The Reunion (17 page)

29

Carolyn's fourth night away from home was better than her third. Maybe she was getting used to life on the run. The sleep had been deep and uninterrupted, and, in the morning, it took a few moments to shake away the cobwebs.

Her gaze slowly wandered around the room, finally settling on the two upholstered chairs she was using for Kenny's makeshift crib. She looked at the clock: nine twenty-two. He never slept this late. She bolted toward the chairs. Empty. In a panic, she moved quickly to the next room where she saw them.

She smiled, reached into Kenny's diaper bag, and handed Dunlevy the bottle of fruit juice. “You have a gift,” she told her host.

Dunlevy rolled his eyes as he aimed the nipple toward the boy's mouth. “Hardly. I had four younger brothers.”

She looked up at this intimidating yet tender man cradling her child.
Am I dreaming? Could he really have feelings for us?
she wondered.
Or is he acting on an odd jolt of paternal emotions, an instinctive need to play cowboy?

A few minutes later they stood face to face in the kitchen. Carolyn held out her hands to take the baby from him. “I can manage from here.”

His brow furrowed as he waved her off. “I'm fine. How'd you sleep?”

“In all honesty, incredibly. I can't remember the last time I slept past nine o'clock. How 'bout you?”

He shrugged. “A little restless.”

She shot him a quizzical look. “We're not cramping your style, are we?”

“Hardly. I was on the phone with Franklin until late. I'm afraid we're going to have to leave tomorrow.”

She recoiled slightly, wondering if he was shipping them off to some safe-house or into the witness protection program. “Where are we going?”

He sensed her fear. “It's okay,” he assured her. “I've got a meeting in Washington tomorrow, and then we've got to go to Providence for a couple of days. Franklin offered to stay here and keep watch, but I'm not going to let you two out of my sight.”

She fought back the tears. “I don't want to be any more trouble to you.”

“Stop it,” he scolded. “Listen, I've got to run over to the campus for about an hour,” he said, finally handing her the baby. “I just want to see if Professor Hudson has any more notes, you know, the ones you didn't get to snatch. Then we'll have all afternoon. Deal?”

“Deal.”

***

“Goddamn it,” Joey mumbled under his breath. The file drawers were filled with graded mid-terms and odd history papers, but no U-352 notes. This was getting monotonous, especially since he wasn't even sure if there were two more survivors. It was probably just a fuckin' trick to draw him out, and here he was, playing into their hands.

Joey froze. He heard footsteps in the hallway. Blood rushed to his brain and pounded in his ears. He carefully moved behind the door after grabbing a heavy wrench from his toolbox. He could hear their muffled whispers.

“Yoo-hoo?” a female voice called out. “Are you on this floor?”

They were just outside the door now. He stood perfectly still, his right arm with the wrench raised high.

“I'd let you in if I had my key,” the old woman said, “but I gave it to that new maintenance man. He forgot his master.”

Dunlevy looked the door over. “This was Dr. Hudson's office?”

She nodded. “Oh, yes, that poor man. We all loved him.”

Out of habit, Dunlevy jiggled the doorknob. It opened. He turned to the old woman. “Shouldn't this be locked?”

She bobbed her head, the fear now evident on her face.

“Wait out here.”

As Dunlevy stepped into the room he heard a whoosh swing past his left ear. Joey swung the wrench, but missed. The tool struck the door, sending thousands of splintered fragments of glass into the hallway. There was no time to unholster his weapon. Dunlevy lunged for Joey, hurling his shoulder squarely into the slight man's chest. In the midst of the tackle, as the two tumbled to the floor, Joey leveled the wrench again. This time he connected, striking the agent on the shoulder. Dunlevy curled up in pain.

Before the agent could recover, Joey was on his feet and out the door, knocking over the old woman as he sprinted down the hallway. After a few seconds Dunlevy gave chase, but by the time he made it down the three flights of stairs and into the courtyard, Joey was nowhere in sight.

30

Bob Harris stood over the sink in the comfort of his private washroom adjoining his office on the seventh floor of the Hoover Building. He closely examined his reflection in the mirror and was startled by what he saw. He had a five o'clock shadow and it wasn't noon yet. His eyes were bloodshot and his usually crisp white shirt badly wrinkled from a brief nap on the office couch. He had been on the job since five that morning.

He splashed some water on his face and stumbled back to his desk. The assistant director had to look under the clutter just to find the intercom. He leaned forward, his mouth right to the speaker, and jabbed the button with his thumb. “Sarah, show them in.”

