Дэвид Балдаччи - The Fix

“Maybe that was the unexpected trip he took a month ago,” said Decker. “To get the diagnosis.” He turned to the ME. “Was it possible he didn’t know about the tumor?”

“Anything’s possible,” Wainwright said cautiously. “But there would have been outward symptoms. Some slightly impaired motor functions. Disruption in thought processes. I think a person in his position, educated, well-off, good health insurance presumably, he would have seen a doctor. A simple MRI would have confirmed the tumor’s presence. Other tests would have confirmed its true malignancy.”

Bogart said, “I wonder why none of his business associates noticed anything amiss. They would have been with him a great deal.”

“For that matter, why wouldn’t his wife?” noted Jamison.

The ME said, “With this sort of cancer the end comes very swiftly. But he might have been able to work at a fairly normal level up to a certain point, until the cancer just became too widespread. By the looks of his brain, I think that time was rapidly approaching.”

“So he might have been able to disguise his illness from his family, friends, and coworkers?” asked Decker.

“Again, anything’s possible. He also could have been taking some medications that would help him.”

“And the blood work will show any present in his system?” asked Bogart.

“I’ve already sent the samples out for processing,” said Wainwright.

Decker looked back down at the body. “Since he was already dying, taking his own life makes more sense. He saved himself and his family months of suffering. But it doesn’t explain Berkshire’s murder.”

“Well, to put it bluntly, I think his family would have taken months of their father suffering his final illness over what’s happened now,” countered Jamison.

“Which means he must have had a really compelling reason,” retorted Decker. “And we have to find out what that was.”

He headed out.

“Where are you going, Decker?” Jamison called after him.

“To get a cup of coffee.”

The coffee shop that Dabney had visited before killing Berkshire was just down the street from the FBI building. It was part of a chain and the interior was open, light-filled, and furnished with comfy chairs and tables where people could work. Power-charging stations were dotted along the walls.

Decker and Jamison walked up to the counter — Bogart had stayed behind to talk to the medical examiner and to make some phone calls — and Decker flashed his FBI creds to the young woman working there. She was in her early twenties, with brown hair tied back with an elastic band. She had on white pants and a black polo with the store’s logo. Round glasses fronted her face.

After ordering coffee Decker said, “Did you work yesterday?”

The woman nodded.

Decker held up a photo of Walter Dabney. “Street cameras confirm that he entered here at ten o’clock and left about fifty minutes later.”

“Is he the guy who shot the woman? I saw it on the news.”

“He is. Did you see him here? Did you take his order?”

“Both.”

“What did he have?”

The woman thought a moment. “Hot tea and a blackberry scone. At least I think. I serve a lot of food and drinks during the course of a day.”

“How did he appear to you? Nervous?”

“Not particularly, no. He seemed, well, normal.”

“Where did he sit?”

She pointed at a table over by the front window.

Decker looked around the space and memorized the location of all the tables. “Was the place full when he came in?”

“No, the morning rush was over by then. There were maybe two tables occupied.”

“Which ones?”

She pointed them out. They were near the counter.

Decker said, “Did you notice whether anyone came over to him? Spoke with him?”

“I was fairly busy with some inventory work, so I can’t say for sure. I remember I looked over once and he was just sitting there alone staring out the window.”

“Anyone else who works here who might have seen anything?”

“Billy was on duty yesterday too, but he’s not in today. He might have seen something. He was delivering orders and bussing tables.”

Jamison handed her a couple of cards. “Tell Billy to give us a call. And if you remember anything else, give us a ring.”

While she’d been speaking, Decker sat down at the table that Dabney had occupied. “This chair?” he asked.

The woman looked over. “No, the one to the left of you.”

Decker changed chairs and looked around as Jamison walked over to him and sat down in the chair he’d vacated.

“What are you thinking?”

Decker gazed out the window. From here he could see the FBI building. And the guard shack. There was someone inside, but he couldn’t tell if it was the same guard as before.

He said, “This place was empty, so he had his pick of tables. He walked past a bunch of empty ones to get to this one. It gives the clearest field of view toward the FBI building. So did he come here to observe something? Or to meet with someone? Or was there another reason?”

“How will we find out which one?”

“We keep asking questions.”

Decker’s phone buzzed. He listened for a few moments and then said, “We’ll be there as soon as we can.” He clicked off and said to Jamison, “That was Bogart. Dabney’s daughter Jules has something to tell us.”

“What?”

“Something her father told her a week ago.”

Walter Dabney had done well for himself.

Decker was standing right in the middle of it all.

The house in McLean was easily worth four or five million bucks. The grounds were extensive and professionally landscaped and maintained. A crew was outside right then trimming bushes, cutting the broad, plush lawns, and generally sprucing up the outdoor space. Another crew was working on the Olympic-size heated pool. And there was a poolhouse that was about the size of a normal home. The cost of merely maintaining this place each year was probably far more than Decker was paid by the FBI.

He turned from the window to stare over at Jules Dabney. She was an interesting mixture of her parents. Tall and athletically built like her mother, she had her father’s jawline, long forehead, and pale green eyes. Her blonde hair hung straight down and skimmed the tops of her shoulders.

Her manner was brisk, businesslike even, and she hadn’t shed a tear since Decker and the others arrived. Her mother, she told them, was in her bedroom, heavily sedated.

Translation: She’s not talking to you.

Jules instantly struck Decker as a micromanager and able handler of adverse situations. He wondered if that was going to help or hinder their investigation.

They were in the library, three walls of books clearly proclaiming the purpose of the room. Bogart sat in a comfy leather recliner, Jamison in an upholstered settee, and Jules in what looked like an antique wing chair. Decker stood in the center of the room.

Bogart said, “I can appreciate how difficult this is for you, Ms. Dabney.”

Jules waved this off. “It’s not difficult, it’s impossible . But we have to get through it, and so we will.”

“Where did you come in from?” Decker asked her.

She looked at him as though bewildered why this held any relevance.

“Palm Beach, why?”

“What do you do there?”

She frowned. “Is that important? Or pertinent?”

“It’s hard to say since you haven’t told us yet.”

Her lips pursed, she said, “I have my own company. Health care consulting.”

Jamison said, “I would imagine Florida is a good place for that. What with the large retired population.”