David Baldacci - True Blue

Binder wore cammie pants and a tight-fitting black muscle shirt that showed off his buffed pecs, delts, and biceps. Military boots were on his feet. They were worn down and looked like the real deal. That’s because they were, she knew. He’d pulled years in the uniform of Uncle Sam but also had some stockade time and a dishonorable discharge because of a little drug dealing on the side that had nearly cost two fresh-from-boot-camp grunts their lives from injecting ill-cooked crystal meth. He wore his hair in a big throwback afro that reminded her of a young Michael Jackson. This was quite remarkable-looking since the man was white, had nearly pupilsize freckles all over his face, and his hair was flame red except where it was edged with gray at the roots.

“ Send in the clowns ,” she sang under her breath.

Binder wheeled around. A Garrett handheld scanner was in one hammy fist and a tactical folding knife in the other.

“Wow, you look really happy to see me,” she said.

“When the hell did you get out?” This came out more like a hurled piece of spit than a question formed with words.

“I didn’t. I escaped. You want to turn me in for the reward?”

He put the tact knife on a shelf containing a pile of other blades, all with price tags attached. “I’m busy,” he grunted. “I know you ain’t a cop anymore more, so harassment time is over.”

Instead of leaving, she dug into the pile of blades on the shelf and picked up a knife that had twin wooden handles. With a flick of her wrist she flipped free the six-inch razor-edged shaft. “Whoa, a channel-constructed handmade Filipino Balisong with an IK Bearing System. Very cool. But unfortunately their importation into the U.S. was banned in the eighties.”

Binder didn’t look impressed by this information. “Is that right?”

“And the Balisong can technically be considered a gravity or butterfly knife or a switchblade. They’re illegal in D.C. and Maryland and you can’t sell ’ em in Virginia.”

“Somebody forgot to send me the memo. I’ll talk to my lawyer.”

“Good, while you’re doing that I’ll call the Five D commander and let him run a second set of eyeballs over your inventory list. If you want to dress in drag I can recommend a very nice facility in West Virginia for the next few years.” She eyed his bushy redtop. “And the really good news is you won’t even have to get a haircut.”

Binder leaned down into her face. “What the hell do you want, woman!”

“Some equipment. And I’ll pay, just not full price because I’m poor and cheap.”

She held up the Balisong and with a flick closed the blade. “And next time, Bin, hide the plainly illegal shit in the back. I mean, at least make the CID guys work for it. Otherwise they’ll get rusty.”

“What kind of equipment?”

“My wish list starts with a UV blue-light lamp, fluorescent dye, and contrasting spectacles. FYI, pulling out the cheap made-in-China crap will not make me happy. I got enough lead in my system from eating prison food.”

“I’ve got a nice kit for three hundred plus tax,” he mumbled.

“Great, I’ll give you fifty for it.”

His broad face swelled with anger, making his freckles look like giant amoebas. “That’s a ripoff. You know what my damn rent is here?”

“You won’t have any rent in prison. But I do know the Aryan Nation scuzzballs are partial to redheads.”

Binder deflated as quickly as he’d inflated. “What else?” he said sullenly.

“Well, let’s have a look-see at all the goodies,” she said sweetly.

After she’d finished, she loaded her purchases in a large backpack she’d made Binder throw in for free. A belt with an extra feature loaded in the clasp that she’d purchased from him had already been slipped around her waist and tightened down. She’d paid and was heading to the door when he called out, “Twenty bucks says you’re back in prison in six months.”

She whipped around. “And I’ve got fifty that says any illegal shit left in this place gets confiscated in forty-eight hours by MPD’s finest.”

Binder slammed his fist against the counter. “I thought we had a deal!”

“I don’t remember anything about a deal. I just mentioned switchblades and you gave me a really nice discount. I thought it was like a code word for preferred customers.”

“You… are… a… bitch !”

“Took you all these years to figure that out, scumball?”

He eyed the backpack. “What the hell are you going to do with all that stuff?”

“I’m not sitting on the sidelines, Bin.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Two years in hell, and the blue ripped right out of my heart, that’s what that means.”

ROY CLOSED the door softly behind him. Playing snoop while homicide detectives were still on the premises was not the smartest career move he’d ever made. Yet there was something about Mace Perry that just made him not want to disappoint the woman. Maybe it was the fact that she could probably kick his ass anytime she wanted.

Chester Ackerman’s office looked as though the man never did a lick of work, and without billable hours to be counted up, there was no way to tell if he did or not. Still, he brought in more business than any partner in the firm and in the legal world that was the big stick. It was also principally why he was managing partner. As quickly and as efficiently as he could, Roy opened file and desk drawers, checked the pockets of the man’s suit coat that hung on the back of the door, and tried but failed to access his computer records.

He heard footsteps coming and started to panic before those sounds eased away down the hall. He listened at the door and slipped out. He bypassed his office and headed to the mail room. He talked to Dave again, gained no useful information, and next questioned the other mail room guy, who was similarly clueless. He waited until both men headed out with items for delivery before searching through the mail room but finding nothing.

The space had one odd feature, a large dumbwaiter that had been built especially for the mailroom. Shilling & Murdoch also had office space on the fifth floor, and this motorized dumbwaiter ran directly into a storage room set up there for the firm’s archives. It was more convenient to keep the materials on-site for ready access. And it was far more efficient to send heavy boxes down a straight shaft than cart them through the office and then down the elevators.

As he stood there a weird thought occurred to him.

He rode the elevator to the fourth floor. When the doors opened the sounds of nail drivers and power saws hit him right in the eardrums. He stepped off and was immediately met by a wiry guy with Popeye forearms covered in colorful tattoos and wearing a yellow hard hat.

“Can I help you, buddy?”

“I work at the law firm on the sixth floor.”

“Congratulations, but you can’t be here.”

“I’m also on the building’s oversight committee. We’ve been notified that there have been some thefts of property from your work site and I was asked by the committee chairman to come down to get further details. It has to do with our property and casualty insurance reporting requirements and also our D &O rider, you understand?”

It was as though the minute he’d passed the bar Roy’s ability to bullshit on demand had clicked to a whole new level. Or maybe that was why he’d gone to law school in the first place.

It was painfully clear from the expression on Hard Hat’s face that he hadn’t comprehended one syllable Roy had uttered.

“So what does that mean?”

Roy said patiently, “It means I have to look around and report back and maybe your company will get some money from our overlap insurance coverage to help cover some of the losses.”