The Book of Fate (39 page)
“Are you even listening? There is no next month! There’s no India! Or Prague! Or Liberia! Or Lusaka! We brought our resources together—we created the perfect virtual informant—and we made some cash. But now I’m done, pal. D’you understand? The pot of gold—the seventy million—it’s bullshit. I’m over.”
“But if you—”
“I don’t care,” O’Shea said, heading for the door and stepping out to the edge of the plane’s floats. A short hop took him onto the dock, where he waved a thank-you to the pilot and followed the path toward the buildings of the boatyard.
“O’Shea, don’t be such a mule,” The Roman continued. “If you touch Wes now—”
“Are you listening? I. Don’t. Care. I don’t care that he’s bait. I don’t care that he’s our best bet for getting Boyle. I don’t even care that Nico might get to him first. That kid knows my name, he knows what I look like, and worst of all—”
There was a soft beep on O’Shea’s phone. He stopped midstep, halfway up the dock. Caller ID said
Unavailable.
On this line, there was only one person that could be.
“O’Shea, listen to me,” The Roman threatened.
“Sorry, signal’s bad here. I’ll call you later.” With a click, he switched over to the other line. “This is O’Shea.”
“And this is your conscience—stop having sex with men at truck stops. Go to a bar—it’s easier,” Paul Kessiminan said, laughing, in his fat Chicago accent.
O’Shea didn’t even bother responding to the joke. Tech guys—especially those in the Bureau’s Investigative Technology Division—always thought they were funnier than they were. “Please tell me you got a hit on Wes’s phone,” O’Shea said.
“Nope. But after taking your advice and watching his friends, I did get a hit on the fat kid’s.”
“Rogo’s?”
“For the past few hours, it’s quiet as death. Then ping, incoming call from a number registered to an Eve Goldstein.”
“Who’s Eve Goldstein?”
“Which is why I looked her up. Y’know how many Eve Goldsteins there are in Palm Beach County? Seven. One owns a Judaica store, one’s a school principal, two retirees—”
“Paulie!”
“. . . and one who writes the gardening section for the
Palm Beach Post.
”
“They switched phones.”
“Ooooh, you’re good. You should get a job with the FBI.”
“So Wes is still with Lisbeth?”
“I don’t think so. I just called the newsroom. She’s apparently on another line. I think she gave Wes her friend’s phone and ditched his on the plane or something. Telling you—boy’s smart,” Paul said. “Lucky for you, I’m smarter.”
“But you traced the new phone to his current location?”
“It’s an old model, so there’s no GPS. But I
can
get you to the closest cell tower. Cell site 626A. On County Road, just a few blocks south of Via Las Brisas.”
At the center of the long dock, O’Shea froze. “Las Brisas? You think he went to—?”
“Only one way to find out, Tonto. Be careful, though. With Nico out there, headquarters just opened their own investigation.”
Nodding to himself, O’Shea reached into his inside jacket pocket and pulled out a black ostrich-skin wallet and matching CIA badge. As he flipped it open, he took one last look at the picture in Micah’s driver’s license. From the messy brown hairstyle and the crooked bottom teeth, the photo had to be almost a decade old. Before the teeth were fixed. Before the hair got meticulously slicked back. Before they were making real money.
O’Shea didn’t like lifting his old friend’s wallet, but he knew it’d buy him at least a day in IDing the body. Though right now, as he readjusted his shoulder holster and rechecked his gun, all he needed was an hour or so to wrap things up and leave this life behind.
They’d created an alter ego for Egen as The Roman. Certainly, O’Shea could create something new for himself.
“How fast you think you can get there?” Paul asked through the phone.
Grinning to himself, O’Shea tossed Micah’s IDs from the dock into the water. They floated for half a second, then sank out of sight. “At this rate? I’ll be in and out lickety-split.”
T
ry calling him again,” Dreidel said as he spun the acid-free archival box around and checked the dates on its typed spine:
Boyle, Ron—Domestic Policy Council—October 15- December 31.
“Just did,” Rogo said, working his way through his own stack and checking the last few boxes in the pile. “You know how Wes gets on the job—he won’t pick up if he’s with Manning.”
“You should still try him agai—”
“And tell him what? That it looks like Boyle had a kid? That there’s some note referencing May 27th? Until we get some details, it doesn’t even help us.”
“It helps us to keep Wes informed—especially where he is right now. He should know that Manning knew.”
