The Innocent (31 page)

He passed an MPD cop car going the opposite way, its rack lights blasting blue streaks into the dark. Someone was in trouble. Or dead.

Robie’s first stop was Julie’s home.

He parked a block away and approached the house from the rear. A minute later he was in the duplex. He navigated with a penlight through the dark interior. He knew what he wanted to look at.

Two people being murdered here had set Julie’s flight in motion. The bodies had been removed and the place sterilized. To what degree precisely was the reason Robie was here tonight. At some point the Gettys’ disappearance would prompt calls to the police. They would come here and find the place empty. They would connect that Julie was or at least had been in foster care. They would try to find her. They would fail. They would assume that the Gettys
had gone off together for some reason—perhaps to escape accumulated debt or unpaid dealers who wanted payment for the drugs the Gettys were known to have used.

The police would put some time in, but not a lot. Without any evidence of a violent end to the lives of the Gettys, the investigation would be put on the back burner. Big-city police departments did not have the luxury of expending time and resources on cases like this one.

Robie stooped and studied the mark on the wall. Blood, to his eye, but the police might not even notice it. Even if they noticed it they wouldn’t test it. That meant paperwork, tech hours, and lab time. And for what?

But that little smudge was telling Robie something.

Blood spatter. They got all of it except this spot. This spot is not hidden. It’s in plain view. They should’ve cleaned it off, or painted over it like they did on the other section.

Robie straightened. That mark was a message.

The Gettys were dead. He had never doubted that.

But who was the message meant for?

They knew that Julie was aware her parents were dead. She had seen it happen.

Was it for one of the Gettys’ friends? Who might want to talk to the police, but wouldn’t if they knew they’d been killed?

That was a stretch, thought Robie. The friend might never see this mark or know what it was if they did spot it.

But I would find it. I would know what it is.

He searched the rest of the house, ending in Julie’s bedroom. He shined his tiny light around. He saw a stuffed bear in a corner lying on its side. He picked it up, put it in the knapsack he’d brought with him. There was a photo of Julie and her parents next to her bed. He put that in the knapsack too.

He’d give them to Julie when he saw her again.

His next stop was Rick Wind’s. Not his place of business where someone cut his tongue out and then stuck it down his throat. He was heading to Rick Wind’s house in Maryland.

But he would not get there. At least not tonight.

His phone buzzed.

It was Blue Man.

“We found your handler. You can come and see what’s left of him.”

T
HERE WAS NO STENCH.
A burned body doesn’t give off much odor. The flesh and bodily gases, the twin engines of forensic malodor, had been burned off. Charred remains carried a scent, but it was not a disagreeable one. Anyone walking into a fast-food burger place or the aftermath of an inferno had experienced it.

Robie looked down at the mass of blackened bone and then stared two feet over at Blue Man. His white shirt was crisply starched, his tie point dropped right at six o’clock. He smelled of Kiehl’s facial fuel. It was a little after five o’clock in the morning and he looked ready to make a presentation to a Fortune 500 board.

Blue Man was staring down at the black husk that used to be a man. A man who had ordered Robie to kill a woman and her child.

“Hard to feel sorry about it, I know,” said Blue Man, seemingly reading Robie’s thoughts.

“Sorry doesn’t really enter the equation, does it?” said Robie. “What do we know?”

“His name, position, and employment history. We do not know his recent whereabouts, why he was turned, or who killed him.”

They were standing in the middle of a park in Fairfax County, Virginia. To Robie’s left was a Little League baseball diamond. To his right, tennis courts.

“I’m assuming he was toasted and left here recently,” Robie said.

“Since no parents reported seeing this pile of detritus while attending their kid’s baseball game last evening, I think we can assume that,” replied Blue Man.

“How’d you find out?”

“We received an anonymous phone call with explicit information.”

“We sure it’s the guy? You can’t get DNA off charred bone, can you?”

Blue Man indicated the left pinky of the body, or at least where the pinky had once been. “They very helpfully covered that finger with fire-retardant material. We removed the finger and made the match off that, both prints and DNA. It’s him.”

“Phone call, pink pinky. That was very helpful of them.”

“I thought so.”

“You said you don’t know why he switched sides?”

“We’re checking all the obvious ones: secret bank accounts, threats to family members, a change in political philosophy. Nothing definitive yet. The truth is we may never know.”

“They’re taking care of loose ends,” said Robie. “You think this guy would have understood his chances of survival were basically zero.”

“All traitors should ultimately recognize that, and yet they do it anyway.”

“Did you come up with any thoughts on Leo Broome?”

“Not yet.”

Blue Man pointed to an SUV parked at the curb. “I think it’s time for that briefing.”

“I don’t have much to tell you.”

“I’m awake. There’s fresh coffee in there. Whatever you can tell me will be more than I know right now.”

As they walked to the vehicle Robie said, “You ever think about retiring or doing something else for a living?”

“Every day.”

“And yet you’re still here.”

Blue Man opened the door of the SUV. “I’m still here. And so are
you
.”

And so am I
, thought Robie.

