“Housing is cheaper here,” Finn said. “San Fran is off the charts. I actually bought a town house for what I paid for a condo out there.”
“You’re lucky,” said the other cop. “I was a postal cop down in Arkansas before I moved here about five years ago. I’m still living in a three-bedroom apartment in Manassas that I can barely afford, and I’ve got four kids.”
Finn and his friend headed on and finally arrived at the spot that was the only reason they’d come here tonight.
It was right where the plans indicated it would be. Ready access from the tunnel, and by the look of things it was already operational. That would make their task easier. Finn picked the lock of one door and they slipped inside it. He studied the instrument boxes on the wall and then snapped several pictures of the flow schematic. Next he drew a diagram of the area on a notepad, listing all access doors, halls and checkpoints they’d passed. Then they made their way through a series of hallways and into a small HVAC room. The ventilation return was in the ceiling. The opening was too narrow for Finn to get through, but his partner was smaller. Finn gave him a boost and the fellow disappeared into the ductwork. Thirty minutes later he was back.
“Like we thought, Harry, goes right into the Capitol.” The man gave Finn a detailed description of the route he’d just taken, and Finn drew it out on paper.
They slipped back outside, walked away from the Capitol and turned down a street toward the Hart Senate Building. His partner went to the right and Finn to the left. He passed alongside the building, where nine stories up sat Roger Simpson’s office. As Finn counted across the windows to the one he knew was the Alabama senator’s digs, he pointed his finger at the window and said, “Boom.”
He couldn’t wait.
He reached his car and drove off. Turning on the radio to the local news station, he heard the announcer talking about a grave being dug up at Arlington National Cemetery that morning. As yet no one knew why.
“John Carr,” the radio said. “That’s the name of the soldier whose grave was dug up.”
“John Carr,” Finn repeated in a voice brimming with disbelief. Surely his omniscient mother would have heard this news by now.
And he started to wonder if his nightmare would ever end.
CHAPTER 58
ALEX FORD SAT AT HOME worrying. He had been trying to reach Stone but the man wasn’t answering his phone. The story about the grave being dug up at Arlington was not front-page news but it had people talking. Alex didn’t know what had been found in that coffin. He knew, however, that it wasn’t the body of John Carr. He had learned much about Stone’s past when they both had nearly died at a place called Murder Mountain not too far from Washington. And yet Alex felt that there was a part of Oliver Stone/John Carr that neither he nor anyone else would ever know.
He tried to reach Stone by phone one more time, and then his own phone started ringing. He answered. It was the man himself.
“Oliver, what the hell is going on?”
“Not a lot of time to talk, Alex. You heard about the grave?”
“Yes.”
“It was Carter Gray’s doing.”
“But he’s-”
“No, he’s not. He’s alive and trying to set me up for a series of murders related to my past.”
“Oliver, what the-”
“Just listen! I can take care of myself. Reuben and Milton are laying low. So is Caleb. But I need you to do me a favor.”
“What is it?”
“My friend, Susan Hunter. You remember her?”
“Tall, leggy, with a fast mouth.”
“She’s in trouble and I offered to help her, but I can’t now. Will you step in for me?”
“Is she the reason we got called out last night?”
“That was my fault, not hers. But if you do help her you have to promise me something.”
“What?” Alex said warily.
“Her past is not exactly perfect. But she’s a good person with good motives. Don’t dig too deep there.”
“Oliver, if she’s a criminal-”
“Alex, you and I have been through a lot together. I would trust this woman with my life. I hope that means something to you.”
Alex sat back and let out a deep breath. “What do you want me to do?”
“Go to my cottage. On the desk are some notes. They will help you to understand the situation better. I’ll give you Susan’s phone number. You can contact her and tell her that I asked you to help.”
“This is really important to you, isn’t it?”
“I wouldn’t be asking this big of a favor if it weren’t.”
“Okay, Oliver, I’ll do it.”
“I appreciate it, Alex, more than you’ll ever know.”
“Are you sure I can’t help you?”
“No. This is something I have to handle on my own.”
Alex drove to Stone’s cottage. It looked empty, yet he still pulled his gun before unlocking the door, using a key Stone had once given him. It didn’t take long for him to see that no one was there. Following Stone’s instructions, he sat down at the desk and started going over the papers there, all in Stone’s precise handwriting.
There were names: Jerry Bagger, Annabelle Conroy with a circle around it, Paddy Conroy, Tammy Conroy and someone named Anthony Wallace. There were notes about Stone’s recent trip to Maine, along with some lines detailing conversations with Reuben, Milton and Caleb. And apparently Milton and Reuben had been to Atlantic City, to the Pompeii Casino.
Bagger’s place.
Alex stuffed the notes in his pocket, rose and stretched out his lean six-foot-three-inch frame, massaging the muscles in his neck with his hand. He’d broken his neck in an accident years ago while on presidential protection detail and the surgically installed metal there sometimes gave him fits. Next step was to contact this Susan Hunter, if that was really her name, which, after seeing these notes, he was pretty certain wasn’t the case.
The next instant he froze. Someone was coming. He slid over next to the bathroom door and waited.
The intruder came in, went immediately over to the desk and seemed to be very upset that nothing was there.
Alex stepped out and put his gun against the person’s head.
True to her unflappable nature, Annabelle Conroy didn’t scream, but she did say, “I hope to hell you have the safety on.”
He lowered his gun and stepped back. Annabelle was dressed in a short skirt, sandals and a jean jacket; her long blonde hair was tied back in a ponytail and partially covered under a ball cap. She took off her sunglasses and stared up at the tall federal agent.
“You’re Secret Service, right?”
He nodded. “Alex Ford. And I know you, you’re-”
“Unemployed.” She looked around. “He’s not here?”
Alex was staring at the small hook-shaped scar under Annabelle’s right eye. He caught himself and said, “No, he’s not.”
“Any idea where he might be?”
“Not really.”
“Good-bye then.”
As she headed to the door, Alex said sharply, “Annabelle!”
She jerked around.
Alex smiled. “Annabelle Conroy, pleased to meet you. Let me guess, father is Paddy, mother or maybe sister’s name is Tammy?” He pulled out the notes from his pocket. “And it seemed you might have been looking for these.”
She eyed the papers and said, “I thought Oliver was more discreet than that.”
“He is. I figured it out on my own.”
“Good for you. Well, I guess I’ll be leaving.”
“You want me to tell Oliver anything in case I see him?” Alex asked.
“No. I don’t think I have anything to say to him. Not anymore, anyway.”
“But you came to see him?”
“So? Why are you here?” she said.
“Because I’m his friend and I’m worried about him.”