No Good Deeds Part 11

Crow glanced over at Lloyd, whose every cell seemed focused on the game in front of him. He held on to the controls, swaying side to side, his right hand darting out to pound the b.u.t.ton that unleashed his artillery. His grace, his dexterity, his rapt concentration-what could Lloyd accomplish if those gifts could be directed elsewhere? But how could anyone persuade him to redefine the future as something more than the next four to six hours?

"No," Crow admitted. "I don't think he's told me the whole story. But I also think he's right that his only choices just now are being killed or being locked up."

"Don't lose sight of that," Spike said.

"That he's in danger?"

"That he's a liar."

"That's harsh, Spike."

"Also true. I bet you've already caught him in one lie." Crow's silence answered that question for Spike. "Just because he's 'fessed up to one doesn't mean he's done yet. Lying's a way of life with some people."

It was 2:00 P.M. when Crow called Tess on the disposable cell phone that was not yet in her possession. She could retrieve the message tomorrow.

"Lloyd and I are on the road," he said. "Details to follow via these lines of communication."

Lloyd meanwhile was looking around the increasingly flat countryside, sniffing the air suspiciously. "What's that?" he asked.

"Salt. The ocean's maybe thirteen miles from here."

"Which ocean?"

Honestly, Baltimore schools. Even a sixteen-year-old dropout should know which ocean bordered Maryland and Delaware. "There's only one we could have reached in three hours, the Atlantic."

"Ain't nothing here, if you ask me."

"Not in March, no. Not down the ocean." Crow took a moment, for he always needed to prepare himself before he launched into an imitation of Spike's Bawlmer accent. "We've gone downy eaushin, hon."

"Hate that "hon' s.h.i.t," Lloyd said, going back to the X-Men comic book that Crow had bought him at the same convenience store that provided the phones. But a few miles later, when they pulled up on the street that dead-ended into a small boardwalk and the Atlantic came into full view, Lloyd found it hard to maintain his studied nonchalance. There was a palpable awe in his silence, although he tried to hide it.

"There sharks in there?" he asked.

"No. Dolphins sometimes."

"Is it always so loud?"

"Loud?" Crow hadn't thought of surf as noisy, more of a soothing music, one that took him back to his childhood, the summer nights on Nantucket. "I guess so. It's a beautiful sound, isn't it?"

Lloyd shrugged. Crow wished that it were warmer, that they could take off their shoes and socks, roll up their pant legs, and wade into the surf. It seemed almost criminal to him that Lloyd had reached the age of sixteen without knowing what it felt like to wiggle one's toes in wet sand, to feel the sensation of the tide rushing out, so it seemed as if one were moving while standing perfectly still.

"So what we going to do now?"

"This is our new home for the next few days. Until we figure out what's best for you."

"The ocean?" Lloyd's voice squeaked a bit.

"No, this place here." Crow waved toward a faded white square of a building, the red lettering on its side weathered by the winter. FRANK'S FUNWORLD.

"What's there to do?" Lloyd looked at the tiny strip of boardwalk, the largely empty houses, with a sense of desperation. "No fun that I can see."

"Don't worry," said a short, squat man who came waddling out of a side door. Because the door was centered in the face of a grinning clown, it appeared as if the man had crawled out of the clown's belly. "I got plenty to keep you busy."

16.

Gabe Dalesio still couldn't believe his luck. He had all but given up on ever getting a piece of the Youssef investigation-too big now, too radioactive. Plus, all the agencies had to present a united front, pretend they were on top of things, not start pointing fingers across jurisdictional lines and glory hogging. Gabe had tried to drop some hints in front of the boss woman that the case interested him, that he had some experience with shield laws if she wanted to pursue that angle. (A lie, but what of it? He'd get the expertise if he needed it.) But n.o.body cared about what he had to offer.

And then boom, out of the blue, this FBI agent Barry Jenkins calls up and asks if he'd like to watch the interrogation of the private investigator, the grandstander who was refusing to name the source.

"Why me?" he asked, then wanted to kick himself. That wasn't the comeback of a natural-born winner, all grateful and pathetic. Why me? He should have asked for the time and place, said he'd be there.

Jenkins, to his credit, didn't bust b.a.l.l.s. "I'm sort of the unofficial liaison on the Youssef matter. Collins at DEA told me you'd been challenging the, um, received wisdom on the murder before any of this broke. I asked your boss, and she said she could spare you on this."

