He made a left onto the Russians’ street and drove down it slowly. “Check out the green Oldsmobile on your side.” He drove past it, and I kept my eyes straight ahead but got a good look at the car in the side-view mirror. Joe turned the corner and started to circle the block again.
“You see him?”
I nodded. “Guy sitting in the front, looked like he was watching the same house we’ve been watching.”
“You got it. He came in with the Russians but was hanging back a little. He circled the block once and picked a parking spot with a good view of the house, just like we did. Apparently we’re not their only secret admirers.”
“You get a plate number?”
He gave me a sour look. “Did I get a plate number? Who do you think you’re talking to? I got the plate number, and I took about six photographs of the car itself, as well as the Navigator the Russians drove.”
“My mistake.”
“Uh-huh. Well, we’ve got two of the Russians, and one car for them. Who are we missing?”
“Malaknik, I think. Amy said he lives on the east side.”
“Want to go have a look at him, or should we stay and watch these boys a little longer? Apparently, it’s a better show than we thought, because we’re not the only audience.”
I looked at the clock and saw it was approaching five. “You said you got photographs of the Navigator?” He nodded. “Well, let’s get back to the office, then. I want to e-mail that photograph to Amy and see if it’s the same car she saw. Then we can run out to Brecksville and check with the neighbors. We’ll worry about Malaknik tomorrow.”
Back at the office Joe uploaded the photographs from his digital camera to the computer. They were pretty decent shots, showing a good angle of the cars as well as shots with a tight zoom on each license plate. The green Oldsmobile had a South Carolina plate.
“He’s come a long way to watch the Russians,” I said to Joe. “Must be about something important.”
“The car’s come a long way,” Joe said. “Doesn’t mean the driver came with it.”
Once the photographs had been uploaded, I e-mailed them to Amy, and Joe printed out a few copies. Then we returned to Brecksville.
We spent half an hour combing houses. Everyone regarded us with suspicion, and everyone denied having seen the Navigator. After the fourth house, Joe began showing them photographs of the green Oldsmobile, too.
“Why not?” he told me. “As long as we’ve got the photographs, it doesn’t hurt to ask.”
It didn’t hurt. Five houses later, a woman who lived opposite the Westons and a few houses down nodded her head as soon as she saw the Oldsmobile.
“Well, sure,” she said. “He’s a police officer.”
“A police officer?” Joe said.
She smiled. “Yes. He came around yesterday, asking about the same type of questions as you. Wanted to know what cars we’d noticed, all that type of thing. We really didn’t have anything to tell him, though.” She looked at us sadly. “It’s so tragic. The little girl was so sweet.”
“This officer,” I said, “did he give you his name?”
She squinted, trying to remember. “Davis, maybe? Davidson? Something like that. He had a badge, though. He showed it to me.”
We thanked her and walked back down the driveway. Joe kicked at a few pebbles in the street, and we stood with our backs to the house.
“No Cleveland cops are driving little Oldsmobiles,” he said. “It’s an Alero, for crying out loud. That’s not a department-issued car. No antennas on it, even.”
“You know of any detective named Davis or Davidson?”
“Nope.”
“Me neither. Looks like we’ve got a fake.”
He nodded and gazed back across the street, at the Westons’ house. “What we’ve got is an unknown third party,” he said. “Could be significant.”
We finished up the block and talked to two more neighbors who’d been visited by “Detective Davis” the previous day. They’d all seen a badge, but he hadn’t been in uniform, and he hadn’t been one of the cops they’d talked to in the early days of the investigation.
It was dark by the time we left. Joe wanted dinner, but I made him drive back to the office first. I wanted to call Amy and ask if she’d seen the photographs. It was late, but Amy typically went to work late in the morning and stayed until the early evening hours. I caught her at her desk.
“That’s the SUV,” she said immediately.
“You’re sure?”
“Absolutely. Those fancy alloy wheels stand out.” I could hear keys clicking on her keyboard as she typed furiously. “You have any idea what their tie to Weston is yet?”
“No, but I do have another favor to ask.”
“I don’t know, Lincoln. My car’s still in the body shop from the last favor I did you.”
“Okay,” I said casually. “That’s fine. I don’t blame you. Well, I’d better be going, but thanks for checking the photographs.”
“Wait, wait, wait,” she said, and I grinned. “I was just giving you a hard time, Perry, don’t freak out about it. What do you need me to do?”
“You know who Jeremiah Hubbard is?” I asked.
“Of course.”
“Good. I want to know everything he’s been up to in the last six months. He’s in the paper pretty regularly, but I want to know why, when, and who he was involved with.”
The typing on her end of the line stopped. “You think Hubbard’s got something to do with Weston?”
“He might.”
“Lincoln,” she said, “you’ve got to give me this story.”
I sighed. “Amy, we’ve been over this a thousand times. It would be very bad for business if I kept turning confidential cases over to you. I know you want a good story, but I can’t do that.”
“Bastard. Oh, well. As long as you keep me updated.” The typing resumed again. “I’ll check it out and get back to you.”
As I hung up someone rapped loudly on the glass panel of the door with his knuckles, a sound like hail on a window. Joe and I looked at each other and frowned. We weren’t used to receiving drop-in clients, and it was late in the day.
“Come in,” Joe said. The door opened and Detectives Swanders and Kraus stepped inside, accompanied by a third man I didn’t recognize. He was of average height, with a slim build and neat, carefully parted hair that looked like he spent a lot of time on it. His clothes were well tailored and unwrinkled. It was all I needed to see to know he wasn’t a cop. The briefcase in his left hand confirmed it.
“Fellas,” Swanders said, nodding at us. He was one of those rare guys who could say “fellas” as a greeting without making you wince.
“Swanders,” Joe said, nodding back at him. “Kraus. How you boys doing?”
“Doing fine,” Kraus said, dropping onto one of the stadium seats without waiting for an invitation to sit. Swanders joined him, but the stranger stayed on his feet, crossing the office with a purposeful stride that made me think he was used to being the dominant force in most rooms. He reached in his pocket as he neared the desk, withdrew a slim leather case, snapped it open, and held it out for us to see. There was a badge on the left side and an identification card encased in plastic on the right. Joe pushed himself up on his elbows to get a better look but kept his feet on the desk.
“FBI,” he said. “Heavens. We’re way out of our league now.”
The stranger tilted the badge in my direction, and I looked at the name on the identification card. THADDEUS CODY, it read, SPECIAL AGENT, FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION.
“Thaddeus,” I said. “No shit? I bet you resent the hell out of your parents, don’t you?”
He gave a tight smile. “Call me Thad,” he said. “Or Agent Cody.”
He put the leather case back in his pocket and looked from Joe to me as if expecting further reaction. A look at our faces told him he wasn’t going to get it, so he nodded and sat down.