Steve Martini - Trader of secrets

“It’s not your fault.”

“Yes, it is. I should have been watching her more closely. You trusted me and I let you down.”

“You did what you could. Besides, it was my job. I’m her father. I should have been there.”

“You couldn’t be everywhere,” says Harry. “We agreed I would be the one responsible for keeping an eye on her and I failed. Simple as that.”

“Let’s not talk about it,” I tell him. “The important thing is, she’s alive.”

“No thanks to me.”

Harry and I are seated in the two tufted wingback chairs in the living room of a safe house in Washington, D.C. It is a high-rise condo courtesy of Thorpe and the FBI. At the moment none of us knows how long we’ll be here. The place is decked out with rented furniture and contractor-painted eggshell-white walls. With all the blinds drawn it has the ambiance of a whitewashed cave.

“Any idea how Liquida found the two of you on the farm?” I ask.

Harry nods. He’s gazing down at the floor, still half asleep. “They think he used an electronic tracking device. The fucker’s devious,” says Harry.

“I thought Herman had the cars all swept. He found the one attached to your car and had it removed,” I remind him.

“He did. Liquida mailed another small tracking device to Sarah at the house, figuring she probably left a forwarding address with the post office. The FBI found the tracking device in one of the drawers in her bedroom in Ohio. The note with it said it was from you, that you’d explain what it was the next time the two of you talked on the phone. When you talked, Sarah forgot to mention it. All Liquida had to do was read the tracking information on his computer. It led him right to the farm.”

“Son of a bitch.”

“She didn’t tell me about it because the note said it was a surprise for me.” The craggy gray lines down Harry’s face appear like ravines on a mountainside. He seems to have aged five years since I saw him last in Coronado. That was less than a month ago.

Our law practice in California is now a shambles. Neither of us has been in the office for weeks, forced into hiding by Liquida. No doubt clients are now complaining to the state bar that their phone calls are not being returned. Before long the bar will be trying to punch our tickets to practice. Harry and I can take down the shingle and start selling pencils out on the street. Our lives are unraveling.

“Coffee’s ready.” Joselyn sticks her head through the open doorway to the kitchen.

“Be there in a minute,” I tell her.

“You two need to stop talking about this. Dredging up all the little details isn’t gonna make it go away. What’s happened has happened. The more you pick at it, the worse it’s going to get.” She’s been listening through the open door.

“So what are we supposed to do?” I turn and look at her.

“Get off your ass and come get something to eat.” Before I can say anything more, she disappears back into the kitchen.

“Yeah, I can see how she could be good for you,” says Harry. He looks up at me and winks. “How’s Herman doing?” He changes the subject.

“They moved him out of intensive care yesterday.” We get up and start walking toward the kitchen. “He’ll be on the mend for a while. But he’s starting to get irritable.”

“That’s a good sign.”

“The doctor’s telling him six weeks to two months before he can do any heavy lifting.”

“Take bets,” says Harry. We enter the kitchen. “Give you three to one Herman’s back out on the bricks in less than a month.”

“At death’s door one day, fighting to go home the next. Herman’s always been a quick healer,” I tell him.

“More power to him,” says Joselyn. “Either one of you would be laid up for a year.”

“You see what I have to put up with? What a hard-ass.” I look at Harry and smile.

“Yes, and it’ll be a long time before you touch it again with that kind of an attitude.” Joselyn has her back to us as she works at the counter slicing some small sandwiches and stacking them on a plate. “He’s been in the dumps since he first heard about what happened to Sarah.”

“Yeah, well, it’s pretty hard when your daughter comes within a whisper of being murdered,” I tell her.

“Yes, but she wasn’t. You have to let it go and move on,” says Joselyn.

“On to what?”

“You can pour your own coffee. Cups are in the cupboard over there.” She gestures with her head. “Sugar and cream are on the table. Silverware is in the drawer. Help yourself.” She turns and sets the dish of sandwiches in the center of the table. “Napkins, I don’t know. You’ll have to use your sleeve. I forgot to put ’em on the list the last time they went for groceries.”

“The FBI does our housekeeping,” I tell Harry.

“So what’s the gig this time? Protective custody, witness protection, or are we under arrest?” He looks at me.

“It’s not entirely clear,” I tell him. “I don’t think we’re in custody. As far as I understand it, we’re just cooperating with their investigation. For the time being, they’re happy to provide security, at least while we’re here and on their terms.”

“What’s Thorpe saying?”

“He’s suggesting we stick around, at least for a while. This thing with Sarah rattled him. They squeezed Joselyn and me for information, whatever we knew. They questioned Herman as soon as he could talk. Now they’re working on Sarah.”

“They talked to her at the farm,” says Harry. “Questioned me as well. They lost interest when I told them I hadn’t seen or talked to either of you in almost a month, that I’d been hanging out on the farm in Ohio since we split from California. I couldn’t tell them anything. Didn’t even see Liquida. They trampled all over the farm looking for anything that might give them a lead. They would have grilled the Doberman but his English wasn’t that good.”

“Sarah tells me the dog saved her life,” says Joselyn.

“If he’d been just a few seconds faster, the FBI could be doing DNA on a hunk out of Liquida’s ass, I suspect,” says Harry. “She’s quite attached to him. The dog, I mean. He’s been sleeping at the bottom of her bed ever since it happened. He’s getting spoiled. Kibble and bacon bits out of her hand. I take it you met him last night?”

“Lie down with dogs, wake up with fleas,” I tell him, “but that’s one animal I’d kiss. I’m glad she has him. At least for the time being.”

“Which reminds me,” says Harry. “Where is he? You didn’t lock him in the bedroom, did you? Cuz he’ll chew the carpet off the floor. He doesn’t like to be locked in a room where he can’t see out. And he tends to get antsy when he’s separated from her.”

“Sarah took him to her meeting at the FBI office,” I tell him.

“They let her do that?” says Joselyn.

“It’s hard to say no when you have a snarling dog with his nose in your crotch,” I tell her.

We pour coffee, settle into chairs around the table, and start to eat.

“Thorpe give you any idea as to whether they have any leads on Liquida?” Harry talks with his mouth half full.

“They’re looking. But without a name or something else to track, it’s difficult. All they can do is print a sketch, put it on their website, hang it in the post office, circulate it to local law enforcement, and hope somebody calls in.”

“I would think that after the bombing near the Capitol he’s going to draw a pretty high number on their wanted list,” says Joselyn.

“Depends whether they put him on their terror list or regular most wanted list. They put him on the terror list, there’s no way he’s going to get near the top. There’s too many big names already,” I tell her.