“I wasn’t sure. What I knew was that something he said changed my mind. It was just a little thing. He said we were both pros. He said the hit on Andrea was just a job for him—a job like mine.”

Tess nodded, understanding. “He said you were the same.”

“Right.” The videos from
Q
through
Z
were added to the shelf. She really did have a
Z
. Two of them, in fact—
Zoolander
and
Zulu
. “He said we were the same. And suddenly I ... well, I didn’t want it to be true.”

“If he hadn’t said those words ...”

“Would I have gone through with it?” She turned to face Tess. “That’s the question I kept asking myself the next day. And I didn’t know the answer. And it scared me. It made me doubt if I could really go on—or if I even
ought
to go on. You know the old Nietzsche thing, about how when you fight monsters you risk becoming a monster yourself? That’s what worried me. I thought maybe I’d crossed the line. But I didn’t. And I won’t.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Because last night I had the opportunity to shoot Jack Reynolds in the head. I wanted to. I mean, I
really
wanted to. But I didn’t do it. I’m still in control. I’m still me.”

“Then you’re okay with yourself?”

“Yeah. But I’m not okay with
you
.” Abby knelt and started stacking books in neat piles. “I’m not blaming you. Your response was predictable. But that’s the problem. I
know
you. I know you’ll put what you see as your duty above any personal loyalty.”

Tess took a moment before asking, “Is that wrong?”

“I don’t know. It’s not my way. And it complicated my life a lot, and nearly got me killed.”

She went on stacking books, not trying to organize them, just needing something to do.

“So what are you saying?” Tess asked. “You can’t trust me?”

“Yes. And no. I
can
trust you to always do the right thing—as you see it. I
can’t
trust you to see eye to eye with me on what the right thing is.” She looked up from the fourth pile of books. “Which means we’re not going to be working together anymore.”

“I hadn’t expected us to.”

“And it means—we’re not friends, Tess.”

“What are we, then? Enemies?”

“Not yet. But if you ever come back to my town and get mixed up in my business again—we will be.”

“I hope that day never comes.”

“Me, too.” Abby let the words settle into the silence of the room. Then more brightly she added, “So are you flying back to your nest in the Rockies?”

Tess hesitated, then knelt beside her and started stacking books herself. “On my way to the airport. Michaelson even arranged a driver.”

Abby wrinkled her nose at the mention of Michaelson. “He’s a piece of work, huh?”

Tess grunted. “There’s definitely something to be said for working alone.”

“You’ve gotta watch that guy. He’s still gunning for you. Probably now more than ever. He’ll sink your career if he gets half a chance.”

“I know.” Tess paused to examine one of the books, which was, Abby noticed, a sex manual, and a darn good one. Tess added it to the pile without comment. “And he’s still rising in the ranks. Could be the director someday.”

“Remind me to move to Mexico if that happens.”

Tess smiled. “I might be moving there with you.”

Abby found herself smiling, too. “I have to say, I’ve enjoyed our two little outings.”

“I can’t say I have. Sorry to put it that way, but—”

Abby waved off the apology. “I’d be disappointed if you said anything else. It would be disturbingly out of character.”

Tess sighed. “Well, as much fun as this is, I’d better get to the airport.”

They rose together. Tess walked to the door and stepped into the hall, then turned, her face serious again.

“I don’t plan on coming back to L.A. But I don’t always have a choice about where I go—or the cases I work. You know that.”

“I know.”

“It’s not impossible we’ll cross paths again. And Abby, if that day ever comes—I’ll be ready.”

Abby met her gaze. “So will I,” she said, and slowly she closed the door.