Robie eased into the backseat. There was a space between him and Blue Man. He closed the door and pointed to two coffee cups in the holder between them. “They’re both black. I don’t like to cut perfectly fine coffee with cream or sugar.”

Robie nodded. “Same with me.”

Robie lifted the cup on his side and put it to his lips. Blue Man did the same with his.

Blue Man said, “Leo Broome?”

Robie could tell the man everything and probably should. But he had a natural disinclination to tell anyone everything. Actually, he had a natural disinclination to tell anyone anything.

“My handler is lying out there barbecued,” began Robie.

“I wouldn’t trust anyone either,” replied Blue Man, again reading Robie’s thoughts. “I can’t force you to tell me what you know.”

He let that statement sit there.

“What about heightened interrogation techniques?”

“Don’t believe in them.”

“Is that the agency’s official position now?”

“It’s my personal one.”

Robie mulled things over for a few seconds.

“Like I said, the girl was on the bus. Her name is Julie Getty. A guy on there tried to kill her. I took him out. We got off, and the bus blew up. I lost my gun in the blast. We got away from the shooter in the alley and she’s staying at my other place.”

“Ties to Leo Broome?”

“A friend of Julie’s parents, Curtis and Sara. I don’t know why the guy on the bus killed them, maybe they knew something and had to be silenced. We need to check out their backgrounds. Whoever killed them probably thought Julie knew the same thing her parents did. She gave me the names of friends of her parents. The Broomes were on that list. I went to their apartment. They were gone. And the place had been scrubbed.”

“So they’re either on the run or dead too,” commented Blue Man.

“Looks to be.”

“Broome was with the DOA. Not exactly the epicenter of espionage.”

“He was also in the military, in Gulf One,” replied Robie.

“That does open up some possibilities.”

Robie eased forward in the seat, making the leather squeak slightly. Outside, the investigation continued as the techs tried to
find any clue as to who had taken a human being and turned him into a kabob. Robie did not like their odds of success. Killers who guided you to the bodies didn’t usually leave useful clues behind.

He took another sip of the coffee, let it warm his throat, get it lubricated to talk some more. Robie did not normally like to talk. About anything. But tonight he would make an exception to that rule. He needed help.

“There’s something else,” said Robie.

“I thought there might be,” answered Blue Man.

“I thought initially Julie was the target on the bus. Now I believe that I was.”

“Why?”

“Principally it’s a question of timing. The bomb had to have been put on that bus hours before it left. Julie spontaneously decided to get on the bus after the bomb had already been placed. I had reserved a seat using an alias, an alias someone knew who shouldn’t have known. They couldn’t have known she would be on the bus. But they knew I would be. And that bomb had to be placed on the bus before I even got to the Winds’ apartment.”

“But why kill you? What do you know that can hurt them?”

Robie shook his head. “I can’t figure that one out. At least not yet.”

Blue Man said, “You should be dead, you know.”

“You mean from the bomb blast?”

“No, from the shooting at Donnelly’s.”

“I know. They let me live.”

“So they wanted to kill you before, but now they want to let you live?”

“Change in plan.”

“Why? Do they need you for something?”

The way Blue Man said it made Robie look at him.

“You think I’ve been turned too?”

Blue Man stared over Robie’s shoulder at where the forensic work lights were illuminating the remains of what had once been a man.

“Well, if you have been you can certainly see there’s no future in it.”

R
OBIE DROVE NORTH
into Prince George’s County, Maryland. Prince George’s was largely working- and middle-class, with cops, firefighters, and midlevel government types making their homes there. Its more affluent neighbor, Montgomery County, had more than its share of lawyers, bankers, and CEOs who lived in massive houses on relatively small plots of land.

Rick Wind had lived on a narrow street in a neighborhood where people parked their cars and trucks at the curb and filled their garages with things their small homes couldn’t contain.

There was a police presence here, though no crime scene tape was strung, for the simple fact that no crime had been committed here. Blue Man had had his people call ahead, and the officer on duty let Robie pass by after he showed his cred pack.

Since there might technically be usable evidence here, Robie put on latex gloves and shoe covers before entering the house. He passed through the front door and shut it behind him. He turned on the lights and gazed around. Wind’s pawnshop business had obviously not been doing that well. The furniture was old and shabby, the rugs stained and worn. The walls needed painting. The smells that hit Robie were all deep-fried foods. Wind hadn’t been here in a while to cook anything, so Robie assumed these aromas were buried deeply in the bones of the place, never to be eliminated until the house was knocked down.

There was a shelf against one wall. On it were a few books, mostly military thrillers, and a number of framed photographs. Robie
picked them up one by one and saw Rick and Jane Wind and the couple’s two sons, only one of whom was still alive.

The family looked happy in the pictures and Robie let his thoughts wander for a moment and wondered what had caused the marriage to break down. He put down the last photo and kept moving. Affairs of the heart were beyond his expertise.

He worked his way from the main floor to the top floor. And found nothing.

He searched the basement and again struck out. All he found was damp and mold and boxes filled with junk.