“And you’re sure about that?” Rogo asked. “Manning knew about Boyle’s kid?”
“It’s his best friend—and it’s in the file,” Dreidel said. His voice cracked slightly as he looked up from the last few boxes. “Manning definitely knew.”
Rogo watched Dreidel carefully, sensing the change in his tone. “You’re doubting him, aren’t you, Dreidel? For the first time, you’re realizing there might be a crack in the Manning mask.”
“Let’s just keep looking, okay?” Dreidel asked as he tilted the final two milk-crate-sized boxes and scanned the dates. One was labeled
Memoranda—January 1-March 31.
The other was
Congressional AIDS Hearing—June 17-June 19.
“Damn,” he whispered, shoving them aside.
“Nothing here either,” Rogo said, closing the last box and climbing up from his knees. “Okay, so grand total—how many boxes do we have that include the May 27 date?”
“Just these,” Dreidel said, pointing to the four archival boxes that they’d set up on the worktable. “Plus you pulled the schedule, right?”
“Not that it helps,” Rogo replied as he waved Manning’s official schedule from May 27. “According to this, the President was with his wife and daughter at their cabin in North Carolina. At noon, he went biking. Then lunch and some fishing on the lake. Nothing but relaxing the whole day.”
“Who was staffing him?” Dreidel asked, well aware that the President never traveled without at least some work.
“Albright . . .”
“No surprise—he took his chief of staff everywhere.”
“. . . and Lemonick.”
“Odd, but not out of the ordinary.”
“And then those same names you said were from the Travel Office—Westman, McCarthy, Lindelof—”
“But not Boyle?”
“Not according to this,” Rogo said, flipping through the rest of the schedule.
“Okay, so on May 27th, barely two months before the shooting, Manning was in North Carolina and Boyle was presumably in D.C. So the real question is, what was Boyle doing while the cat was away?”
“And you think the answer’s in one of these?” Rogo asked, circling the tops of the four boxes with his hand.
“Those’re the ones that have date ranges that include May 27th,” Dreidel said. “I’m telling you,” he added as he flipped off the top of the first box, “I’ve got a good feeling. The answer’s in here.”
“There’s no
way
it’s in here!” Rogo moaned forty-five minutes later.
“Maybe we should go through them again.”
“We already went through them twice. I picked through every sheet of paper, every file, every stupid little Post-it note. Look at these paper cuts!” he said, extending his pointer and middle fingers in a peace sign.
“Voice down!”
Dreidel hissed, motioning to the attendant by the computers.
Rogo glanced over at Freddy, who offered a warm smile and a wave. Turning back to Dreidel, he added, “Okay, so now what?”
“Not much choice,” Dreidel said as he scanned the remaining thirty-eight boxes that were stacked like tiny pyramids across the floor. “Maybe they filed it out of order. Flip through each box—pull out anything that has the date May 27th on it.”
“That’s over 20,000 pages.”
“And the sooner we start, the sooner we’ll know the full story,” Dreidel said, tugging a brand-new box up to the worktable.
“I don’t know,” Rogo said as he gripped the handholds of a beaten old box and heaved it up toward the desk. As it landed back-to-back with Dreidel’s box, a puff of dust swirled like a sandstorm. “Part of me worries we’re sifting through the wrong haystack.”
Port St. Lucie, Florida
E
dmund had been dead for nearly twelve hours. During hour one, as Nico strapped him into the passenger seat of the truck, thick frothy blood bubbles multiplied at the wound in Edmund’s neck. Nico barely noticed, too excited about telling his friend about Thomas Jefferson and the original Three.
By hour four, Edmund’s body had stiffened. His arms stopped flopping. His head, bent awkwardly back and to the right, no longer bobbed with each bump. Instead of a rag doll, Edmund was a frozen mannequin. Rigor mortis had settled in. Nico still didn’t notice.
By hour ten, the cab of the truck began to take its own beating. On the seats . . . the floor mat . . . across the vinyl interior of the passenger-side door, the blood began to decompose, turning each stain a darker, richer red, tiny speckles of liquid rubies.
But even when they left all that behind—when they abandoned the truck and used Edmund’s wool blanket to switch to the clean maroon Pontiac—there was no escaping the smell. And it wasn’t from the body. That would take days to decompose, even in the Florida heat. The true foul horror came from what was inside, as Edmund’s lack of muscle control caused everything from feces to flatulence to leak out, soaking his clothes, his pants, all the way through to the once-parchment-colored cloth seat and the dusty blanket that covered Edmund from the neck down.
