The Survivors (15 page)

“Do I have anything open?”

“It'll have to be at eight o'clock.”

“I can do that. Thanks.” Tori closed the door behind her.

“Tim, sorry. What about the interview with Scottie? Will they at least let me be there?”

“It's open for negotiation at this point. They'll want to sweat him, see if he loses control. Or maybe he'll admit to something—like owning a gun or knowing how to make a bomb. You never know.”

“Right,” I said, thinking of Scottie's backpack, and gun, under my desk.

Tim said, “But if you can bring him to them, it saves a lot of legwork. They may agree to some ground rules, like letting you and me be there with him.”

“You'll help out?”

“You know it, brother.” It was a running joke that we were honorary brothers.

“Great. I'll let you know what they tell me,” I said.

“Hey, did you hear what happened to Dorsey?” he said.

Sean Dorsey had been another roommate of ours at Southern Cal. Tim and Sean were on the football team, which made them near-gods on campus. Tim had been hurt his last year in school and hadn't gotten a sniff of interest from the pros. That put him on track to go to law school. Sean had been a golden boy, a linebacker who was drafted in the first round by the New York Giants. He was still in New York, but with the Jets. After eleven years in the league, he still played as hard—and partied as hard—as he had when we were freshmen.

“Let me guess—he's in trouble again,” I said. “I'll bet there's a woman in it.”

“Right on both counts. He got arrested for stalking.”

“How did that happen?”

“He gave her an $80,000 necklace on their third date. They broke up that weekend, and he wanted it back.”

“And Dorsey's never heard of asking politely.”

“Wait 'til you hear the end of it. She's the coach's daughter.”

“Ouch.”

“I was in New York yesterday to bail him out. The Jets are going to cut him tomorrow.”

“That's too bad. Give him my best anyway.”

“Will do. And Cal, a bit of advice. Don't lie to the FBI again. If they find out, they'll skin you and eat you.”

“Thanks, but that's an image I don't need.”

“Yes it is, if it helps make my point.”

Tori had left by the time I got off the phone, so I wasn't able to ask her if Charlene Russo had told her why she wanted to see me. I'd have to wait until morning to find out.

I got my things together and locked up. It was nearly seven, and Scottie would be wondering where I was.

I left the building through the back door, directly into the parking lot. A man was crossing in front of me, and he had his head turned, staring at something next to my car. He was so absorbed, he nearly tripped over the curb.

I looked over and saw Jamie Weston sitting on the concrete wall. She had expensive-looking clothes on, a dark suit with a tight skirt and heels. She'd taken her jacket off in the heat. Her white blouse was sleeveless, with a camisole underneath. She raised her hand and delicately brushed her hair from her eyes. Then she started to chew her nails.

“Hey,” I called. “You're the second girl I've seen sitting there today.”

She gave me her big smile. “Did you just call me a girl?”

“I'd never do that.” I set my briefcase and the backpack on the ground. I was self-conscious about the gun, worried that the outline might show. There always seemed to be something like that between us, something not quite in balance. “You're all dressed up.”

“I was in court today. I called a while ago, and your secretary told me you'd be leaving soon.”

“How did you know this was my car?”

“I'm a highly placed professional. I have minions who can find out things like that.”

There it was again, the easy jokes. I wasn't sure it was a good idea to play along. I did anyway. “Minions?”

“Well, people who know how to use computers better than I do.”

She stood up. With her heels on we were almost the same height. “You made quite an impression on Eric Russo last night. He called my boss's boss this morning, starry-eyed in love with you.”

“Really? Will he respect me later?”

She seemed to have a thousand different smiles. This one was slow in coming, as if she was fighting it, trying to keep things serious. “Russo says he feels you can keep Scott Glass in line. If he were anybody else, the FBI would tell him ‘thanks for sharing' and go right on handling things our way. But once Russo is confirmed as US Attorney, we're going to have to work with him, day in and day out. He'll call the shots on a lot of our cases. We don't want to get off on the wrong foot.”

She leaned her hip against the car and crossed her arms. It was seductive and defensive at the same time. A perfect pose for negotiations.

“So what is it you want?”

“Cade and I met with my boss and his boss and a few other people today. We can't just walk away from Glass.”

So Tim had been right, and now it was time for me to make the best deal I could. “You still want an interview.” I didn't wait for her to nod. “Then we do it here, my office. You can be there, and me, and a lawyer who's a friend of mine.”

She was surprised that I was so bold. Her eyes narrowed. “That won't work. Our own psychologist has to be there. He's got questions for Glass. It's all standard—”

“Nothing is standard with this. If you want a psychologist there, OK. But I'll decide if things are getting to be too much for Scott.” She opened her mouth to argue, but I kept going. “That's all I can give you. If it isn't enough, you'll have to find him on your own. That could take a day or a month. And you'll get off on the wrong foot with Russo, given that he's fallen in love with me.”

Her expression turned cold. “You seem to have it all thought out. Have you talked this over with Glass?”

“I hope to be in touch with him this evening,” I said, wondering if that was one of those lies for which they could skin me and eat me. “I'd like to ease him into this. Could we put off the interview until Saturday?”

“I've got to give a status report at the end of the day on Friday. It'll have to be before then.”

“All right, Friday at noon. My office, with you, your psychologist, Scott, and my lawyer friend. In the meantime, Scott is free to do as he pleases as long as he doesn't bother Eric Russo. Deal?”

