Fate of the Union

Six

Pulling out of the Holiday Inn Express in Falls Church, Joe Reeder turned his Prius toward another Virginia bedroom community, Fairfax Station, and the Bryson home. On the way, he hands-free phoned homicide detective Carl Bishop’s cell and got him in two rings.

“What have I done,” Bish said, over bullpen chatter, “to deserve a phone call from a celebrity?”

“Maybe it’s that lucky day you’ve heard so much about. Listen, do you guys have Bryson’s laptop? Or a home computer of his?”

“Not my case, Peep.”

“Yeah, I remember. I just thought maybe a sharp guy like you might pick something up around the shop.”

“Listen, I’m on my way out the door after a long damn day. Why don’t you skip the middleman and talk to the kid in charge?”

“Why not?”

Reeder heard Bishop calling out: “Woods! My famous friend wants to talk to you. Try not to get all tongue-tied.”

Soon a crisp tenor said, “Detective Woods, Mr. Reeder. What can I do for you?”

“Sounds like you don’t get any more respect out of Bish than I do.”

A light laugh. “I take it as a compliment. I assume you’re calling about that suicide. Bish mentioned you and Bryson were friends.”

“Yes — did he also tell you about the message Chris left me, that evening?”

“Yep. Wrote it down for me when you called it in, so I figured I didn’t need to bother you. Pretty straightforward — coroner isn’t requiring an inquest. Sorry for your loss — he was former Secret Service, too, I understand.”

“Yes. You mind a question or two, Detective?”

“No. But like I said—”

“Straightforward, right. Mind humoring me?”

Just the slightest pause. “What would you like to know?”

“Did you take a computer into evidence? Something you might have found in the motel room — a laptop, maybe? That’s what Chris used at work.”

“No. Really, a laptop? Who uses those anymore?”

“Dinosaurs like Chris Bryson.”

And me, Reeder thought.

“No laptop, Mr. Reeder. Or tablet, either.”

“Strike you as suspicious?”

“Not really. A man who checks into a motel room to kill himself doesn’t need a computer.”

“And it wasn’t in his car, either?”

“No. His wife and son picked up his stuff today, and didn’t ask where his laptop was, if he did have one. We did find a Nikon, but nothing on it. And we didn’t bring in the home computer, either, if that’s your next question.”

“Why not?”

“Mr. Reeder, this was a suicide, plain and simple.”

“Did it occur to you, Detective, that hanging yourself with a belt is not a ‘plain and simple’ way out when you’re a law enforcement professional with a weapon handy?”

“Suicides take all kinds of ways out.”

“No suicide note?”

“No. But you know that’s not unusual, either. I understand losing a friend can be tough—”

“Do I sound grief-stricken?”

“No, Mr. Reeder, you sound like a good friend in the same line of work who would rather not think that your friend might be capable of such a desperate act. This is nothing we haven’t seen before.”

“If you mean murder,” Reeder said, “I agree... Thanks for your time, Detective. We’ll talk again.”

And clicked off before the detective could respond.

Reeder had been to the Bryson home on Fairview Woods Avenue in Fairfax Station more than once, and drove there easily, no GPS required. He pulled into the empty driveway of the wide, two-story brick-fronted home with attached garage. The first-floor lights were on, Beth expecting him — he’d called ahead.

Taking his time going up the shoveled walk, Reeder moved through the sloping snow-covered lawn, past white-flocked bushes and curtained windows, then up three steps to the front stoop. Rang the doorbell, the sound of which had barely died away when the windowless steel door swung open. Christopher Bryson, suit coat off, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened, stood there looking enough like his father to make Reeder think, My God, have I gone back in time?

“Mom’s expecting you, Mr. Reeder,” Christopher said, in a mid-range voice that also summoned memories of his dad. “Come in, come on in...”

“Make it ‘Joe,’” Reeder said, taking off his gloves.

But the response was, “Yes sir,” as the younger man stepped aside, taking Reeder’s lined Burberry and hanging it in a closet of the wide foyer.

An expansive living room was on the left, kitchen straight ahead down a hall toward the back, while to the right a staircase curved to the second floor, with the den/home office at right. The house was immaculate, just as he remembered it, though he hadn’t been there in years, a feeling underscored by well-maintained furniture that hadn’t changed in decades. That time machine feeling again...

Beth, again in the black silk blouse and black slacks but absent the jacket, appeared at the living room’s arched entrance, a tumbler of amber liquid in hand. Her eyes were red-rimmed, but she smiled upon seeing him.

“Thanks for coming, Joe,” she said, as her son looked on with concern.

