Frames Per Second (21 page)

CHAPTER 23

THE FBI TOOK UP FIVE FLOORS AT ONE CENTER PLAZA IN GOVERNMENT Center. Ben waited in the lobby for about ten minutes before a woman of about forty with dark hair and great cheekbones came down to escort him to Ludlow’s office. She put her hand out to Ben. “I’m Cynthia,” she said. “I want to thank you for what you did for Agent Parker. We like him around here.”

Ludlow was pouring himself coffee when Ben walked in. The agent said to the woman, “Didn’t I tell you we’d probably be seeing the intrepid Ben Harris sometime soon?”

“The trained investigator knows all,” she said, before going back to her desk.

“So what can I do for you?” Ludlow sipped his coffee. His handsome/ugly face was friendly enough, but he didn’t wave Ben back to his office. Cynthia looked at him and waited.

Ben said, “Seems that I’ll be following up on this story on a freelance basis.”

“Fired your ass, huh?”

“That’s right.”

Ludlow made a sympathetic noise, but there was faint amusement in his eyes. He said, “We’ll think of you when we need surveillance photography.”

“I was thinking of something a little more immediate.”

“Oh, I bet you were. But I have to agree with the Boston Police that investigations are best handled by law enforcement. Give me your card, and if something breaks where there may be some sort of photo opportunity I’ll be sure to call you.” He winked. “Maybe you can scoop your former employer.”

“I understand there was enough evidence in Sands’s room that the cops are saying he set the bomb that killed Peter. What can you tell me?”

He looked faintly annoyed. “Weren’t you listening?”

Ben held up his portfolio case. “Let’s trade. I’ve been following McGuire for more than a week now and I’ve got prints of everything. I’ve gotten through to one informant of Peter’s who gave me some background … and you said it yourself. I seem to be the target, or at least
a
target for some reason.”

Ludlow lifted his eyebrows. “Well, I’m sure Parker told you that this is Boston Police’s show and they’re pretty satisfied that the bombing was a result of Sands seeking vengeance for what you did to Johansen.”

“Tell me why you’re so certain. Everyone’s just dropping the fact that McGuire sent Dawson to my studio.”

Ludlow sighed. “Come on back and show me some pictures.”

Inside the office, Ben pulled out a half dozen shots of McGuire going through his day: McGuire in and out of his car; McGuire going into his office. The video grab shots inside McGuire’s office, including the two other men around the conference room table. Shots of McGuire with Dawson. McGuire coming out of the police station with his attorney, and then coming and going from his uncle Clooney’s house.

“Nicely focused and composed,” Ludlow said. “But I don’t see anything here.” Nevertheless, he looked carefully at all the shots. “These two guys in his office. I don’t recognize them from Adam, but I’ll run their photos, see if we come up with something.”

“Has McGuire’s phone been tapped?”

“Not by us. His uncle, yes. But I led a small investigation into McGuire myself soon after he came back from college and we never found any evidence to support racketeering charges.”

“Isn’t the Dawson killing enough to get a tap?”

“Boston Police tried. Judge said the likelihood of him talking about that on the phone was so little that it amounted to a fishing expedition on our part. And that just won’t cut it these days.” Ludlow shrugged his shoulders. “Let me see what Gallagher took.”

“You haven’t seen them?”

“No, and I’ve asked. Boston Police have used us where they’ve wanted us. Haven’t parted the kimono on those.”

Ben laid out the photos Peter had taken. Ludlow shuffled through the pictures fast. He stopped at the one of the man outside the candy store; he said, “So he was with Red Donnelly. Now that might have embarrassed him. Red’s a tough old shit. He’s one of the boys that gave Charlestown the rep for home-grown armed bank robbers. Supposedly retired to run a little candy store, but he’s definitely into loansharking, numbers, that shit … and he and Uncle Pat are not the best of friends. Maybe some turf problems going on here.”

Ben told him about the meeting at the NESF with Teri Wheeler.

“We ran her name at the Boston Police’s request,” Ludlow said. “She’s there, simply because she’s a political consultant. No criminal record.”

“Is she part of the Free America group?”

The agent shook his head. “No evidence of that. More to the center. In fact, the D.C. field office tells me there was a move afoot by the GOP to start grooming her as a candidate herself—start her off as a state rep, maybe. Smart, attractive young woman. Makes sense these days. She said no. Wanted to keep focused on the business at hand. She’s on just about any national board you want to name that could affect Internet legislation or software standards. Word is she’s got informal links that are as strong as steel with other lobbyists from transportation to the NRA. Now Alexander Goodhue has a rep as a right-winger, but not in the Free America league, not that extreme.”

“OK,” Ben said, waving to the table covered with prints. Showing that he’d done his part. “What can you tell me about Sands?”

“Who was that informant you mentioned?” Ludlow idly picked up a pen.

Ben smiled. “Tell me about Sands.”

Ludlow smiled back. “Pretty good for a shutterbug. OK, Lee Sands. Special Forces, made it to the last years of Vietnam, apparently loved it. Forty-five years old, kept himself pumped up like he was an athletic thirty. Has shown up in all sorts of nasty situations, and has spent more than twelve years on two different convictions behind bars. Wasn’t the brightest bulb on the planet, but he seemed to have a real talent for destruction. Clever with his hands. That bomb that took out Gallagher definitely used the same type of detonator that took out that preacher in the black church in Alabama earlier this year. He was questioned right after, but he had a couple of buddies provide an alibi and we had to let him go. Now one of those buddies is in trouble himself and is singing a different song.”

“Was Sands part of the Free America group?”

“If he was, he never admitted it. Mind you, I’ve never talked to him myself. But from what I’ve read of the report, we considered him more of a rightist zealot than your basic mercenary. Grew up on a hardscrabble farm in Alabama, Bible-thumping father. Vietnam and Special Forces simply gave him some new skills.”

