The Reunion (11 page)

19

May is the month when Wilmington is in all its glory, and as far as Mondays go this would be a spectacular one. The air was clean and the sky a hue that could only be found along the coast. This would also be the week the azaleas and dogwoods reached the pinnacle of their bloom.

The colors were all visible from Dunlevy's fifth-floor window at the Federal Building, but he didn't have time to take notice. He sat slouched behind his metal government-issue desk, his shirt rumpled and the coffee in his mug cold. He had spent the night at the Wilmington police station sorting through the evidence and pleading with the chief to release Carolyn and Kenny into his custody.

As difficult as that had been, Dunlevy now had to explain the past twenty-four hours to his boss. Assistant Director Bob Harris had been faxed a three-page summary the night before. Still, there would be no avoiding a conference call. Harris lived to preside over meetings via speakerphone. He looked over at Franklin and stifled a laugh. He had never dealt with the assistant director before. He sat across the desk, attentive, a pen in hand, ready to scribble notes.
Like something Harris would say could be worth writing down,
he thought to himself.

The red light started to blink, causing Dunlevy's stomach to churn instinctively. He let it ring four times before punching the button. “FBI, Dunlevy.”

“Marty, I'm going over your report right now,” boomed the assistant director. “There's not much here.”

He sneered at the speaker. They had come up the ranks together and were good friends at the academy, yet when a political bombshell had been dropped in Dunlevy's lap at the Atlanta Olympics, his buddy Harris was one of the first to run and take cover.

“We don't have a lot to work with right now, Bob.”

“You catch any CNN this morning?”

“Yes sir.”

“This girl…What's her name?” The shuffling of papers could be heard.

“Carolyn Baker,” Dunlevy answered.

“Yeah. Her fingerprints are all over the murder scene. She goes on television telling the world she knows who's responsible for the murders, and then two hours later you bail her out of jail? Do I have the sequence of events correct here, Marty?” he asked calmly.

Dunlevy took a deep breath. “First of all, sir, I sent her over there for a meeting with Hudson. I arranged it. She's the daughter of a former U-352 survivor and someone I had already questioned. The medical examiner thinks he was dead at least an hour before she got to his house. And whoever slashed Hudson's throat made two deep, penetrating wounds that would be inconsistent with the size and strength of this woman.”

“Either way, I don't like to hear about developments on a case from the fucking television! Why didn't Hudson have any protection?”

“You can't protect somebody who doesn't want to be protected,” he said, shrugging toward the phone. “Both campus and Wilmington police offered him round-the-clock protection, and he declined.”

“You still working with ATF on that homemade bomb?”

“Yeah, Mickey-Mouse stuff, not even a bomb. Just a cheap timer, light bulb ignitor, and a big pocket of gas.”

Harris seemed satisfied. “I'm actually glad you're on this case. This is one of those rare instances when it just so happens that we have an explosives guy in the right place at the right time.”

Dunlevy ignored the roundabout compliment, knowing it was just another knock on how far his career had fallen.

“How about the autopsy from Durham on your burn victim?”

“Rolf Werner,” replied Dunlevy, rolling his eyes again.

“And?”

“It's murder. Someone got past the guard. They found traces of bleach in his system.”

Another long pause. More shuffling of papers. The assistant director let out a sigh. “Two more murders in four days, Jesus Christ! The networks are playing up this damned Nazi connection, Marty. Let's not add fuel to that fire.”

“No sir.”

“Do we have a short list?”

Dunlevy nervously rapped his knuckles on the desk. His face flushed as he scanned the growing stacks of papers before him. “Suspects may not be the right word. We do have a few possibilities.”

“Yes?” came the aggravated voice on the other end of the line.

He flipped through his legal pad. “We're looking at a neo-Nazi group headquartered in Baltimore and a right-wing paramilitary group in Columbia, South Carolina, that would be capable and have the desire to attract this kind of attention, but I'd say those leads are doubtful. But motive is tough. After all, these are very old men.”

“Dead old men,” the assistant director snapped.

