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“I didn’t cooperate anyway.”
He shrugged. “That’s the way it crumbles sometimes. Tell me, Ms. McRae, do you always go around browbeating people?”
“Who’s browbeating? We’re just making conversation.”
“About a case. With someone who works for the opposing attorney.”
“No rule against that,” I said. “I can talk to you. It’s Jamila’s client and his employees or agents that are off-limits.”
“Such fine distinctions.”
“Important ones.”
“I love listening to attorneys talk about so-called legal ethics,” he said, crossing his arms and leaning back. “It’s interesting to imagine legal and ethics in the same sentence, let alone as a phrase.”
“Almost as interesting as imagining a private detective invoking high moral ground.”
“Ouch. You wound me, madam.”
“Imagine how I feel.”
“Shall we call it a draw and leave it at that?”
“It’s a draw then,” I said. I got up and walked to the door, then turned to him. “But I suspect I won’t be able to leave it at that.”
He grinned. “I certainly hope not.”
Chapter THIRTEEN
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We bailed my car out of the garage and checked out of the motel the next morning at around ten. Duvall had already left. The ride home felt longer than it was, but the car was running. It had only cost me several hundred dollars in repairs, a night’s stay at a cheap motel, and ten years off my life from the close call in Breezewood. I’d have to remember to put preventive maintenance a little higher on my to-do list.
Melanie was quiet. She looked like I was taking her to her execution. I turned on the radio to fill the uncomfortable silence. After stopping for lunch, we
went to the police.
I waited up front while they processed her. Detective Derry came out and motioned me to follow him. He took me down a hall, past a series of offices to a conference room where they seemed to be holding a convention of suits. One of them was Jergins. The rest I’d never seen before.
“This is Ms. Hayes’ attorney, Sam McRae,” Derry said to the group sitting around a long table. “Why don’t you introduce yourselves? You already know Special Agent Jergins.”
Jergins gave me a terse nod. A woman next to him with red poodle-cut hair said she was Special Agent Simmons with the FBI’s Baltimore field office. Assistant Director Trask came next—a gray-haired man whose mouth turned down in a look of faint disapproval or worry. He was also from Baltimore. A special agent from the Bureau’s DC headquarters mumbled his name without looking up from the papers he was reading. I couldn’t believe the manpower the feds were putting into this one. You’d think these guys were after Dillinger.
There was an empty chair between the FBI contingent and two other people, a man and woman.
“Special Agent Joe Petrocelli, ma’am,” the man said in a booming voice. He had a swarthy complexion, a dark buzz cut, and a nose shaped like a pepper.
“Special Agent Marla Holmes.” The woman was about ten years younger, with brown hair, green eyes, and freckles that made her look like she ought to be in an Irish Spring commercial.
“And which part of the FBI are you with?” I said.
“Not FBI, ma’am,” Petrocelli said. “Secret Service.”
“Secret Service?”
“Yes, ma’am. We have jurisdiction over major identity theft cases.”
“The Bureau, of course, will also be investigating this matter,” the mumbling agent from DC said.