“Alabama,” Ben said. “Johansen’s home state. You think he’s working for Johansen?”

“Certainly possible. Again, whether directly or simply taking his own initiative, it’s not clear.” Ludlow slid open his drawer and took out a file folder. “Now you can look at
my
photos. See if you recognize anything. I took these this morning in Sands’s apartment.”

Ben opened the folder and found several acetate sleeves holding Polaroid shots of an austere apartment. There was a wide shot of a series of burned photographs laid out on a bedsheet, and then close shots of each. Most of them were burned beyond recognition, but others were just singed.

“These were in the fire?”

“These
were
the fire,” Ludlow said. “In the garbage can. Apparently, he set it just before running up to the rooftop. Squirted some lighter fluid on them, tossed a match.”

In several of the photographs, there was enough remaining, an edge here and there, which made Ben uneasy at first and then hit him with a jolt. “That’s the parking lot behind my building … that’s my old van … that’s the hall outside my studio …”

He flipped the sleeve and fell silent. These shots were virtually unscathed by the fire.

The inside of his studio. His kitchen. Bedroom.

Ben felt ill.

There were more shots. Close-ups of the van. The undercarriage of the van.

The camera bag.

“Like I said, not the brightest bulb, keeping these photos in his sock drawer,” Ludlow reiterated. “Looks like he used them for a reference. Scope out your place, go home, make up the bomb and triggering device to fit right in. Definitely a talent in his own right. Maybe putting the bomb in the bag was his best way of ensuring it was you who got killed. He was wrong, but the logic was there. Or maybe it was his idea of poetic justice. You being killed while trying to take a picture. A preacher being killed just as he was about to preach. See? I tend to lean toward that angle.”

“The sort of thing Johansen might order.”

“Or Sands might do as his own act of vengeance for what you did to Johansen,” Ludlow said. His voice was sympathetic.

Ben felt lightheaded suddenly and had to look away from the agent. It was one thing to suspect. It was quite another to know.

The agent’s words crashed over him.

“Either way, the evidence is fairly conclusive that Lee Sands set the bomb—and that he was trying for you when your friend bought it.”

CHAPTER 24

“SO,” SARAH SAID, WHEN SHE OPENED THE DOOR FOR BEN. “I SUPPOSE you’ll need the leftovers to tide you through until unemployment starts?”

Ben forced a smile. “Sounds like Kurt made an announcement.”

Sarah took Ben by the hand, and pulled him in. She quoted, “‘We’re all members of a team, and no matter how talented any one individual is, the team, comes first.’” She slipped her arm through his, walking him down the hall. “He said this through a fat lip. You?”

“Long story.”

“Reporters love long stories.”

Ben shook his head.

Sarah was wearing black jeans, a blue sweater that brought out the color of her eyes, and small silver earrings. The effect with her rich black hair and fine cheekbones was simple, casual, and absolutely stunning.

As it was, he could barely look at her with what he had just learned.

She said, “I’m glad you came.”

He turned from her to take in the apartment. It was a high-ceilinged Back Bay apartment, with walls painted antique white, dark wood trim and wainscoting. From the hallway, he could see a view of the Charles River through a bay window in the living room. On the Beacon Street side of the apartment, there were two bedrooms; a kitchen and small dining room were right before him. She led him toward the living room.

Ben’s stomach tightened even further as Peter’s four-year-old daughter, Cindy, looked up at him from a picture book. Ben had only seen her in photos before, and even those were at least six months out of date.

Unlike her mother’s blue eyes, Cindy’s were gray. Her fine hair was honey-colored and there was a smattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks.

She’s her father’s girl,
Ben thought.

Ben could feel Peter’s presence even though he had never lived in the apartment. There was a picture of him holding Cindy as an infant, his arm around Sarah. The shot was taken in winter, snowflakes were falling. Ben looked closely. He could see a stiffness to Peter’s pose, a bit of withdrawal from Sarah.

“Not the best picture,” Sarah said. “Just the last that has us together.”

Cindy looked at Ben quietly over the edge of her book.

“Cindy, say hello to Mr. Harris. He was a friend of Daddy’s.”

The girl continued to observe him, but said nothing. Her lower lip trembled slightly but she didn’t take her eyes away from him. Finally, she said, “My daddy’s dead.”

“I know that, honey,” Ben said. Seeing his van explode.

“Why are you here?” Cindy said.

“I’m a friend of your mom’s, too.”

“We don’t want any friends,” the little girl said.

“Cindy,” Sarah said, a faint warning in her tone.

“It’s OK.” Ben squeezed Sarah’s arm slightly. “I know good manners are important, and I’m sure Cindy has them.”

He took his folding loupe from his pocket and knelt down beside her.

“I see you’re looking at your book. When my daughter was about your age, she liked to play with this. It makes the letters and pictures really big.”

“You’ve got a girl?”

“And a boy.”

“Why aren’t you at their house now? Are you divorced?” At four, she had no trouble pronouncing even the last word.
 

“Yes.”

She looked at him somberly.

After a moment, he ran the loupe over the page, magnifying letters and bits of the picture.

“Like it?” He tried to give her the loupe, but she folded her hands in her lap.

He set it on the table beside her. “It’s here if you want it.”

Sarah told her daughter to say thank you, which the girl did, in a small voice. Her eyes no longer met Ben’s.

“Cindy’s already eaten,” Sarah said. He followed her into the dining room. “We’re having Cornish game hens and wild rice.”

“Sarah … please sit with me.” Ben pulled up a chair at the end of the table so they could talk quietly. He told her what Ludlow had showed him.

Sarah’s face turned pale as she listened. She sat back, and sipped her wine.