Dunlevy's eyes narrowed as he stared at the phone. “I don't think this is someone with that kind of political agenda, Bob. Hell, we don't even know for sure the Germans were the target. This could have been a hit on one man, and the others were just killed to cover their tracks. And keep in mind, some of the bodies in the morgue are American, vets who served on the Coast Guard cutter that captured these guys. There are a lot of possibilities.”

There was a long pause. “So it's a bunch of extremists who've worked sixty years to develop and execute a plot to discredit the United States Coast Guard?” Harris quipped.

Dunlevy held his tongue. “Bob, I'm telling you that it's early in the investigation and we're methodically eliminating possibilities one by one.”

“How many agents do we have on this?”

“At least fifty. I've got my staff of twenty. I've called in five forensic guys from my old team in Atlanta and I've put together a small research group, if you want to call them that, four or five whiz kids in behavioral sciences at Quantico. I've got them doing a profile for me. It's probably a waste of time, but I want to see if we can match up any known foreign terrorist organizations that might have this kind of axe to grind.”

As always, Harris grew bored when it came to details. “I want a typewritten fax on your progress at the close of business each day. My eyes only. My direct machine. I'm sure you still have the number.”

“Yes sir,” Dunlevy replied as the line went dead.

Franklin carefully eyed his boss. Dunlevy's knuckles turned white as both hands balled up into tight fists. He turned to the window, taking several deep breaths. A normal color slowly returned to his face as he swiveled around in his chair to face the junior agent.

“Send her in.”

Franklin hesitated. “Why don't I drive her back to the hotel and we'll check back with her later this afternoon?”

Dunlevy's eyebrows went up. “Send her in,” he repeated sternly.

The senior agent stood and greeted Carolyn as she strolled into the office with the baby on her hip. He gestured toward the couch and then retreated behind his desk. She had obviously been crying.

“Thanks for waiting,” he said, forcing a smile. “Would it be okay if Franklin took your son out in the lobby for a minute or two while we talked privately? I'm sure he'd be fine.”

She shrugged. “I guess so,” she replied, handing the child over to him. Kenny had several small toys in his hand and didn't seem to mind the pass off.

Dunlevy's gaze followed Franklin and the baby until the door closed. He leaned forward slightly, his fingers entwined tightly in front of him on the desk. “Lady, you pulled a real bonehead move today,” he said, his voice low but intimidating. “If you want to put on some kind of show go on Jerry Springer, but don't do it in the middle of my investigation!”

Carolyn's face dropped and her eyes welled with tears. “Listen, I tried to explain to those policemen,” she pleaded. “They wouldn't listen.”

“They were doing their job!” he glared. “They don't know you. Wilmington police handled this one by the book! You should have sat quietly and waited for everything to play out. But no, you had to showboat for the TV cameras! What kind of shit was that? Are you trying to get yourself killed?” he asked, the veins in his neck now well pronounced. “Did it ever occur to you that the bad guy you met today has a TV, too?”

The language took her by surprise. She sat rigidly on the edge of her chair and glared at him with contempt. “You know what? I was manhandled, cuffed, and I had to watch my screaming child be dragged away. Maybe it's okay to treat innocent people like that in your world, but not mine!”

“Innocent people don't run! Where the hell were you going?”

“I was running away. I don't know, okay? I thought he might be following us.” A copious amount of tears drizzled down her face.

Dunlevy wouldn't break the stare. “Lady, calm down. You're working yourself up again.”

She stood, bracing both hands on the lip of his desk. “I'm sorry, maybe I overreacted, but don't patronize me. I won't bother you again. We'll be on the next flight out of here.”

“Like hell you will!” Dunlevy stood and swung around to the front of the desk. “Wilmington PD released you into my
custody, with the agreement you'd be available for questioning for the next seventy-two hours. You ain't goin' anywhere for the next three days. And I'm putting an officer in the lobby of your hotel.”

Her hands were on her hips. “Oh, I'm a flight risk now?”

“Goddamn it! You just don't get it, do you? For your own protection! What if your new boyfriend decides to come back?”

“I'm not a fugitive!” she screamed as she moved toward the door. “And I certainly don't need you to protect me.”

