“He didn’t say,” Howell replied.
Of course not, Rodgers thought. That might have made him an accomplice to murder, far less desirable than a career scandal. “What did he ask for when he did say?” Rodgers asked.
There was a final silence, but it was brief. “At first, just a level-one autopsy,” Howell replied.
“What is that?” Kat asked.
“The body goes in and out, no fine-tooth comb,” Howell said. “Your people wanted Wilson off the slab and out of the country, Ms. Lockley. They said it was to get attention from the senator as soon as possible. That sounded reasonable. It was apparently a heart attack. I saw no harm in helping to rush things along.”
“You said ‘at first,’ ” Rodgers pointed out.
“Yeah. I did that one as a favor. Then your Mr. McCaskey came along and found out it was murder,” Howell said. “At that point, I had already committed a departmental infraction. I might have been able to smooth that one over. But then they hit me with the other thing.”
“The service record,” Kat said.
“This is a scary town,” Howell said. “You both know that. I did not want to end up a small-town sheriff somewhere, and I hoped — no, I prayed — that Darrell McCaskey could smoke these boys out.”
“He still can,” Rodgers said. “Ms. Lockley isn’t pressing charges. Let him go. Help him.”
“How?”
“That depends. Did you get the sense that these crimes were part of a larger operation?”
“Probably,” Howell said. “They told me I would be informed when my ‘interface,’ as they put it, was no longer required. I received no such notification.”
“So more killings may be planned,” Rodgers said. “Detective, are you able to contact them?”
“No. I don’t even know who I was talking to. Their ID was blocked.”
“It was someone who had access to your service record,” Rodgers said.
“Correct.”
“So that means it could have been Link,” Rodgers said. He did not think the admiral was the point man, however. That would be too risky. “When was the last time you spoke with this person?”
“Just now,” Howell said. “He wanted to know if anyone had been asking about the case.”
“How recently is ‘just now’?” Rodgers asked.
“Right before you called,” Howell said. “I hung up on him to talk to you.”
Rodgers felt a chill. It was not fear. It was like an electrical current flowing along his neck as his brain started making connections. He wished that he had a firearm. Or an EM bomb, something that would shut everything down until he could have a thorough look around.
“Detective, did you tell the man that we were on the other line?” Rodgers asked.
“Yes,” Howell replied. “He asked.”
“All right. I need two favors, Detective,” Rodgers said. “I need you to release the McCaskeys.”
“I cannot do that without the proper documents,” Howell said. “I will fax them to Ms. Lockley—”
“There is no time for that,” Rodgers protested. “Come on, Detective. You know they are not criminals. Call it a false arrest and let them go. Say they had permission to be on the premises.”
“They did,” Kat said impulsively. “I said it was okay.”
“All right,” Howell said. “What is the second favor?”
“If your guy calls back, try to find out who he is,” Rodgers said. He started moving toward the door. “Let Darrell know.”
“I will,” Howell said.
“Thanks. Talk to you later.”
Kat terminated the call as Rodgers jogged along the short entranceway. He stopped by the front door and listened. He heard nothing. Kat had followed. She stood at the other end of the small hallway.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“I’m not sure. I want you to stay here,” Rodgers said.
“Why?”
“Because I’m going out, and there may be trouble,” Rodgers said. “If there is, I need someone who can bail me out.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“I have no idea,” Rodgers said as he cracked the door. “But there is one thing I do know. What happened in Washington was just the preliminary. The big show is going to be here.”
FORTY-SIX
There is an impunity that comes with being once-removed from danger. A lock on the door. A police officer on the beat. A man of influence standing between you and those who want to hurt you.
In each case, it is an illusion. Darrell McCaskey knew that from his years at the FBI. He was betting that the young and inexperienced Lucy O’Connor did not. Before the afternoon was over, she would.
McCaskey and his wife had been released from the holding cell at the First District Substation. Detective Howell personally drove them to their car, which had been taken to the DMV impound lot at 65 K Street NE. The detective called ahead to have it released and waiting.
Howell was surprisingly forthcoming about what had happened. McCaskey felt as though he had suddenly been drafted as father confessor. Not that he minded, as long as he did not have to keep any of the intelligence a secret.
McCaskey did not judge the man. Fear and self-preservation always colored people’s reactions. On the FBI he had seen countless crimes of passion that were conceived, executed, and regretted within the space of five minutes. That did not absolve the perpetrator, but McCaskey understood the drive.
McCaskey was sitting beside his wife in the backseat of Howell’s car. When the detective was finished, McCaskey asked him what he expected in exchange for his cooperation.
“A way back out,” Howell said plaintively.
“That may not be so easy. When we get these people, you know they will finger you,” McCaskey pointed out.
“I know they’ll try,” the detective said. “I’ve been thinking. I can pretty much cover my own actions. If you two will say that I was working undercover and feeding you information from the start, that will neutralize their charges.”
“When you cornered us in the apartment, you did not give us the option to explain things to you,” Maria said angrily.
“They had me on a leash,” Howell said. “I’m sorry.”
“If General Rodgers did not call, we would be standing in front of your district attorney right now instead of driving to our car,” she went on.
“I would have found a way to make this go away,” Howell said.
“You say that as if it is an upset stomach,” Maria said. “This would have been with us the rest of our lives.”
“Yes, but in fairness, you did enter the woman’s apartment unlawfully.”
“We picked a lock to get a leg-up on something big and ugly,” McCaskey interjected. “On the Richter scale of crimes, that is one point zero.”
“Look, I already said I screwed up,” Howell told him. “Hell, I screwed up in the military, too, which is what got me in this fix. What I did then wasn’t even a crime. The tribunal made it one to give some punk kid absolution for feeling guilty about consensual sex.”
“A punk kid,” Maria said. “You mean a boy? A man?”
Howell nodded as they pulled up to the lot. “I took the hit for him because I knew what he was going through. I cared about him. I could have appealed the decision, but I didn’t. Then these bastards dig it out and throw it back at me. I felt — only for a moment, but that was long enough — that I had earned myself a free pass for one future misdeed. This one. If I thought it would grow into what it did, I would never have agreed to help them. It was wrong. If you help me, I can make amends through continued public service. I’ve done a damn good job till now. If not, I’ll atone in prison, which doesn’t help anyone.” He looked back at McCaskey. “The blue line, Darrell. Stick with me on this one. Please.”