Working hard or hardly working?

He immediately relaxed and looked up into Juanitas face. The edges of her mouth were crinkled into the beginnings of a smile. Her face always held that same look, as though she were about to tell a joke or laugh at one. That look never failed to cheer him up no matter how lousy his day had been, no matter how many bodies he had poked and probed. He put a hand on his heaving chest. Damn, woman, you sneak up on me like that again, the only thing Im going to be working is my angel wings.

She sat down on his lap. She was wearing a long white robe, bare feet showing. Come on, now, a big, strong fella like yourself? And arent you being a bit presumptuous about those angel wings?

He slid an arm around her waist, which, after three children, wasnt as small as on their wedding night, but then neither was his. They hadgrowntogether, he often liked to say. Balance was essential in life. One fatty and one skinny was just heading for disaster. There was no one alive who knew him better than Juanita. Maybe that was really the one important product of a successful marriage: the knowledge that there was one other soul out there who had your number, all the way down to the last possible decimal place, out there with pi, maybe more; if that was possible, Juanita had his. He smiled back at her. Sure, Im one big, strong guy, but sensitive, baby. Us sensitive types, you just never know what might knock us over. And after a life spent fighting crime, I thought the Lord would be up there right now sewing together a nice fancy pair of angel wings for me, size extra-large, of course. Hes all-knowing, so Hell be aware of the fact that Ive spread some in my old age. He gave her a kiss on the cheek and they held hands. She swept her fingers through his disappearing hair. She could sense that his humor was forced.

Buford, why dont you tell me whats bothering you so we can talk about it and then you can come to bed? Its getting pretty late. Tomorrows always another day.

Chandler smiled at her remark. Hey, what happened to my poker face? As I look a culprit in the eye and wear him down without ever revealing what Im really thinking.

You stink at poker. So talk to me, baby.

She rubbed at his kinked-up neck and he reciprocated by massaging her long feet.

You remember that young man I was telling you about? John Fiske? His brother was a clerk at the Supreme Court?

I remember. And now another clerk dead too.

Right. Well, I was over at his brothers apartment tonight, going through it for evidence collection. McKenna, that agent from the FBI, showed up.

The one you said was wound up like a grenade ready to blow? Couldnt figure him out?

Hes the one.

Mmm-hmm.

Well, we found a life insurance policy that pays John Fiske half a million dollars upon his brothers death.

So, they were family, werent they? You have life insurance, dont you? I get rich if you die, right? She lightly smacked the top of his head. You better have, anyway. Promising me all this nice stuff my whole life and never delivering. I better be rich when your sorry butt kicks off.

They both laughed and exchanged lingering hugs.

Fiske never told me about the insurance policy. I mean, come on, thats a classic motive for murder.

Well, maybe he doesnt know about the policy.

Maybe, Chandler conceded. Anyway, McKenna laid out this whole theory that has Fiske killing his brother for the money, getting another clerk at the Court to help him because shes got a thing for him and then throwing all this misdirection at us, offering to help with the investigation and whatnot. Even lying about an intruder at his brothers apartment. I have to admit, he put together a pretty convincing argument, at least on the surface.

So John Fiske was at his brothers apartment?

Yep. Claims some guy hit him there and took off. Maybe stole some stuff from the apartment, something that tied in to the murder.

Well, if John Fiske was at his brothers apartment and made up the story about this intruder person, and he knew about the life insurance policy, why didnt he search his brothers apartment for the policy? Why leave it for you to find and get suspicious?

Chandler stared at her, wide-eyed.

Buford, are you okay?

Damn, sweetie, I thought I was the detective in the family. Now, how the hell did I miss that one?

Because youre overworked and underappreciated, thats why. She got up and extended her hand to his. But if you come upstairs right now, I will show you some extra-special appreciation. Leave your sensitive side down here, though, baby, and just bring your other parts upstairs. She looked at him with heavy-lidded eyes that he knew did not indicate sleepiness. Chandler quickly rose, took her hand and together they walked up the stairs. ["C47"]CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

As the Jeep raced down the road, Tremaine scrutinized the passengers of each car they passed.

The damn luck, Rayfield moaned. We couldnt have missed them by more than a few minutes.

Tremaine ignored him, focusing instead on the car in front of them. The dome light of the car came on as they passed, revealing the driver and passenger. The passenger was unfolding a map. As Tremaine stared at the cars interior he hit the brakes, ripped the Jeep to the left and went across the median. The vehicle bumped and jostled in the grassy ditch before the tires found asphalt again and they were heading back toward Riders office. Rayfield grabbed Tremaines shoulder. What the hell are you doing?

They suckered us. The guy and the gal. Their story was bullshit.

How do you know that?

The light in the bathroom.

The light? What about it?

It wasnt on. The bitch was in there in the dark. It hit me when I saw the dome light go on in the car back there. There was no light coming from under the bathroom door when she was in there. When she opened the door she didnt hit the light switch because the bathroom was already dark. She wasnt using the can. She was standing in the bathroom in the pitch-dark. And guess why?

Rayfields face went pale. Because Harms and his brother were in there too. While he looked at the road ahead he had another thought. The guy said his name was John Michaels. Could it have been John Fiske?

And the girl was Sara Evans. Thats what Im thinking. You better call and let the others know.

