Edge (29 page)

The time was nearly 6:00 p.m. and fatigue was seeping in.

My caller ID announced duBois.

“Me. Go ahead.”

“I've got a couple of things. First, the helicopter . . . One thing I noticed. Women don't say ‘choppers.' I've talked to six people, three men and three women. The men all say ‘chopper.' The women say ‘helicopter.' ”

DuBois's observations were back. She'd largely recovered from the Graham ignominy.

“There was no flight plan filed. I was thinking about what that would mean. I assume it wouldn't be a government helicopter, like fire or police—”

“Not likely.”

“Which means it's not a charter. Leasing
companies're very buttoned up about flight plans. They could lose their tickets if one doesn't get filed. So the bird's privately owned.”

“Bird.”

“Nobody called it a bird. I made that up.”

I said, “Somebody like Pamuk, an investment banker, could have one. Or maybe he's working with a rich client.”

“And on the Graham situation, I've got some results from the ORC analysis.”

“Well, that was fast.”

“You said you wanted it fast. I have addresses.”

“Any in the area?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. DuPont Circle.”

That had been one possibility, I'd speculated. Greenwich Village or Fells Point in Baltimore were others but they would have been more problematic since I'd prefer to go there in person.

“Email them to me. Good job.”

“I'm still looking into doctors. I'm cross-referencing specialties. Where do you think you hit Loving?”

“I couldn't say.”

“If you hit a bone, that might make a difference.”

“How so?”

“He'd probably try to find somebody with orthopedic training. Narrow the search down, I mean. You can't remember?”

“No.”

“Oh.” She sounded frustrated. “I wished it was a specialty. I was trying to think of others. Ear, nose and throat.”

“Well, I don't know where I hit him.”

“Okay. I'll track it down. I'm texting now.”

We disconnected.

A moment later the information from the Graham case slipped into my mobile. I read through it quickly, then pulled off the road. I cut and pasted one of the addresses into my GPS, hit
START ROUTE
and obediently followed the synthetic woman's commands.

I DROVE TO
DuPont Circle, once the home of cottage industries, a pungent waterway and a famous slaughterhouse. Now the hood was among the more trendy parts of the nation's capital.

GPS—whose voice I had decided sounded unnervingly like Chris Teasley's, Westerfield's assistant—took me to a storefront off Connecticut Avenue. It was a used-CD store, manned by a few slow-moving clerks. The customers were mostly in their twenties, along with a few smudged, bearded music lovers about my age. I walked up to one young man behind the register, flashed my ID along with a security picture of the Asian man who'd collected the gold coins in New Jersey, a perp in the Graham forgery case.

He claimed he knew nothing. I asked four or five other people. Nobody seemed to know anything about funny checks or the Asian.

Finally, with a last glance around the store, I pushed out the door, which had a quaint old-time bell on an armature. I looked around and headed into a coffee shop nearby. DuPont Circle survives on chic and Café Cafe had that aplenty. The accent mark was a clue, as was the $25/
LB
. sign in one bin of dark beans. I ordered a black filtered Colombian,
the cheapest thing on a menu full of exotic concoctions, none of which were to my mind coffee, tasty though they might be.

I recalled an image from years ago, another one I didn't particularly want. Peggy ordering her favorite, a mochaccino. I was never sure what that was exactly. But I remembered her heart-shaped face turning toward the drink with effervescent anticipation. She'd once commented that she loved grocery shopping because she felt comfort in watching people buy their special treats.

“It's a tough life,” she'd said. “It's the little things that get us through the day.”

How true, I'd thought at the time. How true I knew now.

I sipped the coffee, set down the steaming cup and began to compose a text message about my progress on the Graham case, when I heard a squeak—the front door. I was gazing down at the screen of my phone when I felt a shadow over me. I looked up and behind into the face of a man in his early twenties. He was white, good-looking, slim, wearing jeans and a seriously wrinkled striped shirt.

“Yes?”

“I work in the CD store you were just in?”

When I didn't say anything he repeated, “I work there.”

