CAMERON AND JEANNIE were waiting outside the door to the local branch of the National Deposit Bank & Trust when it opened at nine o’clock. He had calls into financial advisers who’d worked with Jameson Beauclair, hoping one of them would’ve gotten a call from him during the home invasion.
They showed their badges to the manager, who held up his hands to keep them from advancing into the bank. “I’m not authorized to speak to you. You’ll need to contact our corporate office in New York.”
“What we need to speak to you about happened here,” Cameron said firmly. “So you will talk to us, or we’ll arrest you for interfering in a homicide investigation.”
“We don’t know anything about any homicides,” the manager said, his face red with agitation.
“I want to talk to the teller who assisted Cleo Beauclair with the withdrawal of one hundred thousand dollars on Monday afternoon.” To the tellers watching anxiously from behind the counter, Cameron said, “Which one of you assisted her with that withdrawal?”
A dark-haired young woman raised her hand. “I did.”
Cameron and Jeannie pushed past the protesting manager and went to talk to her.
“Your name?” Cameron asked.
“Sarah Braxton,” she said, handing him her business card.
“Sarah, shut your mouth,” the manager said. “We’re not allowed to talk to anyone without corporate’s approval.”
“If she doesn’t talk to us, we’ll arrest you both,” Jeannie said. “We can talk here or downtown. Your choice.”
“I’ll do it right here,” Sarah said with a defiant look for the manager. “I told him there was something strange about that transaction, but he said I’m not paid to psychoanalyze our customers and that I was to shut up and do my job.”
“He didn’t want to deal with it because he’d have to get corporate involved, and that’s a hassle,” one of the other tellers said.
“I’ll have your jobs,” the manager said, sputtering with outrage.
Cameron glanced at Jeannie, who walked over to the manager. “You’re under arrest for interfering with a homicide investigation.” Jeannie had his hands cuffed behind his back before he realized what was happening. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.”
The tellers appeared stunned and possibly gleeful as their manager was hauled out of the building.
“Couldn’t happen to a better guy,” Sarah said. “I knew something was wrong about that transaction, but he wouldn’t let me call the police. I almost called on my own, but I was afraid of losing my job.” Her eyes filled. “I’m a single mom, and I need this job.”
“Take me through it from the minute she approached your window and tell me what happened.”
“She was really nervous. Her hands were shaking, and it took two tries to punch in her code on the keypad.”
“Had you seen her before?”
“No, never.”
“Can you describe the man who was with her?”
“He was tall with dark hair. He had on a black coat and reflective sunglasses that made it impossible to see his eyes. He never said a word, but I could tell she was afraid of him. And she kept looking outside. It was all very weird, which is what I told Lenny, but he said I should shut up and mind my own business, that she and her husband were excellent customers and didn’t need us nosing into their business.” Her eyes filled. “Then I saw on the news that their house had burned, and they were dead. I knew something was off. I should’ve called 9-1-1.”
Cameron felt for her. She would carry the guilt of her inaction with her for the rest of her life. “This is very helpful. Thank you.”
Sarah handed over another business card with an 800-number written on it. “That’s our corporate office in New York. You have to go through them to get the video.”
“I believe the FBI has already been in touch with them, but I’ll follow up.”
“I’m really sorry I didn’t make that call,” she said, wiping tears. “I’ll regret that forever.”
Cameron handed her his business card. “If you think of anything else that might be relevant, please call me. My cell number is on there.”
“I will.” She looked out the front door to where Jeannie had the bank manager in handcuffs and was leading him to Cameron’s car. “What’ll happen to him?”
“We’ll take him downtown, process him and charge him with a misdemeanor count of interfering with an investigation. He’ll probably be released before dinnertime. Unless we can’t get a judge to arraign him. In that case, he’ll spend the night as a guest of the city.”
“I sure would like to see that happen. He’s such an asshole. If he’d let me make that phone call, maybe those people would still be alive.”
“Perhaps the judges will be extra busy today.”
She smiled tearfully at him. “We can only hope.”
* * *
BRENDAN SULLIVAN CALLED as Sam and Freddie were on their way back to HQ. “You’re on speaker so my partner can take notes,” Sam said.
“No problem. I’ve got a call into Klein, who’d better call me back ASAP if he doesn’t want to get picked up, and I’ve got names and addresses of some of his associates.”
“Go,” Sam said, navigating morning traffic as Freddie took notes.
None of the names Sullivan gave them rang a bell with Sam. “Any of them have records?” Sam asked.
“All of them.”
Sam felt the nuts-on-the-block buzz that made this job so fucking exciting, usually when they were on the verge of nailing a murdering monster or two. “This is very helpful, thank you so much.”
