She nodded for him to continue.
“He’da been pissed if I didn’t make that delivery myself, so I walked the sandwich out of the shop, gave Tony my Ye Olde jacket and hat, and a bag of sandwiches and chip packs, for lunch-hour delivery, with instructions... but not till I was around the corner from the shop. Then Tony made the deliveries, including the Secretary’s lunch.”
Only instead Tony had delivered murder.
Rogers asked, “How did you meet Tony?”
“He was a customer. I sold him a lid or two at a couple of dance clubs, you know, in the john. We got friendly. He started doing a little dealing himself and I helped him out.”
“Did you approach him or vice versa?”
“Him me.”
Rogers asked, “Where can we find your friend — Tony?”
“After what he’s put me through,” Willard said, “he’s no friend of mine.”
And gave them an address.
On the way back to the Ford, Rogers called Miggie and gave him Tony Evans. Minutes later, with her driving, Hardesy put Miggie on speaker.
“The Skygate Apartments address is right,” Miggie said. “At least for the last three months, anyway.”
“The guy just moved there?” Hardesy asked.
Miggie said, “Yeah, but the thing is, before three months ago?”
“Yeah?”
“I can’t find any indication that this particular Tony Evans exists.”
Rogers and Hardesy traded a look. “Thanks, Miggie. Keep digging.”
“I brought a shiny new shovel, boss,” he said, then clicked off.
Hardesy said, “What’s your pal Reeder got us into? A cabinet member murdered, and it was put in motion months ago? This shit is getting serious.”
“And deep.”
They drove awhile.
Then Hardesy asked, “You suppose there’s any chance this guy is still at Skygate?”
“Maybe, but I doubt it. I suppose if Evans wanted to keep an eye on Willard, yeah. The addresses are damn close. But after what happened this morning, if he’s heard about it...”
“It’s a long shot he’s still around. By now, ‘Tony Evans’ may not exist.”
She couldn’t argue with that.
They swung by Skygate Apartments in a Hillcrest Heights neighborhood referred to by some residents as Marlow Heights, after the old shopping center that had long ago been replaced by Iverson Mall.
A vast complex of over a dozen matching three-story buildings fanned around a U-shaped parking lot on the north end, with a swimming pool in the bottom of the U. South of that, along Temple Lane, another dozen buildings squatted like Monopoly hotels all clustered onto one property.
Rogers pulled in near the pool. Night had settled in, but the parking lot fought back with streetlamps and nearby well-lit building entries. The two agents sat in the car and regarded the landscape before them, pool shimmer on their faces.
She said to Hardesy, “Look, even if there’s little chance our man is here, we need to be more careful than we were with Willard.”
“Yeah,” Hardesy said. “That was my screwup.”
“Not placing blame. But I’m serious.”
He held her eyes with his gaze. “I’m serious, too, boss. Glenn’s an asshole but I didn’t love shooting him.”
She could only smile. “You’re going soft in your middle age, Lucas.”
“Maybe you’re a bad influence.”
They got out of the car and crossed the parking lot to Evans’ building.
“This time,” Hardesy said with a disgusted smirk, “I will go in the back way.”
Rogers nodded. “Second floor, remember. 211.”
“See you there.”
Then Hardesy disappeared around the corner of the building.
Unlike Willard’s place, no security doors awaited them here. Rogers entered a vestibule with mailboxes on one wall, including one that said EVANS. To her left, stairs went up; to her right, stairs went down. She checked the first-floor stairwell, saw nothing, then silently climbed to the second floor, her hand on the butt of the Glock at her hip.
This guy might be a ghost who was already gone. Or he might be nobody, just a drug dealer who subbed for Willard, the sandwich dosed by somebody else. Or he might be the assassin of the Secretary of the Interior of the United States...
Her colleague came up the stairs at the opposite end of the corridor. They met at Evans’ apartment. Each took a position on either side of the door, then traded nods. Rogers drew her gun while Hardesy used a pick and a tension wrench on the lock, which he defeated in under thirty seconds.
Hardesy took a step back and turned the knob slowly, then shouldered in.
The door swung open onto a tidy living room empty but for a camp chair and small TV. They moved in, cautious, quiet. The tiny dining area at right bore only a card table and two folding chairs. She wondered how Evans explained his spartan living conditions to his guests, if he had any. The kitchen beyond had no furnishings, but a coffee pot and a microwave rested on the counter. She edged into the room, opened a cupboard and, touching nothing, found a couple of packs of ramen noodles and a bottle of sesame oil.
Beyond the kitchen was a short hallway to a bathroom and the only bedroom.
Rogers pointed to the bathroom and Hardesy kept his gun trained on the bedroom door while she ducked into the john and almost immediately backed out.
Clear, she mouthed.
She turned her attention, and Glock, to the bedroom, too. Was that breathing she heard? She couldn’t be sure — might be a breeze pulsing in an open window. Her eyes tightened and her spine stiffened as she eased the door open...
On the bed, a man lay spread-eagled on his stomach. He wore jeans and a red-and-black plaid flannel shirt. For a moment she couldn’t tell whether or not he was breathing and her mind raced to what their next step would be if the guy was dead.
Then he snort-snored and Rogers almost laughed.
But instead, she said, “Tony Evans! Federal agents — stay as you are!”
“What the shit...?” He started to push himself up, but Hardesy pushed him back down. Then the man in the plaid shirt decided to cooperate and flattened again.
Hardesy frisked him while she covered him.
“Guys!” the guy blurted. “I’m not Tony Evans!”
Hardesy said, “Then who’s that sleeping in his bed, Goldilocks?”
The guy craned to look at Hardesy. “Look, dude, what I’m trying to say is, Tony isn’t here. You’re making a mistake.”
“If you’re not Evans,” Rogers said, “who are you? Where’s your identification?”
These appeared to be questions that were too tough for him. All he managed was, “Uh...”
“Okay,” Hardesy sighed. “We’ll sort it out at the Hoover Building.”
Rogers put her Glock away and cuffed the prone man’s hands behind him.
“I’m not Evans, I tell you! You’re fucking up!”
“Somebody is,” Hardesy said, and pulled the guy to his knees, hands cuffed behind him, and for the first time Rogers could see their man’s face. He wasn’t exactly a twin, but he had the same nondescript sort of features as Glenn Willard. The two might be brothers. Maybe he wasn’t Tony Evans, but he sure as hell was the guy in the security video from outside Secretary Yellich’s office.
Hardesy pulled him around and helped him to his feet beside the bed.
“I tell you, Tony’s out. Me, I’m just crashing here.”
Rogers read him his rights and advised him to use them, adding, “Shut up until we get you back to the Hoover Building. We’ll straighten this out there.”
They marched the guy out of the apartment and down the stairs to the front door. Rogers had him by the arm and Hardesy was right behind; both agents had their guns holstered now. They stepped outside and down the two stairs to the sidewalk, Hardesy’s hand on the guy’s arm, behind him but guiding him.