“What's your name?”

“Stu.” He eyed me carefully. “You were asking some things? In the store?”

His statements were inflected as questions.

I stared at him. He looked down fast.

“What do you want?” I finally asked.

“You were asking about Jimmy Sun? I know him.”

“You know where he is now? I need to find him.”

“You're like an FBI agent?”

“Where's Jimmy? Do you know?”

A hesitation. “I don't, no.”

“Sit down.” I gestured at the table.

He sat and clasped his hands together in front of him. People I deal with occasionally sit in exactly this position, except that they do so because their wrists are in cuffs.

“How do you know Jimmy?” I asked sternly.

“He comes into the store sometimes. He likes music. Why were you looking for him there? At the store?”

“Traced him through credit card receipts. He shops there.”

“Oh. Sure.”

“He's in a lot of trouble. It'd be a big help if we could find him.”

“I thought . . . I mean, I heard there was some problem. Something about a check.”

“A forgery case.”

Stu said, “But, the thing is, the case was dropped. I heard it was dropped. So he's not in any trouble anymore.” He lifted his hands and offered a shallow smile.

I didn't smile. “It was dropped by the police department in D.C.”

“Um . . .”

I went on to explain, “But you see, there are different jurisdictions for a single crime. Jurisdiction can be geographic. Like if you commit mail fraud, you can be guilty of a crime in all the states you
scammed people in, all fifty of them, maybe. Separate crimes in each one. Or jurisdiction can be the power of a governmental body. Murdering a federal agent, for instance, is both a federal crime and a state crime.”

“Oh.”

“This Jimmy Sun, he stole the victim's checkbook in the District. The D.C. police can decide to drop that case. But he used the Internet to launder money.”

“Launder money?”

“He bought gold coins and presumably he sold them to get cash. That's money laundering.”

“It is?”

“Yes. That's
my
jurisdiction. It's a federal offense and a serious one. Now, Stu, if you have any information about this Jimmy Sun, I advise you to tell me. Lying to a federal officer's a crime too. And harboring a suspect could result in an obstruction charge. Those are very serious.”

“But if no one was hurt and the victim didn't want to pursue it . . . I mean, what's the problem?”

“The victim's feelings are irrelevant.”

“That doesn't make sense.”

“Well, Stu, let's say I murder you.” He blinked. “You're dead. You don't have any feelings one way or the other. Right?”

“I guess not. I mean, no.”

“But that's still a crime. Or say I'm a thug, okay? I steal your car but you're afraid of me and don't want to report it. But there are lots of witnesses who saw me. The police can still arrest me. You don't testify but other people can. I go to jail.”

“I didn't know that.”

“I've got an arrest warrant for Sun.” I tapped my jacket pocket.

“You do?”

“There were videos in the Post Boxes Plus store where he picked up the coins he'd bought. With the money from the forged check.”

“But—”

“How exactly do you know Jimmy? Be honest, Stu.”

The young man's head was down again. “He's my partner. My lover.”

“I see. He lives with you?”

“No. His parents are real traditional. They suspect but they don't know.”

“You'd be doing him a favor to have him turn himself in. Homeland Security's already started a file.”

“Homeland Security?”

“The terrorist issue.”

“Terrorist?”
Stu appeared horrified.

“It's looking like Sun stole the checkbook as part of an operation by the North Korean government to blackmail the victim—Eric Graham. He works for the Pentagon.”

“Oh, Jesus. No, no . . .”

“Is there anything that you've seen about Jimmy that would support that?”

“Of course not. He's a great guy. He's sweet. His family's from
South
Korea!”

I smiled. “Well, terrorists can be very charming. There are a lot of operatives from the north in and around Seoul.”

“He's
not
a terrorist,” Stu whispered.

“Well, that's for the prosecutor and the courts
to decide. It's just my job to bring him in. Without hurting him, I hope. But . . .”

“Oh, Jesus.”

