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“Hang on.”
Savich looked at John Doe as he waited for Ben Raven to come back on the line.
“Okay, it’s a go. We already have an officer on premises. He’ll be right up. Officer Tommy Sharpe is his name.”
“Thanks, Ben.” Savich punched off. He wished John Doe were FBI purview. Even more than that he wished he’d had the foresight to turn on the recorder on his cell phone when he’d been in Kara Moody’s house. With the urgency, the adrenaline rush, he simply couldn’t remember exactly what John Doe had said.
Savich pulled up a chair close to John Doe’s bed and texted Cam for a status report. Her reply came back:
Still alive, about to land at Magee Field in Kentucky. Cabot appears competent, at least he hasn’t crashed us yet. Sick sense of humor.
Savich grinned, texted back,
Let me know when you’ve reached the national forest. Give me your take on Duke and Harbinger.
Then he texted Jack much the same thing, not expecting an answer from the air, and punched off. He slipped his cell back into his pocket and studied the needle marks that ran up and down John Doe’s arms. What’s wrong with you? Do you need some kind of drug that can’t be swallowed in pill form? What drug?
Savich looked up when he heard Detective Aldo Mayer’s familiar voice at the door. “What are you doing here?”
7
BOWLER, BOWLER, AND BOWLER
CORNER OF K STREET SW AND 17TH STREET NW
WASHINGTON, D.C.
MONDAY AFTERNOON
Duce Bowler’s law offices on the fifth floor of the older, nondescript Blackthorn Building were a surprise. Agents Ruth Noble and Ollie Hamish stepped into an eighteenth-century French drawing room, with gilt sofas and chairs and classic paintings on the pale yellow walls, the three windows framed with floor-length gold brocade draperies looped open with long golden cords. Even the reception desk was eighteenth-century gold and white, with graceful curved legs, the desktop holding only a state-of-the-art computer monitor, a keyboard, and two phones. There were no clients waiting in modern dress to spoil the effect.
Ruth and Ollie crossed the expanse of glossy oak floor toward a tall, lanky young man dressed in a black suit, white shirt, and gray tie, who was rising from his gilt chair behind the desk. He smiled uncertainly at them. “Good afternoon, sir, madam. I am Kendrick. I’m afraid no one is free to assist you. May I set up an appointment for you?”
Ollie wouldn’t have been surprised if they’d made Kendrick wear a wig and knee pants. “We’re here to see Mr. Duce Bowler, Kendrick. I don’t see any clients waiting. Business is bad?”
“No, sir. An appointment is necessary, particularly on days when Mr. Bowler is prepping for a court case.”
Ruth handed Kendrick their creds and made introductions. “We’ll see him now, Kendrick.”
“You’re really FBI agents? You look so nice, I wouldn’t have guessed. Well, never mind that. Mr. and Mrs. Bowler are in the conference room.” Kendrick looked at his watch. “He might be taking a break. I took him his bear claw a couple of minutes ago. Maybe I could ask if he can spare the time to see you.”
“Just show us the way, Kendrick,” Ollie said. “Now would be good.”
Kendrick looked flustered, as if he didn’t know what to do, but he shrugged and led them down a long pale-gray-carpeted hallway past a series of niches in the walls, each with a bust of a famous eighteenth-century Frenchman, beginning with Louis XV and Voltaire, each labeled with their dates of birth and death.
“Those wigs must have been hot,” Ollie said. “Makes my scalp itch to look at them.”
Kendrick turned, grinned, and pointed to the last bust set in a place of honor: Marie Antoinette. “This one’s Mrs. Bowler’s favorite, and the only woman. Mrs. Bowler says she wore enough perfume to float a boat. They didn’t bathe much back then. Mrs. Bowler also said the real Marie Antoinette didn’t have that much bosom.”
They passed a half-dozen gilt-edged doors, heard voices as they passed. Kendrick said, “All the doors are closed because Mrs. Bowler likes everyone to keep themselves private, clients and secretaries included. The world has ears, Mrs. Bowler says.”
Kendrick opened a set of double doors, stepped into a conference room, and announced, “Mr. Duce—ah, Mr. and Mrs. Bowler, two FBI agents are here to see you. I’m sorry, but they insisted.”
A thin, basketball-tall man rose, a half-eaten bear claw in his hand, sputtering as he wiped his mouth. “Kendrick, what is this? These agents did not call to request a meeting. I have nothing to say to them.” He waved a thin hand at piles of papers on the table. “I’m very busy, Kendrick. Take them away.”
Ruth smiled. “Mr. Bowler. Mrs. Bowler?” She introduced herself and Ollie. They handed over their creds, waited, saying nothing more until Mr. Bowler, scowling, handed them back.
Mrs. Bowler she said as she rose, “My husband does not have time to speak to you. He’s preparing for a very important court case. You do understand, don’t you, that he is not obliged to speak to you?”
