The Black List (18 page)

“I’m thinking the property owner isn’t an individual. RWW Property Management. Too many layers between the name here and trying to find someone who belongs to it. But we can definitely pinpoint who represented him, her, them, on the health code violations. The Redfern Group. I’m e-mailing the link to his firm . . . Pretty upscale. K Street. In fact, it looks like Redfern is very involved in Washington’s lobbyist industry.”

Which explained the upscale offices, Sydney decided. Anyone in the business of persuading Washington to pass laws that favored their respective clients needed to keep up appearances. “Any connection to A
.
D
.
E., besides Dorian’s?”

“That one’s gonna take a bit more time. A
.
D
.
E. has a lot of fingers in the pie. Little itty bitty charities spread all over the map. Quite possibly these properties are slices from the same pie. I’ll call you back when I get something.”

“Thanks.”

Sydney brought up the Web site for Redfern’s law office. Definitely upscale.

“Feel like taking a drive?” she asked Griffin.

“Nothing else on my schedule.”

“How do we want to do this? FBI? Social Services?
Washington Recorder
? Or would having two reporters walk in send him into a panic?”

Griffin smiled as though amused. “Safer to use the identity he would expect to see. The one he’d be the most relaxed with. I’ll call upstairs and get a couple Social Services IDs.”

“You can do that?” she asked, then recalled the very legitimate-looking FBI credentials Tex had provided for Griffin the other night. “Better question is
how
do you do that?”

“Beauty of modern technology. That and having all the requisite blank documents that merely need a photo added. Mine’s on file. You’ll need to go up and have one taken.”

The Redfern Group
was on the top floor of a building filled with several lobbying firms, and Sydney wondered if Redfern’s office retained any of them to make sure his client’s interests continued to be met.

A receptionist sat at a half-circle desk in the spacious lobby. An unimaginative logo of a red-colored fern leaf in a brass circle adorned the wall behind her. “May I help you?”

“We need to speak with Mr. Redfern.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“No. We’re with Social Services. It’s about a few buildings his clients own.”

“Hold on, please.” She picked up a phone, called a number, then passed on the information. “Yes, sir.” She covered the phone, saying, “He’s in a meeting.”

“We’ll wait,” Sydney said.

“They’ll wait,” she said into the receiver. “How long?” She looked at Sydney.

“As long as it takes. We’re on salary.”

She repeated the information, listened, then hung up the phone, saying, “He’ll be with you at his first opportunity.” She directed them to the chairs near a shimmering silver wall-mounted waterfall.

“Quite the knack for getting past the gatekeepers,” Griffin said after they took a seat. “A technique you’ve used at my office?”

“Once or twice.”

They waited thirty minutes. At first Sydney wondered if Redfern was testing their mettle, but then a door opened and a woman emerged, followed by a man Sydney assumed was Redfern, judging from the way he shook the woman’s hand, then thanked her for dropping by as though it were some casual visit.

“Plan B,” Griffin said quietly. “That’s Senator Burgess, who unfortunately knows me.”

“What’s she doing here?”

“Good question,” he said as the senator looked their way, made a comment to Redfern, as though Sydney and Griffin were the topic, then walked directly toward them.

“Mr. Griffin. Not a place I would expect to run into you,” Senator Burgess said.

“Likewise.”

“Funny,” Larry Redfern said as he walked up. “The receptionist announced you as someone from Social Services?”

“Probably my fault,” Sydney said with her best ingenue smile. “Miscommunication is all. I was
referred
by Social Services.”

“And you are?”

“Sydney Fitzpatrick, FBI.” She held out her hand. He shook it and she smiled at the senator. “And you are?”

“Oh, sorry,” Griffin said. “This is Senator Burgess.”

“Nice to meet you,” Sydney replied.

“And you.” The woman looked from Sydney to Griffin. “What on earth—”

Griffin held up his hands. “Don’t want you to get the wrong idea. I’m not here.”

“Well,” Sydney said. “Not in any official capacity. We’re just friends from way back. Going to lunch as soon as I finish interviewing Mr. Redfern.”

