“Really? And how long ago was that?”
“Nine months. Maybe ten. Last October or November.”
Gold. He could sense it. Tank knew better than to push. It was a matter of letting her air her own suspicions. She poured him more iced tea, then turned back to get a glass for herself. Tank’s heart jumped a beat. She was going to spill.
“This is what I know,” she said, sitting down and fixing him with determined blue eyes. She described in detail her actions since her husband’s death: searching his clothing; finding the boarding pass; discovering his secret trips to San Jose, which had begun all the way back in November and continued through the past week; finding out about her husband’s contact with Judge Caruso; and finally hearing the bizarre reaction evinced by her husband’s former partner, Randy Bell, when she said the word semaphore.
“Does any of this make sense?” she said in closing.
“I don’t think it’s uncommon for an FBI agent to work a confidential case. Still, if you think there’s something wrong, there probably is.”
Tank looked away, not wanting to be a party to her hopes. He glanced at his hands, noticing how lousy his nails looked. Probably like the rest of him. He glanced up to find Mary Grant still staring at him. His problem had always been that he was a sucker for honesty. Straight talk was the chink in his armor.
“I visited the medical examiner’s office last night,” he said. “I was trying to get the lowdown on the informant. I didn’t, but I saw something that convinced me in no uncertain terms that the FBI is being untruthful. It’s not a pleasant matter.”
“Go ahead, Mr. Potter. I consider myself forewarned.”
As gently as he knew how, Tank gave his opinion that the wounds suffered by Joe Grant and his informant, identity unknown, could not have been inflicted with a handgun, and as such did not jibe with the FBI’s official explanation.
“What are you trying to say?” asked Mary.
“That doctor in the hospital was telling you the truth. Your husband couldn’t have shot the informant. I don’t think the informant shot him, either. It’s my opinion that your husband and his informant were murdered by a third party, and that they were shot with a rifle, not a handgun.”
Mary Grant sat back. He could see her working through what he’d said, coming to the conclusion, almost against her will, that her suspicions were accurate. The FBI was lying. Her husband had been murdered. Someone was orchestrating a cover-up. Her eyes watered, and for a moment he thought she was going to break down. She looked away and drew a tremendous breath. He thought it was as if she’d swallowed a kind of stone, as her features hardened into a grim mask.
“Have you shared this with the paper?” she asked.
“Not exactly.”
“Why not?”
“It’s important for me to have corroborating evidence first. My opinion isn’t enough.”
“But you saw the bodies…”
“Even so. I need proof.”
“Did you take pictures?”
Tank lied without blinking. “Not allowed.”
“Won’t the autopsy reveal what kind of bullet killed my husband?”
“In principle, yes.”
“I spoke with Mr. Feely at the funeral home last night. He said the FBI is keeping my husband’s body a few days longer. The results should prove that what you said is true.”
“Actually, the postmortem isn’t going to be performed here. Your husband is being sent to the FBI’s forensic lab at Quantico. The autopsy will be performed there.”
“Is that normal?”
“Not to my knowledge. Postmortems are performed in the county where the death took place.”
“So they’re stealing his body to cover up what happened.”
“Slow down,” said Tank, though he shared the same conviction. “We have no idea why they want to send the body to Quantico. There could be a dozen other reasons to perform the autopsy there.”
“When are they transporting my husband’s body?”
“Sometime after twelve p.m.”
“Today?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Mary bolted to her feet and threw her purse over her shoulder. “Grace,” she shouted upstairs, “I’m taking you to Carrie’s house. We need to go. Now.”
Tank stood as Mary scooped up her car keys and shepherded her daughter outside. “Where are you going?” he asked.
“Downtown. To the medical examiner’s office. I’m not letting them take Joe without a fight.”
43
Mary paused before climbing into her car. “Aren’t you coming?”
Tank Potter stood watching her, hands in his pockets, tousled head cocked at an angle. “It’s not my job to confront the FBI,” he said.
Mary placed her foot inside the car. She realized she’d gone too far. He was after a story. She was after much more. “I don’t expect your help, Mr. Potter, but I wouldn’t mind a witness.”
Potter made no move to join her.
Mary got in the car and started the engine. With dismay, she noted that the gas was on reserve. “Don’t go yet,” she called as Tank was climbing into his Jeep. Elbowing the door open, she jumped out and ran up the street. “Tell me you’ve got enough gas to get me downtown.”
–
Five minutes later the Jeep was barreling down Mopac, the speedometer pushing 75. Mary sat with one hand locked on the armrest, her feet positioned on either side of a gaping hole in the floorboard, praying that they wouldn’t run over a loose rock or stray branch.
“Are you all right, Mr. Potter? You were looking a little pale before.”
“I’m good.” Potter offered an anemic smile. If she hadn’t thought he was hungover before, she did now.
Midday traffic was light. In ten minutes they were zipping past the Arboretum. Potter swung the Jeep east onto 183, skirting the gargantuan new Apple campus, National Semiconductor, IBM, and, finally, ONE Technologies. Mary thought of Jess, her own little Bill Gates…No, who did she say was the greatest programmer? Her own little Rudeboy.
“We’re making good time,” said Tank. “Hopefully they won’t have moved your husband yet.”
“Hopefully,” said Mary. “Anyway, thanks.”
“For what?”
“For asking questions.”
“It’s my job.”
“Even so. It means something to me.”
“I’m a reporter. I’m not doing you any favors.”
“You didn’t have to drive me.”
Tank looked at her, narrowing his eyes. “Do you really think you can stop them from sending your husband to Virginia?”
“No. But at least they’ll know we’re keeping an eye on them.”
“Lady, I’m not sure that’s a good thing.”
Mary noted the warning in Potter’s voice. It reminded her of Randy Bell’s admonition never to say semaphore again. It came to her that she was putting her nose where it was not wanted and that her inquiries might not be taken lightly. Still, it was the FBI. Joe’s FBI. They might be angry with her, but nothing more. She was a citizen. She had a right to ask questions.
“I have to make a call to my buddy,” said Tank. “This whole thing may be a wild-goose chase.”
–
One half mile behind the battered Jeep, the Mercedes Airstream rolled down the highway, maintaining a similar speed.
Shanks drove while the Mole sat in the work bay, monitoring surveillance. Though the Jeep was out of sight, there was no chance of losing it. Along with the dozens of pictures of Tank Potter, PittPatt had turned up his phone number, found easily enough on the employee profile page of the Statesman’s website. A cross-check of the number showed that Henry Thaddeus Potter was a ONE Mobile customer.
“You’re mine,” whispered the Mole as he ordered a real-time tap on the number. A live feed was beamed to the communications console. Potter’s position as defined by the GPS transponder in his phone was denoted by a pulsing blue dot on a mixed terrain/traffic map.