Beth seemed sober enough — he’d never known her to be a heavy drinker — but there was something as liquid about her walk as the Scotch in her glass. She waved with a tissue-stuffed hand for him to follow her into the living room.

The south wall, to his left, was almost entirely a window onto the front yard. Sheer curtains were drawn, but heavy drapes remained open, the world out there hazy. He faced the west wall, dominated by a fireplace above which was mounted a flat-screen TV with some mini snowmen sitting on cotton on the mantle; a pair of matching sofas were perpendicular to the hearth, a black enameled coffee table between them, a lidless cardboard box of plastic police evidence bags sitting somewhat awkwardly on top of an oversize art book.

His pleasantly plump blonde hostess sat at one end of one sofa, her son settling in next to her, Reeder sitting opposite.

“Have you spoken to the police?” she asked, too casually, between sips of Scotch.

“Just on the phone,” Reeder said. “Had a conversation with Woods, the detective in charge, on the way over here.”

“The whelp still thinks Chris killed himself,” Beth said, and had another sip, as if to wash away the bitterness. “You agree with that assessment?”

“That Woods is a whelp? That might be premature. Wait till I’ve been face-to-face with the man and ask me again. Did Chris take his life? Highly doubtful... but I need to find something to convince Woods to take this investigation seriously.”

Christopher said, “What investigation? It’s already a closed file.”

Beth ignored that, setting her tumbler on the coffee table. “What do you hope to find?”

Reeder answered the question with another. “Was Chris still using a laptop?”

Christopher grunted a laugh. “You kidding? He never switched to a tablet, just kept lugging that antique everywhere.”

“Is it here? In the den maybe?”

Beth gestured to the cardboard box. “Isn’t it in here?”

Christopher quickly said, “We haven’t gone through those things of Dad’s. Couldn’t quite... you know, face it yet.”

Reeder said, “I asked Detective Woods and he said there was no laptop on the inventory of effects found in the motel room.”

Frowning, Christopher asked, “Where is it, then?”

“Could be a clerical glitch,” Reeder said, then nodded toward the box. “Go ahead and check, would you, son?”

Christopher rose and did so, hunkering over the box, then looked up and shook his head. “Not here... I’ll check the den.”

And he went off to do that.

Beth was lost in thought.

Reeder said, “Something?”

She nodded. “I’m positive Chris had the laptop with him, when he left for work, that last day. Might be at his office.”

“All right with you if I go have a look?”

“I’d be grateful if you did,” Beth said, and gestured to the cardboard box. “His office keys should be in there.”

“Did he ever use the home computer?”

“No. That’s strictly mine, in my sewing room upstairs.”

Christopher returned, reporting no luck in the den.

Beth said, “Joe, why don’t you take the whole box with you. If it would be of any help.” She met her son’s eyes. “Is that all right with you, dear?”

“Take it, Joe,” Christopher said. “Maybe you’ll find something worthwhile in there. The police didn’t even try.”

Reeder thanked him, then went to the box and began riffling through the evidence bags. Right away, something jumped out at him — a cell phone. Not Chris’s smartphone, rather a cheap flip phone, obviously the burner Chris had called him on.

A question popped into Reeder’s head, one that should have occurred to him sooner — back in field-agent days, it would have. And the police should have asked the same question: What did a man who was about to commit suicide need with a burner phone?

Reeder sat back down and asked them both: “Can you think of any reason why Chris would have needed a burner?”

Beth said, “A what?”

Christopher answered: “A prepaid cell phone. Something you use once or twice and throw away... right, Mr. Reeder?”

“Right. Was that something Chris might’ve used on the job?”

Shaking his head, Christopher said, “The kind of investigation Dad normally got involved with wouldn’t require anything like that. Last few years, he mostly did small-business and industry analyses, recommending security systems and procedures.”

Reeder asked Beth, “You last saw him on Monday?”

“Yes, when he left for work.”

“Did you hear from him after that at all?”

She shook her head. “The next thing was the call from the police the next day.”

What the hell had gone wrong enough from Monday morning to Tuesday night to make Chris trash his own phone, pick up a burner, and call Reeder on a “life and death” matter? The answer clearly wasn’t suicide.

Chris Bryson had been on the run.

On the run from what or whom, Reeder couldn’t say. Yet.

Then another thought struck him, also one that might have come sooner back in his field-agent days. Maybe Chris had called Reeder out of concern for his family’s safety as much as his own.

He looked from mother to son and back again. “Beth, is there somewhere you can go for a few days? Somewhere no one could track you?”

Her eyes widened. “Why?”

“If Chris was murdered — and it was made to look like a suicide — the likely reason is he’d found something out... possibly something about this person, place, or thing called ‘Sink.’”

Alarmed, she asked, “How would I know anything?”

