Max Collins - Fate of the Union

Reeder was nodding. “Look for a mom-and-pop motel — there still are some of those down there. Somewhere that still takes cash and won’t demand a credit card. Someplace off the grid and away from security cameras. This is a strictly cash trip — no credit cards, no cell phones either.”

“Understood,” Christopher said.

Still reeling, Beth asked, “But how will we know when it’s safe to come back?”

Reeder thought for a moment. “Get adjoining rooms and check in as Joan and Broderick Crawford.”

Christopher frowned. “Who?”

“Two actors from a century ago or so, whose names won’t mean anything to whoever might be looking for you — except me. Those names and Key West will be enough for me to track you.”

Beth asked, “What if we need to talk to you?”

Should he take time to buy them burner phones from his guy, DeMarcus? No reputable prepaid cell could be used without leaving a trail. He reached into the evidence box, withdrew the bagged burner, and handed it to Christopher.

“If you need me, call the last number your dad dialed — it’s mine. Don’t use it from where you’re staying. You can only use it once, then you have to get as far away from it as you can.”

“Got it.”

Beth asked, “Can’t that phone be traced?”

Reeder said, “Assuming Chris was murdered, the ones who did this left that cell behind. It means nothing to them now — they have no reason to trace it. A one-time use should be safe.”

“All... all right,” she said.

Reeder went over and sat next to her and took her hand. “You need to pack a few things, nothing fancy, everyday stuff that goes with a warm climate. Now scoot.”

She rose and went upstairs without argument, leaving her Scotch behind.

With Beth gone, Reeder turned to her son. “If we’re right, and your father was murdered, these people are obviously dangerous, and almost certainly professionals. Professional enough to fool DC Homicide. You’ve got to stay on top of things.”

“I will, Joe.”

“Now one more thing — do you own a gun?”

He frowned. “No.”

“Do you know how to use one? A handgun, I mean.”

“Yes. Dad used to take me to the firing range. It was a hobby when I was a kid that I lost interest in.”

“Well, you know what they say about riding a bike. I’m going to assume your dad has a handgun somewhere in the house, and that you know where it is.”

“I do. It’s in a locked desk drawer in the den... but I know where the key is.”

“Good. Let’s have a look at the thing.”

Reeder followed the younger man into the den, where a key hidden in the middle drawer opened a left-hand lower one. The gun, like Chris and for that matter Reeder, was not new to this world — a vintage Smith & Wesson Model 52, a .38 with a box of shells to go with it.

“Don’t tell your mother,” Reeder said.

“Don’t worry.”

After Beth came down with a single suitcase and a cosmetics case, she presented Reeder with her late husband’s key ring, singling out the office one; the electronic flip-key to Chris’s BMW was hooked on as well.

“Beth,” Reeder asked, “where is Chris’s car?”

“In the garage. The police turned it over to us with the box of evidence.”

“Anything missing that you noticed?”

Christopher chimed in: “No — all the usual stuff was there, glove compartment, trunk. And, no — no laptop.”

Reeder got out his small notebook and wrote down a phone number, tore out the page.

“Call this,” he said. “A friend of mine will open up his used car lot after hours, just for you. I’ll call ahead and tell him you’re special clients of mine.”

Christopher blinked. “Is that what we are?”

“That’s what you are. Tell him you want something solid, old, and with papers. Leave your own car with him.”

“How much will all that cost?”

“Nothing. My treat.”

“Mr. Reeder...”

“It’s Joe, remember? And I’ll tell my pal to disconnect the GPS. You can find Florida, can’t you? Now you and your mom go have a fun vacation. Just don’t go out much — too much sun can be bad for you.”

Fifteen minutes later, mother and son were pulling out of the driveway in the BMW, Christopher behind the wheel — they would stop by his apartment to gather some clothes and other things of his. After that, Joan Crawford and her son Broderick would leave the apartment and begin a long road trip.

Soon the box of Bryson’s effects was tucked safely in Reeder’s trunk, and so was their home computer, though he wasn’t sure what he was going to do with the stuff now. Surely, hitting up Patti Rogers to run everything through the FBI lab was iffy, since the chain of custody had been broken. Even if Reeder demonstrated Chris had been murdered, nothing found on his late friend’s clothes would be admissible now. Maybe Miggie could pry a clue or two from that home computer.

This time of night, the drive to Chris Bryson’s office took less than fifteen minutes. Fairfax Corner South was a warren of stores, offices, and restaurants on Monument Corner Drive — evergreens lining the sidewalks, storefronts dark, streetlights providing the only illumination. Bryson Security occupied a corner space of a complex with an old-time downtown motif and limited parking.

A pale blue Nissan Altima — the only car here besides his own, showing no signs of the afternoon snow — was parked three storefronts past Bryson. As a routine precaution, Reeder memorized its plate — Kentucky, 440 RHW.

Parking one door down from the security office, the hum of light traffic on Interstate 66 riding the chill wind, he made a threat assessment of the silent block. Just like Christmas — not a creature was stirring.

As if he belonged there, Reeder — in Burberry and gloves, his breath smoking — walked briskly to the security firm’s door, whose handle he held as he prepared to work the key in the lock. That was when the door eased itself open an inch.

Apprehension coiled in his belly like a woken rattler.

His extending baton — which he preferred carrying over a gun — was at home. He hadn’t needed it for the meeting with Benjamin and certainly not on his visit to the Bryson residence. He’d prefer having the weapon in his coat pocket before entering, but running home for it seemed out of the question...

Anyway, the unlocked door did not have to mean trouble.

Maybe Chris had fled in such fear-driven haste that he hadn’t made sure his office door was locked behind him. Possibly cleaning staff had screwed up, or even the police, if they’d actually bothered checking the place out.

Or Reeder might be walking in on an intruder, possibly an armed one. His brain said, Go back to the car, call 911, and just wait for the cavalry.

His gut said, If there’s a back door, the bastard could get away and you wouldn’t even know it!

Gut trumped brains and he pushed the door open as slowly, as quietly, as he could, leaving just room enough to slip inside. The front window was tinted dark, filtering and lessening illumination from outside, the outer office empty but for the part-time receptionist’s desk and a few wall-lining chairs, one of which he used to pile his topcoat and gloves. His eyes were on the inner-office door, no light seeping around the edges. He moved cautiously closer to the door, which like the front one was not closed tight. Not quite ajar, but not really shut.

Carefully he nudged the door open a ways and peered into the dark, apparently empty room. He opened the door halfway, stepping inside, pausing to let his left hand search the wall for the light switch, not finding it before the door shoved into him, squeezing him, wedging him there, half in, half out.