Clean Slate

Chapter 47

In his office – normally neat and spare – everything that could be opened, stood open. Except of course for the black cast iron safe door built into the back wall, which nobody, not even Homeland Security Desk, had yet figured out.

All the desk drawers stuck out like frozen wood tongues. Paperwork was scattered all over the place. Desk utensils were in disarray. The books on Mac's shelf were a-tumble, and several had fallen to the floor. The wastebasket was on its side, but evidently the janitorial staff had done its work before the intrusion, because the wastebasket was empty.

"Was there a notice?" Abigail asked. "I didn't see one, did you?"

"No. And Homeland Security, they're usually pretty orderly with their random searches. Usually the printed notice is the only way you know they've been here." Mac went to his desk and began sorting things out. "I think," he said, "this was an incursion by a man who did not particularly care if I knew he'd been here."

Abigail nodded grimly. She had brought a go-coffee for Mac, and she set it on his desk. "Help you clean up?"

"That's okay, you've probably got interviews."

"I do, but --"

"Then go ahead," Mac said, smiling tightly. "I'll take care of this."

She went through the archway into her office. Mac briskly picked up the papers and sorted them into piles, and then into folders, on his desk. The books were quickly restored. Throughout this Mac's thoughts were a red angry blur. He comes to my house, he comes to my office –

"I've got something for you," Abigail said, coming back through the archway. She wore a powder blue pants suit over a matching shell, with satin collar and lapels. Her brown hair was once more tied severely back into a bun -- a look Mac thought suited her; it showed off the attractive shape of her head and neck. Her expression now was all-business but with just hint of excitement. She reached out and he took a slip of paper. "Phone number for Brody."

"Really?" He looked at it. 272 area code. "Where's this?"

"Baltimore, an overlay code. Probably a cell phone. I found it in an email attachment from four months ago," Abigail went on. "Don't know if it's any good or not."

"You could have tried it," Mac suggested.

"Oh no. You're the intrepid one," Abigail said, not entirely joking, "I'm just the humble paperwork puke."

"For just a humble paperwork puke, you were quite adventuresome on Saturday."

"Not adventuresome enough to have lunch with you."

"You really think a simple lunch with me requires an adventuresome spirit?"

"Let's put it this way: I've seen the red-head."

"You can call her Libby."

"I know."

The edginess of the words notwithstanding, they were both smiling. Mac realized this was flirting with flirting, in neither the time nor the place. He held up the slip of paper. "Let's just try this out." Sitting at his desk, Mac picked up the office phone, dialed. In his ear the phone purred and then a voice, female, tentative, said: "Hello?"

"Ms. Brody?"

"Who is this?"

"Mac McGladrey. I'm with the Recorder's Court in St. Marys. Are you Debby Brody?"

The connection broke. Mac shook his head slightly at Abigail and hit redial. The phone purred again, and this time generic voicemail picked up with the simple monotone command: "Please leave a message." Mac said: "Mac McGladrey again. This isn't trouble for you, Ms. Brody, believe me. I'm just after some background information. Give me a call, please," he ended, rattling off his cell number, and hung up. "Nice try," he said to Abigail, "but I doubt it'll get us anywhere."

"Who knows?" she replied. "Maybe she'll call."

"Hope so," Mac said pensively, and picked up his go-coffee. "I really need to know if you-know-who was hooked up with her. You haven't seen his name in those files yet?"

"No."

"Keep working it for me?"

"Sure."

She went back into her office. Mac sipped coffee and wheeled to his computer screen, thinking about Judge Wildern. He and Bucaro were tight. Bucaro, Mac was sure, was involved in Eddie Fant's death. Eddie had had his hands on Brody's papers, and was trying to market them. Mac had no idea if he'd succeeded. But he'd been silenced for a reason. Mac confronted the notion that had been building, gaining, heating up for days now. What if Bucaro, as revenge for Eddie's theft of the hooker papers, did Eddie in at the behest of the Judge?

Just a notion, for sure. But it would not go away. And if the truth resembled this notion in any respect – a sickening thought.