“I’m surprised that the FBI would be here at all,” Burgess said, making Sydney wonder who was running the show.

Sydney turned to Redfern. “I’m sorry. It’s not really a big deal—the interview, I mean. Anonymous calls or not, the law says we have to look into it. Is there someplace you and I can talk?”

Redfern gave her a skeptical look. “My office.”

Sydney smiled at the senator. “A pleasure.” Then, to Griffin, she said, “I shouldn’t be more than a few minutes.”

“I’ll catch up on the latest issue of
People
.” He picked up a copy from the glass table, then sat back. “Pleasure to see you again, Senator.”

Sydney followed Redfern across the lobby to the doorway that led down a long hall. His office took up a large corner space, the floor-to-ceiling windows giving an unparalleled view of the street below and the capital skyline. Inside, the accommodations reflected understated elegance and money, its modern black and burgundy leather and glass furniture a far cry from the mismatched surplus from Griffin’s office, or the gray cubicles she herself was used to before she ended up in the basement at Quantico.

“Wouldn’t mind having this to work in,” Sydney said when he offered her a seat in a chair that was far more comfortable than it looked. “What sort of attorney are you?”

“I’m a real estate lawyer.”

“And your firm?”

“General practice —litigation, corporate, white collar defense. You said you were here about an anonymous call from Social Services?”

“Something about the unfit living conditions of some property that seems to be associated with your firm down near the naval yard.”

“Naval yard? One of my associates mentioned something about one of his client’s properties in that area . . . the plumbing. The client who owns the property is having financial difficulties, and when a main sewer line broke, well, you can imagine the difficulties that caused.”

“Especially for the residents, I’m sure. Who did you say the owner was?”

“One of the local charities . . . a shelter, church, honestly the name escapes me at the moment. I’d be glad to have my secretary look it up and get back to you.”

“That would be great. In the meantime, if you or your associate, or whomever, could look into
addressing
some of those living conditions, then I can get back to the more pressing cases on my desk.”

“Of course,” he said, standing. “I’ll see what I can do about getting them the help they need to move forward with those repairs. No need to trouble yourself any further.”

“Thank you, Mr. Redfern. I had a feeling that this was something that could be dealt with on a very low-key level.” She left a card on his desk, eyed the several files upon it, one labeled W2. Tax files, apparently. Disappointed she couldn’t see anything that clued her in on what was going on, she said, “I may, however, check in again to see how your client is progressing.”

“I’m sure the FBI has, as you say, more pressing matters.”

“Public service and all. Good afternoon, Mr. Redfern. A pleasure.”

Sydney walked out, frustrated with the turn of events. “That was a waste of time,” she said when she and Griffin were in the car, driving back to ATLAS headquarters.

“Not totally. We now know that Senator Burgess is somehow connected to this firm. The question is how?”

“Maybe she’s hoping to get hired on as a lobbyist once her term is over.”

“If Redfern’s firm is lobbying her about something, I’d like to know what it is.”

“I did see a few file folders on his desk, unfortunately nothing that clued me in to what they were discussing, assuming any of those folders pertained to her visit. Being a glass half-full girl, I’d at least like to think that he’ll take the steps to improve the living conditions in those apartments.”

Griffin looked over at her, then back at the road. “Better take off those rose-colored spectacles next time you take a drink from that half-empty glass.”

Twenty minutes later they were pulling into ATLAS. McNiel called both of them into his office the moment they arrived. “Have a seat,” he said.

“Something wrong?” Griffin asked.

“That depends. What happened at the Redfern Group?”

“Following up a lead that ties Dorian Rose to some property managed by the firm. Ran into Senator Burgess walking out of there, so we had to scrap the Social Services guise. Why?”

“I just got off the phone with Pearson.
His
boss received a call from the White House. Andrew Charles, no less,” he said, referring to the Senior Advisor. “He wants this investigation into this property and the Redfern Group to go away.”

“That’s a pretty quick conduit to the top.”

“Redfern’s a powerful lobbyist. Assuming he made the call and not Burgess—which we have to assume, since the call went to the FBI and didn’t come here. Either way, you two need to officially back off from Redfern.”

