Enigma (FBI Thriller 21)

“Yep. Sheriff Bender in Magee, Jackson County Sheriff’s Department.” He looked over again at the dead man sprawled in the middle of the dirt road. “This is more trouble than Bud’s seen in a year. He’ll arrange for the doctor they use as a coroner to come out and deal with him.”

The big man had landed facedown, arms flung out to his side, his right arm no longer dripping blood from Jack’s bullet in his shoulder. Jack wasn’t about to turn him over. He knelt down and checked his pockets while Cam picked up his Beretta. “Nice weapon. It’s older, well used and kept in fine shape. A professional’s weapon.”

She shoved her hair out of her face, forgetting it was her wounded arm, and winced. “All of it was professional, even the fricking decoy.”

Jack sighed, asked Duke for the sat phone. “I can’t put it off. Confession time.” He turned away to make a call. He spoke, listened, finally punched off the sat. “I told Savich what happened. Maybe we’ll be tossed in the FBI dungeon with Clyde Chivers. Let’s get Chief to the hospital and you, Cam, you’ll have your arm checked.”

Cam said, “Duke, if you would see to Chief, I’ve got to call Ollie to see if he can find out who that helicopter belongs to. I could only make out the first of the tail numbers before it shifted—N382. There will probably be two more numbers and a final letter.”

“Good eyes, Cam,” Jack said, “but I’ll bet those tail numbers are fake, but maybe not all of them. Tell Ollie it’s a Robinson R66, white, thin blue stripe. Maybe that’ll help.” Jack shrugged, cursed under his breath, and kicked another rock off the dirt road.

28

HOOVER BUILDING

WASHINGTON, D.C.

TU

ESDAY AFTERNOON

Savich was surprised to be called to his boss’s office in the middle of the day. Mr. Maitland’s wasn’t the largest office in the Hoover Building, nor was it filled with standard-issue desks and chairs. It showcased excellent American antiques Mrs. Maitland had selected. A large glass cabinet stood against a wall, filled with mementos of benchmarks in Maitland’s career, framed photos with the great and famous and of his family—Savich’s favorite was the one taken last year with Maitland’s four sons, all big, strong bruisers, surrounding their mother, who was small and blond but unquestionably the leader of the Maitland pack.

Maitland had asked Savich to have a seat when his longtime secretary, Mrs. Gold, showed Captain Juan Ramirez and Detective Aldo Mayer in. Savich saw it, the look of intimidation on Mayer’s face at being called to the emperor’s turf.

Maitland shook Captain Ramirez’s hand, nodded to Mayer. “Thank you for coming. You know Special Agent Savich?”

“A pleasure, Agent Savich,” Ramirez said, and shook his hand.

Maitland did not ask them to sit, nor did he offer coffee. He said, “I asked you to come over this morning, Juan, because your detective here has pulled a stunt that rivals any stupidity I’ve seen in my long career.”

Mayer took a step forward, his face flushed angry red. “Listen here, I pulled off a Metro guard who, I might add, I never approved in the first place.” He jerked his head toward Savich. “He did an end-run around me, went to his good buddy Ben Raven, got a police guard assigned to a guy in a fricking coma. A coma? Like we don’t even know who he is, much less if he could be in danger.”

Savich said quietly, “He would have been murdered last night if Kara Moody hadn’t been there to protect him.”

Mayer knew this, of course, but it only gave him pause. He plowed forward. “Look, I did everything right, everything according to the book. I notified your secretary that since you claimed the case for the FBI, you could provide your own guards.”

His words hung in the tension-filled room. Maitland’s voice remained calm as he asked him, “What time did you notify Ms. Needleham?”

“I don’t remember, could be it was late, but I’d forgotten about our poor officer, still on duty at the hospital. I only wanted to get him home; he didn’t belong there. He never did.”

“What time did you call her, Detective Mayer?” Maitland asked again, still calm but there was a touch of the spurs in his tone. “Well?” Maitland stood tall behind his huge mahogany desk, his arms crossed, looking at Mayer like he wanted to throw him out the window.

Mayer looked down at his feet, then at his captain. “I don’t remember.”

Savich said easily, “Ms. Needleham, Shirley, emailed me at precisely eleven thirty-three last night. I hadn’t checked my email, wouldn’t have until this morning, if I hadn’t gotten a call that an attempt had been made on John Doe’s life.”

The only sound was Mayer’s hard breathing. Captain Ramirez remained silent, looking straight ahead, not at his detective. Savich continued, his voice as calm as night. “I know you were interested in John Doe, wondered who he was, really, and what had happened to him, just as I was. But because of your dislike for me, Detective Mayer, you put him at dire risk. Are you really trying to justify that?”

Mayer couldn’t help himself, it came spewing out. “You proved on Sunday that you’re a publicity-seeking glory hound. So you took down a young guy who’s certifiably crazy. Big deal. I would have brought him in if you hadn’t interfered, if you hadn’t wanted the spotlight, the media attention!”

Captain Ramirez took a step forward in front of Mayer. He said formally, “I wish to apologize for my detective’s negligence that could have cost a man his life. Agent Savich, what would you like me to do?”

I’d like to break a rib or two myself, or better yet, give him to Sherlock. He said, “Detective Mayer, let me ask you a question. Would you have felt responsible if John Doe had been murdered last night?”

Mayer looked like he’d been shot. “I never thought there was any danger to him! I thought you were just—”

“Just what, Detective?” Maitland asked.