He shrugged. “That's your choice.”

Carolyn didn't turn to acknowledge him as she stormed out of the office and slammed the door.

20

Traffic was bumper to bumper. Dunlevy drummed his fingers on the wheel. He was keyed up and in a hurry, but had no place to go. He had acquaintances, but no real friends, no children, and an ex-wife who no longer took his phone calls. At the next light he caught a glimpse of himself in the rear view mirror and was startled to see his father's angry eyes glaring back. When had he allowed himself to turn into a bitter old man? He also had a sharp tongue and used it with little restraint. No wonder nobody got close to him. He didn't allow it.

A block away from his house he slapped the wheel hard and made a fast U-turn, screeching the wheels. Why had he been so hard on her? Sure, she was headstrong, but more frightened than anything else. And whether she liked it or not, he was posting a cop in the hotel.

Twenty minutes later he was standing before room 1720 at the Wilmington La Quinta. He couldn't recall having butterflies this bad since high school.

He knocked and waited.

“Who's there?”

“Dunlevy,” he said to the door.

The bolt clicked. She opened the door slowly and eyed him suspiciously. Her expression was hard.

“What?”

“Can I come in?”

She stared in thought for a full second before taking a step backward to allow him to pass. She closed and bolted the door behind him. “You kind of caught us at a bad time,” she lied. “Is it important?”

He nervously shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “You caught me at my worst this morning. It's been a rotten day, but I had no right to yell at you like that. I wanted to apologize.”

She was about to blurt out a nasty barb but then thought better of it. She shrugged. “Don't worry about it. I wasn't all that pleasant myself. I just want to go home.”

“You can, in seventy-two hours. If it was up to me you'd be on the plane now, but that's the deal I cut to get you out of the county jail.”

She held up her hands in disgust. “Look around. This isn't much better.”

He forced himself to drop his gaze so she wouldn't catch him staring.
God, she's pretty even when she's angry,
he silently realized. “Let's get out of the room then. Are you hungry?”

She tried to smile, finding his awkwardness almost cute. “What?” she asked, forcing him to repeat the invitation.

“Are you hungry?”

She shook her head. “Not really.”

“I thought, if you were, we could grab a bite.”

She looked toward the floor where Kenny had abandoned his toys in favor of the Cartoon Channel. “Well, it's already seven thirty,” she said hesitantly. “And there's no one to watch the baby.”

“You don't need a babysitter. The little guy can go with us.”

She paused, giving the offer serious thought. “Well, okay. It'll probably do us good to get out of this hotel room.”

***

Delvechio's had three separate rooms, the main dining hall, the bar, and the pool room. The restaurant was formerly the Delvechio family home. It sat on a corner in an old, quiet residential neighborhood, just two blocks from the old Wilmington High School. Only natives patronized the family-owned Italian bistro. The dining room was packed; the wait was at least forty minutes.

“We could eat here in the bar,” he offered.

She nodded. “If you want.”

He sensed her apprehension.
What a clod I am,
he thought. “Or, we could go somewhere else.”

Carolyn shrugged. “No, this is fine.”

The waitress directed them to a tall round table in the corner where they were forced to sit on barstools. She brought over a booster seat for Kenny without being asked.

Carolyn studied his features across the unusually high table. Her first impression had been wrong. He wasn't a classically handsome man, but did have a certain rugged appeal. He had sandy hair and a thick, but well-muscled frame. Early forties was her best guess, with a nose that looked like it may have been broken a time or two.

“You said I caught you at your worst. What makes this such a bad day?” she asked. “I thought you guys were used to this sort of stuff.”

He looked upward in thought. “This has only been, oh…the worst day in recent memory, I guess.”

“I'm sorry. I really didn't mean to cause this big of a fuss.”

He smiled, shaking his head. “You're not even the half of it. Hudson had refused police protection. Now he's dead, and I'm taking the heat. And this morning, our lone survivor from the reunion was found murdered at the Duke burn center. So, it's gone from bad to worse.”

“I'm sorry,” she said as she handed Kenny a juice box from her bag. “What about suspects? You really don't have any, or is that just what you're telling the newspapers?”

