Howl Deadly (25 page)

Which oughtn’t to be needed anyway, since my meeting with Gibson Callaway of the Department of Justice was to be held in a conference room in the Roybal Federal Building in downtown L.A. There would be plenty of people around.

I’d been in the tall building before, since it also included federal courtrooms. The room number given to me by Callaway required an elevator ride. Jeff and I bickered the entire way up. Fortunately, we were alone.

“I don’t want you out of my sight,” he said. He had donned a dark suit for the occasion, and his dusty blond hair was neatly combed. Tall and hunky, he looked pretty hot, though I’d never admit that to him. Or even, really, to myself anymore. Except that I just had.

“But confidential information will come out at the meeting,” I responded. I had dressed up all lawyerly, also in a nicely fitting suit—blue. I hadn’t had time to have my hair styled lately, so it lay loosely around my shoulders. I carried a briefcase containing some notes and a pad of paper. I was definitely looking official, even if that wasn’t truly the case. “And Callaway wouldn’t attack me himself—not physically—even if there is some danger here.”

“You’re a lawyer. You’ve hired me. We’re both bound by attorney-client privilege, so I couldn’t reveal anything I hear.”

“But I’m not exactly acting as Dante’s, or anyone’s, attorney here.”

We reached the floor with no resolution. And I really didn’t want to let him in, since the stuff I hoped to hear about Dante’s past shouldn’t go any farther than my ears—unless it was to Dante’s and my advantage otherwise.

Outside the door, I looked way up into Jeff’s blue eyes and said, “Stay. Here. I mean it. I’m paying you.” And at his scowl I reached up, pulled his head down, and gave him a quick kiss. “Please. See you later.” And then, before giving him time to respond, I ducked inside and closed the door behind me.

It was a compact conference room. I didn’t know what it might usually be used for, but I didn’t see a lot of law firm-like amenities. A long set of windows, a small table, a phone, and several chairs.

One was occupied by a sixty-something man, or so I guessed. His face was thin and pouchy, his forehead high and framed by short white hair. He had taken his suit jacket off and draped it over the back of his seat, revealing a slightly wrinkled white shirt and black striped tie.

“Mr. Callaway?” I inquired.

“Yes. Call me Gibson, Kendra.” He stood and held his hand out. Of course, I shook it, although I didn’t exactly want to. It was limp and chilly and rather disgusting. Ugh! Or maybe my mind exaggerated the uglies, since I anticipated despising the guy. But I smiled as he motioned me to a seat.

He had a cup of coffee in front of him from one of the major chains. I hadn’t brought one, nor did I anticipate anyone would come in and offer me a refreshment.

This would be one stark sort of meeting.

I decided to take as much control over it as I could. “I really appreciate your meeting with me, Gibson,” I said. “I want to tell you right up front that my client, Dante DeFrancisco”—okay, so I exaggerated the attorney-client thing to him, but I needed to appear as if I had more of a reason to inquire than being nosy—“hasn’t told me much about his early employment by the DOJ. Here’s the little that I do know, and I’d appreciate it if you’d correct any mistakes. What I believe is that Dante, Brody Avilla, and the man most currently known as Jon Doe all worked there together on a task force, and I believe you were in charge of it. Dante’s now being looked at as the possible killer of Jon Doe, who recently got out of federal prison. That’s about it. Please give me some of the details.”

“You’ve got the gist of it right,” Gibson began smoothly. “Many years ago, I headed a minor task force that helped to confiscate stolen property and return or dispose of it. The man who later took the name of Jon Doe did his own form of confiscating, and when he was found out—thanks to information supplied by Dante and Brody—he was prosecuted. His identity then was Jamison Dubbs. To protect our confidentiality, the case made against him was basically a racketeering charge. He was convicted, served his time, and was paroled from Lompoc a couple of years ago.”

I’d removed my notes from my briefcase. So far, what he said tracked what I’d learned about one of the possible Jon Doe identities. I looked up. “So when he got out, he sought revenge against Dante and Brody? That’s why he started working in wildlife sanctuaries, eventually aiming for HotWildlife, which is largely funded by Dante?”

“Exactly.”

