Francis glanced at Toona.
“Just doing my job,” replied Macy.
Kevin looked up at the man as he put the phone away.
“You did real good, Kevin.”
“I want to see my brother.”
“One step at a time. You just talked to him. See, we’re not bad people. Hell, we’re into family stuff, see.” He laughed in a way that made Kevin think he wasn’t into family at all. He rubbed his finger where his ring had been.
“Why you let me talk to him?”
“Well, it’s important that he knows you’re okay.”
“So he do what you tell him to do.”
“Damn, you really are one smart kid. You want a job?” He laughed again, turned and left, locking the door behind him.
“What I want,” Kevin called after him, “is out of here.”
24
Web had not read a paper in several days. He finally bought a copy of the Washington Post and went through it over coffee at a table near the large fountain at the Reston Town Center. He had been making slow circles of the Washington metropolitan area and racking up some serious motel bills for the Bureau. Web occasionally looked up and smiled at the kids climbing up on the ledge and throwing pennies into the fountains while their mothers held on to their shirttails so they wouldn’t go plunging into the water.
He had gone through Sports, Metro, Style, working his way backward to the front section. On page A6 his nonchalant attitude disappeared. He reread the article three times and looked closely at the accompanying photos. When he sat back and digested it all, he found himself coming to conclusions that didn’t seem possible, so far-fetched were they. He touched the damaged side of his face and then pressed a finger against the spot of each bullet hole. After all this time was he going to have to confront it again?
He punched his speed dial. Bates wasn’t in. Web had him paged. The guy called back a few minutes later. Web told him about the article.
“Louis Leadbetter. He was the judge down in Richmond who tried the Free Society case. Gunned down. Watkins was the prosecuting attorney in the case. He goes in his house and it implodes. All on the same day. And then you got Charlie Team. We were the team that responded to the Richmond Field Office’s request. I killed two of the Freebies myself before I got my face toasted and two holes in me. And then you have Ernest B. Free himself. Busted out of prison, what, three months ago? One of the guards was paid off, got him out in a transfer van and ended up with his throat slit for his trouble.”
Bates’s reply was surprising. “We know all that, Web. We’ve had our computers crunching that stuff, and then those two deaths, murders, happened. And there’s something else.”
“What?”
“You better come on down.”
When Web arrived at the WFO, he was escorted to the strategic operations room that had all the bells and whistles one would expect at the deep-pocketed crime-busting federal behemoth, including the standard-issue copper-coated walls, sophisticated interior security system, white noise at all vulnerable portals, retinal and palm scanners, stacks of high-powered computers, video equipment and, most important, fresh coffee in high quantities and a mound of hot Krispy Kreme doughnuts.
Web poured himself a cup and said hello to some of the folks scurrying around the large room. He looked at computer-generated diagrams of the courtyard and its environs that had been tacked to large boards and mounted on the walls. There were pins at various places on the diagrams that represented, Web knew, significant points of evidence or clues. The bustle of feet, the nonstop clack of computer keys, the ringing of phones, the rustle of paper and the ballooning body-heat index told Web that something was up. He had been part of these war room operations before.
“Oklahoma City set the standard way too high,” said Bates with an ironic smile as Web sat down across from him. “Now everybody expects us to examine a few hunks of metal, check a few videotapes, run a few plates, hit some computer keys and bingo, we have our man hours later.” He dropped his legal pad on the table. “But it almost never works that way. Like everything else, you need some breaks. Well, we just got a bunch telegraphed to us. Somebody definitely wants us to know he’s out there.”
“I’ll take a lead however it comes in, Perce. Whoever it is can’t control how it’s followed up.”
“You know I really hated it when you left WFO to go climb ropes and shoot big guns. If you’d stuck with me, you might have made a decent FBI agent one day.”
“You make your bed, you lie and die in it. You said there was something else?”
Bates nodded and slid a news clipping over to Web, who looked down at it.
“Scott Wingo . . . that name rings a bell.”
“Yeah, he defended our friend Ernest B. Free. I wasn’t at the trial, of course. I was still recuperating. But the guys who were there talked about Wingo.”
“Slick and smart. He cut his guy a sweetheart deal. And now he’s dead.”
“Murdered?”
