Tess Gerritsen - Whistleblower

“Yeah,” Milo muttered into the mist. “Let’s hope not in jail.”

The Chinese man was lying. Though the man betrayed nothing in his voice, no hesitation, no guilty waver, still Savitch knew this Mr. Milo Lum was hiding something. His eyes betrayed him.

He was seated on the living room couch, across from Savitch. Off to the side sat Mrs. Lum in an easy chair, smiling uncomprehendingly. Savitch might be able to use the old biddy; for now, it was the son who held his interest.

“I can’t see why you’d be after him,” said Milo. “Victor’s as clean as they come. At least, he was when I knew him. But that was a long time ago.”

“How far back?” asked Savitch politely.

“Oh, years. Yeah. Haven’t seen him since. No, sir.”

Savitch raised an eyebrow. Milo shifted on the couch, shuffled his feet, glanced pointlessly around the room.

“You and your mother live here alone?” Savitch asked.

“Since my dad died.”

“No tenants? No one else lives here?”

“No. Why?”

“There were reports of a man fitting Holland’s description in the neighborhood.”

“Believe me, if Victor was wanted by the police, he wouldn’t hang around here. You think I’d let a murder suspect in the house? With just me and my old Ma?”

Savitch glanced at Mrs. Lum, who merely smiled. The old woman had sharp, all-seeing eyes. A survivor’s eyes.

It was time for Savitch to confirm his hunch. “Excuse me,” he said, rising to his feet. “I had a long drive from the city. May I use your restroom?”

“Uh, sure. Down that hall.”

Savitch headed into the bathroom and closed the door. Within seconds he’d spotted the evidence he was looking for. It was lying on the tiled floor: a long strand of brown hair. Very silky, very fine.

Catherine Weaver’s shade.

It was all the proof he needed to proceed. He reached under his jacket for the shoulder holster and pulled out the semiautomatic. Then he gave his crisp white shirt a regretful pat. Messy business, interrogation. He would have to watch the bloodstains.

He stepped out into the hall, casually holding his pistol at his side. He’d go for the old woman first. Hold the barrel to her head, threaten to pull the trigger. There was an uncommonly strong bond between this mother and son. They would protect each other at all costs.

Savitch was halfway down the hall when the doorbell rang. He halted. The front door was opened and a new voice said, “Mr. Milo Lum?”

“And who the hell are you?” came Milo’s weary reply.

“The name’s Sam Polowski. FBI.”

Every muscle in Savitch’s body snapped taut. No choice now; he had to take the man out.

He raised his pistol. Soundlessly, he made his way down the hall toward the living room.

“ Another one?” came Milo’s peevish voice. “Look, one of your guys is already here-”

“What?”

“Yeah, he’s back in the-”

Savitch stepped out and was swinging his pistol toward the front doorway when Mrs. Lum shrieked.

Milo froze. Polowski didn’t. He rolled sideways just as the bullet thudded into the door frame, splintering wood.

By the time Savitch got off a second shot, Polowski was crawling somewhere behind the couch and the bullet slammed uselessly into the stuffing. That was it for chances-Polowski was armed.

Savitch decided it was time to vanish.

He turned and darted back up the hall, into a far bedroom. It was the mother’s room; it smelled of incense and old-lady perfume. The window slid open easily. Savitch kicked out the screen, scrambled over the sill and sank heel-deep into the muddy flower bed. Cursing, he slogged away, trailing clumps of mud across the lawn.

He heard, faintly, “Halt! FBI!” but continued running.

He nursed his rage all the way back to the car.

Milo stared in bewilderment at the trampled pansies. “What the hell was that all about?” he demanded. “Is this some sort of FBI practical joke?”

Sam Polowski didn’t answer; he was too busy tracking the footprints across the grass. They led to the sidewalk, then faded into the road’s pebbly asphalt.

“Hey!” yelled Milo. “What’s going on?”

Polowski turned. “I didn’t really see him. What did he look like?”

Milo shrugged. “I dunno. Efrem Zimbalist-type.”

“Meaning?”

“Tall, clean-cut, great build. Typical FBI.”

There was a silence as Milo regarded Polowski’s sagging belly.

“Well,” amended Milo, “maybe not typical…”

“What about his face?”

“Lemme think. Brown hair? Maybe brown eyes?”

“You’re not sure.”

“You know how it is. All you white guys look alike to me.”

An eruption of rapid Chinese made them both turn. Mrs. Lum had followed them out onto the lawn and was jabbering and gesticulating.

“What’s she saying?” asked Polowski.

“She says the man was about six foot one, had straight dark brown hair parted on the left, brown eyes, almost black, a high forehead, a narrow nose and thin lips, and a small tattoo on his inside left wrist.”

“Uh-is that all?”

“The tattoo read PJX.”

Polowski shook his head in amazement. “Is she always this observant?”

“She can’t exactly converse in English. So she does a lot of watching.”

“Obviously.” Polowski took out a pen and began to jot the information in a notebook.

“So who was this guy?” prodded Milo.

“Not FBI.”

“How do I know you’re FBI.”

“Do I look like it?”

“No.”

“Only proves my point.”

“What?”

“If I wanted to pretend I was an agent, wouldn’t I at least try to look like one? Whereas, if I am one, I wouldn’t bother to try and look like one.”

“Oh.”

“Now.” Polowski slid the notebook in his pocket. “You’re still going to insist you haven’t seen, or heard from, Victor Holland?”

Milo straightened. “That’s right.”

“And you don’t know how to get in touch with him?”

“I have no idea.”

“That’s too bad. Because I could be the one to save his life. I’ve already saved yours.”

Milo said nothing.

“Just why the hell do you think that guy was here? To pay a social visit? No, he was after information.” Polowski paused and added, ominously, “And believe me, he would’ve gotten it.”

Milo shook his head. “I’m confused.”

“So am I. That’s why I need Holland. He has the answers. But I need him alive. That means I need to find him before the other guy does. Tell me where he is.”

Polowski and Milo looked at each other long and hard.

“I don’t know,” said Milo. “I don’t know what to do.”

Mrs. Lum was chattering again. She pointed to Polowski and nodded.

“Now what’s she saying?” asked Polowski.

“She says you have big ears.”

“For that, I can look in the mirror.”

“What she means is, the size of your ears indicates sagacity.”

“Come again?”

“You’re a smart dude. She thinks I should listen to you.”

Polowski turned and grinned at Mrs. Lum. “Your mother is a great judge of character.” He looked back at Milo. “I wouldn’t want anything to happen to her. Or you. You both have to get out of town.”

Milo nodded. “On that particular point, we both agree.” He turned toward the house.

“What about Holland?” called Polowski. “Will you help me find him?”

Milo took his mother by the arm and guided her across the lawn. Without even a backward look he said, “I’m thinking about it.”

“It was those two photos. I just couldn’t figure them out,” said Ollie.

They were standing on the boathouse pier, overlooking the bed of Lake Lagunita. The lake was dry now, as it was every winter, drained to a reedy marsh until spring. They were alone, the three of them, sharing the lake with only an occasional duck. In the spring, this would be an idyllic spot, the water lapping the banks, lovers drifting in rowboats, here and there a poet lolling under the trees. But today, under black clouds, with a cold mist rising from the reeds, it was a place of utter desolation.