The Advocate's Daughter (24 page)

At just past three, Mole Face fast-walked into the lobby of Dupont Towers, a ten-story modern structure, undoubtedly pricey, nestled next to historic brownstones in the middle of the action. And, just as Emily had described, ten minutes later he came out wearing a ball cap, tight T-shirt hugging chiseled muscles, and aviator shades. A designer-label disguise. An envelope was tucked under his arm. Sean thought again of the folder presented to him that surreal day in James's hideaway office. It would have fit perfectly into the six-by-nine-inch envelope.

They trailed him to the subway entrance, keeping their distance. The Dupont Metro escalator was lined with tourists who gawked at what had to be one of the longest stretches of rotating metal in the country. It must have plunged two hundred feet into the tunnels below. Walkers plodded down the left side of the escalator, standers to the right. Sean kept his eyes on Mole Face's ball cap, which bobbed down the left lane, periodically stopping, probably because of a tourist standing to the left, not catching on to the unwritten rule of the subway.

Mole Face took the red line to Metro Center, the hub of the line. He trotted to the lower level and jumped on an Orange Line train.

“That train heads back toward the Capitol. He's probably going back to his office at Hart,” Sean said.

“No,” Emily said. “You don't go home, change, then go back to work. He's making another delivery.”

And she was right.

Mole Face got off the train at Capitol South. It was indeed a stop near congressional offices, but instead of walking the five blocks toward the dome that dominated the skyline, Mole Face hurried south away from the Capitol.

“What's down there?” Emily asked as they held back, allowing Mole Face to pace just far enough away that they could get lost in the crowd of pedestrians milling about the Hill.

Sean stared ahead. It was an industrial section of Capitol Hill—elevated rail tracks and two smokestacks. “I'm not sure,” he said. “I've never been over here.”

They stalked Mole Face for three blocks on crumbling brick sidewalks that were lined with dilapidated row houses. Mole Face turned right down a side street, then rambled down the sloped street toward a four-story building. The structure was faded orange with rust stains streaking from metal railings lining a rooftop patio. Mole Face walked to a windswept outdoor parking lot in front of the building.

“Do you know what's in that building?” Sean asked his wife.

Emily shook her head.

They lurked at the top of the hill shielding themselves with some shrubs. Mole Face paced through the parking lot until he stopped in front of a Range Rover. He dug into his pocket and pulled out a scrap of paper. He then fiddled with something in his hand and the Range Rover chirped and its lights flashed. Mole Face opened the vehicle's door. His back was to Sean and Emily so they couldn't see what he was doing, but when he walked away, he no longer had the envelope.

 

CHAPTER 63

“What the hell is this guy doing?” Sean said. An Amtrak train rumbled past on elevated tracks nearby.

“I'm telling you,” Emily said, “I bet you the envelopes have dirt on someone, and Mason James is sending a message.”

“How do you think he got into that Range Rover?” Sean said.

“You can buy a universal key fob. You can get one that will open almost any electronic car lock.”

Sean gave his wife a sideways look.

She shrugged. “Read about it on the Internet. I was trying to figure out how they got that bottle of whiskey in our car.”

A universal key fob could explain how Kenny got inside the vehicle. Another possible connection between Kenny and the senator. He watched as the man disappeared around the corner, turning in the direction of the Capitol.

“Let's get the plate number of the Range Rover,” Sean said. They hurried down the hill and through the lot. Sean snapped a photo of the license plate with the camera on his mobile phone. When he turned to continue their tail of Mole Face, the sign on the silver awning hanging over the front of the building caught his eye:
DEMOCRATIC NATIONAL HEADQUARTERS
.

They caught up with Mole Face again and shadowed him several blocks, keeping their distance and trying to look like tourists wandering the city. That got harder as the man hiked down Third Street and pedestrian traffic became sparse. They watched from afar as Mole Face vanished into a structure near the corner of Third and East Capitol. As they got closer, they were met with a sign that read
FOLGER SHAKESPEARE LIBRARY
. Emily seemed to read it in Sean's face:
Not another fucking library.

“I can go in,” she said. “You stay here since he won't recognize me.”

