BROWN’S FEATURES FROZE for an instant. “What she used to be? You care to explain that statement?”
“It’s the reason I called you tonight. She has no past further back than ten years. But she had a résumé showing she graduated from Virginia Tech, only her first name was spelled differently. And she’s rich, and we don’t know how she came by the money.”
“Okay, what does that tell you?”
“I was speculating that she might be a spy. Maybe the one that Dabney passed the secrets to. But then why kill her? And we can find no connection between them. So we considered the Witness Protection angle, but I don’t think any of the people in that program are rich. And she volunteered and worked as a schoolteacher. That really put her out there in the public eye some. I don’t think the U.S. Marshals encourage that. They have their protectees keep low profiles.”
“Which leaves what?”
“She did something on her own that caused her to put together a new identity. And whatever she did in the recent past gave her great wealth.”
“Don’t keep me in suspense, Decker.”
“It stands to reason that the people who blackmailed Dabney might be in the military arena. Defense contracting more specifically. That allowed Dabney to have the access to get the secrets and them to buy the secrets or at least know he committed treason.”
“And that is all speculation on your part,” pointed out Brown.
“Without facts, that’s all we can do at this point. But I’m trying to deal in probabilities.”
“Okay, go on.”
“I think she could have been a whistleblower.”
Brown put her feet on the floor and stared at him. “Keep going.”
“If she was the whistleblower on some defense contract that went sideways, she might have gotten a reward. Sometimes they’re tied to a percentage of the amounts saved by the government because of the person’s actions. That would explain Berkshire’s wealth. She might have gotten some of the people she informed on sent to prison. That would explain why she adopted a new identity. To hide from them.”
“And those people might be out now,” said Brown.
“They might be, yes. And maybe some of them didn’t go to prison, but her whistleblowing might have ruined their business, caused them to go bankrupt, shut them out of the government feeding trough. That could be a motive to have someone kill her.”
“Yes, it could. How did you come up with this angle?”
“Something Todd Milligan said earlier about whistling in the wind.”
“So what do we do with this information?”
“We follow it up. We have to look at whistleblower cases.”
“There are a lot of them.”
“That’s where you come in. I believe this is tied to the defense sector.”
She nodded and took another sip of her scotch. “You’ll need to be read into some things. And you don’t have a security clearance, which makes things difficult.”
“I’ve applied for one through the FBI. I’ve taken and passed the polygraph, but they haven’t finished the background check on me yet.” He added, “My past is a little complicated.”
She gazed keenly at him. “I would imagine it is.” She set her glass down. “I might be able to work something out. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
* * *
Brown dropped Decker off at his apartment and drove away. For a moment Decker stood there in the darkness staring up at the windows of the apartment where Danny and his father had lived.
Danny Amaya was a year older than Decker’s daughter was when she’d been killed. She’d never actually reached her tenth birthday. Her murderer had gotten to her before that could happen.
Molly Decker would have turned twelve this year. His wife, Cassie, would have turned forty-two.
They were dead and buried back in Ohio.
He was five hundred miles from them, farther than he ever thought he would be.
Five hundred miles farther than he thought he ever could be.
He sat down on the front steps of the building and stared down at his feet.
Though his memory was near perfect, there were many emotional tethers that Decker struggled to recall or even re-form in his head.
He had once been someone very different. And that was difficult if not impossible for most people to come close to understanding. There were many days when even Decker didn’t understand it.
He knew that he irritated people with his behavior. He knew that he drove Alex Jamison and the others to distraction sometimes. There was a part of him that wanted to do something about this. To let her and others see the person he used to be. But a larger part of him seemed to crush any attempt to enable himself to do this.
If it was frustrating for others, it was maddening for Amos Decker.
What they failed to fully comprehend was that the hit on the football field had done far more than give him perfect recall and the ability to see things in color. It had forced him into being a different person, as though a stranger’s personality and attendant quirks had been superimposed over his own.
But now the stranger’s footprint was Decker.
I am now the stranger. I’m a stranger in my own body.
He would sometimes wake up in the middle of the night and wonder not where he was—as many people, confused and muddled by weariness, did—but rather who he was.
And sometimes the answer was not all that easy.
He stood, turned, and headed inside. It was after eleven now and he expected that Jamison would be asleep. So when he opened the door to their apartment he was surprised to see her sitting at the kitchen table fully dressed. He closed the door behind him.
“Where have you been, Decker?” she said quietly.
“I’m sorry, Alex. I was with Agent Brown. I came up with a theory and we’re going to work together to run it down.”
“That’s great, Decker, really wonderful.”
Decker did not appear to catch the edge to her voice.
“It had to do with—”
“The man who forgets nothing,” she said.
He looked at her strangely. “What?”
She stood. “But that’s not entirely right.”
“What’s not entirely right?” he said in a perplexed tone.
“That you don’t forget anything.”
He drew closer. “I’m not following where this is going.”
“Well, then let me enlighten you.” She paused, drew a long breath that seemed to swell her body, and said in a strident tone, “You forgot that we were supposed to have dinner with Melvin tonight. Cottons on Fourteenth Street, seven-thirty?”
The color drained from Decker’s face. “Oh, shit, Alex, I’m—”
She pushed on, her voice starting to crack now. “We waited at the restaurant for two hours for you. Two fucking hours, Decker. I called Bogart. I called 911. I called everybody I could think of.”
“But why didn’t you call me?”
“I did! Twelve times.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. He turned even paler.
“I forgot I turned it to silent.”
“Forgot something else, huh? Wow, that perfect memory of yours is just going to hell in a handbasket.”
“Alex, I’m—”
Tears crept into her eyes. “You can listen to my frantic voicemails later. You’ll probably get a real chuckle out of them. You asshole!”
Before he could say anything else she had turned and stormed down the hall to her room. He heard the door slam behind her.
Decker looked down at his phone and saw all the missed calls. He sat down at the kitchen table and listened to the increasingly panicked voicemails. Jamison sounded like she was going out of her mind with worry. And with the fact that he had been nearly killed twice recently and had enemies still out there, he could hardly blame her.
The old Decker would have gone to her door, knocked, and profusely apologized.
The new Decker just sat there staring out the window at the darkness that was not so nearly as opaque as the one currently residing squarely in his head.