Morales circled his former desk, slipping personal items into a cardboard box he held against his chest with one arm. Corso sat in a red leather chair beneath the window, his long legs stretched out before him, his fingers laced behind his head.
“It was the woman,” Morales said as he moved. “I was so damned worried about the woman and her baby…I never…” He tried to stop himself before he could begin making excuses again. “Think it was probably because I’ve got two daughters of my own. You know…maybe I was extrasensitive or something. I…”
“How old?” Corso asked.
“Nine and eleven.” Morales stopped, dug around in the bottom of the box until he found what he was looking for. A gold-hinged frame. He flipped it open. Two beautiful girls. The younger of the two was missing both front teeth. The older looked a lot like Morales. Same strong chin and wide-set eyes. “I kept picturing myself…you know in that guy Hildreth’s position. Like it was my daughter out there with a bomb around her neck.” He looked to Corso for understanding. “I don’t know, man,” he said finally.
“What now?”
Morales sighed. “The bottom line is we lost three federal officers this morning. Probably another ten who’ll end up on restricted duty.” He waved a disgusted hand. “We’re all over the TV. CNN and everybody else is camped out down in the lobby.” He threw a commemorative pen set into the box.
“What now for you?” Corso asked.
Morales emitted a dry bark of a laugh. “I was the officer in charge man. What do you think? You think the Bureau likes this kind of ink?” He laughed again. “The party’s over for me. As of tomorrow I’m on paid administrative leave. The Bureau will keep me in limbo until everything gets sorted out, then they’ll send me someplace where they don’t have to look at me anymore.”
“Sounds kinda harsh.”
“SOP,” Morales shot back. “The Bureau is an unforgiving mistress.”
Corso watched as Morales went inside himself.
“Any word on the Hildreth woman and her baby?” he asked.
“Resting comfortably at home.”
“What about Short?”
Morales smiled. “There’s talk of a presidential medal.”
Corso shook his head. “He sure as hell saved the day.”
“Didn’t he ever.”
Morales stiffened for a moment and pulled the pager from his belt. “Plummer,” he said under his breath. Corso watched as he pushed the button, then read the text message as it scrolled by. “Says he’s got something interesting.”
“Like what?”
“We’ll never know.”
“Why’s that?”
He went back to rifling through the desk. “I’m off the case man. I’m persona non grata around here.” He dropped the box on the desktop with a bang.
“Come on. Don’t be like that.”
Morales shot him an angry look. “You’re a troublemaker, you know that?”
Corso sat up in the chair. “I prefer to think of myself as a provocateur.”
“Yeah…well, you’re going to have to provocateur somebody else. I’m in enough trouble already.”
“Let’s go down and see what Plummer’s got. What have you got to lose?”
“Oh…let’s see…my pension…my retirement…”
“Details…details.”
He retrieved the box from the desktop. “Go home, Mr. Corso.”
“Soon as we see what Plummer’s got, I’m outta here.” He held up two fingers. Scout’s honor.
“All you want is another chapter for your book.”
“I like to finish what I start.”
“Well…I’m finished. How’s that?”
Corso looked away. Morales was pulling open drawers. “Besides…” he said. “I’ve got no official standing anymore.”
“Apparently Plummer doesn’t know that.”
“Yeah…well…he’s the only one.”
“Come on. Let’s just go see what he’s got.”
Morales kept packing the box. “Hell, Corso, at this point, I don’t even have enough authority to get you a plane ticket home. You’re gonna have to…”
“I’ll handle my own plane ticket,” Corso said.
Morales looked up. “And you’ll take Ms. Andriatta with you?”
Corso waved a dismissive hand. “She’s long gone.”
Morales made a rude noise with his lips. “She’s in a holding cell in the basement. Warren had ATF pick her up at the Long Beach Airport about an hour after she ditched us. She’s been down there all day bitching about the food.”
“I’ll take her with me,” Corso offered. “On my dime.”
Morales heaved another giant sigh. “Warren was a good man,” he said.
“Yeah…he was.”
A morbid silence settled over the room. Even the flags seemed to droop.
“Come on,” Morales said finally. “Let’s go.”
Corso rocked himself to his feet. He followed Morales out of the office and down the hall to the elevators.
Plummer was exactly where they’d left him earlier in the day, sitting at the center console pecking away at he keyboard. A half-eaten ham sandwich on whole wheat lay moldering on the desktop.