“Good to see you, sir,” Dunlevy said as he offered his hand. Franklin nodded but didn't speak.

Harris gestured for the men to take seats. “Marty, how's the shoulder?”

Dunlevy squirmed in his oversized chair. “No problem. Barely grazed me.”

“Your men turn up anything on campus?”

Dunlevy shook his head.

Harris smiled at Franklin. “Why don't you go grab yourself a cup of coffee and let two old buddies shoot the breeze for a few minutes, okay?”

“Yes sir.” The young agent looked almost relieved as he quickly moved toward the door.

Dunlevy waited for the door to slam before speaking. “So, you want to catch up on old times, Bob? That's why you called me up here?”

Harris appraised his desk for a moment, slid backward in his chair, and removed a large manila envelope from his top desk drawer. “I called you up here to help pull your prick out of the wringer, smart ass.”

Dunlevy sneered back at him across the desk. “Just like you did in Atlanta?”

“You've got to pick your battles, Marty. And that wasn't one either of us could win.”

“What's that?” Dunlevy asked, pointing to the envelope.

“We'll get to that later. Where are we with DeMichael?”

“We're looking. All the field offices on the East Coast have been notified and the television networks have been running his picture. We've been hitting the local media especially hard in places he'd likely be, North Carolina and Rhode Island. Somebody will recognize him.”

“Now convince me that little blonde you have in protective custody isn't his accomplice. Her fingerprints are all over the last crime scene and the Wilmington PD think she's crazy. What's your take?”

Dunlevy exhaled loudly and folded his hands across his stomach. “Bob, we've been through this. The girl weighs one hundred twenty pounds at most, and she's left-handed. The physical evidence just doesn't support it.”

Harris looked annoyed. “This case is turning into a big pain in my ass. There are some people who want me to switch the lead guy on this one, get somebody with a little more political finesse.”

Dunlevy shrugged. “Do what you need to,” he said, looking as if he had smelled something foul.

“Every director of every veterans agency in the free world thinks they're entitled to a daily update on this case, not to mention all the meetings I'm having in-house. I also got called up to the Hill this week so an eighty-year-old lame-duck senator could chew on my ass because you're hassling some senate candidate's elderly grandmother.”

He shook his head. “Hassling is the wrong word. We've had one meeting. She has a strong connection to DeMichael.”

“If I'm reading between the lines of your report correctly,” he stated incredulously, “you actually believe the old broad may be involved?”

Dunlevy continued to glare. “There is a lot of circumstantial evidence pointing that way, Bob. The Enigma messages suggest a crewman from U-352 came ashore near Watch Hill, Rhode Island in April of 1942. They retrieved submarine schematics and maybe some nuclear material.”

“Nuclear, really?” He folded his hands. “And that means what?”

“Who owns the biggest house in Watch Hill, Rhode Island, and has since the 1930s?”

Harris shrugged. “Is that all you got?”

“Her late husband, one Anthony Vocatura,” he stated, flipping through his notes, “was an engineer at the General Dynamics Electric Boat division for the first three years of the war.”

Harris smiled. “Good work,” he said as he patted the envelope. He unfastened the metal clip and pulled out a badly worn file folder. “This came from the Pentagon. It's archived from back in the day when they called it the War Department.” He gingerly opened the cover as if it would crumble in his hands.

Dunlevy leaned forward slightly. “So, what is it?”

“An FBI surveillance report dated July 19th, 1942, on your Mr. Anthony Vocatura, Senior. It seems he raised some eyebrows back then.”

He stared across the desk at Harris for several seconds. “Where'd you get that?”

“Don't ask.”

“Can I see it?”

“No,” he said sharply. “If push comes to shove, this conversation never happened.”

Dunlevy's shocked expression drew an immediate response from the assistant director. “If this gets out, the Vocatura grandson is politically dead. The press will run hard and fast with this cloak-and-dagger bullshit. And maybe it's just that, bullshit. And if that happens, you and me…we'll lose our pensions so fast your nuts will spin.”

“Jesus Christ, Bob. Throw me a something here.”

He shook his head. “I've got sixty pages. They followed him for four months. According to the report, Vocatura and his assistant had clearance to areas where classified material was compromised, but they don't say what, probably too embarrassed. A breach like that might have been covered up.”

Dunlevy's eyes grew wide. He moved to the front edge of the desk. “One of the Enigma messages makes mention of PU-239, the isotope for plutonium.”

Bob looked up. “The report doesn't say anything about nuclear research at General Dynamics back then, but I guess it's possible.”

