Rick Mofina - Six Seconds

Word had traveled fast about what happened to Tarver up in Canada. And it was in the Post. His wife, his kids. All of them. A real shame.

It made Walker wonder if the poor bastard had ever landed a true story.

Walker had to get ready for the next conference call. As he collected his files, his computer beeped with an intel bulletin from the Department of Homeland Security.

Something about a ship with hostile cargo. The threats and risks just kept coming.

Like the one with that priest out in Montana. Father

Andrew Stone. Months in advance he posts online, for the entire world to see, details of the pope’s visit to tiny Cold Butte. It posed a risk as a gift for long-range plotters. Shaking his head, he glanced at his printout of the newsletter. He couldn’t do much about it and sought some relief in the fact that Cold Butte was the smallest venue of the tour.

In the middle of nowhere. We shouldn’t have to worry too much about Montana.

As Walker closed his computer files, he glanced again at the photos of John Paul II from that May in 1981.

Aga’s hit pulled Walker back to his own heartstopping day with the president.

Summer.

Shaker Heights, Ohio. Mall parking lot. The presi dent’s moving along a good crowd, shaking hands. Walker spots the guy. Alone. White, late twenties. Stone cold face and something in his hand. Instinct and training kick in. Walker has him on the ground. The team gets the president in the car and out of there. The gun is real. It is loaded. The kid had been dumped by his girl and thought that killing the president would win her back. “It would show her just how much I loved her.”

The kid was that close.

Just like all the others.

Washington, D.C.

The jetliner’s wing dipped to show Graham the Potomac, the Jefferson Memorial and the Washington Monument before landing at Reagan National.

In the terminal, Graham noticed a pregnant woman, hesitated and thought of Nora. The woman was hold ing a little girl’s hand. As they walked by him at the luggage carousels, he was pulled back to images of that night.

Then back to the river.

And Emily Tarver.

Holding her as she took her dying breaths. Don’t hurt my daddy.

What happened to the Tarvers?

Were they murdered? Or was he crazy to think so? That’s why he was here. To find answers. Or was it to hide from ghosts?

He’d lost Nora. He couldn’t save Emily Tarver. Admit it, his boss was right. That’s what this was all about.

Redemption for his failures.

No. He was trying to clear a case and had to focus on it.

Graham tightened his grip on his bag, looked for his ride and left his doubts at the terminal.

Sergeant Luc Cleroux, the RCMP’s liaison officer at the embassy, enjoying the chance to speak French with Graham, had set things up for him.

To assist Graham, the FBI provided Chuck “two weeks to go before retirement” Carson, who picked him up at Reagan.

“Between us, you don’t want me to babysit you on this, what is it, an insurance thing?” Carson said as they headed downtown.

Graham considered Carson’s suggestion.

As a foreign cop in the U.S., Graham did not carry his gun and had limited powers of arrest. He was in Wash ington on various business matters, including confirming background on the Tarvers as it related to their Canadian travel insurance policy. If he betrayed the fact he was there to rule out homicide, he’d be on the next plane home. That was Stotter’s direct order and his promise.

“I think I can take care of myself.”

“Good. Here’s my card. Keep me posted and call me if you need anything.”

Graham’s hotel was a few blocks from the White House and The Mall. Graham checked in, showered, then followed up on inquiries. First call: Cleroux at the Canadian Embassy.

“Yeah, I got nothing from my Interpol contacts,” Cleroux said in French. “Anyway, I’ve passed your other requests to Reg Novak, a good guy with MPD. He’s expecting your call.”

When Graham reached Novak, the D.C. detective invited him to the Metropolitan Police Headquarters on Indiana Avenue. The Henry J. Daly Building was named to honor the homicide detective shot by an intruder in 1994.

Novak, a craggy-faced veteran, signed Graham in with the usual firm handshake and “Have a good flight?” small talk.

After Graham cleared the electronic security, Novak led him to his office and put a cup of coffee for him on his desk. Novak groaned as he settled in his chair and flipped through his tattered notebook.

“Read about them in the Post. Just terrible what happened up there. Here we go. I ran those checks you’d wanted.”

Graham’s pen was poised over his notebook.

“And I got zilch. Sorry. Wish I could help you with more but Raymond Tarver is not in our system. The same for Anita. No complaint history at their house, either. They live in the district side of Takoma Park.”

“Nothing?”

“Not a thing. I did some asking around for you and what I can tell you is that Ray was a reporter, but he wrote more about national politics, international scan dals and whatnot.”

“I’ve heard that.”

“He was a real character, looked for big doomsday conspiracy stuff. Then he sorta faded, or something.” Novak shrugged before sipping from his Washington Capitals mug. “You might want to check with the feds, FBI, Secret Service, Homeland and the like. I heard Ray traveled in those circles.”

“I have an appointment later.”

“Good they could squeeze you in. Most of those allstars should be busy with the pope’s visit. I know some of our guys are helping. Not me personally, thank God. Got enough on my plate. But checking those watch lists can be a headache. These things tend to excite every nut job in the country.” He closed his book. “Think the Flames have a shot this year?”

“As good as the Caps.”

“So you still haven’t found Tarver’s body, have you?”

“No. Sometimes we never find them in mountain deaths.”

“I gotta ask you.” Novak’s gaze fixed on Graham’s, letting a detective-to-detective understanding pass be tween them. “It’s your case and all, but you didn’t really come all this way to look into insurance crap, did you?”

“I did. Among other things.”

“ Among other things. Care for some advice from a jaded old flatfoot?”

“Go ahead.”

“The primary activities in this town are ass covering and finger pointing.”

“It’s a government town.”

“It is. And from what I understand, Ray Tarver pissed off a few government people in security circles.”

“What’re you telling me?”

“Truth is often a fugitive in D.C. and searching for it can be damaging to your career. Be careful, my friend.”

Graham returned to his hotel with time to eat a club sandwich before heading to the United States Secret Service headquarters on H Street.

A number of days before his meeting he’d faxed his date of birth, passport number and RCMP regimental number, as security required.

“Special Agent Blake Walker,” Graham told the woman at reception when she’d asked who he was there to see.

She typed on her keyboard, spoke softly into her headset, then said, “Corporal Graham, Agent Walker apologizes. He has conflicting meetings and would like to reschedule, if you agree?”

“I’d prefer that we did this now, I’d only need about twenty minutes.”

“Stand by, sir.”

She spoke into the headset, listened, then nodded.

“Agent Walker will try to give you time now. Someone will be down to get you.” She exchanged Graham’s driver’s license for a visitor’s badge. “Please wear this at all times and return it to me when you leave.”