Nothing to Hide (A Roland March Mystery Book #3) (24 page)

She sits up straight, tucks her legs under the desk. “You saw that, huh? It doesn’t matter. I’m not trying to keep you in the dark. In fact, I’m pretty proud of the way my people have come through on this. I doubt Houston’s finest could have done any better.”

“How so?”

“Dr. Bridger was not such a big help,” she says. “He couldn’t match any of the files up to the body on his slab, said there wasn’t enough to go on. But he did throw out an idea. The John Doe died of cardiac arrest, but apparently with the kind of torture he went through, that’s not a given. You can endure something like that without your heart giving out, I guess. This guy may have had a heart condition—”

“Is there anything in the files about that?”

“They’re not
that
thorough. But we did some checking and we found out that one of these guys, Robert Johnson, was admitted to the hospital two years ago, complaining about an irregular heartbeat.”

Johnson, Ford, Lodge. Such generic names. Designed so their owners could pass unnoticed through life.

“They put him on a monitor and diagnosed it as stress,” she says. “That’s good enough for me. According to his stats, he’s about the same he
ight as Brandon and they’re in the same age range. I think Johnson is who you found on the basketball court.”

“Then why did the database say it was Brandon Ford?”

“Here’s my theory: Brandon saw an opportunity and he took it. None of his paramilitaries were on my radar screen, but he was. If that body was identified as him, he could walk away and none of us would even know to look for him, because we’d think it was him we buried. But after his ‘death,’ he must have gone back to his office for some reason—maybe to pick up the money we gave him. He figured out you were there—maybe you tripped some kind of signal without realizing—and he knew he had to get everything out of there or you’d realize it couldn’t be him dead on the slab.”

“So you’re saying that Ford killed his own man and planted the body to make us think it was him?”

“I’m not saying that. I don’t know—”

“And Ford on his own wouldn’t have the juice to rig that
DNA
match.”

“Like I said, it’s theory.”

“Here’s something else to put in your hat. There’s an earlier victim, a man by the name of Chad Macneil. He was murdered last year down in Buenos Aires. The cops there didn’t release all the details, but we’re working on that. What we do have suggests that Macneil’s hands were skinned just like Robert Johnson’s—assuming you’re right about him. So the question then becomes, can you place Brandon Ford in Buenos Aires when that murder occurred?”

“Can you give me the dates?”

“I can do better than that.” From my briefcase I produce a photocopy of the autopsy report on Macneil. “We’re working on getting an official copy of this. Maybe you’d have more pull as a Federal agent?”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

She flips through the pages, her face clouding. Before I walked in, she was confident she had a handle on things, and now that handle’s yanked itself right off. There are questions I’d like to ask her. I’d like to know how much her team knows about what’s going on, if she’s leveled with them about her relationship with Ford or not. From what I saw earlier, there don’t seem to be many secrets in here. Maybe she’s found a way to cover her exposure, or at least to limit the fallout. If it’s true the old man of her team wants her job, she wouldn’t put everything on the table unless she was fairly certain neither the inappropriate relationship nor the missing quarter million could come back to bite her.

“Was there anything else?” she asks.

There is, but I’m not going to ask. I already know the kind of answers she’d give and how far I could trust them. When you’re in the dark and you suspect there’s a brick wall, there’s no point running into it just to prove you’re right.

On my way out, though, I make a point of pausing at the big whiteboard. With a glance in Bea’s direction I flip it back over, taking a long look at the man she’s identified as Robert Johnson. He has a long, thin face with dark eyes and a cleft chin. His jet-black hair is cut short. A thick, muscular neck with a prominent Adam’s apple. I can imagine him swallowing. I can imagine the axe falling across his throat.

“The face that launched a thousand ships,” Bea says.

“Maybe so. I just want to know why he was killed.” I touch the edge of the photo, some of the red marker coming off on my finger. “There’s something you should know. When Chad Macneil was killed, a lot of people thought it was Reg Keller who did it. You know about Reg, I assume. If he’s connected to this somehow, then I need you to realize this: he’s mine.”

“He’s yours,” she says. “Message received.”

My eyes trail across the board, resting on Lodge’s face. I remember him turning at the sound of my voice, his legs planted on either side of Lorenz, my pistol in his hand. I remember his eyes, the mask hiked up over his forehead, the millisecond’s worth of surprise before he was hidden behind the Krinkov’s flash.

