7
BOWLER, BOWLER, AND BOWLER
CORNER OF K STREET SW AND 17TH STREET NW
WASHINGTON, D.C.
MONDAY AFTERNOON
Duce Bowler’s law offices on the fifth floor of the older, nondescript Blackthorn Building were a surprise. Agents Ruth Noble and Ollie Hamish stepped into an eighteenth-century French drawing room, with gilt sofas and chairs and classic paintings on the pale yellow walls, the three windows framed with floor-length gold brocade draperies looped open with long golden cords. Even the reception desk was eighteenth-century gold and white, with graceful curved legs, the desktop holding only a state-of-the-art computer monitor, a keyboard, and two phones. There were no clients waiting in modern dress to spoil the effect.
Ruth and Ollie crossed the expanse of glossy oak floor toward a tall, lanky young man dressed in a black suit, white shirt, and gray tie, who was rising from his gilt chair behind the desk. He smiled uncertainly at them. “Good afternoon, sir, madam. I am Kendrick. I’m afraid no one is free to assist you. May I set up an appointment for you?”
Ollie wouldn’t have been surprised if they’d made Kendrick wear a wig and knee pants. “We’re here to see Mr. Duce Bowler, Kendrick. I don’t see any clients waiting. Business is bad?”
“No, sir. An appointment is necessary, particularly on days when Mr. Bowler is prepping for a court case.”
Ruth handed Kendrick their creds and made introductions. “We’ll see him now, Kendrick.”
“You’re really FBI agents? You look so nice, I wouldn’t have guessed. Well, never mind that. Mr. and Mrs. Bowler are in the conference room.” Kendrick looked at his watch. “He might be taking a break. I took him his bear claw a couple of minutes ago. Maybe I could ask if he can spare the time to see you.”
“Just show us the way, Kendrick,” Ollie said. “Now would be good.”
Kendrick looked flustered, as if he didn’t know what to do, but he shrugged and led them down a long pale-gray-carpeted hallway past a series of niches in the walls, each with a bust of a famous eighteenth-century Frenchman, beginning with Louis XV and Voltaire, each labeled with their dates of birth and death.
“Those wigs must have been hot,” Ollie said. “Makes my scalp itch to look at them.”
Kendrick turned, grinned, and pointed to the last bust set in a place of honor: Marie Antoinette. “This one’s Mrs. Bowler’s favorite, and the only woman. Mrs. Bowler says she wore enough perfume to float a boat. They didn’t bathe much back then. Mrs. Bowler also said the real Marie Antoinette didn’t have that much bosom.”
They passed a half-dozen gilt-edged doors, heard voices as they passed. Kendrick said, “All the doors are closed because Mrs. Bowler likes everyone to keep themselves private, clients and secretaries included. The world has ears, Mrs. Bowler says.”
Kendrick opened a set of double doors, stepped into a conference room, and announced, “Mr. Duce—ah, Mr. and Mrs. Bowler, two FBI agents are here to see you. I’m sorry, but they insisted.”
A thin, basketball-tall man rose, a half-eaten bear claw in his hand, sputtering as he wiped his mouth. “Kendrick, what is this? These agents did not call to request a meeting. I have nothing to say to them.” He waved a thin hand at piles of papers on the table. “I’m very busy, Kendrick. Take them away.”
Ruth smiled. “Mr. Bowler. Mrs. Bowler?” She introduced herself and Ollie. They handed over their creds, waited, saying nothing more until Mr. Bowler, scowling, handed them back.
Mrs. Bowler she said as she rose, “My husband does not have time to speak to you. He’s preparing for a very important court case. You do understand, don’t you, that he is not obliged to speak to you?”
Ollie nearly spurted out a laugh. Mr. Bowler was a good six feet six inches, and his wife and partner topped out at no more than five feet, her head barely reaching his armpit. She was about the same age as her husband, early fifties. She was dressed as elegantly as her husband, both of them proud products of Barneys, if Ruth didn’t miss her guess. Unlike her husband, Renée Bowler wasn’t holding a bear claw.
Kendrick said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Bowler, but they were insistent, sir.” Kendrick, no fool, slipped out of the room quickly, closing the double doors behind him.
Ollie said, “We’re here to speak to you about Manta Ray—Mr. Liam Hennessey. You are his lawyer, isn’t that correct, Mr. Bowler?”
Bowler drew himself up and threw his head back, trying to intimidate, but he couldn’t pull it off, what with his pale eyes darting back and forth between Ruth and Ollie. Still, even though they could tell he was worried, he kept his voice calm and professional. “I was Mr. Hennessey’s lawyer, but I no longer represent him. Like every other citizen of the District, I heard it on a news bulletin when he escaped federal custody. Incredible incompetence on law enforcement’s part, I have to say. I did my best by him, a prison term rather than a lethal injection, but that was enough. I’ve washed my hands of him, removed him from my client list, and I will have nothing more to do with him. So I have nothing more to say to you, either. Now, if you don’t mind, I have work to do.”
Ruth saw a sheen of sweat glisten on Bowler’s forehead. She pulled out her stone face and said, in a voice colder than an ice floe, “Mr. Bowler, you will either speak to us here or we will escort you to the Hoover Building. The venue is up to you.”
He stared at her for an instant, a deer in the headlights, before looking at his wife. Despite her size, Ruth recognized at once it was Mrs. Bowler who drove this bus. Maybe more rottweiler than bus driver, even in her four-inch stilettos.
