McCaskey opened the door and stepped out. He walked around to the driver’s side. Howell rolled down the window.
“If I did what you asked, I would not be able to look Mac McCallie’s widow in the eyes,” McCaskey told him. “I will fight for you, Detective, I promise. But I will not lie for you.”
Howell’s face flushed, but he did not reply. He simply rolled up the window and drove away.
Maria took her husband’s hand. “You did the right thing,” she said. “I am proud of you.”
“Boy, I wish that made it all better.” He sighed. He watched the detective’s car as it turned the corner.
As afraid as Howell had been when he made that decision, McCaskey imagined it faded to insignificance beside the fear and loneliness he was feeling now. He wished there had been another way out. Maybe he should have bucked it up to Paul.
“Or maybe he should have behaved himself,” Maria said.
“What?”
“I know you,” Maria said. “You are standing there wishing this all could have been different. Detective Howell made his choices. People died. He has to live with the consequences.”
“I know,” McCaskey said. “You know, I love what I do, but I there are times I hate what I have to do.”
Maria gripped his hand more tightly and gave him a quick, reassuring smile.
The couple went and got their car. They nosed into the thickening traffic of rush hour.
There was little McCaskey could do for Robert Howell but, ironically, there was still one thing he could do for Mac McCallie. And McCaskey intended to do it.
He would find and punish the people who put this tragedy in motion.
FORTY-SEVEN
No sooner had Rodgers entered the hallway than Kat ran after him.
“General, I have work to do,” she said. “I can’t stay here.”
“You have to,” he said. “I don’t know who is at risk and, more important, by helping someone, you may be an accessory to a criminal conspiracy.”
“I cannot believe the senator is behind this.”
“You cannot prove he is not,” Rodgers said. “Please. I don’t have time to debate this. I need to do some checking.”
“I’ll wait an hour,” she said. “No more.”
Rodgers did not answer. For all he knew, Kat Lockley would leave the room as soon as he was out of sight. Rodgers did not know whether she was truly blameless or just feigning innocence. Before heading downstairs, he stopped and pounded on Eric Stone’s door. There was no answer. He did not know where the convention manager was or what he might be planning. There was a lot Rodgers did not know. Too damn much, in fact.
Rodgers took the stairs to the lobby. That was not a consideration for personal security. If McCaskey called, Rodgers did not want to be standing hip-to-hip with nosy USF delegates.
The general reached the courtyard, which was encircled by tall, slender palm trees and brilliantly lit by a peach-colored sun. People were moving in all directions, and cars were stacked two deep in the sweeping entranceway. This was not the way to find Eric Stone. He went back inside to the registration desk and asked if anyone there had seen him. They said they had not. Rodgers did not believe they would have been told to lie. Stone had not come this way. He thought of checking the hotel security camera but decided that knowing where Stone had been was not going to help him right now. Rodgers had to find out where Stone was going.
Rodgers went back outside. He looked over at the convention center. It was probably a circus by now, with conventioneers arriving for free lunch followed by the opening speeches. Mobile media vans were outside, recording the event. It might be possible to use their multiple camera feeds to try to spot Stone. Since it was all Rodgers had, he decided to give it a try.
“General?”
Someone was standing behind him. He turned. It was Stone. He was holding a walkie-talkie and wearing a smile. Faint but sharp-edged voices crackled from the handheld device, the cross-talk of convention workers.
There was a move in the chaos gambit, Rodgers thought. An unexpected move that took control of the board. What Rodgers did not know was whether it was the luck of a novice or the seasoned improvisational skills of a professional.
“I understand you were looking for me?” Stone said, smiling.
“I was,” Rodgers said.
“What can I do for you?”
Rodgers looked around. “First of all, how did you know where I was?” the general asked. He was trying to spot the nearest surveillance camera or a tail.
“General, there was nothing conspiratorial.” Stone laughed. “The desk supervisor said you went this way. I knew what you were wearing and got lucky.”
Rodgers did not buy that. One of the hundreds of people surrounding them could have been watching him. Perhaps someone in a hotel window.
“So what is it you wanted?” Stone pressed.
Rodgers regarded the younger man. He looked at his posture, at his expression, at his hands. “I spoke with Detective Howell of the Metro Police in D.C.,” Rodgers informed him. “He told me he is being blackmailed by someone in your camp. I want to know who and why.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Stone said. “The detective bungled an investigation. He needed someone to blame. He picked us. Maybe someone is putting him up to it; maybe he has a personal vendetta. All I can tell you is that he is wasting our time. Now, if that is all you need to know—”
“No, there’s more. I want to know what the endgame is.”
“To elect a president,” Stone replied. He frowned and looked around. “Where is Kat, by the way? Did you see her?”
“I saw her.”
“She’s supposed to be with reporters, talking about the campaign.”
“She’s taking some personal time,” Rodgers said. He moved closer. “Talk to me, dammit.”
“I am.”
“No. You’re playing. There’s smug in your smile, in your eyes, but you’re still lying to me.”
“Excuse me?”
“Tension displacement. When you’re wound tight, it has to come out somewhere. Your fingertips are white. You’re squeezing that walkie-talkie like it’s a rubber stress ball. The pressure of all those steaks, is that what it is?”
“Yes, General. Look, I’ll have to talk to you some other time—”
“You will talk now,” Rodgers said.
“What you’re doing makes no sense, do you realize that?” Stone protested. “Think about it. If I were guilty of a terrible crime, would I stand here and confess to you? Do you think you’re that good a bully?”
“I can be,” Rodgers said.
“Security would have your face pressed to the asphalt in about ten seconds,” Stone assured him. “And I would have you incarcerated for assault, with no sad sack detective to bail you out.”
Rodgers’s gaze sharpened. “How did you know that?”
“What?”
“That Howell let the McCaskeys go.”
“I didn’t,” Stone said.
It hit Rodgers a moment before he heard it. Voices were shouting from the walkie-talkie, inarticulate in their shrill and overlapping communiqués.
Stone raised the unit. “This is Stone. What’s going on?”
“Something happened,” someone said.
“What?”
“The admiral,” the speaker said. His voice was hesitant, uneasy. “He left the hotel from the back exit, but he never made it to the convention center.”
“It’s only a mile!” Stone said. “Have you called the driver?” he asked as he reached for his own cell phone.