Ridley Pearson - Cut and Run

“I’m sure Scott told you about the encryption. One identity at a time. That’s a lot of work. Takes a lot of time.”

“Why else?”

“They want to cherry-pick the list, I suppose. We’re way ahead of you on this, Larson. Believe me, we have crews out there right now recalling dozens of witnesses.”

“But not the ones who have opted out,” Larson said.

“Actually, we’re posting a prearranged general warning for all witnesses. It’s a red flag meant to send them and their dependents to ground. They’ll stay there until they get the all clear.”

“And Hope will obey that?”

“If she’s smart she will.”

“If she’s not smart,” Larson said, “we miss a golden opportunity to catch a killer and find Marko.”

“Are you always this confident?”

“Fugitive apprehension isn’t like anything else. You have to learn to see around corners. That’s all I’m trying to do here.”

Sunderland stood and moved to his study door, trying to draw Larson out of his chair. “Come on,” he said.

Larson didn’t budge. “You’ve got to help me.”

“Not here,” Sunderland said. “Not in my home. I’m not discussing a protected witness-even one that opted out-in my home. We have a room downtown. It’s clean. Both of us will have to be swept as well. I’m not doing this without taking that precaution.”

Larson practically sprang out of his chair. Sunderland had agreed to give him Hope Stevens.

Larson was made to empty his pockets-billfold, credentials, loose change, handkerchief, pen-and to leave his BlackBerry and his belt, anything metal, with the deputy in charge. Sunderland did the same, but was carrying a lot less. Wands were waved over every limb and up and down their torsos, like an airport security check, before either man was cleared. They entered a plain-looking conference room.

Housed in the center of the offices, this room was without windows or decoration, and only the one door, a thick door that locked with a significant click . The pale green walls looked different to Larson, perhaps a special metallic paint had been used, or even a composite material that reflected radio waves. He’d heard of such rooms, but had never been in one. No phone, no computer. No electrical wall outlets. The recessed lights in the ceiling shone through some kind of thick glass or similar material, and Larson thought this material was probably also designed to ground out any random radio waves.

It had been a thirty-minute drive downtown, Larson in the rental following Sunderland ’s Buick. All this effort, he thought, an exercise in secrecy for a woman no longer in the program. He would never fully understand the government of which he was a part.

At his request, Larson was provided a simple wood pencil and a blank piece of paper.

“Hope Stevens was relocated under the protected name Alice Frizen,” Sunderland began without ceremony. A man in a hurry. “ Bakersfield, California. We set her up, as I recall, with employment in health care. Information technology skills, wasn’t it?”

“Computers, yes.”

“Yes. I.T. at a hospital, I’m pretty sure it was. No matter, because just short of a year after assuming her new identity, right at the time she was applying for a dependent, there was another of our witnesses, a man known to Hope Stevens, who was murdered while in a parking lot outside a Wal-Mart in Des Moines. His picture-it was a gruesome kill-went national before we could stop it. The Stevens woman went off our radar, just as the AUSA was putting a second case, the murder-for-hire case, together against Donny Romero and the others. Needless to say, those conspiracy and attempted murder charges were never brought.”

Larson sat there, as if slapped across the face. Hope’s application for a dependent’s paperwork suggested the existence of a husband or a child or both. A new life, indeed.

“A dependent, singular or plural? Anything more on that?”

“There might be in her record. You’re right about her information being filed separately. We do pull it once they opt out. But it’s kept in Laena as well, because seventy-some percent of those who opt out eventually rejoin the program. By Monday I’ll be in a better position to clarify this sort of request.”

“And that’s all? Alice Frizen voluntarily left the program.” Larson scratched out notes for himself.

“Forfeiting a sizable stipend and medical insurance coverage, I might add.”

“That’s a lot to give up.”

“It is indeed.”

“No explanation of this dependent? Child? Lover? Relative?”

“None that I’m aware of.”

“And that’s that?” Larson had spent a career reading the faces of notorious liars, and he put Sunderland up there with the best of them-but a liar just the same. It wasn’t all, and Larson knew it.

“The possibility of Mr. Romero’s parole lit a fire under the U.S. Attorney’s office. With it came a renewed interest in locating Ms. Stevens, a.k.a. Ms. Frizen.”

“And?”

“And I don’t report rumor or innuendo.”

Larson studied the man carefully, awaiting another lie.

“It’s one of those things you hear, is all,” Sunderland said.

“Would you make the call for me?”

“On a Saturday?”

Larson answered, “You want to wait until Monday? I was told that if Markowitz doesn’t have the entire list decrypted by now, he will any day . I doubt either of us has slept much in the last thirty hours, and I can tell you I for one won’t be doing my best work by the time Monday rolls around.”

“You’ll have to wait here.”

“I’m good at waiting,” Larson answered, containing his excitement. “Government work, you know?”

Sunderland didn’t appreciate the sarcasm. He left the room, Larson catching a glimpse of the deputy marshal standing guard by the door. After a minute Larson put his head down onto his arms and rested on the table. He sat bolt upright upon Sunderland ’s return.

Sunderland sat down beneath a great emotional weight, reminding Larson of some judges as they returned to the bench following jury deliberations.

Sunderland said, “An Alice Dunbar appears on a three-year-old health insurance group coverage for St. Luke’s Hospital, Minneapolis. The social she provided is the same one we gave her for Frizen. She probably had no choice. It makes sense: Post 9/11, it’s this side of impossible to get a counterfeit social. The name change to Dunbar was legit-done legally in California. There’s also a social assigned by Treasury to one Penelope Dunbar, born in California, currently a five-year-old Caucasian female. The kid’s social was mailed to a box number in Minneapolis. The investigator’s report lists some calls made to the hospital there before passing this up the command. His report suggests the lead was promising at that time.”

“And?” Sunderland now seemed to be dragging this out for dramatic effect and the change bothered Larson.

“No follow-up.” Sunderland ’s face reflected Larson’s exasperation. “You’re the one who brought up government work: It looks as though he sent it over to us, to Justice, but not directed to the U.S. Attorney’s office-and this is a little over three months ago. Apparently it never found its way to the U.S. Attorney’s office. This deputy had not only the post office box number where the social had been sent, but a residential address he thought was good. It was very good work this guy did. There’s been a lot of turnover at Justice since Ridge and Homeland Security-I probably don’t have to tell you that. But as far as I can tell-and it’s the same for the guy I talked to-it looks as if it died there.”

“Right,” Larson said, then, under his breath, “Or else she did.”