“Happy to help. Let me know if you need anything else.”
“Will do, and if I haven’t told you before, you’re my most favorite bureaucrat ever.”
“That is high praise,” Freddie said. “Trust me on that.”
Sullivan laughed. “In light of who your husband is, it’s very high praise indeed.”
“Okay, make that second favorite,” Sam said.
The two men laughed.
“Have a good day,” Sullivan said.
“You do the same.” She slapped her phone closed. “I love that guy.”
“You all but told him that just now.”
“How often do we get that kind of help from anyone?”
“Hardly ever.”
Sam’s phone rang again, this time with a call from Darren Tabor of the Washington Star. “You’re catching me in a rare good mood, Darren. What can I do for you?”
Her comment was met with total silence.
“Darren?”
“I’m here. Just processing the fact that you’re in a good mood.”
Freddie snorted with laughter.
“What’d you want?”
“A statement on the Beauclair case. The fire marshal won’t give me anything other than they suspect arson. Judging by the fact that you and the FBI are involved, that tells me they suspect murder. Can you confirm or deny?”
“Confirm. Jameson and Cleo Beauclair were definitely murdered.”
“Wow, that was unusually easy.”
“Like I said, I’m in a generous kind of mood.”
“Can you tell me how they were murdered or where you are in the investigation?”
“I can’t tell you how, but I can tell you we’re making good progress.”
“And is there any truth to the rumor that you have their two youngest kids staying with you?”
“I’m going to tell you the truth, Darren, but I’m going to do it off the record, okay?”
His groan echoed through the speakerphone. “Fine,” he said.
“My husband and I are acting as their foster parents at the moment, but they have family members arriving from out of state. It was a temporary arrangement.” Her heart hurt as she said the words. She did not look forward to saying goodbye to those precious kids.
“Why does that have to be off the record?”
“Because I crossed a number of lines by taking them in, and it’s an issue with the department. There’s also the possibility that they’re still in danger from whoever did this to their parents. My job is to keep them safe, and that’s what I’m going to do.”
“I get it. I don’t like it, but I get it. It was good of you to step up for them.”
“Try telling that to my brass. They don’t see it quite the same way.”
“Because it’s a conflict of interest.”
“So they say.”
“Heard a rumor that Gonzo’s in the hospital. Any truth to that?”
“Stomach flu,” Sam said. “They’re treating him for dehydration, but I’m sure he’d rather not see that in the paper.”
“He won’t.”
“Thank you, Darren.”
“Always a pleasure to speak with you, Sam.”
“Now that’s just a flat-out lie,” Freddie said, making them both laugh.
“My little Freddie is all grown-up and about to get married,” Sam said, dabbing at a fake tear.
“And no longer afraid of you, apparently.”
“That’s a problem,” Sam said.
“Congrats, Freddie,” Darren said. “Hope it’s a great day for you.”
“Thank you.”
“Over and out,” Sam said, closing the phone. To Freddie, she said, “Look at you with your wiseass comments.”
“Learned from the expert.”
“God, I’ve really made a mess of you, haven’t I?”
“Nah, you’ve helped to make a man out of me.”
“Jesus,” Sam muttered. “Don’t say that anywhere near HQ, or we’ll be the talk of the place.”
“No chance of that, and what have I asked you about using the lord’s name in vain?”
“When did I do that?”
“Like five seconds ago!”
“Sorry,” she said.
“Sure you are.”
“You really think I made a man out of you?”
“You helped. I had a lot to learn when we first partnered up. You’ve taught me everything that matters about the job and how to have this job and a life too.”
“Hmm, well, I do what I can for the people.”
He rolled his eyes at her predictable response.
“Let’s visit a few of Victor’s scumbag friends before we head back to the house. Maybe they can tell us what he’s been up to the last few days.”
Their first stop was at an apartment building off Massachusetts Avenue in a rough neighborhood full of run-down row houses, convenience stores and pawnshops.
“Should we have backup going in here?” Freddie asked, eyeing the building warily.
“Probably. Call it in.”
A Patrol car responded, appearing at the address about three minutes later.
“Look at this day,” she said, glancing in the mirror as the Patrol car pulled in behind her car, “cooperating with me in every possible way.”
“My partner taught me not to say stuff like that. It’ll jinx us.”
“Your partner is a wise, wise woman,” Sam said as they got out of the car to meet the two Patrol officers.
“So she likes to tell me. Frequently.”
Anthony Jenkins lived on the third floor, and as they trudged up the stairs, Sam strapped on her bulletproof vest while Freddie did the same. Behind them, the Patrolmen would provide additional cover. When everyone was in position outside the door to 3D with weapons drawn, Sam used a closed fist to pound on the door. “Metro PD. Open up.”