Bea puts her hand on my arm. “Don’t let it get to you. It had to be done.”

I’m conscious of everyone in the room, their eyes on me, but when I turn, they are all looking away. All except for the outlier, the older man, who stands apart from the rest with his arms crossed, barely concealing his disgust.

Leaving the field office
and its air-conditioning via the front entrance, the sauna effect hits me outside, steaming my sunglasses at the bridge of the nose. As I walk, I’m conscious not only of a twinge down my leg but also a leftward tilt brought on by the weight of my briefcase. Even empty, the bridle leather is a handful, but now it’s stuffed to capacity with all the gear and paperwork I lug around on a daily basis, mostly without being conscious of the load. Remembering the doctor’s words about heavy lifting, I tell myself it may be time to retire the old bag, or at least dump some of the ballast.

“Hey, you,” a voice calls.

I wheel around to find the outlier from Bea’s squad breathing down my neck. “You got a problem with me?”

He gets up in my face, eyes flashing. But I see right off that I’ve misread the signs. He’s not confronting me. He’s putting an arm around my shoulder, hunching down, whispering something he doesn’t want anybody to overhear.

“Listen here,” he says. “What’s going on back there, we’re crossing all the lines. We’re doing things we’ve got no business doing, taking risks we’ve got no business taking. She’s sucked you into it. Don’t argue with me now. I can see it. I can read the signs for myself. I know because I’ve been there myself.”

“What are you trying to tell me?”

“What I’m trying to do is warn you. She’s got her hooks in you good. She calls the tune and you put on your dancing shoes. But this is gonna end bad for everybody involved. I’m telling you right now to walk away.”

“This is sour grapes,” I say. “Bea somehow maneuvered herself into the job you wanted, and now you’re out for revenge. What’s the matter? Can’t handle having a woman for a boss?”

“What I can’t handle is having a
snake
for a boss. She’s not the victim here, partner. She’s calling the shots.”

“I’m not your partner.” I shrug myself free.

He throws his hands up. “Fine. You’ve been warned. And I won’t feel sorry for you when you take the fall.”

After he’s stalked away, I open my car door and sling the briefcase to the passenger side. It lands on the edge and falls over. The straps that hold down the top flap are buckled loosely, leaving enough play around the opening for some of the smaller items to spill onto the floor mat. Bending over, I retrieve my digital recorder, my beat-up little camera, and Jeff’s dog-eared copy of
The Foxhole Atheist
, which I’m still carrying around.

By the time everything’s packed away, my forehead’s beaded with sweat. I start the engine and adjust the air vents, pausing a couple of minutes just to cool down. Then I reach into the glove compartment for some pain pills.

I’m not sure what to make of that guy. He doesn’t like Bea, that much is obvious. As for the rest, I may be a fool to trust her, but what choice do I have?

I let the air-conditioner blow as I dial Wilcox.

“Have you made any progress?”

“If I had anything worth sharing, I would’ve already called.” He takes a breath. “Look, if Englewood was an investor in Keller’s business, there’s no paper trail I can find. Maybe that in itself says something. The man does what he wants and never leaves a trace. He knows how to keep invisible.”

“Speaking of invisibility, is it possible that Englewood made Keller disappear when we were hunting him? He’d have the connections, presumably.”

“Anything’s possible,” he says. “Proving it, though, that’s the problem. Can I be honest with you, March? Maybe we’re out of our depth. You’re over on the sideline, I’m coming up with nothing, and the idea that any of this is going to end up in court . . .”

“What are we supposed to do? Ignore it?”

He doesn’t answer.

“I’m flailing around here,” I say, “but it’s better than doing nothing. So keep looking, okay?”

Silence on the line, which I interpret as consent. I’m about to say goodbye when he clears his throat. “I shouldn’t say anything,” he says, “but I’ve seen the preliminary report on your shooting.”

“And?”

“They’ve got nothing.”

“That’s good. I mean, I
knew
there was nothing, but still . . . I’m relieved.”

“They’re sitting on it, though. Keeping their options open.”

“Still,” I say. “Thanks.”

