Undercover Genius (16 page)

This was a facility for those prisoners who hadn’t yet been
convicted. We’re all innocent until proven guilty, right? Some of us are just
more innocent than others, or have friends with bigger wallets.

Hackman had been charged with a drive-by shooting. He had
priors and his bond was off the charts. Read between the lines and you see
gangbanger and someone the cops want off the streets — even if he didn’t
commit the crime with which he was charged — under the assumption that he
was undoubtedly guilty of others. That’s what happens when you hang out with
the wrong crowd.

The guards led me to one of those rooms with a glass wall
down the middle and telephones on either side. Lemuel didn’t look surprised to
see me when he picked up his phone. He was even younger looking than I’d expected,
although the reports said he was eighteen. He was slight, with a burgeoning
goatee and a gang symbol shaved into his cropped nap. “You from the public
defender?” he asked.

“No, I’m better, Mr. Hackman. I can get you bail. Convince
me you’re worth it.”

I’d give him credit for intelligently narrowing his eyes
with suspicion. “How?”

“First, if I get you out of here, what are you going to do?”
I had ulterior motives on top of ulterior motives, but I wasn’t letting a
murderer into the street if I knew about it.

Correctly guessing that was a loaded question, he didn’t
pull the bluffing thug act. I gave him another point. He shrugged. “Run,” he
said. “The state’s got evidence that points to me. I can’t prove I didn’t do
it. And the guy who did do it will figure I squealed and kill me.”

“I’ve been worse off,” I said with a similar world-weary
shrug. He looked disbelieving, but that was pure honesty and the reason I had
the audacity to follow this game. “You’ve got nothing to lose if you trust me.
I’ve got a lot of money to lose if you run. If you can give me the information
I want, I’ll bail you out, find you a safe place, and you can squeal like a pig
so we can lock up the gun-toting cretin. Fair?”

“What you want?” He emanated suspicion like bad body odor.

“I need a list of everyone who visited the guy who died in
the cell across from you, and I mean jailers and anyone who just looked ugly
passing his cell that day.” I sat back and waited. I figured my chances were
fifty-fifty that he’d spill. Far less that he’d provide what I needed.

He nodded slowly. “I can do that. I’d be real happy to do
that. Just get me out of here and somewhere safe.”

“You’re good.” I smiled in approval. “But I’m the one with
the money and the safe place and you’re the one with incentive to run. What I’m
asking costs you nothing. You either trust me now, or we have no deal.”

He weighed his options. He didn’t have many. “Okay, but if
you don’t come through, my homeys are gonna find you.”

“No, they aren’t, but they won’t need to. I’m straight up.”
I took a notebook and pen out of my hand. “Spill.”

He’d been bored that day, apparently. He began listing every
guard who walked past their cells from the moment he woke up. This kid needed
an education for that brain of his. I took notes. I tried not to flinch when he
hadn’t named anyone whose name I knew by the time he reached Reggie’s departure
to visit Oppenheimer.

Reggie had been acting as his own lawyer — a fool’s job
but his only alternative had been a public defender. He wasn’t allowed any visitors
except a lawyer on weekends. He’d agreed to see Oppenheimer on Saturday. I couldn’t
see how Oppenheimer could have passed anything poisonous through this glass
wall, as the police report suggested, but maybe real lawyers knew the protocol.
Or maybe they’d been given a private room and the report was wrong.

“When the guy got back to his cell,” the kid continued, “his
preacher came by to talk to him. That’s the last I saw before he started
screaming and throwing up and causing a racket,” Hackman concluded.

His preacher! I almost smiled. “And did you catch the name
of his preacher by any chance?”

Lemuel just shrugged. “He just called him Smitty.”

Smitty
?

I recalled Dr. Smythe of the R&P had a religious doctorate
of some kind. Reggie’s
preacher
?

“Tell me which bail bondsman you recommend,” I said in
satisfaction, “then tell me what the preacher looked like.”

I called Nick from the Detention Center and arranged for
him to have one of his buddies pick up Lemuel after he was released on Monday.
Our family bank account was badly hit by the kid’s bondsman and would be more
so after we paid one of Nick’s chronic moocher friends to take Lemuel on as a
roommate. But I was counting on Lemuel being a smart boy and willing to stay on
the opposite end of town from his usual haunts until the real drive-by killer
was caught.