His eyes darted nervously around the bar. “We don't have any good strong suspects at this point, but we may have gotten a clean set of prints yesterday from a truck we found in Atlantic Beach. If that pans out, and our boy has a criminal file somewhere, we'll match it and get a mug shot. It's just a matter of time.”

She shook her head. “I don't envy you. I'm ready to be done with this business. I'm so ready to get back home.”

“You may not be done just yet. It's possible that they'll call you to testify when we catch him. You're the only person that can place him at Hudson's beach house.”

Carolyn looked puzzled. That was a possibility she hadn't considered. “Does that seem likely?”

He nodded. “I'd assume so.” He flashed his cockeyed Irish grin. “I'm just glad you and your son are both okay. That's all that matters for right now.”

Dunlevy grabbed a packet of saltines from a wicker basket in the center table. “May I?” he asked.

She smiled. “Sure. He loves crackers. That and juice boxes. Staples in the modern American baby diet.”

Kenny was hungry. And Dunlevy couldn't help but laugh as the child attempted to push as much of the cracker as possible into his little mouth. What he wouldn't have done to have one of his own.

The waiter brought her a vodka tonic, him a hometown brew. Carolyn spun the cubes and wedge of lime around the glass with her index finger, never looking up from her drink.

“So, what's your story?” she asked.

He tensed. “What do you want to know?”

She looked up. “I didn't mean to pry.”

He shook his head. “I'm sorry,” he said, rubbing his temples. “I'm not very good at this, am I?”

“Not very good at what?”

He scoffed and shook his head. “Small talk. Forgive me. I was raised in a barn with farm animals. I've got no manners.”

She laughed. “You apologize too much. Don't be so hard on yourself. Let me guess, newly divorced?”

An eyebrow went up. “Not newly; seven years.”

“Any kids?”

“No, I wish. We never got around to it. And I guess I'm too old to start now.”

“Please!” she giggled. “There are twenty-six-year-old nurses at the hospital where I work married to men at least ten years older than you. I bet you're not that much older than me.”

He paused to do the math. “I'm eight years, four months, and three days older than you.”

She tilted her head. “How do you know all that?”

“I had the Wilmington police fax me their report. All your vitals were there.” He threw up his hands. “What can I say? Just one of the perks of being a federal employee.”

She laughed again. “As long as it was official business.” She liked the way his brow furrowed and the lines around his eyes became more pronounced as he struggled for something to say. The strong, silent types usually didn't interest her, but something about this one was different.

“Oh, I didn't tell you. We got your messages deciphered,” he blurted out. “One of my many calls this morning.”

Her eyes widened. “Really? So, anything important?”

“Honestly, I don't know yet. The man who did the deciphering is elderly, and, I take it from our phone conversations, rather feeble. He lives up in Richmond. He wants a visit.”

“Are you going yourself?”

He shrugged. “I told him I preferred he just fax the stuff to me, but he said it would be better if he could go over the material in person. Since we're not paying him anything, I thought it would be the right thing to do.”

“Richmond? How far is that?”

“About a four-hour drive from here. You're welcome to come along.”

Her face showed surprise. “Really? I'd like that. Are you sure? I don't want to cause you any more trouble.”

He frowned. “It's not that you've been trouble. I just don't think you realized what a dangerous situation you put yourself in. If you or the baby were hurt out there at Hudson's place, I would have held myself personally responsible.” He looked down at his hands. “I know that sometimes I'm a loud jackass, but I was thinking about what could have happened when you were in the office this morning. I just want you to be safe, that's all.”

“Thank you. I appreciate that,” she said, reaching across the table to squeeze his hand. “I'm sorry about the misunderstanding too. Are you sure Kenny and I won't get in your way?”

He reached over and gently ran his hand over the top of the boy's blond head. “Not at all. I enjoy his company.”

The waiter arrived with their dinner, along with an extra plate for Kenny.

“We'd have to leave early tomorrow,” he warned. “Probably about six-thirty. Is that too early?”

“No, that's fine. Kenny always wakes me up before six. Consider it a date.”