Mac's calendar showed interviews all morning and well into the afternoon. According to the red splash screens, his first appointment was waiting already. Plus, just above the news crawl, there was a message to call "Blanche at Hospice." Mac squinted at the number, grabbed the phone, mashed the numbers, and Blanche answered on the first ring. "Mr. McGladrey, hi," she said. "I saw that you left a message for Diana on Friday. You need to know, she's in the hospital."

"Sorry to hear that. Nothing serious, I hope."

"Just pregnancy issues, I guess. It's her first, and those can be precarious, you know. Anyway, thought I'd call, let you know, so you wouldn't expect a call back right away."

"Much obliged. Which hospital?"

"Kindred."

"Thanks."

"Not at all."

---

Earl Bucaro waited by the platform of the Blue Line MetroTrain deep in the recesses of the Hub. Crowds of commuters swarmed the terminal and the high arched ceilings reverberated with the sounds of stampeding feet and train-roar and the steady agglomeration of crowd-noise. Under Earl's arm rested the brown-bagged bottle of Stoli from his weekly visit to Kay's. Normally he'd be on his way back to his office by now. But he'd needed a place for a quick surreptitious meeting, and this seemed as good as any.

As he waited, his expressionless eyes sorted the passers-by into the classic categories of the law man: citizens, suspects, assholes. He thought about the new girl he hoped to break in tonight at Room 33. And he thought about the "documentary" – his term for it – on which he had begun work the evening before. Already he'd earmarked segments from two of the tapes. Today he'd reach out to a tame merchant he knew for a sweetheart deal on some new hardware. It would take time, and some effort, to master the technology – but it was worth it. The documentary would be his ace in the hole. It would also be a hell of a nice souvenir to spend time with –

Asa Harberts emerged from a crowd of school kids, moving toward Earl at a rapid clip. The pale skinny ADA was jacketless, in white shirt and gray slacks; the knot of his red tie was slipped down a bit from his open shirt collar. Besides his hungry young Republican look, which Earl suspected was bottled and sold on the internet, Harberts had an air of nervous impatience today. His brown eyes seemed even more bulgy than usual, as he gave the surroundings a quick look, no doubt for observers. "Hell of a place to meet," he greeted Earl, keeping his back to passersby as best he could. "This have to be in person?"

"Thought it best," Earl said. He handed Harberts an 8 x 10 manila envelope. "Here."

"This on the DI?" Harberts asked, sliding out some papers. There were several bullet points of typed text, and some photographs. Harberts skimmed them quickly. "This is it?"

"Yes."

"This is all you've got?" He seemed even sweatier, though it had gotten no warmer down there in the Hub. "Not much traction here."

"I know you'll do your best."

"What'd this guy ever do to you?"

"Above your pay grade, my friend."

Harberts glanced at him. "Hey, I'm the one who has to go public trying to make this. . .this watery gruel seem like evidence of malfeasance."

"It's just a DI," Earl countered mildly. "It won't be public. All I require is the utmost in enthusiasm and aggressiveness on your part. The rest is up to the referee. Any idea who that will be?"

"No. They're chosen by lot," Harberts answered, sliding the papers away.

"Just hope it isn't some fucking pussy like Hicks," Earl commented.

"That part of it, we can't control."

"Well," Earl said, "then we'll do our best with what we have. Won't we?" he pressed, staring intently into Harberts's nervous eyes.

"Sure. Anything else?"

"Keep me informed."

"Absolutely."

Harberts scooted away toward the escalators that conveyed Hub patrons up to 18th Street. Earl watched him go, finding himself wishing he had people on his team more aggressive and dependable than that twisted little ass-kissing baby-raper. He needed for the advocate to be relentless in the Bucaro way: all out, all the time, no half measures.

But, he reflected, easing himself toward the exit, you make do with what you have. And Earl was expert at making do.

---

As instructed by the volunteer at the front desk, Mac followed the purple line painted on the wall down two long corridors, around three corners, and through a double set of chrome plated doors to a large well furnished room called Family Lounge. It was about half full of people, singly and in quiet groups, occupying arrangements of sofas and chairs, some reading, some doing puzzles, some watching TV, some staring off into space, doing whatever they could to endure the seemingly limitless waits. To the left was a curved desk attended by a kindly white haired woman wearing a volunteer name badge. Mac went over to her. "Anyone from the Privette family here?" he asked, voice low.

