Jeffery Deaver - Edge

I’d hoped that he’d be satisfied with a dressing-down in front of the troops and I could get back to work, but he had a different agenda. He glanced toward Freddy, standing nearby, and announced, in a voice louder than I thought necessary under the circumstances, “Arrest him. Now.”

THE FBI AGENT made no move to put me in cuffs and I thought that on one level the U.S. attorney was going more for effect than to see me in chains. But I was hardly sure.

I looked at the occupants who’d been in the second vehicle. They had FBI jackets on too and could have arrested me themselves but they were deferring to Freddy, who was senior and technically their boss.

Freddy stepped between us, like a referee. “Jason.” He nodded to the other agents who’d accompanied Westerfield here.

“I want him arrested. I want somebody else to take over baby-sitting.”

I wasn’t sure what the actual charge would be. Using an armored van to not deliver something you said you would isn’t a federal crime.

“He lied to an officer of the federal court. That’s the charge.”

On reflection I wasn’t even sure I’d done that. I couldn’t remember my exact words. Which wasn’t to say I couldn’t be arrested in the first place, even if the charges were ultimately dismissed. That had happened to me before.

Westerfield glanced my way. “I want the Kesslers downtown, near me. I want to interview Ryan personally. That is going to happen immediately.”

“I can’t do that,” I said.

“Release them to me or somebody Aaron Ellis recommends. You do that and give me access to interview Kessler, I won’t pursue the charges.”

“I can’t do that,” I repeated.

Freddy, at a tennis match.

“Agent Corte, I think we’ve been in this business too long to play games,” Westerfield said.

“A slammer was not the right strategy, Jason. You kept pushing. I had no choice. My first job’s to keep my principals safe.”

“Interesting to hear that. My impression would be that you felt your first job was to harpoon your white whale. Agent Fredericks? Could I see some handcuffs, s’il vous plaît?”

Freddy, who worked more for Westerfield than he did for me, seemed nonetheless marginally on my side. He said, “Whatever he’s doing is working, Jason. The family’s safe.”

“But I can’t help but notice he’s here, not with them… And, on top of it all, Loving got away.” He waved to the burning house.

That was true, though I hadn’t expected to find him here. I was more interested in clues to his life-now, of course, dissolving into ash and embers.

Westerfield glanced toward the senior FBI agent. “Are you going to arrest him?”

“Probably not.”

A disgusted sigh. The U.S. attorney looked my way, “Corte, you’ve even missed the boat on the primary.”

I looked away from the house to him. “What do you mean? We’ve eliminated Graham. Now we’re concentrating on Ali Pamuk.”

“Pamuk’s not the one either. You said he was a terrorist.”

“I said that was a possibility since most of the fund’s money was showing up in the Middle East. My associate is still investigating his involvement.”

“Ms. duBois.”

“That’s right.” I wondered how he knew about her. And-more interesting yet-how he knew the name was pronounced the non-French way. “You got it wrong, Corte. You’ve been spinning your wheels with Pamuk. We’ve been doing some work on our own. I’ve found the primary.”

“Who?” Freddy asked.

I was frowning and I said nothing.

He turned to Teasley. “Chris, could you tell Officer Corte and Agent Fredericks what we’ve learned?”

She said, “Detective Kessler has been involved in some internal administrative work for the Metropolitan Police.”

I said, “Something about the budget, accounts.”

“So you know about that?” Westerfield said with some satisfaction.

“He mentioned it, yes.”

“You didn’t think it was relevant?”

“To Loving and the primary? No.”

Westerfield glanced toward Teasley again.

She continued, “A year ago, there were some mix-ups with expenses in the police department. Overtime charges. Nothing big, it seemed. But the head of budgeting told the chief of police, who thought it’d make sense to have somebody-somebody in their financial crimes division-look over the books and see what was going on.”

“It seemed to be nickel-and-dime stuff,” Westerfield filled in. “But bottom line… tell him the bottom line.”

Teasley continued, “Expense checks were issued for tens of thousands of dollars but the money ended up in different department accounts. Been going on for years.”

I said, frowning, “You’re saying that it was intentional? Some kind of a plan to skim money out of the police budget?”

“Exactly,” Westerfield said.

Catching on, Freddy said, “And whoever was behind it-somebody senior in the police or city government-got scared because Kessler had a background in investigating money crimes. He was getting close to figuring out who.”

I looked absently at the burning house and mused, “High up in the city government-somebody high enough to have access to an MPD helicopter. Claire couldn’t find a flight plan or charter.” I grimaced and shook my head. “She even wondered if it was a government chopper that’d been used to extract Loving and the partner but I said, no, it was probably private. I didn’t have her check police department logs. My fault.”

Westerfield wasn’t gloating but he liked my last sentence.

I said to Freddy, “And somebody within the department would have access to police equipment too.”

“What equipment?” Westerfield asked.

The senior agent answered, “Loving’s partner tried to plant trackers on Corte’s car earlier. They were the same model that’s used by the District of Columbia police.”

Westerfield liked this addition too and he shot a look toward Teasley, questioning why this helpful piece of the puzzle had eluded her.

I cocked my head, frowning in thought.

“What?” Westerfield asked.

“Just that Kessler’s mentioned Chief of Detectives Lewis a few times. The chief’s shown an interest in what he’s doing. A lot of interest. I didn’t think about it at the time but why would the man in charge of detectives be interested in some accounting issue that involves all the departments? Transport, Com, Patrol, Crime Scene? Everything.”

It seemed I’d made a good contribution to Westerfield’s new case. “Good question.”

“Lewis…” Freddy mused. “Always wondered about him. Think there were some whispers in his past.”

“About what?” Westerfield asked quickly.

“I don’t know. They were whispers.”

The government attorney now said, “Corte, look, you’ve been so busy trying to tree Loving that you dropped the ball on the primary completely.”

Treeing prey and dropping balls. I supposed in court, before a jury, he didn’t mix metaphors so relentlessly.

“And Lewis, or whoever’s behind this, has had a chance to destroy evidence and get to other witnesses, thanks to you. I really think it’s time to hand the case over to somebody else.”

We fell silent for a moment; the sound track to our thoughts was the crackle and crash of the house dying, the shouts of the firemen. Flashing lights rippled on every nearby leaf.

Finally I asked, “Jason? Can I talk to you?”

We stepped aside, walking with heads down, away from the others, about ten feet or so.

Westerfield glanced at the embers and sparks. “You get any clues there?”

“Nothing helpful. We weren’t in time.”