Enigma (FBI Thriller 21)

“I’ll leave you to it, Dillon,” Sherlock said. “I’m going to go see Kara.”

12

BOWLER, BOWLER, AND BOWLER

CORNER OF K STREET SW AND 17TH STREET NW

WASHINGTON, D.C.

LATE MONDAY AFTERNOON

Ruth went with her gut and parked her Fiat across from the Blackthorn Building. She watched the staffers pour out, ready for their Monday-evening rituals. She ducked down when she saw the Bowlers’ receptionist, Kendrick, walk out, pause on the sidewalk, and look around. A classic red Mustang pulled up and Kendrick got in. Ruth saw a flash of blond hair and sunglasses at the wheel.

Mrs. Bowler and Magda came out a couple of minutes later,

both carrying briefcases, Magda obviously arguing with her mother. About what her daddy had done? Or what the FBI could possibly do to them? They disappeared into the garage beside the Blackthorn Building, and drove out a couple of minutes later together in a dark blue BMW. They weren’t arguing any longer, both staring out the windshield as Mrs. Bowler carefully eased into traffic. Ruth wondered exactly what they knew. How complicit were they?

Duce Bowler came out thirty minutes later, alone, his head down, carrying a briefcase. It looked to Ruth like he was talking to himself, shaking his head, even nodding. Was he trying to decide what to do? Or had he already made phone calls, made all the arrangements? He disappeared into the garage, came out driving a new dark gray Lexus GS F. Unlike his wife, he screeched into traffic, ignoring honking cars, obviously on edge. Good. It was still powerfully hot, even after five o’clock in the afternoon. His windows were rolled up, the AC doubtless on high.

Ruth pulled smoothly into traffic, three cars behind Mr. Bowler’s Lexus. She soon realized he wasn’t going home to Bowleigh, Maryland, he was going to Virginia. She was pleased she’d listened to her gut and started the surveillance early.

Thirty minutes later she was in Alexandria, following Bowler down King Street, past Market Square, and left onto Queen Street. He pulled into a public parking garage and luckily, Ruth managed to squeeze her small Fiat between two SUVs curbside. She watched Bowler come out of the public garage, cross Queen Street, and walk into Bilbo Baggins restaurant with its famous bright yellow facade and red awning.

She called Ollie, told him where Bowler was. “He’s still alone. I’ll bet you he set up a meet in a nice public spot. I’ll call you in fifteen minutes or when whoever he’s meeting gets here.” Ruth punched off, waited a few more minutes, and slipped into the restaurant after him. It was cool and dark inside, filled to brimming with happy-hour workers and tourists, loud with conversations and laughter. Through the endless shuffle of waiters among the closely packed tables, she spotted Bowler at the bar, hunched over what looked to be a martini. She slipped into the restroom hallway and stood watching him and whoever came through the front door. Minutes passed. It was nearly six o’clock. Could she have been wrong? Was Bilbo Baggins simply one of Bowler’s favorite watering holes, his place to de-stress after a difficult day? This day certainly qualified. He consulted his watch, swiveled on his barstool, and, like her, looked back at the front door, then down at his watch again.

A back booth cleared and Bowler was fast off his barstool to claim it. Ruth walked to the end of the bar to get a better view of him. She ordered a Belgian blond ale and looked toward him now and then. Ruth was good at surveillance; she was patient and she didn’t miss much. She watched him tapping his fingertips on the table as more time passed, occasionally sipping his martini, and rarely looking away from the front door.

Ruth punched in Ollie’s number. “Still no sign of the person he’s supposed to meet. Bowler’s getting antsy, starting to look angry. I don’t need backup yet, and yes, I’m being careful, he won’t see me. I’ll check back in in fifteen minutes.”

Ruth took another sip of her beer. She heard a male voice close to her right ear. “Hi, my name’s John Murphy. I’m a local, not a tourist. Can I buy you another Belgian blond?”

Ruth looked no-nonsense in her black pants and white shirt, her Glock hidden beneath her black jacket. No cleavage, no lipstick. He deserved a smile. She turned on her stool and gave him one. “Hi, John. You look like a nice guy, but alas, I’m married and waiting for my husband.” She waggled her wedding ring at him.

Murphy gave her a salute and a mournful smile. “Then you’ll never know why you should drop the old man.” He turned away.

She appreciated an optimist. Ruth thought of her husband, Dix, and smiled again. She pretended to take another sip of her ale and looked again at Bowler. Ten minutes later, she was on the point of checking in with Ollie when Bowler stood suddenly, threw a twenty-dollar bill on the table and wove his way through the packed restaurant toward the front door. She watched him punch a number in his cell, listen, then punch off. No doubt in her mind now, Bowler was angry. He’d been stood up. He’d never know how much of a bummer that was for both of them.

She slipped out after him, jaywalked behind him toward the public garage. She peeled off to go to her car, then changed her mind and followed Bowler into the garage. There was no attendant, only ticket machines. It was dark and hot, the air sluggish, a few people coming and going. She kept her distance, stayed to the far side of the garage, followed him to level two, to his Lexus. An older couple was walking twenty feet ahead of Bowler. She heard someone whistling, a scrap of conversation.

The lights went out in the garage.

13

WASHINGTON MEMORIAL HOSPITAL

WASHINGTON, D.C.

MONDAY AFTERNOON

Four people were hovering over Kara Moody when Sherlock walked into her room, Dr. Hamshaw, who’d delivered Alex, Philly Adams, and two Metro detectives. One of the detectives was asking Kara a question, but she only shook her head back and forth, hugging herself as she rocked in her chair, tears rolling down her cheeks. Sherlock introduced herself, showed her creds to everyone. Dr. Hamshaw said to her, “I gave Ms. Moody some Versed to calm her. Unfortunately she’s more sensitive to the drug than most and it’s nearly blanked her out. She’ll be doing better in a few minutes.” She leaned down and took Kara’s pulse, checked her pupils.

Sherlock studied Kara’s blank face, the streak of tears she couldn’t seem to control. Her dark hair was hooked behind her ears, hanging loose to her shoulders. Her eyes were blue, not unlike Sherlock’s, but darker, turbulent, her lashes absurdly long. She was twenty-seven, a lovely young woman despite her swollen eyes. Sherlock didn’t think the injection had really deadened her pain. She asked to be left alone with Ms. Moody and waited until the four had filed out. She went down on her knees beside Kara’s chair, took a Kleenex out of her pocket, and wiped the tears from Kara’s face. She took her hand and said slowly, “Kara, I’m Agent Sherlock. Dillon Savich is my husband. You and I met briefly at the hospital yesterday.” She waited.

Slowly, Kara turned drugged eyes to her face. “I remember you, your red hair. It’s beautiful, your hair. You and Dillon are both agents?”

“That’s right. We work together.” She leaned close, squeezed her hand. “Versed is a wonderful drug, but too much of it and you’re floating off with Peter Pan, not tethered to the world. Do you know where you are, Kara?”

Kara frowned at her and whispered, her voice thin, insubstantial, “I don’t see Peter Pan, but yes, this does feel a little bit like never-never land, kind of filmy and blurred. I was hoping for a peaceful green island, blue ocean all around it.”