I needed to see if I could find the kid an anonymous
dishwashing job so he didn’t take to pawning his new roomie’s TV. I’m no
bleeding heart. I didn’t expect
anyone
to be pure of soul. But given a choice, the smart ones discovered work was
simpler than a life of dodging the law and gangs.

Once I returned to my basement, I ran a quick Google on Dr.
Smythe and printed out a photo. I’d show it to Lemuel for verification once he
was out on bond, but Smythe fit Lemuel’s description.

It was Sunday, and I didn’t know how to reach Oppenheimer to
relay the information of a possible killer to him. There wasn’t much he — or
the police — could do about Smitty anyway. The good reverend was a hugely
popular advisor to politicians. I needed real evidence or the preacher had
pretty much accomplished the perfect crime — as had my grandfather’s
killer.

When I learned Patra had taken off to pry files out of Mrs.
Bloom, I wasn’t too happy. But I wasn’t too happy about her being a walking
target for her father’s enemies either, so I sucked it up. EG and Nick had done
the laundry, and I owed EG a visit to the zoo.

We’d earned our afternoon off.

Patra’s perspective

Patra straightened the boxy jacket that concealed her
figure and nervously tried to ignore the gray cat twisting around her bare
ankles. Her long, flowered skirt had been a Goodwill purchase. It was nasty
enough to attract cats and small rodents.

This was her one and only chance to retrieve Bill’s papers.
She would not kick a cat.

“We are so sorry for your loss, Mrs. Bloom. With more time,
I’m sure your son would have seen the error of his ways and returned to the
fold. It’s always tragic to see a young man cut off before he achieves his
prime.”

Patra didn’t dare look at Sean. Last time, he’d crossed his
eyes at her and stuck a finger down his throat as if he wanted to puke — juvenile
behavior for a grown man. Fortunately, Mrs. Bloom couldn’t see him. He stood
behind their hostess, keeping an eye on the street outside.

“Bill was smart,” Mrs. Bloom said with a sniff. “I’d hoped
he would make something of his fancy education. But then he dropped out and
fell in with the wrong crowd.”

Yeah, he fell in with educated
people with open minds
. Patra nodded. “It happens. I understand. But Dr.
Smythe fears those papers in your possession might contain anti-Christian
propaganda. If you would entrust them to us, we’ll see that they’re shredded.
And I believe a small payment has been authorized for your service to the
cause.”

Mrs. Bloom frowned. “I told that other nice girl that I’d
call her…”

“Oh, she works for us. She’s the one who told Dr. Smythe about
the papers. I’ll call her now if you’d like to talk to her.” Patra produced her
phone while frantically trying to remember if Ana had told her the name she’d
used when visiting Bill’s mother. Ana never used her own name.

“Oh, that’s all right, then. Ken is out in the garage. He’ll
help you load them into your car. He was planning on burning them in the
fireplace this winter, but it’s probably safer if you shred them.”

In relief, Patra stood up, nudging the cat away from her
pump. “We’ll dispose of the boxes, and you’ll be receiving a small check in the
mail. It’s been a pleasure meeting you, Mrs. Bloom. This country needs more
righteous citizens like you.”

Even Patra was gagging on her own poppycock by the time they
had loaded the trunk of Sean’s sports car and waved farewell to Bill’s surly
brother. Ken had scarcely spoken a word despite her best efforts to charm. He was
on the phone when they backed out and didn’t even notice her wave.

“How do you plan on sending a check from the R&P?” Sean
asked as they drove away.

“I don’t. Let her pester the bigots for the money. Give them
something to do figuring out who we are. With Riley following me around, it’s
only a matter of time anyway. We just need to work faster.” Patra sank deeper
into the classic MG’s leather seat and watched the road behind them over her
shoulder. “I’d rather not lead strangers back to the house, though.”

“To the batcave?” he asked incredulously. “I don’t think
anyone short of the CIA has the know-how to get past Graham’s fortress.”

“They won’t need to go near Graham if they catch us first. Shiny
white Cadillac sedan two cars back.”

