Дэвид Балдаччи - Walk the Wire

“Yeah,” said Robie.

“Is that really how it’s going to go down?” she asked.

“Probably.”

“And that doesn’t piss you off?”

“Every molecule in my body.”

“And you’re just going to let it happen?”

Robie eyed her in the mirror. “I didn’t say that, did I? But that’s for another day. And you can’t tell anyone about finding Purdy and what happened back there. That will do this country no good and might unleash some nightmare scenarios that are far better avoided.”

Decker and Jamison exchanged glances. He said, “That’s a tough favor to ask, Robie.”

“And I wouldn’t be asking unless it were really important. Because it is.”

Finally, Decker and Jamison nodded in agreement.

“Well, at least this nightmare is over, right, Decker?” said Jamison.

“It’s not over yet,” he replied.

“What? Why not?”

“Because Irene Cramer, Pamela Ames, Hal Parker, Stuart McClellan, and Maddie and Hugh Dawson deserve justice. And it hasn’t happened yet. And I’m not leaving North Dakota until they get it.”

The next day after breakfast Decker got a cup of coffee from the hotel restaurant and carried it up to his room, sat on his bed, sipped on the drink, and thought about, well, everything.

But that only seemed to make the muddle worse.

He finally took out his wallet and slipped out the photo of his wife and daughter. He gazed at Molly’s young face, her crinkled smile, her plump cheeks, and he saw a bit of himself and a lot of her mother in there. He closed his eyes and just imagined being with them again. Holding hands, giving kisses and hugs, simply going for a walk, helping Molly to learn how to ride a bike, gripping Cassie’s hand and giving encouragement as their daughter was born.

He opened his eyes after this cleansing moment. As his wife and daughter receded into his memories, they both seemed to be speaking to him, telling him something.

You can do this.

Whether it was his imagination or something else, Decker really didn’t care.

You’re a detective — start acting like it.

He settled back and refocused. Something had been burning in Decker’s gut for a long time now and he’d really done nothing about it. He had, instead, just followed blithely along a traditional investigative path.

Okay, let’s go blank slate, square one. First rule, you don’t trust anybody. Second related rule, you suspect everybody until something comes along to definitively remove that suspicion.

He truly believed that the key to this whole thing had not started a week ago, or a month ago, or even a year ago. The bunker piece might have dated from then because up until that point, Ben Purdy could not have known that some of the deadliest substances on earth were buried in the North Dakota soil. But something really important to the current case had started even before that.

As he focused on certain possibilities, Decker’s memory file popped down from his cloud and settled front and center in his thoughts. In this memory, he saw the woman walk to the stairs and head up.

Decker grabbed his jacket and headed out.

Finally, finally, he might be getting somewhere.

The OK Corral Saloon was not yet open when Decker burst in.

Employees were unstacking chairs from the tops of tables and wiping down the walnut bar, counting glasses, sorting inventory, and unloading dishwashers.

“We don’t open until noon,” one of them said to Decker. “The door should have been locked.”

Decker strode forward, held up his FBI credentials, and said, “I need to go up there.” He pointed to the staircase that led to the second floor.

“You can’t,” said the man, who was in his twenties, scrawny, with pimply cheeks and a ragged goatee.

“Why not?”

“Because we’re closed, like I just told you!”

Decker stuck his creds right in the guy’s face. “This says otherwise.”

The man looked around at the others, who had stopped what they were doing and were staring at this face-off.

“Why?”

“Caroline Dawson keeps a room up there.”

“So?”

“So I need to see it. Now.”

“I have to call somebody.”

“The only person I’ll be calling will be the police, if you don’t let me up there.”

The guy’s Adam’s apple was bobbing up and down and he looked desperately around for some support from his fellow workers.

To a person, they all turned away from him and commenced performing their tasks again.

“Okay,” said the guy. “But you need a key.”

“Where is it?”

He grinned triumphantly. “Ms. Dawson keeps it.”

“No problem,” said Decker as he headed up the stairs.

“Hey!”

Decker doubled his speed.

He reached a closed door that was apparently the sole entrance to the space up here. It had been open the previous time. He tried the knob, but now it was locked.

He took out a small leather kit. Inside were two pick tools. He only needed one to do the job, since the lock was not a deadbolt.

He pushed the door open and went through. He quickly moved through the event space and bar area, turned left, and came face-to-face with the only other door here.

This lock took both his pick tools. And when that didn’t work, his shoulder did the trick.

When the lock burst and the heavy door swung inward, Decker found himself looking at the nicely appointed bedroom that he had been in once before while meeting with Caroline Dawson. Four-poster bed, an enormous armoire, a couple of nightstands, and an attached bathroom. He hadn’t seen that on his previous visit. He poked his head in and saw a toilet, a bidet, a double granite-topped vanity, and a marble walk-in shower with a rainfall showerhead.

Decker slowly took it all in, until his gaze fell upon the armoire. He walked over and opened the door. It was full of women’s clothing, some costume jewelry, and many pairs of shoes. He searched through it all but found nothing particularly useful.

He closed the door and took out his tac light. He shone it under all the furniture before coming to the bed. That was where he struck gold, in the crevice between the bed frame and the box springs. No one would notice unless they’d been looking closely.

His fingers gripped the tiny object and examined it closely. He had seen it before. Right in the bar downstairs. He pocketed it and went back down.

The same man confronted him at the bottom.

“I’ve called the cops,” he blurted out.

“Give them my best,” said Decker as he walked past him and out the door.

Decker’s long legs carried him swiftly to the funeral home. On the way he had called Jamison and told her to join him after filling her in on his discovery.

The funeral home parking lot held two long black hearses and a limo for transporting the family to the cemetery. There was also a late-model Mustang convertible, with its top up, parked near the side door. The license plate read: HEAVN.

Jamison joined him at the front door. “What are you going to do?”

“Cut through the crap,” he replied.

They entered the front doors and were confronted by the same young man they had previously dealt with here.

“Oh, it’s you again.”

“Where is Mrs. Southern?”

“She’s currently occupied.”

“Not good enough,” said Jamison, holding out her badge. “Be more specific.”

“She’s... she’s working on a client.”

“Where?” said Decker.

“You can’t go back there.”

“Watch me.”

He strode off with Jamison in tow.

The young man cried out, “I’m calling the cops.”