When I turn off Justice Park Drive on my way to the Northwest Freeway ramp, the donut shop on W. 43rd calls out to me. I steer into the lot, putting the car in park and bringing my briefcase inside with me. Inside, a couple of sun-weathered old-timers are drinking black coffee across from each other, the morning paper scattered in sections on the table between them. One of them wears a white sleeveless T-shirt over cigar-wrapper skin, a flat cap low over his eyes. The other has one hand tucked into the waistband of his powder-blue stretch jeans. They look me over with indifference before resuming their conversation.

At the counter I line up behind a couple of refill-seeking seniors, then order coffee and a glazed donut, which I take to an empty table up front with a view of the parking lot and the feeder road beyond. The coffee is weak, but the donut tastes pretty good in a soft, sickly sweet sort of way. I have to give my fingertips a good scrub to get the glaze off, and even then, as I unpack my briefcase, spreading the papers out across the Formica tabletop, my touch seems to raise sticky welts on everything.

I sip some coffee and start flipping through
The Foxhole Atheist
. The marginal note with the safe house address isn’t the only annotation. In fact, many of the pages feature underlining and one- or two-word notes. Sometimes he’s written
GOOD
or
EXACTLY
next to a line from the day’s devotional reading. Sometimes he limits himself to an exclamation mark beside a telling passage. Clearly he’s spent some hours with this book, so it’s no surprise that when needing to write the address down,
The Foxhole Atheist
was at hand.

As I browse the little book, I notice pages where Jeff has underlined just a single letter in the middle of a word. On an entire page, there will be just one or two of these random lines underneath an I or an O or an F, reminding me of the way I used to mark up books as a kid first discovering cryptography, using a simple book cipher to write secret messages. The memory brings a smile to my lips.

The very first entry in the book is the most marked. It’s titled
THERE ARE NO ATHEISTS IN FOXHOLES, BUT THERE SHOULD BE
. The first line in the second paragraph reads:

In these cases, the very same fear that prompts the theist to doubt his faith perversely motivated the atheist toward an artificial certainty in the existence of a spiritual world.

The letters he’s underlined—the I and N in the word
in
, the F and E in the word
fear
, the R in
artificial
, the N in
certainty
, and the O in
world
—they’re not a cipher code, but they do spell a word. Turning the pages with greater urgency, I find the pattern repeated, not all in one sentence as in the first instance, but stretching over the length of paragraphs and pages. Always the same sequence of letters, always spelling the same word.

INFERNO
.

Jeff gave the impression that he didn’t know much about the inner workings of Nesbitt’s company, and when Hilda spilled her own version, she never alluded to Jeff by name, only mentioning that in the grip of paranoia Nesbitt had brought new people in from the outside, people she presumably didn’t know well. And yet, over and over in a strangely compulsive way, Jeff was picking out the sequence of letters that spell the code name of Nesbitt’s informer.

Why?

I pull out my phone and dial Jeff’s number. Evidently he knows more than he let on. Maybe giving me the book was his way of revealing this, knowing I would pick up on the underlining eventually. There’s no answer. The voicemail picks up and an electronically generated voice repeats the digits.

“Call me,” I say. “I’ve been reading your book.”

Then I wait. When he doesn’t call back right away, I pop the rings of my Filofax open, removing a couple of fresh sheets of lined notepaper. I make two lists side by side, the first column labeled
NESBITT
and the second
ENGLEWOOD
. Underneath the first I put Jeff and Hilda, Brandon Ford and the men in his paramilitary team. Then I relist Ford and his men under Englewood, drawing an arrow from left to right, since at some point they must have switched sides.

At the bottom of the page I write
INFERNO
, underlining the name.

What column should I put him in? I would write Inferno’s name under Nesbitt’s column, only it seems Ford is the only person in touch with the insider. If he’s switched sides, maybe Inferno belongs to Englewood’s team now. That’s where the power seems to be, after all. The way Wilcox was talking about him, there’s not much the man can’t do. The phony
DNA
results are proof of that. And if he has the power to manipulate the
NCIC
database, why maybe it’s not so implausible to think he could have arranged the traffic stop that led to Nesbitt’s death. Maybe Silvestri, the training officer, undid his thumb break for a reason; maybe he really did intend to shoot Nesbitt, just as the conspiracy theorists online insist. The crooked cop angle strikes me as ridiculous, the stuff of Hollywood or bad television dramas, but after my face-to-face meeting with Englewood, when he dropped Reg Keller’s name, anything seems possible.

