Enigma (FBI Thriller 21)

Jack said, “Or maybe they already knew each other and that’s why Manta Ray came here in the first place. Dougie, which warehouse does Humbug live in?”

Dougie pointed an unsteady finger toward a tall skinny building some twenty yards away. “That’s the oldest place around here. Everyone except Humbug thinks it’s too dangerous. Like I said, he’s on the third floor when he’s here, lived there for a long time now, on and off, don’t know how long, maybe a year.”

Ruth tucked another twenty-dollar bill into Dougie’s collar, told him to stop drinking and buy some food.

“Ruth? I forgot to tell you, I think the guy on the bullhorn was Irish, too, he parlayed in this thick brogue. It coulda been fake, but who knows?”

“Thank you, Dougie.” She rose, grinned at Cam and Jack. “Time for us to pay a visit to Humbug’s crib.”

Jack and Cam shook Dougie’s hand and walked with Ruth past a half-dozen cardboard dwellings. Ruth said, “Most of all the homeless in this neighborhood prefer living outside rather than in any of the abandoned buildings, only bitter cold will drive them inside. They hate the rats and they’re afraid the floors will collapse on them. Do you know I didn’t know Humbug’s name was Hummer?” She shook her head at herself. “I must be slipping.”

Jack looked up at the decrepit warehouse. “The government spends so much money, why hasn’t this place seen a dime of it?”

Cam said, “Sooner or later, it’ll be made into condos. I wonder where Dougie and Sally and all the others will go?”

41

After they negotiated three floors of rotting stairs, they found Major Hummer’s crib quickly, the only place on the third floor that looked occupied. It was actually a small room with no door, its walls broken down to their bare wood frames, its two broken-out windows facing the front of the warehouse covered with cardboard thumb-tacked over them. Most of the space was stuffed six-feet high with decades of newspapers.

“So Humbug’s a hoarder,” Cam said as she carefully stepped around a stack of Washington Posts from 1993. “This isn’t going to be easy.”

Ruth pointed. “See that pile of blankets on those newspapers in the corner? That’s where he slept. I wonder if he kept Manta Ray’s carryall under his bed?”

She’d dug nearly to the bottom of that stack of newspapers when she blinked, called out, “Hey, what’s this?”

Cam and Jack made their way over to her, watched her carefully unfold a 2003 Washington Post want-ads section. She held up a bracelet. Diamonds spilled through her fingers, sparkling even in the dim light. “Looks like Humbug went through Manta Ray’s goodie bag and lifted a souvenir. Or maybe this was his reward.”

Jack took the diamond bracelet from Ruth, tossed it back and forth, watching the diamonds gleam and sparkle. “Pretty small diamonds, but a lot of them. Maybe high five figures?”

“Tell you in a minute.” Cam took out her cell phone, pulled up a set of photos with descriptions beneath them. “Ah, here we go. These inventory photos of the goods stolen from the safe-deposit boxes show this piece belonging to Mr. Horace Goodman, a big shot at the Stronach Group. They’re a holding company with real estate investments all over the country, including Pimlico in Baltimore, home of the Preakness Stakes. It says this bauble was insured for sixty thousand dollars.”

Jack said, “Mrs. Horace Goodman will be a happy camper when she gets it back.”

“Or whoever,” Ruth said, cynical to the bone.

Cam said, “Do you think Hummer knew the bracelet was from a robbery? Do you think he ever opened the leather carryall?”

“If he wasn’t tripping in outer space the whole time, how could he not look?” Jack straightened, looked around him. “I wonder what he thought when he heard Manta Ray calling to him, looked out that window to see a helicopter waiting for him.”

“Relieved? Happy?” Ruth said. “I’ll bet you Manta Ray convinced him they were best mates. Talked him into holding the loot.”

“Good bet.” Jack handed around his cell, showed them a photograph. “Here he is, Major Patrick Sean Hummer, the photo taken in 2001, only a week after 9/11.” They looked at a soldier with buzz-cut graying hair and sharp brown eyes, focused and filled with intelligence. Jack scrolled down. “He was divorced in the early nineties, two kids, a boy and a girl, given over to his ex-wife. They’re about our age now, Cam. The photo was taken before he simply disappeared, went AWOL. That’s still how he’s listed, so he wasn’t ever found—that is, if anyone bothered to look for him.”

“A life lost, simply thrown away,” Cam said, “by us.” And she kicked at a pile of Washington Posts.

Ruth slipped the diamond bracelet into a small plastic evidence bag. “I almost wish we could leave it here for him. We owe men like him more than a jail cell. Do you guys mind if we keep his name to ourselves?”

Jack said, “I don’t understand the question, Ruth. How would we know his name?”

42

IN THE HELICOPTER

WAREHOUSE DISTRICT, ALEXANDRIA

EARLIER WEDNESDAY MORNING

Liam shouted into the bullhorn, “Major Hummer!”