“No, I'll be fine.”

A sign at the entrance of the library bragged that it housed the world's largest collection of Shakespeare materials and rare Renaissance books. As they entered the Reading Room, Sean regretted coming inside. Like the Supreme Court's library, the space was all carved mahogany, long wooden tables, and chandeliers under a gilded ceiling. It was smaller than the high court's library, but it had the same feel. They looked about and didn't see Mole Face, or anyone for that matter. No employees, nobody. Sean assumed that, tucked away in an isolated part of the Hill, the library wasn't on many tourist agendas. He and Emily climbed the steps to a second-floor balcony that overlooked the Reading Room.

They were about to leave when Emily stopped in place, head tilted to the side, listening. From the far corner of the library, below them, whispers. She padded softly toward the sound, Sean at her heels. They stopped just above the hushed voices. The people talking—it sounded like two men—were concealed under the balcony, surrounded by old books. And then they came into view.

Sean and Emily crouched, hoping they wouldn't be spotted. A man, whose back was turned, was poking his finger at Mole Face. The man's whispers grew louder and more heated, and Mole Face seemed to be enjoying it. The man finally let out a disgusted sound and stormed off.

Emily grabbed Sean's hand and pulled him away from the edge of the balcony so their backs were pressed against the wall, just out of view of anyone on the first floor. They watched as the unknown man stalked out of the library. It was then Sean noticed it.

Emily started to head for the stairs to follow the man, but Sean grabbed her arm.

“We need to see who that was,” Emily whispered.

Sean shook his head. He didn't need to see the man's face. His limp—an injury sustained on the field at Notre Dame—gave him away.

 

CHAPTER 64

They held back several minutes, but still managed to catch up to Mole Face and track him back to Dupont Circle. By then, it was late afternoon and Mole Face went to a bar just off the circle. He spoke with a couple of guys at the door. The men were holding hands, hardly an unusual sight in Dupont. From the distance it was unclear if he was friends with them or just making small talk.

“This is where he went every day I followed him,” Emily said.

So, Mole Face met with Supreme Court justice Thaddeus Carr. What was
that
about? And who were the recipients of the envelopes Mole Face had delivered? The senator and Mole Face were clearly engaged in dirty tricks. But what could that mean for Ryan? How did it change anything? The senator still had the photos and steel rod.

“I suppose we can try to run the Range Rover's plates. And maybe we can find out who lives at the places where he made the drops,” Sean said.

Emily said, “I told you, I already Googled the addresses. I couldn't find—”

“I know someone with much better Internet skills than either of us.”

“Who? Jonathan?”

“No, not Jon.” Jonathan Tweed was proficient enough that he could probably figure this stuff out. But Sean wanted to keep him out of this since he was on the vetting team for the senator. Not to mention, Tweed would think that Sean and Em had lost their shit.

“Then who?” Emily asked. She kept her eyes fixed on Mole Face, who disappeared into the bar.

Sean put the phone to his ear.

“Hey, Dad,” Ryan answered. “What's up? Do you know where Mom is? She's not home and we're getting hungry and—”

“Mom's with me. We're running late. How about you order a pizza? You can take money from the jar in the kitchen.”

“Okay,” his son said. He heard Ryan tell Jack about the pizza, which was followed by a “Yes!”

“We hoped you could help us with something,” Sean said.

“Sure.”

“We need you to do some research for us on the Internet.”

There was a long silence on the other end of the phone. “On the computer, by myself?”

“Yes, can you do that?”

“Sure,” Ryan replied, with pride in his voice. “What do you need?”

Sean explained. Try to find who owned the Range Rover and who lived at two addresses. He gave Ryan the information.

“No problem,” Ryan said. “But Dad…”

“Yeah?”

“I need the password. My iPod needs Wi-Fi, and I'm locked out of the computers…”

“Sorry, of course. Our password is T-R-U-S-T, trust,” he said.

“Aw, come on!” Ryan said, a playful lilt in his voice. Sean felt a warmth fall over him. He hadn't heard Ryan sound like himself since his son's encounter with the detective running the Billy Brice murder investigation.

