Not that his “most quiet” happened very often.
“What’s this asshole’s name?” Hardesy asked from the rider’s seat.
“Let’s not assume he’s an asshole, Lucas,” she said, keeping her tone easy, not wanting to restart anything. She always called him Lucas, never Luke; no one on Special Situations did. “We’re just looking at the guy who delivered Secretary Yellich’s lunch every day — a citizen named Glenn Willard.”
“So, then, Reeder knew the woman, huh? Probably in the Biblical sense. And now we’re doing this as a favor to him, ’cause he’s such a suspicious bastard?”
“You’re doing it because I’m buying your lunch today. I’m doing it because Joe has better instincts than both of us put together.”
Hardesy didn’t dispute that. She was driving southeast on Branch Avenue in Hillcrest Heights, Maryland, getting ready to take the right onto Curtis Drive.
Hardesy asked, “What do we know about this Willard who isn’t necessarily an asshole?”
“Not much. Miggie called the restaurant Secretary Yellich ordered her sandwich from every day. The owner, Dev Avninder, says Glenn is the deliveryman in question.”
“Okay, but who made the sandwich?”
“Avninder himself. He always made it himself. He knew sesame was a big no-no in Yellich’s diet, and made sure she got exactly what she ordered.”
He gave her a grunt of acknowledgment, then: “What kind of name is Avninder?”
“East Indian, I think.”
Another grunt. “Phone’s not enough. We should talk to him.”
“We will. But first, Willard.” She made the right onto Curtis, Hilltop Apartments in sight. “Avninder says Willard is a decent employee and a good enough guy.”
“You had Miggie run him?”
“Of course.”
“And, nothing?”
“Nothing at all.”
“Well, we know one thing, boss.”
“Which is?”
“How much I’ll put up with for a free lunch.”
The buildings of the Hilltop Apartments, set at the corners of a huge parking lot, might have been four six-story college dorms. Nondescript white brick weathered to light beige gave the place a worn-out, even weary look. Rogers parked the car and they got out. She was in a cream-color silk blouse and navy trousers, the day cool but not enough so to require the matching jacket.
“Which building?” Hardesy asked.
“Number two,” Rogers said, nodding to the one in front of them.
“Security building?”
She nodded again as they strode across the parking lot.
He was reaching in his pocket for his jimmy tool. “One thing I never miss? The Fourth Amendment.”
“Don’t let Reeder hear you say that,” she said.
The Patriot Act, expanded over a decade ago, had pretty much gutted the Fourth Amendment, and the conservative-dominated Supreme Court had upheld the decision. But old-time liberals like Reeder still pissed and moaned about “unreasonable search and seizure.” For her part, Rogers — a self-identified middle-of-the-road Republican — liked not having to deal with all the bullshit warrants and assorted other crap that might keep her from saving a life or hauling in a bad guy.
“I’ll keep my opinion to myself,” Hardesy said, jimmy in hand.
Then, like a jump cut in a film, the door to Building Two flew open and a youngish guy in a business suit popped out. Her hand moved to her sidearm.
The guy’s eyes grew wide and his arms went up at the sight of Rogers’ palm resting on the butt of the pistol at her hip. In his twenties, his dark hair short, his retro-hipster beard the same, he looked like he might pass out. As the door banged closed behind him, he flinched.
Rogers said, “Glenn Willard?”
Confusion clenched his forehead. “What? No... no! Basement flat, in back, on the right.” His voice was a shaky tenor. “Cops?”
“Federal agents,” Rogers said, her hand drifting away from her pistol.
The guy shook his head, lowering his hands slowly. “Not a surprise... DEA?”
“FBI,” Hardesy said. “What’s that mean, ‘not a surprise’?”
“When you get to his front door, just take a whiff. It’s not springtime.”
“Blowin’ smoke, is he?”
“Considering how many ‘friends’ he has, going in and out of there? I’m guessing he’s not just blowing it... but you didn’t hear that from me.”
“Who exactly,” Rogers asked, “are we not hearing this from?”
“Joe Boyer.”
“You live here, Mr. Boyer?”
“For two years now.”
“Willard been here that whole time?”
Boyer nodded.
Hardesy asked, “All that time, dude’s been flyin’ the Mexican airlines, and doing a lot of entertaining, too?”
With a shrug, Boyer said, “When I first moved in, it was real steady — you’d have to push past ’em sometimes, and they reeked of the stuff. Fewer now.”
By 2031, only ten states had not passed legislation allowing recreational use of marijuana; but Maryland was one of them, and selling the stuff illegally remained frowned upon.
Realizing he wasn’t the target here, Boyer said, “All right if I go? I’m already late.”
Rogers nodded, but Hardesy had another question: “Do you know if your neighbor’s home now?”
Boyer shrugged. “I wouldn’t say he’s a neighbor. I’m a floor above him, but we usually go to work about the same time. Not unusual we go out the door one after the other. Haven’t seen him today.”
Rogers sent her colleague a look that said this interview was over. But Hardesy wasn’t quite finished.
“How would you like to get in solid with Uncle Sam?” he asked the guy. “And open the security door for us?”
Boyer looked around to see if anyone was watching. “Why not?”
He slid his key card into the door and opened it for them.
“You have the gratitude of your federal government,” Hardesy said, happy not to have to jimmy his way in; but Boyer was already walking toward the Naylor Street metro stop.
Hardesy held the door open for Rogers.
“You want to cover the back?” she asked.
“Other than weed, this guy is clean, right?”
Rogers shrugged. “He’s got no record, anyway.”
“Probably no need then. Let’s stick together.”
That made sense to her.
The pair headed down to the lower floor. As they emerged from the stairwell, a young man was locking his door — short dark hair, medium build, polo shirt, decent jeans, Reeboks. The kind of guy who might pass for invisible in a busy office building, say, delivering something.
“Glenn Willard?” she called, her hand not at her hip but hovering.
The young man’s eyes flew to her, then widened with fear.
“Federal agents,” she said. “We’d like to ask you—”
But then Willard was sprinting down the corridor to a door that led to stairs that no doubt rose to a rear exit.
Just behind her, Hardesy said, “Shit!”
Rogers was only two steps into her pursuit when she heard her partner bellow, “Maybe I should take the back after all, huh?”
He said this while heading up the stairs to go around and cut the guy off.
Racing down the hall, she passed Willard’s door — was their man running because of his drug dealing? Or something else?
Rogers went up the rear stairs and out the door, looking straight ahead, at more apartment houses, then to her left. Turning right she glimpsed Willard slipping around the far corner of the building. She took off like a sprinter at the starting gun.