“Don’t you ever go home?” Morales asked him.
Plummer grinned and shook his head. “I’m completely self-contained,” he said. “They throw food in the door a couple times a week and I’m good to go.”
“Whatcha got?” Morales asked.
“Actually, it was the GAO who got.” Plummer fingered the keyboard for the better part of a minute before folding his arms across his chest. “It’s been a lot of fun. I’ve never had access to the whole shebang before.” Screens filled with names and numbers flashed across the bank of monitors. “I ran every access code in the state VA system. Everything that happened in Pomona between 1998 and early last year. Couldn’t find a thing that connected to that Reyes character. Then I ran the other victims and except for the Valparaiso woman there wasn’t anything there either.”
Morales wasn’t in the mood for banter. “Cut to the chase,” he growled.
Plummer looked hurt. “No need to get snippy,” he said.
“You really haven’t left here, have you?” Corso asked.
Plummer shook his head. “Why?”
Corso filled him in on what had transpired at the state capitol building earlier in the day. By the time he’d finished talking, Plummer had collected his lower jaw and was feeling apologetic. “Jeez…I’m sorry…I didn’t…I…”
“What’s GAO got for us?” Morales asked again.
Plummer swiveled back around to face the monitors. He tapped on the screen with his index finger. “Right here,” he said. “It’s a list of GAO payments made for Pomona. Same time period. All the people who were issued checks and what services it was they got them for.”
Corso bent at the waist and put his face close to the screen. “I’ll be damned,” he said. Plummer pushed another button. “No shit,” Corso said.
Corso straightened up and crooked a finger at Morales. “You better see this,” he said. “Might be you can avoid reassignment to Iowa.”
Morales wore a dubious expression but wandered over anyway. Plummer pointed again. Morales frowned and leaned in closer. “For what?”
“Contractor services,” Plummer said, typing again. By this time Morales very nearly had his nose pressed to the screen. He used his own finger on the screen.
“How many is that?”
“Fifty-seven,” Plummer chimed in. “One a month for the better part of five years.” He looked up at the scowling Morales and anticipated the next question. “Same thing,” he said. “Contractor services.”
“What services?”
“Group leader.”
“And the other one.”
“Guest lecturer.” Plummer pushed another key and rolled himself out of the way. “Here’s the fun part,” he said. Both Corso and Morales stepped up to the machine. “Look at the service code,” Plummer prompted.
“Same for both,” Corso said.
“Same dates too,” Plummer pointed out. He changed screens. “Look at this one,” he said.
“So…” Corso said. “…whatever veterans’ group Mr. Reyes attended in Pomona back in ’98 was facilitated by our Mr. Ben-Iman?” He looked over at Morales and kept on talking. “…and our Mr. Nguyen, the bank manager, was a one time guest lecturer at the same group in late 2002.”
“That’s not all,” Plummer said. Another screen appeared. A picture of a man in uniform appeared on the screen at the far end of the bay. “Seems our Mr. Nguyen used to be a colonel in the North Vietnamese Army. Got into the country on a State Department visa exemption.” Before they could respond, another picture appeared. Ben-Imam this time. “Mr. Ben-Imam, it turns out, wasn’t Lebanese after all.” He left a pause for effect. “He was Iranian. Just told people he was Lebanese.”
“Lots of them do,” Morales said. “What’s the point?”
“Damned if I know,” said Plummer.
“How many patients passed through that group during the time period we’re looking at?” Corso asked.
“While Mr. Ben-Iman was the facilitator?”
“Yeah.”
“A hundred ninety-seven.”
“All with the same service code as Mr. Reyes?”
Plummer shook his head. “I’m guessing it depended on the diagnosis.”
“How many with the same service code as Reyes?”
More typing. “Looks like nineteen.”
“Print me a list,” Morales said. “Names, addresses, phone numbers. The whole thing.”
Corso raised an eyebrow. Morales met his gaze.
“It’s not tomorrow yet,” he said, picking up the telephone. He waited. A voice squeaked on the line. “Get me the ATF,” he said.
Morales turned his back and began whispering into the phone. Corso leaned closer to Plummer. “Reyes own a credit card?” he asked.
“Most everybody does.”
“Could you run it for me?”
“Sure.”