“Atropine was applied to his telephone receiver. You pick up the phone, you naturally press it against your skin, near your nostrils and such. Atropine is absorbed through the membranes much faster than via the bloodstream. Causes your pulse to go into over-drive, breathing constricted, can make you hallucinatory, all within an hour or so. If you have bad kidneys or other circulatory problems so the body can’t quickly rid itself of the stuff, that would speed up the poison’s effect. Wingo was diabetic, had heart problems and was confined to a wheelchair, so atropine was the perfect choice. He went in alone on Saturdays, so nobody would be around to help when he started feeling the atropine hit him. And on weekends he was known to return a lot of calls, or so the folks in Richmond tell us.”
“So whoever killed him knew both his medical history and his work routine?”
Bates nodded. “Leadbetter got shot when he turned on the light to read an article another judge supposedly told him about. The marshal who took the call said it was a Judge Mackey. Of course, it wasn’t.”
“The phone again.”
“That’s not all. Watkins’s neighbor was pulling out of his driveway at the time Watkins was walking up to his house. He told police that he saw Watkins reach into his pocket and pull out his phone. The guy couldn’t hear the phone ringing, but he said it looked like Watkins was answering a call. Gas in the house, he hits the talk button. Boom.”
Web said, “Wait a minute. A cell phone isn’t like a light switch. It doesn’t have the right type and amount of electrical spark to ignite gas.”
“We examined the phone, or what was left of it. The forensic folks actually had to scrape it off Watkins’s hand. Someone had planted a solenoid inside the phone that would cause the exact type of spark necessary to ignite that gas.”
“So somebody had to snatch his phone, probably while he was asleep or away from it for any length of time, plant the solenoid and then they had to be watching him when it happened to get the timing that exact.”
“Yep. We checked the logs for Watkins’s and the marshal’s phones. Both calls were made with disposable calling cards you buy with cash and then discard. No record.”
“Like undercover agents use. I take it yours hasn’t surfaced yet?”
“Forget our undercover.”
“No, I’ll just come back to him later. So what’s the latest on Free?”
“Nothing. It’s like the guy’s gone to another planet.”
“Is the organization still active?”
“Unfortunately, yes. You probably remember they disavowed being part of the hit on the school in Richmond and Ernie wouldn’t rat on his soul mates, said he’d planned the job himself without their knowledge, so there went that case. The other gunmen were dead, two of them thanks to you. We couldn’t crack any of the other members and get them to testify, so the Free Society was never even charged with anything. They laid low for a while because of all the negative publicity, but word is they’re coming back with fresh blood.”
“Where are they now?”
“Southern Virginia, near Danville. You better believe we’ve got that place covered. We figured old Ernie would head there after his escape. But so far, nothing.”
“After all this, can’t we get a search warrant for their headquarters?”
“What, we go to the magistrate and say we’ve got three murders, six if you count Watkins’s family, and we think this Free Society might be behind them, but we’ve got absolutely no evidence linking them to the hit on HRT or anybody else? Wouldn’t the ACLU just love to hit that one out of the park?” Bates paused. “It all makes sense though. Prosecutor, judge, perfect motive for revenge.”
“But why the defense lawyer? He saved Ernie from lethal injection. Why take him out?”
“That’s true, but you’re not talking about rational people, Web. For all we know, they’re pissed because their fellow madman served one day in prison. Or maybe Ernie had a falling out with the guy and when he got out he decided to take them all out.”
“Well, at least that should end the killings. There’s nobody left.”
Bates reached in a file and pulled out another slip of paper and a photograph. “Not quite. You remember there were two teachers gunned down at the school too.”
Web took a deep breath as the painful memories came flooding back. “And the boy, David Canfield.”
“Right. Well, one of the slain teachers was married. And guess what? Her husband was killed three days ago in western Maryland while driving home late one night from work.”
“Homicide?”
“Not sure. It was a car crash. Police are still investigating. Looks like a hit and run.”
“Telephone involved?”
“There was one in the car. After we contacted them, the police said they would check the phone logs to see if he received a call right before the crash.”
“How about the other teacher’s family?”
“The husband and kids moved to Oregon. We’ve contacted them and they’re under twenty-four-hour surveillance right now. And we’re not stopping there. You remember David Canfield’s parents? Bill and Gwen?”
Web nodded. “I was in the hospital at MCV for a while. Billy Canfield came to visit me a couple of times. He’s a good guy. He took the loss of his son really hard, who wouldn’t? I never met his wife, and I haven’t seen Billy since.”
“They moved. Live up in Fauquier County now, run a horse farm.”
“Anything strange happen to them?”
