Jeffery Deaver - Edge

I then said, “Ryan, I need you to do me a favor.”

“Sure, what?”

“All the files on that administrative matter you’re handling?”

“The… you mean that accounting crap?” He waved his hand toward the dining room table, covered with police department files.

“Exactly. I need copies sent to a U.S. attorney.”

Joanne said, “You mean you think that’s the reason somebody wants Ryan? He’s uncovered something illegal, something within the department?”

“No,” I said.

“Then…?” Joanne asked.

I thought how best to describe my strategy with Westerfield. I came up with, “I need to toss a dog a bone.”

THOUGH NEITHER WAS aware of it, Joanne and her husband frowned in identical ways.

Normally I don’t share much of my strategy with my principals. But now I thought it was prudent to let them know what was going on.

I explained to them that when I’d been talking to Claire duBois about the trackers, just before we met at the Hyatt, it had indeed occurred to me that Ryan’s accounting assignment might be the reason he’d been targeted. “I had my associate look into that, checking out Chief of Detectives Lewis, the police chief himself, people on the commission. Even a few people in city hall.”

But, I added, duBois had found no evidence of any malfeasance. She’d spoken to dozens of officers and administrators within the department, armed with her pen and calculator. What Westerfield and Teasley had found, the money shifting from one account to another, seemed to duBois to be innocent.

“It was,” Ryan confirmed, frowning. “Yeah, some money went to the wrong accounts but it just sat there until somebody found it and then got transferred back. That’s why I was involved-not investigating, just coming up with better procedures to move cash between the various departments.”

“Well, the U.S. attorney thought it was a chance for a great political corruption prosecution. I didn’t let on that it was a dead end. I kind of egged him on when he started down that path.” I didn’t mention to the Kesslers that Freddy had caught on and helped.

I don’t know. They were whispers …

Joanne said, “Don’t you people work together?”

A good question and the answer was: not always.

Ryan shrugged. “I’ll send him whatever you need, sure.”

“Everything. Only, the most impenetrable first.”

He gave a smile.

“Westerfield’s going to want to talk to you too. Just tell him the truth, let him sort it out.”

“But be a little mysterious,” Ryan offered.

“That’d be great. Think back to any conspiracy theory books you’ve read.”

Joanne remained for a moment, standing awkwardly, shoulders forward. I knew she wanted to call Amanda. But I couldn’t let her. I didn’t want anybody other than my contacts at the slammer in Loudoun to know the girl and Carter were there. She didn’t ask again, though, just said good night, then headed down the hall.

I noted Maree’s computer, sitting on the couch. She’d probably gone to bed too; I was suddenly aware that with the young woman absent, the safe house was oddly sedate. Whatever else you could say about her, Maree livened up the assignment like no other principal I’d ever had.

Mr. Tour Guide …

Ryan brought all the files into the den, where I was sitting and checking emails. He began to organize them and set them in neat stacks on the desk.

“Here’s the first batch,” he said. He dove back in.

The defensiveness and hostility from when we’d met were gone completely. “Ask you a personal question, Corte?”

Normally that sets off klaxons but for some reason I said, “Sure.”

“How’d you get into this baby-sitting job? Wait, is that an insult?”

“Not to me.”

“Right.” He laughed. “How’d you get into it? Were you like somebody’s personal bodyguard or anything?”

“The short answer is I got arrested.”

An amused glance. “Now that deserves an explanation.” Ryan limped to the kitchen, called, “Coffee?”

“Sure,” I replied.

He brought me a large mug, remembering I liked it black.

“So?” Ryan continued to leaf through his documents.

I explained how I’d started orienteering at the University of Texas in Austin and had gotten interested in sign cutting.

He frowned at that and I explained.

“Tracking, like Indians?” he asked.

“Exactly. Well, one weekend I drove down to San Antonio for an orienteering competition. It was a long one, all day. I’d hit the halfway control point and I’d decided to take a different route to the next point, not the straightest one. Sometimes the straightest take a lot longer.

“Well, I was moving through some brush and heard what I thought was somebody crying. I went to see and I found a family. They were obviously illegals who’d come over the Rio Grande sometime in the past day. I thought maybe one of them was hurt, so I went up to them.”

“You speak Spanish?”

“It helps in Texas.” And in my present line of work.

“Guess it would.”

“I was in competition gear-like a tracksuit-so they didn’t think I was police. I asked what was wrong. They said some men were after them. They’d stolen the father’s wallet-all his savings-and tried to rape the couple’s teenage daughter. The father grabbed one of the men’s guns and they fled but the men were after them. I had my mobile and I said I’d call for help. They panicked at that and begged me not to.”

“Because they were illegals.”

“And because the attackers were our guys, Border Patrol.”

“Ah.”

“The family’d managed to lose them but they were getting close. I could see four or five of them following the trail. There’s sign cutting but there’s also sign pushing. Cutting is looking for sign. Pushing is catching the person who left the sign. That’s what the officers were doing-they were coming to get the family. I knew what’d happen if they found them. We could see them about a half mile from where we were hiding.”

“‘We.’ That sort of tells me where this is going.”

“I couldn’t leave them. They’d be killed for sure. So I led them away, covering up the signs as best I could. It was kind of a cat-and-mouse chase but we escaped. About three hours later I got them to San Antonio and a refuge at a church.”

I was twenty-three then and most of my life had been in academia. That afternoon had been, hands down, the most exhilarating experience I’d ever had.

“You said you got arrested. I’m not sure you really did anything wrong. You could have just said you didn’t know they were illegal, technically. You were just helping out some people get away from some attackers.”

“I didn’t mention that we found one of the agents had driven ahead through an arroyo. The only way we could get out of there was with wheels. I was afraid the father would shoot the agent so I took the gun, snuck up behind the agent and stole his jeep and weapon.”

“Okay. That’s arrestable,” Ryan said.

“After I dropped the family off at the church I threw the gun in a lake and left the jeep in a grocery store lot. Caught a cab back to the orienteering course.”

“How’d they catch you?”

“Stub check.” I explained, “It’s a safety procedure in orienteering. Officials compare the starting stubs with the control cards at the finish. If somebody doesn’t make it to the end, they send out searchers to look for you. The Border Patrol agents had seen the checkpoint flags-they’re orange and white, hard to miss-and found out about the competition. They tracked me down at school the next day. Arrested me and the case went to an FBI agent who was in town from D.C., Agent Fredericks. The one I’m working with now.”