55
I made the long trek to the closest Metro station and on the Green Line subway to the belly of the beast in DC in order to meet up with Heather. We’d agreed on an approximate time for us to gather at 1789, an upscale restaurant in Georgetown. Because she had my cell, I felt disconnected. But according to my watch, I was on schedule.
It was shoulder-to-shoulder in the subway car and I was standing, but after the first stop several seats freed up, so I sat down. Only two pieces of intel had surfaced from my conversation with Gil that might prove useful in pinpointing the leadership of Kuritsa Foks Videoryad. One bit of information wasn’t new but corroborated everything I believed. The fact that someone with influence inside the federal government in DC was behind the cruel enterprise. I came to Washington expecting it, but somehow it sounded even more disturbing coming from Gil Spencer.
Secondly, three days before he died, Jason Forester had made notes to himself on his computer about wanting to contact me about my article. He must have been following up on any leads he could find about child abduction or adolescent sex trafficking. Clearly he was zeroing in on Kuritsa Foks Videoryad. I wondered who else might have known about Forester’s plan to talk to me.
The subway cars slowed to another stop. The doors slid open. That was when I noticed him, not ten feet away, reading the Washington Post.
“Vance?” I called out.
Vance Zaduck put down the paper, looked over, and smiled when he recognized me. The seat next to me was open, so he trotted over and joined me.
“What are you doing in Washington?”
“Business,” I said.
Vance shook his head and lowered his voice as he got personal with me. “Listen, when I found out about that Morehaven episode, I called the US attorney for New Orleans and read him the riot act. They should have called me before they roped you into a custodial situation. They knew that you and I had a professional relationship, for crying out loud. I could have helped you. Prevented all of that embarrassment . . .”
“No apologies necessary,” I said. “I filed a habeas corpus and was released quickly. But that was a first for me.”
“What were they thinking?” he asked. “I would like to know who gave them the directive to pick you up. Do you know?”
“Not yet. But no matter. I’ve got other fish to fry.” I looked at my watch. “You know, Vance, I’d figure you to be the workaholic type. You heading home already? It’s not five yet.”
“I’m playing the good uncle,” Vance said. “I’m heading out to my niece’s birthday party. She’s officially a teenager. Her mother —you know, my sister —she put the pressure on me.”
I nodded.
Vance looked down at the floor, his jaw clenched like he was struggling. “I have a decision to make,” he said.
I waited.
He hesitated. “Deciding how much I can tell you —ethically, I mean.”
“What about?”
“About you.”
“Me?”
“Yeah. See, I’m on the team leading an internal investigation. Ever since Jason Forester died.”
“Natural causes, isn’t that what you determined?”
“Right now that issue is moot. The point is, he was threatened in a FedEx letter. And that was followed by Paul Pullmen’s murder. We’re looking at a possible federal insider who could be involved with both of those events. A traitor in our midst.” He looked me over. “Do you find that hard to believe?”
“As time goes by,” I said, “I’m surprised by less and less.”
His eyes narrowed. He was giving me a closer look. “I guess you’re talking about your moonlighting job, right? Chasing spooks and demons?” He gave a little snort.
“Let’s just say that when it comes to rotten apples, I don’t believe evil has geographical boundaries —or professional ones either,” I said, looking him in the eye. “The real enemy is unseen. Malicious. Committed. Equally at home in halls of government as he is in suburbia or in the hood or in rural America.”
Then I turned it around. “Vance, about what you just said —about what you can, or should, share with me. And about my name being involved in some way with the Jason Forester matter.”
“Just be careful,” Vance Zaduck said. “If you are approached.”
“Approached by who?”
“Can’t name names. But I can warn you about one thing: be very cautious of anyone from the Department of Justice who tries to speak to you about Jason Forester and Paul Pullmen. And their deaths.”
“Can you be more specific?” I said, sliding over a few inches on the bench to get a better look at Vance’s face as he drilled closer to the mother lode.
Vance’s expression tightened. “Anyone who worked closely with Paul Pullmen at the Department of Justice. Someone who knew his comings and goings. We’re close to nailing the bad actor. And he’s dangerous.”
“Anyone I know?”
“I’m afraid so. That’s all I can say.”
My skin crawled. Vance had practically pasted Gil Spencer’s face on a wanted poster. And I had just come from a meeting with him.
I said only, “Thanks. Food for thought.”
Zaduck smiled. “Just be cautious. I remember, during your FBI interview in New Orleans when I was on the other side of the glass, that you mentioned you’ve got a daughter. She was in New Orleans with you.”
“My advice? Take care of her. And yourself. You may want to get out of the city for a while until we can clear things up.”
After that, Vance closed up the conversation. He exited at the next station, giving me a quick wave good-bye.
I took the Green Line all the way to Chinatown, then hailed a cab and headed over to 1789 at the corner of Thirty-Sixth and Prospect. I was looking forward to dinner with Heather. Another glance at my watch told me I was on time.
Funny, the things that can go through your head in the backseat of a taxi. Excitement about reconnecting with Heather after being separated from her for hours. But after Vance Zaduck’s warning, wanting to keep her out of harm’s way. I was even entertaining the possibility of getting her out of town ahead of me, while I continued to dig.
The clock was running. It was time for me to do something bold. If I shook things up, maybe the bad actor out there would come out of the shadows.