Christopher said, “Dad might have told you.”

“Darling, he never shared anything about work with me.”

“Mom — how could his murderer or murderers know that?”

“You’re right, Christopher,” Reeder said. “Short of a family friend, they couldn’t. And, Beth, he did mention that word to you — ‘Sink’ — if not what it meant. I would feel better if both of you weren’t easily accessible for a while.”

“I agree,” Christopher said. “Mom? What do you say?”

Beth just sat there looking from her son to Reeder and back, a woman still dealing with her husband’s death only to have this unexpected contingency sprung on her.

“But... where would we go?”

Christopher somehow summoned a small smile. “How about Key West? I’ve never been there, and neither have you.”

“Why Key West?” Beth asked, clearly reeling.

He put a hand on his mother’s shoulder. “Because we’ve never been there... and if we’re going into hiding, why not at least be warm? Plenty of tourists to blend in with, too.”

Reeder was nodding. “Look for a mom-and-pop motel — there still are some of those down there. Somewhere that still takes cash and won’t demand a credit card. Someplace off the grid and away from security cameras. This is a strictly cash trip — no credit cards, no cell phones either.”

“Understood,” Christopher said.

Still reeling, Beth asked, “But how will we know when it’s safe to come back?”

Reeder thought for a moment. “Get adjoining rooms and check in as Joan and Broderick Crawford.”

Christopher frowned. “Who?”

“Two actors from a century ago or so, whose names won’t mean anything to whoever might be looking for you — except me. Those names and Key West will be enough for me to track you.”

Beth asked, “What if we need to talk to you?”

Should he take time to buy them burner phones from his guy, DeMarcus? No reputable prepaid cell could be used without leaving a trail. He reached into the evidence box, withdrew the bagged burner, and handed it to Christopher.

“If you need me, call the last number your dad dialed — it’s mine. Don’t use it from where you’re staying. You can only use it once, then you have to get as far away from it as you can.”

“Got it.”

Beth asked, “Can’t that phone be traced?”

Reeder said, “Assuming Chris was murdered, the ones who did this left that cell behind. It means nothing to them now — they have no reason to trace it. A one-time use should be safe.”

“All... all right,” she said.

Reeder went over and sat next to her and took her hand. “You need to pack a few things, nothing fancy, everyday stuff that goes with a warm climate. Now scoot.”

She rose and went upstairs without argument, leaving her Scotch behind.

With Beth gone, Reeder turned to her son. “If we’re right, and your father was murdered, these people are obviously dangerous, and almost certainly professionals. Professional enough to fool DC Homicide. You’ve got to stay on top of things.”

“I will, Joe.”

“Now one more thing — do you own a gun?”

He frowned. “No.”

“Do you know how to use one? A handgun, I mean.”

“Yes. Dad used to take me to the firing range. It was a hobby when I was a kid that I lost interest in.”

“Well, you know what they say about riding a bike. I’m going to assume your dad has a handgun somewhere in the house, and that you know where it is.”

“I do. It’s in a locked desk drawer in the den... but I know where the key is.”

“Good. Let’s have a look at the thing.”

Reeder followed the younger man into the den, where a key hidden in the middle drawer opened a left-hand lower one. The gun, like Chris and for that matter Reeder, was not new to this world — a vintage Smith & Wesson Model 52, a .38 with a box of shells to go with it.

“Don’t tell your mother,” Reeder said.

“Don’t worry.”

After Beth came down with a single suitcase and a cosmetics case, she presented Reeder with her late husband’s key ring, singling out the office one; the electronic flip-key to Chris’s BMW was hooked on as well.

“Beth,” Reeder asked, “where is Chris’s car?”

“In the garage. The police turned it over to us with the box of evidence.”

“Anything missing that you noticed?”

Christopher chimed in: “No — all the usual stuff was there, glove compartment, trunk. And, no — no laptop.”

Reeder got out his small notebook and wrote down a phone number, tore out the page.

“Call this,” he said. “A friend of mine will open up his used car lot after hours, just for you. I’ll call ahead and tell him you’re special clients of mine.”

Christopher blinked. “Is that what we are?”

“That’s what you are. Tell him you want something solid, old, and with papers. Leave your own car with him.”

“How much will all that cost?”

“Nothing. My treat.”

“Mr. Reeder...”

“It’s Joe, remember? And I’ll tell my pal to disconnect the GPS. You can find Florida, can’t you? Now you and your mom go have a fun vacation. Just don’t go out much — too much sun can be bad for you.”

Fifteen minutes later, mother and son were pulling out of the driveway in the BMW, Christopher behind the wheel — they would stop by his apartment to gather some clothes and other things of his. After that, Joan Crawford and her son Broderick would leave the apartment and begin a long road trip.