Ruth turned to her. “You are aware your husband was the only one listed as visiting Mr. Hennessey at the Northern Neck Regional Jail. We’ve checked the video cams, of course, and there was no doubt it was your husband who visited him on several occasions. Only your husband could have brokered a deal between Mr. Hennessey and whoever arranged Hennessey’s escape. We suspect it was in return for the contents of the six safe-deposit boxes he robbed a month ago, isn’t that right?”
Bowler’s forehead continued to shine with sweat while Mrs. Bowler examined the bright pink polish on her thumbnail. Then she frowned a bit. Had her nail polish chipped? Ruth watched her toss her bobbed blond hair. “Surely you have some understanding of lawyer-client privilege, Agent Noble. Shall I recite the statute to you both, Agent Hamish? Mr. Bowler had no role in Mr. Hennessey’s escape from federal custody. It would be unethical for him to answer any questions about his conversations with his client. You need to leave now.”
Ollie said pleasantly, “If Mr. Hennessey and Mr. Bowler were conspiring to set Hennessey free, there is no privilege, Mrs. Bowler, as I’m sure you know. Mr. Bowler, your firm isn’t in financial trouble. You, personally, do very little criminal work. The question I have is why you would accept carrying out anything as dicey as this since you had to know we’d come knocking on your door. I doubt you’d want to risk leaving a financial record, so I would guess you’ll claim your work for Mr. Hennessey was pro bono. Tell me, did whoever put you up to this threaten you, or perhaps know about something you would rather no one found out about?”
As he spoke, Ollie handed Mr. Bowler a sheet of paper. “You’ll recognize these two names because they’re your clients. Both of these individuals are under investigation for money laundering for MS-13, the Salvadoran drug cartel. The federal prosecutor seems to think you were involved, and he’s working hard to nail it down. That doesn’t put you in a very good position. Disbarment, prison—more than enough to motivate you to cooperate with us. If you do, we’re sure the federal prosecutor would be willing to close his file on your involvement.
“Now’s the time to show good faith. Who were you really representing, Mr. Bowler? Who paid you to broker a deal with Liam Hennessey?”
Mrs. Bowler said, contempt in her voice, “There are no charges against us, and if there ever are, they’ll be proved groundless. We are a reputable firm.”
Ruth ignored her. “Mr. Bowler, you have to know that when we apprehend Mr. Hennessey, he will tell us in great detail how you helped facilitate his escape. He will throw you under the bus without any hesitation. And if he should die instead, you can be sure we’ll investigate you until we find every piece of dirt hidden under your expensive carpets. We’ll investigate your clients until they realize you are a liability. I doubt your Russian clients, in particular, will be pleased with you, and I hear they’re not known for their forbearance.”
Mr. Bowler’s Adam’s apple worked frantically above his Gucci tie. Ruth leaned forward. “You wouldn’t do well in prison, Mr. Bowler. You are not a young man. You wouldn’t be able to defend yourself against the predators. For your own sake, you should tell us the name of the person who hired you to broker the deal with Hennessey.”
Mrs. Bowler laid her small hand on her husband’s arm. “Ignore her, Duce.” She whirled back to face them, her palms flattened on the table. “You will listen to me, Agent Noble. My husband did not broker any deal. Hennessey is a resourceful man. He obviously had ways to reach his cohorts on the outside. My husband had nothing to do with Mr. Hennessey’s escape.”
The double doors flew open. “Mother? What is going on here? What is Kendrick going on about?”
Ollie and Ruth turned to see a young Amazon stride into the conference room like a force of nature. She was six feet tall, with long dark brown hair clipped away from her face, strong sharp features, not above thirty. She was the image of her father, and the third Bowler listed in the firm name. They’d know quickly enough if she was her mother’s daughter.
Ruth knew exactly who she was, but she asked, “And who are you?”
“I am Magda Bowler.” A sculpted eyebrow went up. “And you are?”
Ruth and Ollie introduced themselves and put their creds in her outstretched hand. She studied them closely, handed them back. “Why are you here?”
Ruth said, “We are questioning your father about his arrangements with Manta Ray—Liam Hennessey.”
“You are wasting your time. We no longer represent Mr. Hennessey. I’m sure my parents already told you that. I came in to put an end to your harassment.”
Ruth smiled at her. “Trust me, you do not know what harassment is.” She flashed a look at Mrs. Bowler. “There are no nail salons in prison, Mrs. Bowler. As I’m sure you already know, the person who hired you is dangerous. You and your husband will want to think about this very seriously, before it’s too late.”
“Too late?” Magda Bowler planted herself in front of them, hanging on to her control by a thread. “I don’t like your threats, especially after you’ve already proven yourselves incompetent by letting Hennessey escape.”
“Magda, come here!” Her mother’s voice drew her up short. So Mrs. Bowler did drive the family bus.
Ruth and Ollie watched Magda Bowler walk stiffly to stand between her parents. The three of them stared silently after Ruth and Ollie as they left the conference room, shooting death rays between their shoulder blades. Ruth said to Ollie as they walked past Marie Antoinette’s bust, “Mr. Bowler’s ready to break. He’s scared.”
“You know what I think?” Ollie gave Kendrick a wave as they walked out of the offices, to the elevator. Once inside, he said, “I don’t think Mr. Bowler ever believed his off-the-books client would be able to break Manta Ray out of federal custody. Are all three of them in on it? It’s hard to imagine that Mr. Bowler acted by himself. You’re right, Ruth. If any of them break, it’ll be him.”
She pulled out her cell, dialed Savich. “If that’s true, Ollie, we should get some surveillance on Bowler. Who knows? Maybe we shook him up enough so he’ll schedule a meet with whoever hired him.”