She pointed. "That's the husband."

"Thanks." Mac went to a sofa along the wall. The man sitting there was beefy and in his thirties, with thinning dark hair and the sort of large honest American face you find in sports bars and at boat shows, with an oversized nose and lots of laugh lines – ugly/handsome, Julie would have called him. He wore dark blue twill pants and a pale blue work shirt with some kind of corporate logo on the buttoned breast pocket. He wasn't doing anything, when Mac reached him, but sitting knee-splayed, arm-folded, staring into some indeterminable distance, and he seemed unconscious of Mac's approach until Mac spoke: "Sir?"

Privette flinched, and looked up, smile at the ready. The expression shifted to simple politeness when he realized Mac was not a friend or a hospital functionary. "Yes? Hi, who are you?"

"You're Mr. Privette?"

"Mike Privette," he agreed, and stuck out a pawlike hand.

Mac shook with him. "Mac McGladrey," he said. "I met your wife, at her work last week."

"Oh really."

"And I just heard she's here," Mac said. "How's she doing?"

"Oh, she'll be all right," Privette said. "Come on, sit down." Mac did so, taking a club chair across from him. Privette was fully engaged now, innocently happy for the company. Mac felt uncomfortable with the low grade deception, but knew he'd find a way to make it right, in the fullness of time. "She was pregnant, you probably know that," Privette said.

"Was?"

"Well,' Privette said, expression clouding over, "She's been having some bleeding. You know at first, her sister, she's an RN, she said not to worry, it's pretty normal for a first pregnancy, and all like that there. But yesterday it happened again, so we came here for some tests. And. . .I guess. . .it's not a good pregnancy at all."

"I'm sorry."

"Ectopic, is what the doc said."

"I see." Mac's tone was neutral, expression placid, but inside he had, out of nowhere, a sudden jab of fear and dread: oh no.

Privette closed his eyes for a second, took a deep breath. "So, they. . .they're saying we're going to lose this one. Haven't decided exactly what to do about it yet."

"I'm really sorry, man. That's a tough road."

"They said we'll be able to try again, and all like that there," Privette said hopefully.

"I'm sure that's the case. How's Diana handling it?"

"Pretty well tore up, you know, she was so excited – she had boughten maternity clothes already even though she's not showing yet. Guess I should put them away before she comes home."

"Reckon so."

"So when they're done in there," Privette said, "you can go say hello if you want."

"I was hoping I could."

"I'll go see what's up," Privette said, standing. With a mischievous smile he bent to Mac and said in a low voice, "They said just to wait for them to call me. But I've figured out, around here you have to assert yourself."

"That's for sure."

"Gonna be Grand Central Station in there pretty soon," Privette remarked. "There's you, and I know Christy will be by, and some people from her work. And then this reporter who called, too."

"Reporter?" Mac echoed, heart sinking.

"Yeah, some woman from the Blade," Privette answered. "Sit tight, I'll be right back."

He left. Mac picked up a magazine, then put it back down. So Libby is freelancing, he thought. But wait a minute, he reflected: she is not obliged to clear all her moves with me. She's just doing her job. Even so, he decided they needed to coordinate whatever they did on the Bucaro matter, regardless of the status of their personal relationship. Sticky stuff, he thought. Jeez. What have I gotten myself into –

His mobile phone pulsed in his pocket. He pulled it out and saw MISSED CALL on the read-out. It sometimes happened, when distracted, that he would not realize his phone was vibrating. Flipping the lid, he saw the 313 area code on the missed call list. He mashed the call-back button and presently had Ben Perkins on the other end. "You hollered?" he asked.

"Yeah, Mac, hi," the detective drawled. Mac could hear the distinctive noises of a saloon in the background. "Quick update for you."

"Shoot."

"I'm coming up pretty much empty on Cobo," Perkins reported. "I don't think there's any way to prove for sure whether Suzanne stayed at the conference all day, or just slipped in and left. There's just one thing."

"What's that?"

"Surveillance tapes."