In the driver’s seat next to him, Nico couldn’t have been happier. Up ahead, despite rush hour, traffic looked clear. On his right, out west, the sun was a perfect orange circle as it began its slow bow from the sky. And most important, as they blew past another green highway sign, they were even closer than Nico expected.
PALM BEACH 48 MILES
Less than an hour and we’re there.
Barely able to contain himself, Nico smiled and took a deep breath of the car’s outhouse reek.
He didn’t smell a thing. He couldn’t. Not when life was this sweet.
Quickly picking up speed, Nico reached for the wipers as a late-day sun-shower sent a few speckles against the Pontiac’s front windshield. But before he could flick the wipers on, he thought twice and left them off. The rain was light. Just a drizzle. Enough to cleanse.
Maybe you should
—
“Yeah, I was just thinking the same thing,” Nico said, nodding to himself. With the push of a button on the dash, he opened the sunroof of the car, held his stolen Orioles baseball cap, and tilted his head back to stare up at the gray sky.
“Hold the wheel,” he told Edmund as he clamped his eyes shut.
At eighty miles an hour, Nico let go of the steering wheel. The Pontiac veered slightly to the right, cutting off a woman in a silver Honda.
Saying a prayer to himself, Nico kept his head back. The wind from outside lashed against the brim, blowing his baseball cap from his head. Needles of rain tap-danced against his forehead and face. The baptism had begun. Wes’s home address was clutched in his hand. Salvation—for Nico and his mom—was less than an hour away.
L
isbeth thought the neighborhood would be a dump. But as she drove west on Palm Beach Lakes Boulevard and followed Violet’s directions—past the Home Depot and Best Buy and Olive Garden, then a right on Village Boulevard—it was clear she didn’t need to lock the car doors. Indeed, as she pulled up to the guard gate for
Misty Lake—A Townhome Community
, the only thing she had to do was lower her window.
“Hi, I’m visiting unit 326,” Lisbeth explained to the guard, remembering Violet’s instructions to not use her name. Of course, it was silly. Lisbeth already had her address—who cared about her name?
“ID, please,” the guard said.
As she handed over her driver’s license, Lisbeth added, “I’m sorry, I think it’s unit 326—I’m looking for . . .”
“The Schopfs—Debbie and Josh,” the guard replied, handing her a guest parking pass for the dashboard.
Lisbeth nodded. “That’s them.” Waiting until the security gate closed behind her to scribble the name
Debbie Schopf
in her notepad, she followed the signs and never-ending speed bumps past row after row of identical pink townhomes, eventually pulling into the guest spot just outside the narrow two-story house with blinking holiday lights dangling from above the door and an inflatable snowman in the thriving green garden. Christmas in Florida at unit 326.
Heading up the front path, Lisbeth tucked her notepad into her purse and out of sight. Violet was already nervous on the phone. No reason to add to—
“Lisbeth?” a female voice called out as the door of the townhouse swung open.
Lisbeth looked up at eye level, which put her directly at Violet’s dark brown neck. It wasn’t until she craned her neck up that Lisbeth saw the full picture of the stunning 5'10" African-American woman standing in the doorway. Wearing faded jeans and a white V-neck T-shirt, Violet almost seemed to be trying to dress like a mom. But even standard suburban uniforms couldn’t mask the beauty underneath.
“You . . . uh . . . you wanna come in?” Violet asked, her voice shaky as she lowered her head and looked away.
Lisbeth assumed she was being shy. Probably embarrassed. But as she got closer—walking past Violet and entering the house—she got her first good look at Violet’s left eyebrow, which appeared to be cut in two by a tiny white scar that sliced through her dark, otherwise perfect skin.
“That from— He do that?” Lisbeth asked, even though she knew the answer.
Violet looked up, her shoulders arching like a cornered cat—then just as quickly, her posture leveled as she regained her calm. For Lisbeth, it was like glancing too late at a just-missed lightning bolt. Two seconds ago, rage detonated in Violet’s eyes, then disappeared in an eyeblink. Still, like the lost lightning bolt, the afterimage was too strong. Lisbeth couldn’t miss it. And in that moment, she saw the brash, confident, and swaggering self-assured woman that the young twenty-six-year-old Violet used to be. And who she’d never be again.
