“Doesn’t surprise me,” Rider says. “He’s branched out over the years into contract killing and kidnapping. He’s a real peach.”
“So what does all of this have to do with Hannah?”
“After the bombing, I felt like I had to do whatever I could to protect Katie, so I arranged for her to go into witness protection. She didn’t fit the program, but I talked the suits into letting her in anyway. Gave her a new name, new social, the whole bit. The aunt had stashed a bunch of money, and the girl wound up inheriting half of it, plus the farm where they lived. Katie hated witness protection, though. She spent a couple of months in Utah and then split, but at least she kept the alias. She moved back down here, sold the farm, and got a college degree from UT. She wound up working in the DA’s office in Knoxville until a few months ago. Do you see what I’m saying?”
“I think so. I think you’re telling me I don’t know Hannah Mills as well as I think.”
“That’s just the tip of the iceberg,” Rider says. “Did she ever tell you that her father murdered her mother and her brothers and sister? Happened up in Michigan, when she was twelve, thirteen, something like that. That’s why she moved down here in the first place.”
“She never mentioned it. So what you’re telling me is that the girl I know as Hannah Mills is really this Katie?”
“That’s right,” Rider says. “Katie Dean’s her name. One of the sweetest girls I ever met.”
34
Anita White was growing angrier by the minute. She felt like a schoolgirl who’d been called into the office by the principal, who was allowing her to stew before he came in to berate her. Ralph Harmon was the special agent in charge of the TBI office in Johnson City, a title Anita always found amusingly quaint. He wasn’t the captain or the lieutenant or the commander. He was in charge. She allowed herself a brief moment to wonder what bureaucratic sycophant had come up with such a lame title.
She’d been sitting in Harmon’s office for twenty minutes. He’d called her on the phone as she left Toni Miller’s, asked for an update on the case, and then requested a meeting as soon as she arrived. The minute Anita walked in, Harmon walked out, saying he’d be right back. She could hear him through the open door, laughing and talking with one of the secretaries. He wasn’t attending to any important business; he was insulting her in his uniquely inimical way.
Harmon had been In Charge for less than two years before Anita arrived. During her initial meeting with Harmon, she found him to be a transparent man who couldn’t hide the bigotry that lurked beneath his phony smile. He’d made reference to the lack of “people of color” who were field agents in the TBI and had compounded the insult by expressing the opinion that the job was much more suited to men. He’d virtually ignored her since that first day, with the exception of assigning her cases that none of the other agents wanted.
Anita glanced around the room. The wall was plastered with certificates and photographs. She’d never looked at them closely before, but one section of the display caught her eye. There were several photographs of Harmon in military garb: a dress uniform, camouflage, a flight suit. He was smiling broadly in all of them, posing with other soldiers. In one photo, he was wearing a helmet and sitting in the cockpit of a helicopter. The photos surrounded a small, framed display of three medals backed by navy blue velvet. It was obvious that Harmon wanted everyone to know that he was in the military. Anita remembered what her daddy had said about men who displayed the memories of their military careers for all to see.
“Men like that are pretenders, Neets,” her daddy had said. “Soldiers who’ve been in combat, those who have seen the true face of war, aren’t going to put up a bunch of pictures on the wall. They don’t even like to think about it, let alone be reminded of it all the time.”
She smiled to herself. Thinking of her father always made her smile, and thinking of Harmon as a pretender would make easier what was undoubtedly going to be a difficult conversation.
Harmon came in a few minutes later and closed the door behind him. Anita had always thought he carried himself like one of the wise guys she’d seen in the movies. A few years older than she, he was medium height with a potbelly. His suits were always a bit too tight, and he wore his dark hair combed straight back from his forehead and held in place with hair spray or mousse.
“Do you know how many phone calls I’ve received about this investigation in the past twenty-four hours?” Harmon began.
“Several, I’d imagine.”
“Dozens. The brass in Nashville are so far up my ass, I can feel them tickling my tonsils. They want to know what we’re doing about this.”
“We’re doing all we can.”
“But we’re not getting any results. People want results when a judge is murdered, Agent White. They want somebody arrested. They want somebody punished. They figure, hell, if somebody can kill a judge and get away with it, none of us are safe. People call their congressmen and ask them why nobody’s been arrested yet. They ask them what kind of outfit we’re running up here.”
“But it’s only been a day and a half,” Anita said.
“Doesn’t matter. When people around here call the politicians, the politicians call the brass in Nashville and ask them why nobody’s been arrested yet. And then guess who the brass call? Me. They ask me what we’re doing. They ask me who I put in charge of the investigation. They ask me whether we have a suspect in custody, and if not, why not? And you know what I have to tell them? Lies, that’s what. I tell them I’ve got my best agent in charge of the investigation. I tell them she’s an up-and-comer, a real go-getter. I tell them she already has a suspect and she’s already gotten a search warrant. I tell them she’ll have someone locked up by the end of the day. And then I call her, and she tells me she doesn’t have a damned thing. Not only that; she tells me her only suspect has disappeared like a goddamned fart in a hurricane. I called you in here now because I want you to explain yourself to me so I can explain myself to them. And it had better be good.”
Anita thought back on what Norcross had said to her in the car yesterday. How the boss had been the first agent at the crime scene; how he must have known how tough it was going to be.
“Why did you assign this case to me?” Anita asked.
Harmon looked surprised. He laced his fingers together and rested his elbows on the desk.
“I just told you. You’re my up-and-comer. My go-getter. I thought you were the right person for the job.”
“Do you know what I think? I think instead of assigning this case to me, you draped it around my neck like a yoke. You were at the crime scene. You knew it was outdoors. You knew the weather was about to turn. Fire and water are two of the worst things that can happen to a crime scene, and this one had both. What evidence the fire didn’t consume, the water washed away. So you dumped it on me. When the brass call, why don’t you just tell them the truth? Tell them you knew it was going to be an impossible case, so you dumped it on the agent whose very existence offends you. Why don’t you tell them you knew you might need a sacrificial lamb, so you dumped it on the agent you’d most like to blame if everything goes to hell in a handbasket?”
Anita took a breath. She’d stopped short of saying what was really on her mind. Why don’t you tell them you can all blame it on the woman? The black woman! She refused to toss that card on the table. It was a card her daddy had warned her never to play. “You make your way on hard work and dedication,” he’d said. “You outwork and outthink the bigots, even though you know they hate you and would do anything to destroy you. You stay true to yourself and your principles. You adapt and you overcome. That’s how you do it.”
Harmon’s face flushed. His laced fingers became pink as he squeezed them tightly together.