“And he was acting alone?” I shot an oh-so-innocent look toward Gibson Callaway.

He got the underlying question. “Do you mean, did I encourage him?” His frown looked almost ferocious. I considered calling Jeff in, but simply sat still . . . for now.

“Well,” I said sweetly, “let me posit a hypothetical to you, okay? We lawyers like to do things like that. What if, when Dante and Brody blew the whistle on the missing confiscated goods, they let it be known that it wasn’t only underlings on the task force who were involved? Maybe one or more of those in charge of the task force were in charge of stealing, too.” And were there any others in charge besides Callaway? “What if the deal worked out was that Jamison Dubbs would take the fall?” I was reaching a bit here, but not too far—thanks to some of the stuff Althea had suggested from her findings.

“Interesting idea,” Callaway said icily, “even if totally untrue.”

“Totally? I don’t think so. I won’t name any sources, but I’ve found enough to suggest some of this while conducting research into possible Jon Doe identities. Anyway, here’s some more speculation. Dubbs agreed to stay silent in exchange for being paid well when he got out. And the opportunity to get revenge, with the encouragement and backup of those whose scapegoat he had become. Now, what if those others saw a whole different kind of opportunity—like disposing of Dubbs altogether, and pinning his murder on the guys Dubbs, and they, had wanted to avenge themselves against? That looks a lot like what’s happening now, don’t you think?”

He had half risen from his seat, and his formerly pale, wrinkled face was now florid. “I don’t think you have it entirely correct, Ms. Ballantyne.” And here I’d thought we were on a first-name basis.

“Well, fill me in,” I urged.

“It’s like this.” His side of the story suggested that he was actually one of several guys with authority over the task force. He’d been properly appalled when Dante and Brody had come to him with evidence of Dubbs’s lucrative thefts and resales—stuff like cars and jewelry and more. He had helped in Dubbs’s prosecution. And if any of the DOJ higher-ups were involved, it wasn’t him.

So why did he look so shifty-eyed? Or was that merely my interpretation?

“And now?” I inquired when he was through. “Do you know of anyone from the task force or otherwise who’d have killed Dubbs to protect his or her reputation—one that’s probably unsullied thanks to Dubbs taking the fall?” I looked straight into his face, and though he looked slightly discomfited, he didn’t blink.

“I’ll look into it further, but my belief is that Dubbs acted alone in seeking revenge.”

“And now that he’s dead, who’s trying so hard to frame Dante and Brody?” I’d kept my voice even and calm until now, but this question came out as an accusation.

“I’ll look into it from the DOJ’s perspective,” he said, “and if I find out anything, I’ll make sure it stops. If those men are guilty, that’s one thing. But to the extent I can prevent it, I’ll make sure no one is framing them.”

“Good.” I relaxed back into my seat once more. We had an understanding, even though it was only alluded to. “I might even be able to get my reporter friend to make you out as a hero when the true killer is brought to justice. Anonymously, of course, if you prefer it.”

Ah, yes. I’d reminded him of the reason he’d decided to be so cooperative yesterday.

As if he’d ever forgotten it.

And also suggested what could happen if he reneged on his word.

“That sounds good, Kendra.” He rose. “But now I have to excuse myself. I have another meeting coming up soon.”

“Thanks for getting together with me,” I said, figuring his next meeting might be with a bottle of scotch. But what did I care? “Oh, but before I leave, is there anything else helpful you could suggest about my investigation into Jon Doe-Jamison Dubbs’s murder?”

“Not really,” he said, “although I’ve been trying to keep up with the situation since I realized who he was. And there is one suggestion I can make as a sign of my good faith here—and to make sure you understand what I’ve said is true.”

Interesting, even if not entirely credible. “What’s that?”

“That missing wolf from the HotWildlife sanctuary? Here’s a possible tip about where she’s gone.”

Wow! How could he know that?
Why
would he know it? Could it be true?

Of course, what he told me didn’t exactly divulge mama wolf’s whereabouts, but it was absolutely worth looking into next time I visited HotWildlife, which would be as soon as tomorrow.

