Shattered (Michael Bennett #14)(32)

Pugh drew back his forearm for a massive blow across my face.

I ducked the forearm. His forearm struck the locker with a boom. The locker popped open.

The little guy threw a punch.

I passed it with my hand. The little guy’s momentum carried him toward the locker, and I pushed him into it. I kicked Pugh and forced him back a few feet.

Quickly, I spun the lock on the locker with the little guy crammed in it. Then I faced Pugh. Now it was time to deal with this asshole. I owed him.

Jeremy Pugh and I squared off in front of the locker. I barely noticed the guy I’d stuffed into it as he yelled for help from inside. Now a couple of people glanced our way as they hurried toward the hotel entrance. I’m sure they didn’t realize exactly what was happening.

I savored what I was going to do with Jeremy Pugh.

Then a car pulled through. At this point, I didn’t care who saw this. I’d been patient long enough.

Then I saw it was a DC police car.

We both froze in place.

The young female cop looked into the lobby. Maybe someone had called in a disturbance, maybe not. She idled in front of the entrance, then slowly gave us a good look. She must have been satisfied because she parked the cruiser and walked into the lobby.

Pugh backed away.

The guy in the locker banged on the door and screamed, “I think there’s a spider in here. Let me the hell out.”

Pugh barked to his friend, “Shut up, Kyle. We got a cop close by.” Then he looked at me. “If you were here on official business, a cop pulling in here wouldn’t stop you. You’re full of shit.”

He was right for now. But I wasn’t going to give up. Until I found Emily’s killer, I guess I was full of shit.

I said, “See you around.”

“You bet you will.”

I turned and headed into the lobby.

Content for now.





Chapter 40



In the late afternoon, a call from Bobby Patel sent me over to the Vietnam Veterans Memorial. He thought we could talk in private there. I’d always felt the memorial to the fallen soldiers of the Vietnam era was particularly powerful. I had been there four times previously. Each time I was moved by a family tracing a pencil across white paper to capture their lost loved one’s name exactly as it is etched into the black granite. Somehow seeing the creation of these poignant mementos seemed to personalize the tragedy of war, bringing the soldiers from statistics spewed out on the nightly news to figures of despair.

As the sun coasted to the west, only a small crowd was gathered at the memorial. Bobby Patel stood out, not only because of his gray business suit but also because of his urgent pacing. Clearly no history buff or mourner, he barely glanced at the black, polished walls.

Before I even reached him, Bobby blurted out, “You went to the office of a Supreme Court justice?” Then he almost shouted, “Are you crazy?”

“Not according to my last checkup. But that was last year, so…” I shrugged.

“Joke all you want, but barging into Justice Steinberg’s office is not normal behavior. And that useless and stupid gesture won’t help the investigation.”

Now I lost all good humor. “Has ‘normal behavior’ gotten us any closer to Emily’s killer?”

That shut up the FBI agent. He stood, silently fuming. Occasionally he glared at me.

I softened my tone. “Seriously, Bobby, do you have any decent leads?”

His hesitation was all the answer I needed. Bobby said, “We’re looking at a few things.”

“Why isn’t anyone from the FBI taking The Burning Land seriously?”

“Who says we’re not?”

“I know they’re not under surveillance.”

“How the hell would you know something like that?”

“Because a couple of them paid me a visit at my hotel this afternoon. I would hope the FBI wouldn’t stand by while they pinned me against the valets’ lockers and grilled me about what I was doing in DC.”

Before Bobby got too outraged, I gave him a little backstory. Enough to shut him up. I left out the part where they had confessed to assaulting a New York Times reporter. I had already called our Special Investigations unit in New York to learn exactly what was going on.

Bobby started to calm down. He ran a hand over his perfectly combed hair. Then he scanned the area like he was looking for surveillance. He turned to me and lowered his voice. “Did Steinberg’s sister, Beth, tell you anything of importance?”

“She made it pretty clear she didn’t want to see me again.”

“I’ve wondered about Steinberg’s wife, Rhea. She goes by Rhea Wellmy-Steinberg.”

“I know what she goes by. And I know Beth’s last name is Banks from a previous marriage. Now tell me what suspicions you have about Rhea.”

Bobby shrugged. “Just a hunch. She’s pretty odd. But you probably figured that out from the reports.”

“Odd enough to commit murder?”

“Who knows? You’re the homicide detective. You tell me. How often do people you’d never suspect actually kill someone?”

I thought about that. He was right. I just nodded.

Bobby said, “Be careful. But most importantly, don’t tell me what you’re doing. I have a feeling I’ll need to deny any knowledge of you at some point.” He turned and walked away with purpose.