She sucked on her cheek while she considered it. “Deal.” She stuck her hand out in a stiff little gesture. Her grip was surprisingly firm.

“There's another thing,” she said, holding on to my hand.

“There always is, isn't there?”

“Like you said, Glass needs to leave Russo alone, and that includes no more poking into his background. Russo didn't like those phone records you showed up with. He said it felt like some courtroom trap.”

“I was just trying to get an explanation.”

“Doesn't matter. No more snooping. Got it?”

“Sure.” She frowned, so I bowed slightly. “Word of honor.”

“Good.” She let go of my hand, and her smile came back, full on. “Do you really want to learn evasive driving?”

“That was a silly joke.”

“But you thought someone was following you?”

“It was my imagination, unless . . . what kind of car to do you drive?”

“Me? A little Japanese thing.”

Like an Acura, I thought.

She leaned away from the car and slung her jacket over her shoulder. “You'll let me know when Glass agrees to our meeting?”

“I've got both of your numbers memorized.”

She walked past, brushing my shoulder with her bare arm. “I like the sound of that, Cal.”

“Good to see you, Jamie.”

She didn't turn around, but raised her hand and wagged it in a good-bye wave.

FOURTEEN

S
cottie was waiting in Felix's front yard, and he opened the door to my car before I was fully stopped. “Where have you been? You told me you'd be here at six.”

“Somebody came by the office to see me. Where's Felix?”

“He said he had to take Coop to the veterinarian. Do vets stay open this late?”

“Sure, if that's what Felix said.”

“I think he lied. I think he wanted to get away from me.”

I shut the engine down. “What happened?”

“That table in his kitchen, you know? He yelled at me for leaving a glass on it. Then he said it was a Stickley, and it isn't. I mean, it's not even made of oak and the joints—”

“Scottie, you can be a real pain, you know that?”

He hung his head. “I know. But I don't like it when people get things wrong. It bugs me.”

“I'm sure Felix won't stay mad long. He never does.” I clapped him on the shoulder. “Let's go sit where it's more comfortable. I've got some good news.”

I led him to the porch, where Felix kept two Adirondack chairs. The heat of the day was fading, but I switched on the overhead fan to stir the air.

“Eric Russo told the FBI to leave you alone.” Scottie smiled so brightly I shook my head to calm him down. “That's as long as you stay away from him. Meanwhile, I've got to keep an eye on you. We'll have to meet every day, have a talk.”

“Great,” he said. “I'd like that.”

“And you'll need to have an interview with an FBI agent, Jamie Weston. I've talked to her a few times, and you'll do fine. I'll be there along with a lawyer friend of mine.” I wasn't going to mention the FBI psychologist just yet.

“What do they want to interview me about? I don't need a lawyer.”

“The lawyer is my idea. Like I said, he's a friend. Weston needs to talk to you to make sure you're not going to do anything to Russo, that's all.”

“Is she going to interview Russo, too? Find out why he tried to get me in trouble?”

He'd started rocking back and forth. It was so damned easy to set him off. What I needed was to knock some of his defenses down.

“Have you ever been arrested?”

“What? I—” He looked away. “Why do you want to know that?”

“It's me, OK? There's nothing to be ashamed of between us.”

“Yeah, I guess so. I was once. They put me on probation for a while, and there was some community service stuff.”

“Tell me about it.”

He shrugged. “I hurt somebody—kind of.”

Maybe he thought I was going to let him keep it at that, but I waited, dead still, until he began to squirm.

“I was riding my bicycle home from work. This guy stepped out in front of me. I had to veer off, and I hit a parking meter. I broke this tooth—” He lifted his lip to show me. “And my collar bone. He didn't even help me up. Just said, ‘Idiot. Watch where you're going,' and walked away.”

He looked at the street and rubbed his hands on his knees.

“So?” I said.

“I found out his name—Stewart Pearsall—and where he lived in Georgetown. I couldn't stop thinking about the way he left me lying there. After I healed up, I went to his house one morning. I might have only talked to him, but he wouldn't listen. He told me to get lost or he'd call the cops. I . . . I broke his leg with a shovel from the neighbor's yard.” He gave me a furtive glance. “It was only a little break. He didn't even need crutches.”

“Oookay.” If he'd been a patient, I would have said,
And how did that make you feel?
As it was, I had practical problems to deal with. “Scottie, can you see now why the FBI needs to talk to you? They don't want you to end up at Eric Russo's house with a shovel or a hammer—” I'd brought his backpack to the porch, and I nudged it with my toe. “Or a gun.”

“I guess so,” he mumbled. “That doesn't mean they should treat me like an insect.”

They
. The big, bad world at large pushing him around. Feelings like that would take a long time to deal with, partly because he was right. I'm sure at times people did treat him like an insect. At least he was dropping the hard shell when he was around me.

“Let's talk about something else,” I said. “Why do you have those real-estate tax records? The ones from the office buildings around Damascus.”

“Why do you want to know about those?”

“I couldn't figure them out.” I took out the papers from the backpack. “These corporations don't mean anything to me, nor do the addresses. I just wondered how they connected to anything.”

He gave me a suspicious look. Maybe he realized I was changing the subject, away from Russo.

He said, “Those companies are all owned by somebody who worked with your mother at Braeder Design. I thought she might know something, but she refused to see me, just like Russo.”

“Who are you talking about?”

“Lois McGuin. She was your mother's boss.”

Lois's name had come up last night when I was with Russo and O'Shea. She was a connection point, but there was no surprise in that.