"Sure." Trying now for the cool, hard-as-nails stoicism that he should have shown from the start. So Collins didn't think he was a f.a.ggot after all. "I could fit it in."

"We're just going to watch, mind you. The state people don't want us breathing down their necks. They want our help, but they want to run the show."

"I've been thinking about this," Gabe had said. "If Youssef is a kidnapping victim-"

"Who said that?"

"That's my theory. It all goes to the E-ZPa.s.s, what I told Collins. I don't think Youssef was at the wheel of his vehicle when it pa.s.sed through the toll on its way south, but he wasn't dead yet either, so it's a kidnapping charge, which makes it a federal case even if you don't know he's a U.S. attorney-"

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves here, young'un." The guy actually said "young'un," as if he were John Wayne and Gabe was some kid, Ron Howard in The Shootist or one of those boys from the movie about the cattle drive.

But that was okay. Those boys came through for the Duke in the end, proved they were men. And now Gabe was here in the Howard County public safety building, arms folded, eyes squinted, staring through the one-way gla.s.s at what appeared to be a remarkably average woman. She had wavy, almost shoulder-length hair that begged to be shaped and styled in some way, light hazel eyes, and a nice shape if you liked that buxom type, which Gabe usually did. Her voice was low, her words clipped, although Gabe sensed that this was not her natural way of speaking. With each question she glanced sideways at her lawyer, an old geezer in a wheelchair. Ironside and Perry Mason, all rolled into one. It was unclear why they made eye contact each time, as the lawyer didn't seem to signal her in any way, didn't so much as shake his head yes or no. She looked at him, then said, over and over again, "I'm sorry, but I consider that information confidential." Gabe didn't get that. She had volunteered to come in, presumably to cooperate. What was this s.h.i.t?

"You have no standing to a.s.sert privilege," the Howard County a.s.sistant state attorney reminded Tess.

"I'm not saying it's privileged. I'm saying I made a promise, a binding oral contract. Breaking it would make me liable to civil action, which would be ruinous to my business. I literally can't afford to tell you what you want to know."

"And this promise is more important to you than solving the murder of an officer of the court?"

"Let me remind you," Tyner put in, "that my client has already shown her willingness to do her civic duty by getting her source to share his-or her-information with reporters. It's up to investigators to use this information as they wish."

"A newspaper article is no subst.i.tute for a true criminal investigation. There are unanswered questions."

"Such as?"

"The source didn't name who provided the ATM card."

"Maybe, maybe not," Tyner said. "Given that I was not present for the interview, I can't speak to that."

"She was present."

"That hasn't been established for the record," Tyner said.

"Were you present?"

"Not for the entirety of the interview." Tess had made the food run.

Detective Howard Johnson could not hide his exasperation. Tess didn't blame him. Semantic games p.i.s.sed her off, too. "Did the source tell the reporters who gave him the ATM card?"

"Or her."

"Excuse me?"

"Him or her," Tess said. "I've never put a gender to the source, nor did the reporters. I'd like to establish that for the record."

Detective Johnson picked up a piece of paper. "The purchases-the Nikes, the North Face-they were men's, according to the receipts."

"I buy men's shirts at the Gap," Tess said. "I'm wearing one right now. At any rate, I'm not going to answer questions that imply the gender of the source is known."

"Okay. Did he or she identify the person who gave him or her the ATM card?"

"Not to me."

Tess was walking a very fine line here. Lloyd had not identified the source of the card at the time of the interview. But he had told Crow yesterday, prompting their flight. She didn't know the name, but she knew it was gettable. All one had to do was look at who had been killed late Monday or early Tuesday-something that Tess had steadfastly avoided. With so many secrets to protect, a little genuine ignorance was bliss.

Poor redheaded Howard Johnson was beginning to sweat. "Your source is protecting a killer, which makes him-"

"Him or her," Tess said.

"Him or her an accessory. Which means you are obstructing justice."

"Charge her with that and we'll proceed from there," Tyner said. "Until then it's an empty threat."