“Back off?” Sydney said. “His firm’s just going to get away with—”

“Officially,”
McNiel repeated. “That, Ms. Fitzpatrick, is why you’re on loan to this office, as opposed to Griffin going to yours. Translation: Don’t leave a trail that’s going to get us in trouble. If Redfern or one of his clients is involved in facilitating the movement of Yusuf or any other terrorists, knowingly or unknowingly, I don’t give a rat’s ass if the President himself were to walk in here and give us the order. I want Yusuf found before anyone gets killed.”

30

Carillo’s stomach rumbled, but
hungry as he was, and even though the London safe house was fully stocked, he wasn’t about to get up and chance that he’d miss a signal from Sheila’s phone should it appear. What if it was in some spot between two buildings, then blinked out, like what happened to Eve’s phone when Tex and Donovan had been tracking it? They’d lost it momentarily, but it had popped up again once she exited her hotel. Carillo had prayed for a similar case with Sheila’s phone. On the one hand, knowing Sheila, she was tucked safely in some big hotel—and wouldn’t that be just like her—where the signal wasn’t getting through. On the other hand, her plan covered international service, so why the hell wasn’t her cell blinking on the screen?

Tex finally called him on the house phone about an hour later. “We haven’t found Trip’s sister or niece. No sign of Sheila, either.”

“Not the news I want to hear.”

“On the bright side, the neighbor across the street says that she saw Marty’s wife and kid drive off in their car a couple hours ago. Unfortunately we don’t know where they went. At least we know they got out.”

“Let’s hope they weren’t followed. What now?”

“Checking a couple other places, then heading back.”

Carillo glanced at the clock. “Well, you know where I’ll be.”

“Nothing?”

“I’d swear the computer isn’t working, but when I entered my phone number, it worked fine.”

“She’ll turn up.”

In one piece, he hoped. “Do me a favor, when you guys come back? I’d love some food.”

“Refrigerator’s full.”

“I’m afraid to leave the monitor.”

“Turn the volume way up. If her number shows, it’ll start beeping.”

Carillo was still reluctant to step away, even for a moment, but when his hands started shaking due to lack of food, he turned the volume to maximum, then made a dash for the kitchen. He found a can of soda and the roast beef, was looking around for bread, when he heard it.
Beep . . . beep . . .

He ran back and saw it. Bright red, flashing on the screen. Relief flooded through him with every blink of the cursor. He grabbed the phone, then hit Tex’s number.

“She’s here,” he said, when Tex answered.

“Where?”

He used the track pad to zoom in, trying to read the small print on the GPS map. The moment he touched the device, the cursor stopped blinking. “What the— It’s gone. I think I screwed up.”

“The map still there?”

“Yeah. But when I zoomed in, it disappeared.”

“Then she turned her phone off, or the signal was lost due to interference. Where was it coming from?”

“Just outside Paddington Station.”

“We’ll head over.”

“I’m not that far away.”

“I know. But if that signal pops up again, you need to be there.”

He was right. But that didn’t make it any easier.

On the off
chance Marty had stashed the book at his flat, Trip made it his first stop. Judging from the mess, it was clear someone else had gotten there first. He searched in every cupboard, every drawer—not that there were that many places to look. There were only a few bits of furniture, Marty having taken just enough to get by when he’d separated from Trip’s sister. Trip paced the floor, looking for a loose floorboard. Nothing. He searched the handful of science fiction paperbacks, even though he knew they weren’t the right type of book. After a wasted hour he decided it was time to move on. Either someone had already been there and found it or it wasn’t there to begin with.

He guessed the latter, since Marty wasn’t about to entrust something that valuable to this neighborhood.

Trip’s sister, Bea, however, lived in a much nicer house, and he had to admit the possibility that Marty might have hidden the book there. He watched Bea’s house from down the street for several minutes to make sure it wasn’t some sort of a setup, or better yet, that maybe his captor had lied about her and Emmie being kidnapped. But no, there appeared to be no one home, and he strolled in that direction, just a bloke out for a walk should anyone be looking.