I leaned forward. “The profile of people like him is that he's probably very dangerous. We have an assault team active in the area. They were ready to move into the store, if he'd been there. They're pursuing other leads now.” I glanced at my watch, frowning. “I heard from one team twenty minutes ago. They think they might know where he is. The FBI's authorized a lethal takedown if he doesn't surrender immediately.”

The young man gasped.

I regarded the sallow face before me. “If you care about him, you should help us out. If it comes down to a fight, he could lose his life. Our tactical teams are trained to expect suicide bombings and other life-threatening behaviors.”

Stu began to cry, big drops of tears. His voice cracked. “It was all my idea, not Jimmy's. He was just helping me out. . . . Jesus, call them—those FBI people you were telling me about. Tell them he's
not
dangerous.”

I frowned. “You need to explain yourself.”

“
I
stole the checkbook,
I
opened the online pay account. It was me, not Jimmy. All he did was pick up the coins at the mailbox store.”

“I'm not following, I'm afraid.”

Stu wiped his face. “The man whose checkbook was stolen?”

“Eric Graham.”

“He's . . . he's my father.”

“So, you're Stu
Graham.
”

He nodded. “Oh, I can't believe how stupid I
was. I . . . Oh, man, have I fucked this up. Please, call them!”

“Not until you explain everything.”

“It's so stupid!”

“Tell me, Stu. The sooner we know the truth, the better it'll be for Jimmy.”

He dabbed at his eyes. “Father's kind of . . . he's pretty tough. He always wanted me to go to his school, Princeton. He was a BMOC. Big Man on Campus, you know? He wanted me to be one too. But I hated it. I fit in here.” His hand lifted outward, meaning presumably DuPont Circle. “This is where I belong. I love Jimmy, our friends. I'm not the rah-rah Ivy League sort. But Father wouldn't listen.”

“What's this have to do with the forgery?”

“Because I'm a fucking coward.” He grabbed another napkin and wiped his nose. “I couldn't tell Father I didn't want to go back to college this fall. I'm afraid of him, Mom's afraid of him. Everybody's afraid of him. He was always saying things like, ‘You're not going to be my third daughter, are you?' I had to try out for the football team. I weigh a hundred and fifty-two pounds. Me on the football team? But he kept on me all the time. ‘Be a man. Do me proud. Follow in my footsteps.' I couldn't say no.”

“So you forged the check so he couldn't pay tuition?”

“How pathetic is that?”

“You had Jimmy pick up the gold coins you bought.”

Stu nodded. “He didn't do anything bad. Swear to God. He just helped me out. He's got family in
New Jersey. He's there a lot. So we figured we'd have the coins shipped there, not to D.C.”

“And your father found out and withdrew the complaint.”

He nodded. “Oh, man, yeah, he found out.”

I imagined that had been one pyrotechnic confrontation.

“What'd you do with the money?”

“It wasn't about the money.”

“I understand but I want to know what you did with it.”

“We kept a little, the rest we gave to an AIDS research fund and to Amnesty International. I hate it that my father makes weapons for a living. That's what he does for the Pentagon. He's so proud of it. So smug. I wanted his money to do something good.”

I said, “Give me the name of somebody at Amnesty who can confirm it.”

Stu looked through his BlackBerry and recited a name and number.

“Got that?” I asked.

He blinked again, frowning.

I said, “I'm not talking to you.”

In my earpiece Claire duBois said, “I'm calling now.”

I said to Stu, “We wait a minute.”

The man slumped, blew his nose again. He looked around the coffee shop and gave a faint laugh. “We come here all the time? Jimmy and me?”

I said nothing.

“You know what he was telling me just the other day?”

“What?”

“Korea, right, you'd think it was tea, tea, tea. Like China and Japan. But the last emperor of Korea, his name was Sunjong, the nineteen twenties, he loved the West and always had coffee at the palace. He and his father would sit around drinking coffee and talking about world affairs. Word got around and the citizens began to drink coffee. They liked to do what their emperor does. There're more coffee drinkers in Korea than any other Asian country. They even have coffee shop hookers. Dabang girls, they're called.”