"The source knew nothing about the murder of Gregory Youssef. The source believed the whole incident to be some kind of low-level scam. But-" Tess looked at Tyner. They had spent much of the morning trying to decide if they should share the new information that Crow had provided, brainstorming every ramification and possibility. It was hard to know sometimes how a piece of information would land. To Tess it was obvious that the murder b.u.t.tressed her position. But it might not appear that way to the detectives and attorneys. "I do have some new information. New to me."

She was aware of the antic.i.p.ation in the room, the hope that she would tell them something significant, the worry that she was setting them up for the anticlimax.

"I still don't know the name of my source's contact. But I do know that the contact is dead."

"Dead?"

"Homicide."

"Who? When? How could you know this?"

"As I said, I don't know his name. But I can give you some information about my source's contact."

Detective Howard Johnson leaned forward.

"The victim was one of the city's sixty-some homicide victims since the beginning of the year. So you have a finite universe of cases to examine."

"We will put you in front of the grand jury," the detective said, his temper beyond lost. "We will hold you in contempt. We will let you sit in the detention center until you get over yourself and stop this stupid s.h.i.t."

"I don't doubt that," Tess said. "But the person I'm protecting honestly believes this to be a matter of life or death. Someone has already been killed. We don't know for certain that it's connected to the Youssef case, but it's a possibility we have to consider."

"Only, the person who was killed wasn't in protective custody," Johnson pointed out. "Your source would be a lot safer, coming to us."

"You think? There's a tradition of dead witnesses in Baltimore that belies your confidence. Besides, even though I could tell you who my client is, if I were so inclined, I can't tell you where the client is. The source has created his-or her-own brand of protective custody. Has left the area and has no plans to return for the time being."

"Are you being truthful?"

"I've been truthful at every point in this interview." Tess couldn't keep a little heat out of her voice. When the circ.u.mstances suited her, she was perfectly capable of lying, but she had been extremely precise today. True, she hadn't been particularly helpful, but that wasn't the same as lying. She had walked the line, as the old song had it.

And was hovering right above a ring of fire, to keep it in the Johnny Cash canon.

On the other side of the gla.s.s, Jenkins popped a Pepcid, although he kept his face impa.s.sive, unreadable. Sanctimonious b.i.t.c.h. Where did she get off?

No matter. He had been smart to heed his stomach's queasy instincts and invite the AUSA last-minute. This eager beaver next to him was the key to finding out what he wanted to know. All he had to do was unleash Fido here and he would cheerfully, happily, and quite legally proceed to press this b.i.t.c.h until she was begging for mercy. Jenkins hoped she was smart, or at least pragmatic, the kind of person who would abandon a principle when things got rough. Let her play this half-a.s.sed game with him and he would own her. Sure, she could be all n.o.ble here, when the only thing she was risking was some penny-ante s.h.i.t from county cops. But when it was her life versus someone else's, those lofty principles would fall away. They always did.

The thing is, he sort of got where she was coming from. In a different context, he might have respected her. He knew what it was to believe in something and how hard it could be to give it up, even in the face of overwhelming evidence that those to whom you were loyal had no loyalty to you. She had been taken in by this kid, whoever he was, bought into the idea that he needed her protection. Couldn't see the forest for the trees, a figure of speech that had long puzzled Jenkins, who had always been able to see everything all at once. She had placed herself at the center of the Youssef matter, losing sight of the fact that it wasn't about her, that she was an insignificant player. This wasn't her story, but he could see why she might think it was. To her credit, she was trying to do what she thought was right.

But she believed in the wrong thing, she had chosen the wrong side, and that was reason enough to dismantle her life.

THURSDAY.

17.

Ocean's h.e.l.l on paint and wood," Edward Keyes said, handing out sc.r.a.pers and brushes to Crow and Lloyd. "Ocean's h.e.l.l on everything, corrosive as a sonuvab.i.t.c.h. I usually paint in the fall, but my Mexican crew up and quit on me."

"Do you have to stereotype them by race?" Crow said automatically, then regretted it. They were dependent on this man's generosity, after all.

"What I'd say? Just said they quit, and they did. Left me high and dry last fall, and now I'm way behind if I'm gonna open for Mother's Day weekend. I should give up on shingles, go with something more mod-ren I know, but I like the old-timey look. It's not as much work as it looks to be, not once you get a rhythm."

Lloyd, who had glared at Edward Keyes throughout his overview of the seasonal preparation required by Frank's FunWorld, spoke for the first time. "Why Frank?"