“Thanks for your help, buddy. You and Jack eat, and we'll be home soon.” Sean clicked off.

“So what now?” Sean said to Emily. “We just wait until he comes out of the bar?”

“Actually,” Emily said, “I had another idea.”

 

CHAPTER 65

They lingered in the softly lit hallway of the condo building. It hadn't been hard to get in—no doorman, so they just waited for a tenant to exit the lobby doors. The man leaving even held the door for the well-dressed woman with a beautiful smile.

The line of mailboxes at the entrance were labeled.
S. FINKLE
was in unit 1015. Next thing, Sean found himself outside Mole Face's door. He watched, speechless, as Emily pulled a thin sheath of metal from her purse. She stuck one end in the door's lock, wiggled it around, and the door clicked open. She looked at Sean, seeming surprised herself that the apparatus worked.

“Internet,” she explained.

How long had she been planning this? She'd spent the past few days secretly following this man, and, given that she'd acquired burglar tools, she'd obviously planned on breaking in. They were in felony territory. What the hell were they doing?

“This is crazy,” he whispered. His eyes darted about the hallway. It was late in the day and people would be coming home from work soon. He then scanned the ceiling, looking for security cameras but saw none.

“The file on Ryan is in there, Sean. We need to do this.”

“We don't need to
do
anything. We have a deal with Mason James—we just need to stay out of his business, and he'll stay out of ours.” A deal with the Devil.

“You made that deal, not me,” she said. And Sean understood there would be no stopping her. She wanted the file on their son. She'd gone from immobilized over Abby's death to irrationally fixated on protecting Ryan and getting to the truth about Mason James. But who was Sean to judge? He'd acted pretty irrationally himself. And his actions had led to Billy Brice's death. But he couldn't let Emily go into the condo. Their kids needed at least one parent who wasn't at risk for prosecution.

“Fine,” Sean said, “but you're not going in—I am. You go out front and keep watch. Call my phone now, and we'll keep an open line. You can warn me if Finkle leaves the bar.” The situation had become far too serious to use a ridiculous nickname.

Emily looked hard at Sean but didn't argue. She dug into her handbag for her phone, dialed Sean's number, and confirmed he could hear her on his end. The elevator down the hall dinged.

“Go,” Sean said, in a loud whisper. “Keep the line open and you tell me if you see him.” Sean slipped into the condo, praying that the person leaving the elevator wasn't Sebastian Finkle.

 

CHAPTER 66

Sean ducked into a coat closet near the door, his phone pressed hard to his ear. No beeping alarm system, which was a relief, but he heard voices in the hallway.

Emily's voice whispered in his ear. “Coast clear. It wasn't him on the elevator.”

Sean let out an audible breath. “Okay, keep an eye on the front and tell me if you see him.”

He opened the closet door and scanned the condo. It had large windows that ran from floor to ceiling, the view overlooking Dupont Circle. The place was sparsely furnished, minimalist—straight lines, glass tables, postmodern art on the walls. He began his search, phone at his ear waiting for Emily to warn him to flee. Where would a J. Edgar Hoover wannabe hide his dirt files? He decided to start somewhere private—somewhere most guests wouldn't venture. The bedroom.

He wandered down the hall and into a spacious bedroom, which featured a king-sized bed with a plush backboard built into the wall. It was a clutter-free space, all sleek and no warmth. Inside the walk-in closet were several suits, expensive, neatly aligned. There were boxed shirts and rows of shoes, all appearing freshly shined. All designer stuff. Finkle was quite the clotheshorse.

And then he saw it. At the back of the closet, built into the wall. A safe. It was about two feet square with a digital keypad.

“Unless you also learned how to crack a safe on the Internet,” Sean said into the phone, “we have a problem.”

When Emily didn't respond, he said, “Em? You there?”

“Get out, Sean!”
There was a panic in the whisper.
“He's coming!”

Sean darted from the bedroom.
Stay calm.
It had taken them several minutes to get from the lobby to the tenth floor. He had plenty of time. He was about to open the front door when he heard the jingle of keys and a rattle from the lock.