J. Bertrand - Nothing to Hide

Cavallo frowns. “It’s not that I don’t-”

“Then help me. Simple as that. Theresa, you can find out if there’s anything concrete linking Keller to the murder in Argentina. Stephen, you can search for the connection between Keller’s finances and Tom Englewood.”

“And what about you?” Wilcox asks.

“Me? I’m on leave.”

“Yeah, right.”

“I do have a lead to follow up,” I say, thinking of the safe house. “There’s a guy who used to work for Nesbitt who’s turned me on to something. According to him, there was a package Nesbitt wanted me to have, only it was stolen. But look at this.” I reach into my briefcase for the file on myself. “It’s identical to the one on Ford, so they come from the same source.”

Cavallo picks up the folder and flips through its pages thoughtfully. The thoroughness of the dossier seems to make an impression. When she’s done, she sets it on the table.

“All right,” she says. “It stays between the three of us for now, but only because if I took it to Wanda, she’d think I was crazy. Maybe I am. But to answer your question, I do trust you.”

I turn to Wilcox.

“You don’t want my answer. But I’ll take a look and see if I missed anything with Keller’s finances. I have an idea now what I’m looking for.”

“I appreciate what you’re doing,” I say, extending my hand.

After a pause, he shakes it.

Once he’s gone, I launch into my apology to Cavallo. She doesn’t cut me off or tell me there’s no need. She sits through the whole speech, warming slowly to the theme, nodding in agreement when I tell her how wrong I was to withhold information from her.

“With the static between us,” I say, “all the stuff with Wanda taking over, I just didn’t know how much you’d want me to share.”

“Next time, just be honest with me. Don’t make me feel like I have to prove myself all over again before you’ll respect me.”

“I do respect you,” I say. “A lot.”

“Then act like it.”

I extend my hand to her. “Deal.”

– -

Afterward, limping back to the garage where I left my car, Cavallo’s frustration settles over me like fog on damp grass. When it comes to ticking off the many flaws in my personality, she’s never held back. I withhold information, obviously. I suppress painful truths to the point of denial. I don’t talk about my feelings. I take an instrumental view of people, which apparently means I use them to achieve my own ends. These are all terrible faults in her mind, even though to me they sound like virtues, things I not only value about myself but wish I could see more of in others.

When she lectures me, I tend to write it off as her thing. Some people can’t help psychoanalyzing others, projecting their own concerns onto the world around them. Honestly I don’t think I’ve ever reflected on the criticism. Maybe I should. Maybe these really are blind spots, forcing me to repeat the same patterns, to fight the same battles over and over again.

Before I can talk myself into an epiphany, I reach the safety of the car. To my chagrin, as I settle behind the wheel, I realize I am breathing hard from the walk.

What is happening to me? I’m falling apart, that’s what.

But that’s another epiphany I’m not interested in having yet. I reach for the radio dial to drown out my inner monologue. Then I pick up the phone and dial.

“What do you want?”

Her voice is cold.

“Hello, Bea. It’s good to talk to you, too.”

“Listen,” she says, lowering her voice almost to a whisper, like she’s afraid of being overheard. “What happened the other day. . it didn’t happen. Understand? And whatever I might have said, I didn’t say it.”

“I’m guessing you didn’t have any luck testing those things you took from Hilda’s place.”

Silence.

“Well, guess what? I have an idea how we might be able to get a line on her. Only it will require a little ingenuity. Since you seem to have a flair for coloring outside the lines-”

“I can’t talk right now,” she says.

“But you’ll call me back?”

After a long pause, she relents with a sigh. “Give me an hour.”

There’s a chain coffee shop across the street from the apartment building where women in sports gear meet for soy lattes while telecommuters in shorts and hands-free earpieces compete for the tables next to the wall plugs, and the remixes piping down from the ceiling are always available for purchase at the register. When Bea arrives, she gives the place a good scowl, as if I’ve compromised her with this choice of venue. Once I’ve explained about the safe house, the attitude evaporates.

“How did you find out about this?”

“I have my ways,” I say, reluctant at this point to apprise her of Jeff’s existence. “So let me explain the plan.”

The whole point of a safe house is to have a place where you can stash people and still keep tabs on them. You can find them, but no one else can. So there will be some kind of link, some means of communication between the safe house and Hilda. The landlord will have a contact number, someone to call in case the rent is late or there’s a mishap in the building, like a flood or a fire.

“I’m not suggesting we set the place on fire. But suppose we get the manager or concierge or whatever to say the apartment on the floor above was flooded, and there’s water damage she needs to inspect?”

“If she’s blown town, what makes you think she’d show up at all?”

“Maybe she won’t. Let’s give it a try, though, and see what happens.”

“And you’re comfortable doing this without a warrant, without any kind of backup?”

I smile. “You’re the one who said the time for warrants was over.”

We cross the street on foot, dodging a dog walker with three canines on the leash. Entering the lobby, we’re enveloped by cool air. The manager’s office is tucked into a compact but stylishly appointed suite of rooms just off the elevator on the first floor, immediately behind the tenant mailboxes. Bea dazzles the manager, a slender and serious-looking woman in her fifties, with a flash of her FBI credentials, and within five minutes we’re all three peering down at a computer screen with all the rental information on file for the seventh-floor safe house. The name on the lease is Hillary Mendez.

“Oh yes,” the manager says, “I remember her. She lives down on Galveston Island and wanted a pied-à-terre here in the city.”

“You have a number where you can reach her?”

She points to the screen. “And her home address, too.”

I copy the information down, even though the address is likely to be a sham. As I write, Bea starts explaining how we’re concerned that something might have happened to the apartment’s occupant and so we need to take a look inside. Without asking any questions, the manager opens a key box on the wall.

We take the elevator up and head down a thickly carpeted corridor, pausing at the apartment door. Before trying the key, the manager knocks three times and calls out. There’s no response, so she opens it up.

The apartment is quite small, just a studio with a kitchenette and bath, sparsely furnished, with a breathtaking view thanks to the fact that the back wall is entirely glass. Bea motions the manager to stay put while we have a look around. There are two rolling suitcases on the floor next to the bed, their panels unzipped, and toiletries scattered on the bathroom sink along with a blow dryer and an unplugged curling iron.

“Somebody’s staying here,” Bea whispers.

Now comes the tricky part. I turn to the manager and start to improvise some kind of halfway convincing story. Bea cuts me off.