Sean shot her a frown before checking his mirror. Two
demerits, Patra thought, using Ana’s old system of rating character. For safety,
one always checked out the credibility of the warning first, not the messenger.

“What’s wrong with a Cadillac?” he asked warily.

“I’m not familiar with DC, but humor me. Try going around
the block and come up behind the Caddy. In this traffic, he can’t get too far,
and if he’s heading for the freeway, he should be easy to follow.”

Sean made a sharp left turn in front of oncoming traffic,
floored the little car through a yellow light, made a left at the next
intersection, then made two more lefts to take them back to their original
route.

She couldn’t see the Cadillac. “Well done, grasshopper. Those
left turns should have shaken him for a while.” Patra scanned the side roads
they passed.

“It could have turned off anywhere,” Sean argued.

“A pricey car like that does not belong in this
neighborhood.” She gestured at the dirty Ford Econ-o-vans and battered pickups
around them. “Cadillacs would only be passing through on the way to the
interstate, which is straight ahead, if I remember correctly. Continue as if
we’re going home. I think darling Ken called a tail.”

Patra pulled out her phone and rang Ana. She got voice mail.
Nick, the same. She didn’t have a message to leave. Yet.

Sean took the entrance ramp. Still slumped below the seat
back, Patra studied the traffic behind them in the side-view mirror.
“Convertibles make a rotten getaway car, especially if the villains start
shooting. There he is, three cars back, coming up the ramp. He knew our route
and waited for us to pass him.”

“Not that I’m buying your family paranoia…” Sean floored the
MG, passed a semi on the left, swerved back to the right lane in front of the
truck, and recklessly caught the next exit ramp.

Patra almost swallowed her tongue as the semi came a hair’s
breadth from rear-ending them. “You’re too visible. The Cadillac saw us. But
nice maneuver.”

Sean swore vividly as the Caddy veered right and off the
ramp at the last minute. “That should screw anyone waiting for us on the usual
route, at least.”

“They could have picked up Bill’s papers anytime, just the
way we did,” Patra said, brain cranking as genuine fear set in. “It’s
us
they’re after.”

“Yeah, that was my conclusion, too. The papers were bait.
They just waited to see who was interested and hooked Ana. And then they waited
for her to come back for them. Or us, as it turns out. But you were the first
one at the scene of Bill’s apartment that night, so you’re more likely who they
were expecting.”

“I’m not as sneaky as Ana,” she admitted with a shrug.
“People notice me, so I play it.”

“Play it with someone else, please. I don’t relish turning
gray before my time.” He zipped the car into a shopping center, took an alley
back to the Dumpsters, bumped across a parking lot edger, over a grass divider,
and into a parking lot behind an apartment house.

“You’ll tear the bottom out of your pretty car,” she
protested, trying not to look impressed.

“My office is out here. I know the shortcuts.”

Torn between wide-eyed awe at his ability to dodge garbage
bins, and watching over her shoulder for the white Caddy, Patra was working on
a bad case of neck strain. She almost fell over in relief when he rolled the
midget car into an underground garage.

“I hate leaving my baby like this, but let’s get these boxes
upstairs. Maybe I can send security down.” Sean jumped out and began unloading the
convertible.

“Don’t suppose you have any friends to help us with these?”
Patra complained when she tried to balance one box too many on her stack.

“Sunday, remember? Nearly empty garage?” Arms full, he
gestured with his chin at the few old clunkers occupying the enormous space.

Slamming the trunk, Patra shut up and followed him to the
elevator, expecting the Cadillac to run them down any minute. She didn’t
breathe until the elevator doors closed. Remembering the horror of her scorched
apartment, she shuddered. “Do you think they’d torch a newspaper office?”

“They can’t know there’s anything of interest in these boxes
or they’d have destroyed them first and worried about you later.”

“Theory,” she argued. “Why me?”

He glared at her. “Aren’t you the one who had her apartment
burned? Wasn’t Bloom
your
contact?
Wasn’t he doing some spy work for you? Why not you?”

He had a point, even if she didn’t agree. Bill had only one
of her father’s files. These boxes contained something else.

Getting off the elevator upstairs, Sean dropped his stack on
a table in a cubicle farm and punched up a land line. “Security? Keep an eye
out for a white Caddy in the garage. Call the cops if it shows up.”