“If that submarine picked up weapons grade plutonium off the coast of Rhode Island and sank a few days later off the coast of North Carolina,” he persisted, “it's still onboard the sub. We should send down a dive team.”

“No way,” he snapped back.

“Why not?”

“Because it would draw way too much attention, that's why not. You'd have to call in a Navy dive team, alert the EPA about a possible radioactive hazard and I'm sure there's some bullshit maritime congressional committee that'll want oversight—and all for what, because some geriatric misread a sixty-year-old scrap of paper? Do I look like a goddamned idiot?”

“It wouldn't require all that. I need a boat and a dive captain. I'm an experienced diver,” he said, diverting his eyes, fearful that he'd be called on this little exaggeration.

Harris pondered this for a moment. “Officially, I'm saying no.”

The wheels were already turning. The police chief in Atlantic Beach had a fishing boat large enough to get the job done. Dunlevy forced a smile. “Okay, what else on Vocatura?”

“Seems he had a problem with alcohol and he liked the ladies. His security status was dropped two levels in the spring of 1942. There was never anything substantial—at least not enough to prosecute. He had a little henchman who the feds followed around too,” he said, squinting to read the small print, “Marcus Mangino. I can only assume he's also dead by now.”

“I'll have it checked out.” Dunlevy hesitated. “There's one more thing. I didn't want to put it on paper. Our girl in protective custody claims that she's talked with one of the two remaining U-352 survivors.”

“Get a subpoena, and take a deposition from him.”

“Can't. He's on a Caribbean island, one of the French ones, I think.”

Harris waved his hand vaguely. “What, you're gonna hit me up for a beach vacation now? Well, before you ask—no.”

Dunlevy laughed. “Honestly, I don't care all that much about getting his deposition, but how about a copy of that file,” he said, pointing to the stack of paperwork.

He shook his head. “This folder stays locked in my safe, and when and if you come up with something substantial I'll pull it out, and you'll be a big deal. If not, again, this conversation never happened.”

Dunlevy stood and extended his hand across the desk. Harris gripped it firmly. “Are you headed back to Wilmington?”

“No, we'll be working out of the Providence field office for a while. DeMichael's support system is in Rhode Island. He's heading there.”

“And the girl?”

“I'm bringing her along with me.”

He looked surprised. “And why's that?”

“I may need her. The surviving German national won't take my calls. She's the only one he's been willing to have contact with so far.”

The assistant director walked him to the door. “Play it smart, Marty. This could be your ticket back.”

***

With two hours to kill before his flight, Dunlevy walked the halls of the Bureau looking for familiar faces. There were occasional greetings, the odd voice mumbling his name as he passed a cubicle, but, for the most part, he went unnoticed.

There were plenty of nameless, faceless George Clooney haircuts in starched white shirts tucked into dark trousers with thirty-two-inch waists. The women were no better. Their solid power suits and silk blouses wore them. There were no smiles, no color, and no sexual banter over the water cooler. The FBI had become just another federally mandated, neutered, sterile workplace. And it made Dunlevy feel old and out of place.

He was heading to the elevator to make his escape but stopped when he heard a shout from the other end of the hallway.

“Hey, Irishman! I thought you'd been banished to the hinterlands!”

It took him a second to place the voice. Suddenly, he grinned broadly. “Brian! They must not be administering the mandatory drug tests up here anymore.”

“Wise guy.” The men exchanged a brisk hug.

“At last, somebody I know. When did the Bureau become a Kinder-Care franchise?”

“While we were getting old and fat.”

Dunlevy laughed, holding his stomach. “Speak for yourself. I'm only ten pounds heavier than the day I graduated from Quantico.”

Both men stepped into the elevator. “What floor you headed?” Brian asked.

“Ninth, I guess. I want to stick my head in the crime lab. They're doing a DNA workup for me.”

Brian smirked. “Oh yeah, the boys in the lab are still laughing about that one.”

Dunlevy's brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“You didn't get their e-mail? It was a joke, right?”

“What? I've been traveling all day.”

“Your perp is from the
Felidae
family,” Brian chuckled.

“
Felidae?
” Dunlevy asked. “Seriously, Brian, what the hell are you talking about?”

He dropped the smile. “I'm sorry. I overheard the lab guys say they thought you were playing a joke.
Felidae,
you know, feline. Your perp's hair sample is from a cat.”

“You're shittin' me.”

Brian laughed out loud. “Honest to God, you didn't know? The lab rats say your murderer is a big white tomcat.”