Soon the box of Bryson’s effects was tucked safely in Reeder’s trunk, and so was their home computer, though he wasn’t sure what he was going to do with the stuff now. Surely, hitting up Patti Rogers to run everything through the FBI lab was iffy, since the chain of custody had been broken. Even if Reeder demonstrated Chris had been murdered, nothing found on his late friend’s clothes would be admissible now. Maybe Miggie could pry a clue or two from that home computer.

This time of night, the drive to Chris Bryson’s office took less than fifteen minutes. Fairfax Corner South was a warren of stores, offices, and restaurants on Monument Corner Drive — evergreens lining the sidewalks, storefronts dark, streetlights providing the only illumination. Bryson Security occupied a corner space of a complex with an old-time downtown motif and limited parking.

A pale blue Nissan Altima — the only car here besides his own, showing no signs of the afternoon snow — was parked three storefronts past Bryson. As a routine precaution, Reeder memorized its plate — Kentucky, 440 RHW.

Parking one door down from the security office, the hum of light traffic on Interstate 66 riding the chill wind, he made a threat assessment of the silent block. Just like Christmas — not a creature was stirring.

As if he belonged there, Reeder — in Burberry and gloves, his breath smoking — walked briskly to the security firm’s door, whose handle he held as he prepared to work the key in the lock. That was when the door eased itself open an inch.

Apprehension coiled in his belly like a woken rattler.

His extending baton — which he preferred carrying over a gun — was at home. He hadn’t needed it for the meeting with Benjamin and certainly not on his visit to the Bryson residence. He’d prefer having the weapon in his coat pocket before entering, but running home for it seemed out of the question...

Anyway, the unlocked door did not have to mean trouble.

Maybe Chris had fled in such fear-driven haste that he hadn’t made sure his office door was locked behind him. Possibly cleaning staff had screwed up, or even the police, if they’d actually bothered checking the place out.

Or Reeder might be walking in on an intruder, possibly an armed one. His brain said, Go back to the car, call 911, and just wait for the cavalry.

His gut said, If there’s a back door, the bastard could get away and you wouldn’t even know it!

Gut trumped brains and he pushed the door open as slowly, as quietly, as he could, leaving just room enough to slip inside. The front window was tinted dark, filtering and lessening illumination from outside, the outer office empty but for the part-time receptionist’s desk and a few wall-lining chairs, one of which he used to pile his topcoat and gloves. His eyes were on the inner-office door, no light seeping around the edges. He moved cautiously closer to the door, which like the front one was not closed tight. Not quite ajar, but not really shut.

Carefully he nudged the door open a ways and peered into the dark, apparently empty room. He opened the door halfway, stepping inside, pausing to let his left hand search the wall for the light switch, not finding it before the door shoved into him, squeezing him, wedging him there, half in, half out.

The pressure released but before he could either advance or retreat, a hand grabbed him by the upper right arm and hurled him into the darkness, as if he were a toy flung by a bored child. The door slammed shut and what little light there had been was gone — was the intruder gone as well? The only advantage Reeder had, as he slid to the floor, having hit the edge of Chris’s desk hard, was his knowledge of the office layout.

Then a shape he could more sense than see — the intruder, in black, still very much in the small office — was coming over to grab him and do God knew what, but Reeder kicked up and out, catching the ongoing shape between the legs with the hard toe of his right shod foot. Judging by the unmistakable yowl of kicked-in-the-balls pain, and the strength displayed by flinging Reeder across the room, the intruder was male.

Still sensing more than seeing, guided by his adversary’s labored breathing, Reeder lurched to his feet and, figuring the man would be bent over, swung a right hand into where his head should be. Somehow his adversary sensed this and, in pain or not, threw up an arm and blocked the blow, throwing a short but powerful jab into Reeder’s belly. Air whooshed from him, but Reeder struck out anyway, with a left that had less power than he’d have liked, but luckily caught the guy on his chin — the feel of flesh and bone on flesh and bone said the intruder wore no mask.

The attacker, upright now apparently, was wildly throwing lefts and rights in the darkness, swishing in front of Reeder, who had stepped back out of reach. Then the windmilling stopped and the guy growled and threw himself at Reeder in a mad tackle, sending him onto his back, hitting the floor hard.

Reeder lay there dazed for a moment, then the door opened and limited light came in to reveal the attacker already in the outer office. By the time Reeder got to his feet and staggered out there, it was too late — the black-clad man was gone.

So was the Nissan down the block.

Well, Reeder had the plate number, at least.

Something else was gone — any sliver of doubt that Chris Bryson had been murdered.