“So we see him on the hotel security tape. We see him outside the Chan house. Why? What if Joe had high-level intel that a Michael Chan was involved in terrorism? He finds out that there’s a Michael Chan in Palo Alto. He goes out there and follows Chan back here to the hotel, OK?”
“OK, OK, I’m with you.”
“So Joe’s waiting in the lobby for Chan to leave, say, but instead, we arrive with CSI and Claire, et cetera, heading up to the fourteenth floor. Joe can’t get involved in that, but he drives out to the house in Palo Alto the next day—”
“Why does he do that?”
“He doesn’t know Chan is dead. He’s waiting for him to come home.”
“OK.”
“And he sees our car in front of the house and peels off. Hell, maybe when he looks into the van’s lens, he knows full well that it’s doing surveillance on Chan.”
“So you think Joe’s on assignment to bird-dog Michael Chan?”
“Yeah. Then, two days later, the plane goes down. And now Joe’s got the same passenger manifest Claire’s got. And Michael Chan is on the plane. And he can’t call you,” said my partner. “There’s some blackout protocol, whoever he’s working for. They don’t want to be hacked by terrorists.”
“That’s good, Rich. I like it.”
And I did. It was the first meaningful and still innocent explanation for where Joe was and what he was doing.
It made sense.
So why wasn’t I buying it?
Brady appeared in the doorway of the break room.
He gripped both sides of the doorjamb for a couple of seconds, just long enough to say, “We’ve got Alison Muller’s lease car. Brown Lexus. Left in a parking lot at Seattle-Tacoma International. It’s white-glove clean, like it was detailed inside and out. No prints, no trash, no body in the trunk. No nothing. And Muller’s name isn’t on any airline passenger list.
“Thought you’d like to know.”
CHAPTER 48
I CALLED OUT to Brady as he broke from the doorway.
“Lieu, I need a minute.”
He turned, saying, “A minute’s all I’ve got. They’re waiting for me upstairs.”
He shut the door and joined Conklin and me at the table, moving the paper and the sugar canister aside to make room for his massive arms. Then he looked at me as if to say Well, what is it?
I thought about what Conklin had said, that if I told Brady about the beatdown, he was going to take me out of the game. But now I had to tell him everything. I took a breath and got started.
“There are some Asian guys dogging me,” I said, “four of them, and I’ve never gotten a good look at any of them. Night before last, I was roughed up on the street—”
Brady got up, opened the door, and shouted across the room to our steady and uncomplaining squad assistant, Brenda, “Tell Jacobi I’m running late.”
When he came back, he was glaring at me. He looked conflicted—furious and worried. He was checking out the scrape on the side of my jaw, which I’d somewhat covered with makeup, and my blackening eyes.
“How bad?”
“I’m good. I went to the ER. I’m bruised, but no broken bones, no internal injuries, no concussion. They kept me overnight and released me in the morning.”
Now he let me have it.
“You got beaten by four guys and you didn’t tell me? What’s wrong with you, Boxer? Don’t you think knowing that would impact decisions I have to make? Do not ever, ever keep intel away from me again. And watch your ass. Do not work alone. Understand?”
“Yes. I’m sorry. Really.”
“What did these guys want?”
“I cannot figure it out. One of them shouted at me. Heavy accent. It sounded like ‘Do you know Chan?’ And maybe ‘Who you work for?’ I can’t swear to that, Brady. But they didn’t kill me and they could have. I never got in a punch.”
Conklin was crossing and recrossing his legs, sighing, his body language conveying frustration and maybe suffering along with me.
Brady said, “Tell me all of it.”
I had to do it. I told him there might have been as many as four incidents: the confrontation at the ME’s office, the body slam at the NTSB meeting, then the beatdown outside my apartment building, and yesterday’s cross-country steeplechase in and around Monterey—which might or might not have anything to do with the other three incidents.
“We never got a look at the driver,” Conklin said. “But the point is, Lindsay, you have been harassed and assaulted.”
“Could you ID these guys?” Brady asked.
“Maybe I could identify the man who confronted me outside Claire’s office, but otherwise, their faces are a blur.”
“Tell me what happened outside the ME’s office.”
“That guy wanted to see his son. I took it to mean that his son had been on the plane. Brady, he couldn’t have known if his son was with Claire or at Metro or still on the highway.
“I gave him a phone number. He didn’t like that. Maybe everything that followed was payback for that. That’s speculation. What do you think?”
Brady said, “I want you to go home. No argument. Keep your gun with you. You want to speak to someone? A shrink?”
I shook my head. I could feel the marbles inside my skull rolling from ear to ear.
“Call me if you see these guys again. Even if you think you do.”
I nodded and Brady left the room.
I got my jacket, and after Conklin walked me down to the car, he told me, “For God’s sake stay home, lock your doors, and get some sleep.” It was touching how much my friend and partner worried about me. How much he cared.
We hugged. Then, without agreeing to anything, I drove home.
CHAPTER 49
I PARKED MY car at Eleventh and Lake, a block from the apartment. It was humiliating to have to admit to being beaten by dirt bags who’d gotten clean away with it, dirt bags I couldn’t identify.
But I was glad Brady had sent me home.
Underneath my horrible mood was a sense that I was burying something really big and really deep. As if I’d had a profound dream of losing something. And now that I was awake, I had to figure out what I’d lost.
I locked up the Explorer, stuck my hands in my pockets, and walked home, still limping from the pain cloaking my entire body. I looked up to see Mrs. Rose at the front door. She must have just brought Julie and Martha back from the park.
Wow, that Gloria Rose was cute.
She was wearing a watermelon-pink wool coat and a knitted cloche-type hat with flowers in the front. My baby girl kicked in her stroller and waved her hands and shrieked when she saw me. And Martha barked in little riffs that made me grin.
I took back my baby and dog. Then I gave Mrs. Rose a hug and told her I’d been made to take a sick day and I’d call her later.
Upstairs, I fixed fresh banana smoothies for baby and me. We ate in front of the TV and I made up a story of a big banana that wanted to be a smoothie. Julie seemed to think I was an awesome storyteller, and when she fell asleep on my lap, I put her in her playpen with her sock monkey.
I switched on the TV to Bloody Airplane News, which was pretty much on all channels. Worldwide Airlines was giving a press conference and all the networks were present.
At the podium, in front of a dark curtain, was a red-haired man, Colonel Jeff Bernard. The title under Bernard’s image said he was an aviation safety expert and former air force colonel working for NTSB.
I amped up the sound in time to hear him say that the black boxes had been recovered and analyzed. He said the recordings told the story of a perfectly normal approach to SFO with pilots in control, no prep for an emergency landing.