He’d traveled back to the Middle East a few times for some small presses, and he even won a few obscure awards for his work. At the same time, he wrote pieces on everything from police brutality to time-card falsification in law enforcement, and several scathing articles about MPD’s supposed mishandling of the Al Ayla terrorist attacks in DC in the fall.

The one thing he seemed to have never written about directly was the death of his fiancée. For whatever reasons of his own, he’d left that incident off the table, but I could only imagine the kind of fuel it would have poured onto the fire he already had burning.

Now, all of it seemed to be bubbling up to the surface, including the blame he was laying so squarely at my feet.

I didn’t know what exactly to expect from him next, but it was clear to me that I hadn’t seen the last—or the worst—of Ron Guidice yet.

CHAPTER

48

BY TWO O’CLOCK THE NEXT AFTERNOON, I’D GRABBED THE FIRST APPOINTMENT I could get with the US Attorney’s Office. It’s not always the fastest-moving machine over there, and if they could do anything for me about Guidice, I wanted to find out sooner rather than later.

At one forty-five, I left my office and made the quick walk from headquarters, up Fourth Street to the Judiciary Center Building. My meeting was with one of their line assistants, Larry Kim, in his third-floor office.

Kim and I knew each other more by reputation than from actually working together. He was known as a solid prosecutor, with a good grasp of case law and a willingness to go to bat for something he believed in. We’d already spoken on the phone, and he knew the basics of why I was there.

“Honestly, I’m not sure there’s much you can do,” he told me. “The fact is, citizens have every right to investigate government affairs and share what they learn with other people.”

“What about the invasion of my own privacy? Or a public good mandate, for that matter? At some point he’s going to represent a threat to the investigation. I’m not just talking about murders already committed. I’m talking about a missing baby, and more than one killer still active out there.”

Kim shook his head. “First Amendment, man. Freedom of the press. It’s a tough nut to crack—for good reason. And getting tougher all the time.”

“He’s not the press,” I said. “He’s some guy with a computer, a cell phone, and a grudge.”

“This is my point.” Kim set down the extra-large Starbucks he’d been drinking and leaned toward me, warming to the conversation. “It used to be major stories broke in the mainstream press first, and filtered down. Now, you’re just as likely to see some guy with a smartphone or a blog out in front of this stuff. The courts are recognizing that.

“There was a national security blog out of Oregon last year. Same thing—just some guy operating off a laptop, with questionable sources. Well, guess what? His rights to privacy were upheld all the way to the state supreme court. If Oregon thought they had a case, they would have appealed to the Feds, but they let it drop.” Kim sat back and picked up his coffee. “That’s the new reality.”

“That’s one case,” I said.

“No,” he said. “One of several. I’m guessing this Guidice person knows it, and he’s taking full advantage. And frankly, the fact that he’s been coming after you personally doesn’t bolster your case. If anything, it muddies the water.”

“I’m just asking you to run this up the flagpole,” I told him. The US Attorney’s Office had a full staff of legal research lawyers. I trusted Kim’s expertise, but maybe there was some alternate precedent out there. “If I could get as far as filing a motion in court, it might get Guidice to back off.”

Larry nodded several times and started shuffling the files on his desk. It was a not-so-subtle indication that he was out of time for me.

“I can do that,” he told me. “But it’s not much to work with. If you can find anything more specific on Guidice—if he’s broken any laws—you might have a better chance at getting some traction here.”

“Believe me,” I said. “I’m working on it.”

I just hoped nobody else wound up dead in the meantime.

CHAPTER

49

I LEFT THE MEETING WITH KIM AND WENT STRAIGHT BACK TO MY CAR, IN the parking garage under the Daly Building. Sometimes there’s no better place to get some work done in private. Bree calls it my mobile office.

Mostly, I had calls to make. I flipped open a pad on my knee and dialed the first of several names on my list—Ned Mahoney.

Ned’s a good friend, a great FBI agent, and the person over at the Bureau who I most trust to give me a straight answer. He ran the Hostage and Rescue Team out of Quantico, but I’d also been hearing murmurs that Mahoney was on his way up at the Bureau. I’d believe it when I saw it.

“Alex,” he answered. “How’s the hardest-working man in show business? Wait, don’t tell me. Up to your ass, am I right?”

Ned also has a mouth that won’t quit. He comes across as sarcastic a lot of the time, but the truth is, there just aren’t many sacred cows in Ned’s world. It’s one of the things I like about him.

“I need some info,” I told him. “It’s about a kidnapping down in Georgia,” I said. “The name’s Rebecca Reilly.”

“Reilly,” he said. “Anything to do with that nasty windowsill action over on Vernon a few weeks ago?”

“Off the record? Yeah,” I said. “Rebecca’s the vic’s baby. She was in her grandparents’ custody down south when she was taken. The grandparents were killed, too. I can’t get anyone in Atlanta or Savannah to talk to me about it.”

Ned made a sound like he was sucking air through his teeth. “This business stinks, doesn’t it? Why didn’t we become accountants or something?”

“’Cause we care, Ned.”

“Oh, right. That,” he said. “Let me see what I can do. I’ll get you back as soon as I can.”

It didn’t take him long, either. By the time I’d put in calls to Jarret Krause, Sampson, and Sergeant Huizenga, I had a voice mail waiting from Ned. He didn’t want to leave any specific information on my phone, so I called him back right away.

“Not much to tell,” he said. “The Bureau’s still active with the case, so they probably have good reason to believe Rebecca was taken out of Georgia. But that’s as far as I got. They’re holding their cards pretty close.”

“Thanks for trying,” I said. It was more than I’d had before.

“How’re you doing, anyway?” Ned asked. “Seems like you’ve been getting spanked pretty bad in the press lately.”

This was the one thing I didn’t want to talk about, but curiosity got the best of me. It often does.

“Why?” I said. “What have you heard?”

“That whole Real Deal thing,” Ned said. “Seems like I can’t turn around without reading about it these days. Or you. Is it true you threw that guy’s tape recorder into the woods?”

“I’ll take the fifth,” I told him. It wasn’t like I thought Guidice’s blog was a secret anymore, but it was no fun to be reminded of the fact. The longer this went on, the more I’d become a part of the story myself—and that’s nowhere a self-respecting cop wants to be. “Bottom line, the guy’s a major tool,” I said.

“Don’t sweat it too much,” Ned told me. “This stuff’s like herpes. It pops up, it goes away for a while, then it comes back. There’s nothing you can do but keep your head down and stick to what’s important.”

I had to laugh. “Herpes, huh? Remind me to call you back the next time I need cheering up.”

“Anytime, Alex. Meanwhile, just don’t read that crap. It’s only going to piss you off. Especially today.”

It was probably good advice, but it was coming a little too late. As soon as I hung up with Ned, I opened the browser on my phone and went straight to The Real Deal.