They heard scurrying sounds from inside the apartment.
Sam nodded to one of the Patrolmen, who took off down the stairs, in case their guy got a big idea about heading out the window. She pounded again. “Police. Open up.”
More scurrying, which only served to aggravate her.
“We’re going to take down this door if you don’t open up.”
Through the cheap thin door, she heard the distinctive sound of a gun engaging and acted before she thought, shoving Freddie out of the way as the door exploded in a blast of splinters. Her ears rang, and her left shoulder burned, but she reacted quickly to return fire, aiming low so as to incapacitate rather than kill.
“Lieutenant!” the Patrol officer behind her cried. “You’re hit.”
Inside the apartment, the shooter howled with pain and outrage. Through the shattered door, Sam could see him holding his bloody knee as he screamed.
“What the hell, Sam?” Freddie asked as he helped her up. “Why’d you do that?”
“Because you’re getting married in two days, and you’re not getting shot. Not this week.”
“I hate to be the one to tell you, but it looks like you did.”
She glanced down at the hot spot radiating from her shoulder, her vision swimming at the sight of the large patch of red that greeted her. “Crap. That’s gonna show in the pictures.”
Freddie shook his head, grabbed the radio attached to her hip and called for a bus.
“I don’t need a goddamned bus.”
“Yes, you do, and so does he.” Nodding toward the apartment where the Patrolman had cuffed the suspect, Freddie placed a hand over her wound and applied pressure that made her scream.
“What the fuck? Knock it off!”
“Shut up, Sam. And if you feel like you’re going to faint, lean into me.”
“I don’t have time for this shit today.”
“Then you shouldn’t have pushed me out of the way.”
“Don’t have time for you to get shot either. Got to keep you pretty for the wedding.” She wrestled free of his tight hold. “Wanna talk to this guy while I can.”
“Sam.”
She ignored him and marched into the apartment where a man with dark hair and tan skin lay on his side on the floor, hands cuffed behind him, writhing in pain. At one point, he might’ve been handsome, but now there was a hard, bitter edge to him. “Quit your whining,” Sam said. “If you hadn’t shot at us, none of this would’ve happened.”
“You shattered my knee, you fucking twat!”
“Awww, sticks and stones will break your bones, and apparently bullets will too. Who knew? Oh wait, everyone knows that.” Was it hot in there? It seemed really hot, and the ground was kind of shimmery. Sam shook off the weird feeling. “Where’s Victor Klein, Anthony?”
“I don’t know nobody named Victor.”
Sam glanced at the Patrolman, nodded to the bloody knee, and he pretended he was going to touch it.
Anthony let out a shriek. “Stop!”
Sam squatted so she’d be closer to him—and to the floor if she actually fell over. “Where is he?” She reached out her hand in a menacing claw aimed for his bloody knee.
“Don’t fucking touch it!”
“Then tell me where he is and don’t say you don’t know him. We know you do. If you hold out on us, we’ll add interfering with a murder investigation to the charges you’re already facing.”
Paramedics appeared in the doorway, but Sam held them back with a raised hand.
Seething with outrage, which was funny under the circumstances, Anthony said, “I don’t know where he is, and I don’t know nothing about no murder. He said he had to get outta here for a while, but he’d be back.”
“Who would know where he is?”
“How am I supposed to know?”
“I bet you’d like to have some pain meds right about now, wouldn’t you?” Sam asked as her shoulder began to ache like a bitch. “I can stay here all day while you bleed out on the floor.” She eased out of the crouch into a seated position and rested her injured left arm on her leg, which brought relief. “I got nothing better to do.”
Freddie glared at her from the doorway.
She began to whistle a catchy tune to entertain herself and hopefully aggravate Jenkins. To the paramedic standing in the doorway, Sam said, “How long does it take to bleed out from a leg injury?”
“If the bullet nicked the femoral,” one of them said, “not long at all. Minutes.”
“Talk to Danny Baker,” Anthony said through gritted teeth. “He’s Victor’s best friend.”
“See how easy that was?” When the paramedics would’ve advanced into the apartment, Sam held them off. “Where will we find Baker?”
“He works at a pizza place called Rolling in Dough in Southeast. I don’t know where he lives.”
She waved in the paramedics. “I can’t thank you enough for your help and cooperation.” To the Patrol officer, she said, “Stay with him and get him processed as soon as he’s medically able.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
One of the paramedics homed in on her. “You’re bleeding profusely, Lieutenant.” Before she could tell him to leave her alone, he pressed on the wound and she passed out.