Дэвид Балдаччи - Hell's Corner

“Yes, they do,” answered Stone. “And I would imagine an X-ray of the basketball would reveal the bomb inside?”

“Absolutely,” said Garchik.

“Then if one of the groundspeople was involved he didn’t take the ball through White House security.” He looked around. “But he could have come directly to the park to begin work on the tree. Someone could have given him the ball then. The White House wouldn’t be involved at all.”

“Which would be captured on the video,” said Garchik. “We’ll have to check that angle, but it seems way too easy to detect on our part.”

Stone said, “Which means we’re missing something.” He looked down at the crater. “Let’s check that video feed. Right now.”

A few minutes later they were standing in the FBI’s command post on Jackson Place. They had called in two Secret Service agents, who huddled with them around the large TV screen. The feed they would be looking at had come from the Secret Service’s archives.

“We keep the images for a minimum of fifteen years,” explained one of the Secret Service agents.

“You’re not the only agency with electronic eyes on the park, though,” said Stone.

The same agent smiled. “We all have peepers on our little slice of Hell’s Corner. In an ideal world we all share what we see, but this is far from an ideal world.”

“What exactly are you looking for?” asked the other agent.

Stone explained about the tree being planted, and also about the bomb dog going near the tree.

Agent Garchik had stayed behind in the park to keep going over the crime scene, but Tom Gross had joined them after being called by Stone. The FBI agent said, “We need to see the entire feed from the time the tree was delivered to the moment the bomb went off.”

They were shown this feed from three different angles. It took a long time, even though the security guard was able to speed up the frames without any significant detail being missed. At the end they stared at the screen with the same unanswered questions.

Gross said, “The dogs did make a pass, but they stayed outside the tape line. That was a big hole in the security wall. Secret Service is going to get dinged for that.”

The two agents exchanged glances and grimaced but said nothing.

“And there wasn’t even a hint of anyone planting anything in that hole,” added Chapman.

Stone said, “You’re sure this is all the footage?”

One of the agents said, “That’s it.”

Gross, Stone and Chapman left the command center. On the way back to the park Gross said, “I can’t remember the last case I had where not only haven’t I taken a step forward, I keep taking steps back.”

Stone closed his eyes and recalled what he had seen on the video. A crane had lifted the large tree up into the air. Then a crew of National Park Service personnel in their green-and-khaki uniforms had moved in and helped direct the placement of the maple into the hole.

He opened his eyes. “There had to be a staging area for the tree. Where it was kept before being installed? That wasn’t on the video.”

“That’s right,” said a hopeful-looking Gross.

Chapman added, “And the time stamp on the video shows that the tree was put in a day before the bombing happened. So why was the hole still uncovered?”

Gross said, “I think we need to find answers to those questions.”

A moment later his phone rang. He talked for a few moments and then clicked off. “We got a hit on the jogger. Missing persons report was phoned in a few hours ago. Family member. Matches the description, and he was in the vicinity of the park.”

“Why so long to call it in?” asked Stone.

“Something we’ll have to find out when we talk to them.”

“I think we should split up,” said Stone. “You and your men can handle the groundspeople and Chapman and I can talk to the family members. You have the address?”

Gross gave it to him. As they were parting company the FBI agent said, “Now we’ve only got the suit to track down.”

Stone never turned around. “Yeah,” he said over his shoulder as Chapman marched along beside him.

When they got to her car she said, “You know you could be charged with withholding vital evidence in an investigation. With obstruction even.”

“If you think that’s the case, feel free to report me.”

The two looked across the width of the rental at each other.

Chapman finally sighed. “I don’t think it would further my career to pull the rug out from under my boss. So just get the hell in the car. ”

When the doors plunked closed she threw it into gear. “Where to?”

Stone gazed down at the slip of paper that Gross had given him with the address. “Anacostia. Make sure you keep your gun handy.”

“Is it dangerous, then, this Anacostia?”

Stone thought for a few moments before replying, “I guess less dangerous than Lafayette Park, actually.”

Carmen Escalante lived in a duplex a few blocks from the river. The neighborhood was within sight of the ballpark of the Washington Nationals, but had not benefited from the gentrification that was going on in other areas around the stadium.

They reached Escalante’s address and Stone knocked on a door that was scarred by at least three old bullet pocks by his quick count. They heard curious sounds approaching. Footsteps and something more. Something that clunked. When the door opened they were looking down at a petite woman in her twenties who had metal braces on each arm to support her twisted legs. Hence the strange sounds.

“Carmen Escalante?” Stone asked.

She nodded. “I am Carmen.”

Stone and then Chapman showed her their badges.

“We’re here about your report of a missing person,” said Chapman.

“You don’t sound American,” said Carmen curiously.

“I’m not.”

Carmen looked confused. Stone said, “Can we come in?”

They followed her down a short hall to a tiny room. The furniture was thirdhand, the floor littered with junk. Stone could smell rotting food.

“I haven’t had a chance to clean up lately,” Carmen said, but her tone was unapologetic. She dropped onto the couch and stood her braces against the arm of the furniture. On either side of her was stacked what Stone could only politely describe as crap.

Stone and Chapman remained standing because there was nowhere else to sit.

“I’m sure you’ve been worried about...?” Stone said in a prompting manner.

“My uncle, Alfredo, but we call him Freddy.”

“We?”

“The family.”

“Are they here?” Stone looked around.

“No, they’re back in Mexico.”

“So you live here with him?”

She nodded.

Stone said, “And his last name?”

“Padilla.”

“When was the last time you saw him?” asked Chapman.

“Two nights ago. He went out for dinner.”

“Do you know where?”

“At a place on Sixteenth Street, near F. He come from España originally, my uncle. My father’s family, the Escalantes, they come from España too, a long time ago. Good paellas in España. He liked his paellas, my uncle. And this place he goes to, it has good paellas.”

Stone and Chapman exchanged glances, obviously thinking the same thing.

That would have put him close to Lafayette Park.

“Can I ask why you waited so long to call the police about him?” Stone asked.

“I have no telephone here. And I cannot get around too good without Uncle Freddy. I think he will come home anytime. But he does not. I finally ask a neighbor to call for me.”

“Okay. Do you remember what he was wearing when he went out?”