Rayfield picked up the cell phone. Well never catch up to Harms now.

Yes, we will.

How the hell can we?

Tremaine drew on thirty years of Army training, studying what the other side would do in a particular scenario. Fiske said he saw them get in a car. Opposite of a car is a truck. He said it was an old car. Opposite of that is anewtruck. He said they were going north, so we go south. Its only been five minutes. Well catch them.

I hope to God youre right. If they were at Riders office He broke off and looked anxiously out the window. Tremaine looked over at him. Then that means the Harms brothers aint running. That means they were looking for something Rider had. And that sure as hell is not good news for us. He nodded at the phone. Make that call. Well take care of Harms and his brother. Theyll have to deal with Fiske and the woman. *����*����* Because of the high-profile nature of the case, the FBI had offered the use of its laboratory to perform the analysis on the slug found in the alley. After comparing tissue samples taken from Michael Fiskes remains, the slug was deemed to have been fired through his brain. The slug was a 9mm of a type typically carried by law enforcement personnel. With that information, Agent McKenna sat down in front of a computer terminal at the Hoover Building and typed in a high-priority request to the Virginia State Police. Within a few minutes he had his answer. John Fiske had a 9mm SIG-Sauer registered to his name, a carryover from his cop days. Within minutes McKenna was in his car. Two hours later he turned off Interstate 95 and headed through the darkened streets of downtown Richmond. His car rumbled over the aged and uneven streets of Shockoe Slip. He parked in a secluded area near the old train station. Ten minutes later he was standing in John Fiskes office, having picked the locks of the building and the lawyers office with remarkable ease. He looked around the darkened space using a small light. He had decided to search Fiskes office first rather than his apartment. It only took a couple of minutes until he found it. The 9mm pistol was relatively light and compact. Wearing gloves, McKenna palmed it for a moment and then put it in his pocket. He shone his light around the rest of the office. The beam caught on something and he went over to the bookcase. He picked up the framed picture. The flashlight kicked up too much glare on the glass covering the photo, so McKenna took it over to the window and looked at it under the moonlight. The Fiske brothers looked like any others, standing side by side. Michael Fiske was taller and better-looking than his older brother, but the fire in John Fiskes eyes burned with a greater intensity. John had on his police uniform, so this had been taken a while back, McKenna knew. The older brother had seen much of life wearing that uniform, just as McKenna had in his career at the FBI. Sometimes those experiences gave you that fire, or else harshly took it away. He put the photo back and left the office. In another five minutes the FBI agents car was heading north once again. Two hours later, back at his home in a well-to-do northern Virginia suburb, McKenna sat in his small study and alternated sipping on a beer and pursing his lips around a cigarette. He held the pistol he had taken from Fiskes office. It was nicely maintained, a solid piece of work. Fiske had made a good choice in ordnance. As a cop he would have relied on this weapon to survive. Years ago policemen rarely had to pull their sidearm. That had changed. Fiske had killed a man with this gun, McKenna knew. Fired the shot that had taken anothers life. McKenna understood the complexities of that journey a journey that was typically compressed within the span of a few seconds. The heat of the metal, the nauseating smell of exploded powder. Unlike in the movies, a bullet didnt blow a man backward several feet. A man fell where you shot him; made him crap and pee in his pants, plunged him to the dirt without a word. McKenna had killed a man too. It was quick, reflexive; he had seen the eyes bulge out, the body twist. Then McKenna had gone back to the spot where he had fired from and noted the two bullet holes on the wall on either side of where he had stood. The dead man had gotten off his own shots. They had miraculously passed on either side of the FBI agent. McKenna would later learn that the dead man had an eye disability that threw off his depth perception. McKenna had gone on, lived to see his wife and kids because the dead man had a wobbly pupil. On the drive home, McKenna had soiled his pants. He put the pistol down and cast his thoughts forward now. His snitch in the clerks office had paid off. Tomorrow, both Fiske and Evans would face some tough questioning. He would get hold of Chandler first thing, lay the facts before him, and let the pugnacious homicide detective do his duty. McKenna got up and walked around the room. On the walls were framed photos of him with a number of important people. Carefully arranged on a side table were the numerous awards and commendations Warren McKenna had earned with his wits and his courage as an FBI agent. He had led a long, productive career on the side of law enforcement, but that had not made up for one event that had caused him great shame ever since. It had happened so many years ago, and yet was still one of the clearest memories he possessed. What he had done back then was, today, compelling him to frame John Fiske for a crime. He put out the cigarette and moved silently through the house. His wife had long since gone to bed. His two children were grown and on their own. He had done all right financially, although FBI agents never earned the big dollars, unless they gave up the badge. But his wife, a partner in a major D.C. law firm, had. Thus, the house was large, expensively furnished, and basically empty. He looked back in the direction of the den. His distinguished career, neatly tallied on that table, lastingly captured in those photos. He took a long breath as the darkness clung to him. Penance was a lifelong responsibility. *����*����* The plane touched down and taxied to a stop. Commercial jets and some private planes could not land at National after ten oclock at night because of noise-level restrictions, but the small aircraft Fiske and Sara were flying in could take off and land pretty much wherever it wanted. A few minutes later Fiske and Sara were headed toward the parking garage at National Airport.