I also felt sure that there’d be some stuff dropped tacitly by the feds at the San Bernardino County Sheriff-Coroner’s Department to get them to back off from Dante and Brody, unless they came up with evidence far more than circumstantial. And that evidence was not likely to have been manufactured by the feds. At least not the fed I’d just met with.

I thanked him and prepared to leave. But I had a parting shot to deliver at the door. “By the way, Gibson, I gave the information I told you earlier, along with my related surmises, to my reporter friend on a confidential basis. She’s to use it only if something happens to me. And since you explained that what I understood was full of half-truths, I imagine you’ll want to ensure, as much as possible, that I stay safe and healthy. I’ll definitely check out what you’ve told me, Gibson. Thanks.”

I exited the room to face a steaming Jeff—whose ear, no doubt, had been pressed to the conference room door the entire time. Or maybe, since he was in the security business, he’d brought a portable electronic device he’d somehow gotten through the security system downstairs, and had used it both to listen and to record what had gone on.

And maybe I’d thank him for it . . . later.

 

 

AS I’D HALF anticipated, Jeff took his assignment way seriously—as an excuse to hang close to me that afternoon, and even the evening.

I admit I let him—to a point. I certainly appreciated his presence as we strode from the building and into the parking lot. He held my arm, and we both kept a close watch on everything around us.

Even though I’d reached a sort of understanding with Gibson Callaway, and even though I’d threatened him with a very public tabloid story of potential untruths—or not—if anything happened to me, I didn’t exactly trust the guy. I mean, he worked for the Department of Justice, yet had apparently gotten away with some pretty unjust stuff years ago, making Jamison Dubbs take the fall. And that guy J.D. took an even heavier fall as Jon Doe, possibly thanks to Callaway.

Was I accusing him of murder? Maybe. But I walked away with nothing that looked like evidence against him.

We’d come in Jeff’s Escalade, and I was happy to allow him to drive me home. Only when we were on the Hollywood Freeway heading north did I ask him about his eavesdropping and recording. With a grin, he handed over a small device and started playing back our conversation.

I grinned, too.

We went pet-sitting together, and my animal charges all seemed excited about the extra attention from two of us. We even had Thai food for dinner—my treat, as previously promised. I made sure he knew he wouldn’t be spending the night, though. “You’re the one who installed my latest security system. I trust it, and I trust you.”

“So . . . what next? Are you still going to put yourself in danger following up with that guy, and what he told you?”

“I’ll be following up,” I said, “and I’ll definitely call if I need your bodyguard or other services again. I appreciate all you’ve done, but, really, don’t worry about me. I won’t do anything stupid . . . without calling you first if I need help.”

His scowl was cute, but it didn’t convince me to let him stick around. “Goodnight, Jeff,” I said, and gave him a quick, nonsexy kiss and went up the stairs to my apartment while Jeff exited back to the street. I knew he was irritated, because he kicked the gate.

Inside, Lexie waited eagerly for me, and I just as eagerly hugged her and told her what a good girl she was. We went outside for her evening constitutional, and then I settled down and tried calling Dante.

No answer. Was he in jail?

Well, I’d find out tomorrow. I was heading back to the San Bernardino area after my early pet-sitting.

 

 

 

I GOT A call while enjoying my early walk with Beauty, the golden retriever, the next morning. I hoped it was Dante.

Instead, it was Lauren Vancouver of HotRescues. “Anything new on the claim by Efram Kiley?” she inquired.

“No,” I said, just as glad I had nothing to report. I hadn’t yet come up with the perfect solution. I’d often used my animal dispute resolution skills to find a way to soothe ruffled egos by finding the complainer a new and similar pet. That wouldn’t work this time. None of us on our side would want to see Kiley, who’d allegedly abused the pup in question, wind up with another dog if he’d harm it, and there was no good way to confirm his story that the energetic pup had injured himself. “These things sometimes take a long time.” A good thing. “I’ll certainly let you know if I hear anything—or come up with something substantial—and you do the same. Okay?”

“Okay. And . . . by the way, how’s Dante?”

“Okay, I think,” I said lightly. “I hope to see him later today to make sure.”

“That murder investigation that’s been on the news . . . ?”