I write
SILVESTRI
under Englewood’s column, but with a question mark.

At the top of the page, above all the rest, I add
KELLER
in heavy block letters. Unfinished business. The way he disappeared so completely when we were hunting him, that suggests powerful interests working in his favor. Englewood again? By mentioning Big Reg’s name, he as good as confirmed it. If Englewood protected him before, clearing the way for him to kill Chad Macneil in Buenos Aires, is it possible Englewood also brought him back to Houston, where he murdered my John Doe, who may or may not be one of the paramilitaries by the name of Robert Johnson?

All the names. All the interconnections.

I check my phone for missed numbers, but Jeff hasn’t attempted to return my call.

Staring at the lists, going over them in black ink, making everything darker and darker, scoring deep lines into the page, I don’t know, I just don’t know how it all fits together.

But my sense of Reg Keller is this: he committed minor crimes for personal advantage, and when his back was to the wall, he went as far as homicide. Still, there’s a difference between putting a gun to someone’s head and pulling the trigger, and tying a person’s hands down and methodically skinning them.

Any of us, in the grip of desperation, with fear narrowing our options down, is capable of the first kind of evil. The second takes a special kind of sadist.

Is Keller one of them? I would have thought not.

Here’s the thing, though. Since we last met, Big Reg has been on an outlaw journey, traveling to darker regions of the mind, perhaps unlocking doors even he didn’t know were there before. The man I went up against two years ago might not have been capable of such brutality, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t today.

I’m flailing, just like I told Wilcox. But there’s one thing I’ve learned, and it’s this. Even when you don’t connect, even when your fist keeps slicing through air, if you keep punching, sooner or later, you’re bound to hit something.

On his way out, the old guy in the flat cap peers down at the mess I’ve made on the table. He tucks his paper under his arm, shaking his head.

I smile up at him. “You have a nice day.”

———

The gate outside Jeff’s auto garage is padlocked and there’s no sign of activity on the lot, just the row of picked-over car husks out front, the debris of tires and crushed glass, brown weeds pushing up through the cracks in the concrete. The blacked-out windows show a layer of baked-on grime, and the creases in the articulated garage doors are outlined in rust. I walk along the curb, inspecting the coils of barbed wire at the top of the fence, not relishing the prospect of making the climb.

A tall hedge separates the property from the undeveloped lot behind. I pick my way across the overgrown, potholed ground, looking for gaps in the bushes, hoping there’s a back way into the alley I parked inside during my first visit. There’s no opening in the fence, but the wire stops where the fence meets the hedge.

I glance around to see if anyone’s watching. Across a side street is a liquor store with burglar bars over the windows. Next to it, some itinerant workers are loitering in the Burger King parking lot, but they aren’t paying attention to what I’m up to—or if they are, they’re making a point of not showing it.

The hedge is inside the fence on Jeff’s property, so I have to shimmy up, pushing my shoes into the links for a toehold. The climb is awkward rather than difficult, and soon my leg is over the top, seeking purchase among the tree branches. It’s a pine hedge, prickly and too fragile to support my weight, so there’s no choice but to slide down the fence itself, scrubbing my back against the needles. Once I reach the ground, I’m sandwiched by the hedge on one side and the fence on the other, with only a pocket of space to move around in and no visible path through the foliage. Wandering again, but in a not-so-dark wood. Covering my face with my upraised arms, I push my way through.

Outside the hedge, I’m cut off by the bumper of an old Plymouth Barracuda with no glass and a stripped interior. In the dark, the old muscle cars had looked a little better than they do in the blazing daylight.

After brushing myself off, I go to the back door with its row of dead bolts, pounding out a beat with my fist. Nothing. I knock again, then try the handle. The door doesn’t budge.

I call out. “Jeff?”

Silence.

I walk around the garage, trying the big bay doors, which are firmly shut, looking for gaps in the blackout that covers all the glass. The old entrance, a metal-framed glass door, is missing its bottom panel, the gap covered in cardboard. I work the corner free with my foot, but there’s something blocking the other side. It feels like a heavy cart or shelf, maybe some kind of workbench. There’s no space to crawl through, even if I relished the thought of forcing my way in on hands and knees, ruining my clothes on the greasy concrete.