“We contacted them as soon as we made the connection. They said nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. They knew about Free’s escape. And to quote Bill Canfield, he said he doesn’t want our help and he hoped the bastard came after him because he’d just love to blow his head off with a shotgun.”
“Billy Canfield is no shrinking violet. I could tell that when he came to the hospital to see me; rough, tough and opinionated. Some of my team who testified at the trial told me he was a pretty loud presence there too. Came close to contempt citations a couple of times.”
“He ran his own trucking firm and then sold it after his kid died.”
“If the Frees are behind the killings in Richmond, Fauquier County is a lot closer than Oregon. The Canfields really could be in danger.”
“I know. I’ve been thinking of taking a ride out there and trying to talk some sense into him.”
“I’ll go with you.”
“You sure about that? I know that what happened at that school in Richmond is something you’d be better off not revisiting.”
Web shook his head. “That’s not something you ever put behind you, Perce, I don’t care how much time goes by. The two teachers died before we got there. I couldn’t do anything about that, but David Canfield was killed on my watch.”
“You did more than anybody could have, including almost getting killed. And you got a permanent badge from it right there on your face. You have nothing to feel guilty about.”
“Then you really don’t know me.”
Bates studied Web closely. “Okay, but let’s not forget about you, Web. If wiping out Charlie Team was the Frees’ goal, they haven’t accomplished it yet. You’re the last man standing.”
Barely, thought Web. “Don’t worry, I look both ways before crossing the street.”
“I’m serious, Web. If they tried once, they’ll try again. These people are fanatics.”
“Yeah, I know. Remember, I got the ‘permanent badge.’”
“And another thing. At the trial Wingo filed that countersuit against HRT and the Bureau for wrongful death.”
“That was bullshit all the way.”
“Right. But it allowed them to make some discovery on HRT. The Free Society probably learned some things about your methods, procedures and such. It could have helped them in setting up the ambush.”
Web hadn’t considered this yet. It actually made a lot of sense.
“I promise if I get any weird-ass phone calls, you’ll be the first to know. And I’ll check my receiver for atropine. Now tell me about this undercover. Maybe the Frees are involved, but they had to have some inside help. Now, I know he’s black and it’s hard for me to believe the Frees would work with a man of color, but we can’t afford to discount anything right now. You told me Cove was a loner. What else do you know about him?” Web hadn’t heard back from Ann Lyle on his inquiries into Cove, so he had decided to go right to the source.
“Oh, lots of stuff. It’s right in that file over there, marked ‘FBI Undercover Agents, All You Ever Wanted to Know.’”
“Perce, this guy could be the key.”
“He’s not! Take my word for it.”
“All I’m saying is I worked these kind of cases. And contrary to what you think, I didn’t forget how to be an FBI agent when I joined HRT. I had a great teacher, and don’t let that swell your head. And another pair of eyes is another pair of eyes. Isn’t that what you always beat into me?”
“That’s not how it works, Web, sorry. Rules are rules.”
“I seem to remember you telling me differently way back when.”
“Times change, people change.”
Web sat back and pondered whether he should play his trump card. “Okay, what would you say if I told you something you don’t know but that could be important?”
“I’d say why the hell didn’t you tell me before?”
“I just figured it out.”
“Yeah, right.”
“Do you want to hear it or not?”
“And what’s in it for you?”
“I give you info on the case, you do the same for me.”
“How about I make you tell me for nothing?”
“Come on, for old times’ sake.”
Bates tapped the file in front of him. “How do I know it’s really something I can use?”
“If it’s not, then you owe me nothing. I’ll trust your judgment.”
Bates eyed him for a few more moments. “Go.”
Web told him about the switch with Kevin Westbrook. As he went on, Bates’s face grew more florid and Web could tell the man’s pulse was nowhere near sixty-four and had probably left double digits far behind.
“When exactly did you figure this out? And I want it to the minute.”
“When I was having a beer with Romano and I mentioned that the Kevin Westbrook I saw had a hole in his cheek from a bullet wound. The kid he had, he said, didn’t. Cortez corroborated that. And don’t go after those guys. I told them I’d fill you in ASAP.”
“Sure you did. Who would switch the kids and why?”
“Not even a good guess. But I’m telling you the kid I saved in the alley and the kid Romano turned over to the ‘alleged’ FBI agent were two different boys.” He tapped the table. “So what’s your judgment? Worth it or not?”
In answer Bates opened a file, although he recited the facts