Shattered (Michael Bennett #14)(42)

I recognized I was feeling a little sorry for myself. I’d just had my ass kicked by a woman 70 percent of my size. I wasn’t on the trail of a killer, nor did I have any decent leads. Most of all, as I sat there wallowing in self-pity, I missed my family.

My quick trip home had only made me realize how desperately I needed my family. And that was a joyous realization. Most people would be thrilled if they could actually say they enjoyed spending time with their family. But I really did love spending time with them. Yet I couldn’t do it. At least not now.

The three other people in the sub shop all had their own problems. The kid behind the counter clearly didn’t want to work here. A woman sitting near the front looked clinically depressed as she picked at a salad with brown lettuce and two whole tomatoes thrown on top. A guy in a delivery uniform didn’t have time to enjoy lunch, downing his six-inch sub in four bites. My problems seemed more manageable when I looked at the big picture.

I took a pen and my little notepad from my sport coat and started to make a few notes. I wrote down the names of my three best suspects.

Beth Banks, who was certainly physically capable, had a motive to protect her brother and was just plain mean.

The next name was Robert Steinberg. I knew it was far-fetched to think a Supreme Court justice might commit murder. But in the real world, almost 80 percent of women who disappear or are murdered are attacked by their husbands or boyfriends. Domestic violence is real. It doesn’t care what aggressors do for a living.

The last name I wrote down was Jeremy Pugh. He was strong, crazy, and apparently pretty smart. That’s a dangerous combination. If it weren’t for the fact that Emily had an open case on his group, The Burning Land, he wouldn’t even make the list. His aggressive behavior since I’d first met him kept him as a potential suspect.

I’d spoken to both Beth Banks and Jeremy Pugh. That left Justice Steinberg as the only one of my potential suspects I hadn’t spoken to face-to-face. If I wanted to do it, I had to plan. Clearly I wouldn’t get into his office again. Even if I did somehow manage to make it there, I doubted I would survive my next encounter with Beth Banks.

I couldn’t conduct an interview at Steinberg’s home. He’d call the cops so fast I wouldn’t even get out a greeting. And all the locals would need is some kind of criminal charge like trespassing or a beefed-up burglary charge to send me home. Permanently.

I took another bite of tasteless turkey, then drank my cold water. As I sat there, thinking about buying another bottle of water just to keep on my head, my phone rang.

I looked down and saw it was Bobby Patel. I wondered if Beth Banks had even bothered to report my lurking around her gym. There was no sense in putting off bad news. That seemed to be the only thing Bobby called me with.

I put on the most cheerful voice I could, answered the phone, and said, “Hey, Bobby, how’s it going?”

“Metropolitan Police Department just called me. They have someone in custody for Emily’s murder.”





Chapter 54



It didn’t take me long to meet Bobby in front of an off-site building used by the Metropolitan Police of DC. The square, two-story building with a cheap decorative brick facade was a street crimes/narcotics unit in an industrial area just outside the city proper.

Most larger city police departments have something like it, a nondescript office where plainclothes officers can meet without the risk of inmates or prisoners seeing them. That way they can continue making undercover drug buys or connect with informants in public. Besides, all the narcotics guys think it’s cool.

I saw a few younger officers near the front door. They looked pissed off, and I knew exactly what had happened. Some homicide detectives had commandeered their building. No one appreciates shit like that. Every unit thinks it is the most vital police unit in the city.

The other thing I noticed was the number of new Ford Crown Victorias and Chevy Tahoes in the parking lot. That told me there was command staff on-site. Bosses tend to grab the nicer vehicles. Maybe there was something to this arrest story after all.

Bobby trotted up to my car. He slid to a stop and did a double take when I crawled out of the Prius.

I asked, “What’s wrong?”

“I was going to present you as an FBI agent without going into much detail. But I don’t know any self-respecting FBI agent who would wear that jacket.”

I looked at him in a gray business suit with a nice dark tie. He did look sharp. I held up my arm and looked at my jacket. “It’s a dark green plaid sport coat. It goes with my khakis. It also hides my pistol and keeps me warm in the shitty weather down here in DC. I’m pretty sure clothing is all the cops in there are going to care about. Is it functional, does it have holes? Welcome to the real world, Bobby.”

As I suspected, Bobby ignored my prediction about DC cops’ take on fashion. Instead, he scowled and said, “Just follow me and keep your mouth shut. And definitely don’t say out loud that you’re an FBI agent. We need to have plausible deniability if anyone complains later that you were here.”

“Bobby, the cops inside this building don’t give a damn about any of that shit right now. They want to make a case. If they have a suspect they like, they’ll barely notice we’re here.”

“But their bosses will notice and ask questions.”

I just nodded and followed him into the two-story building, which had a sign for JOHNSON’S WEB DESIGN AND VIDEO EDITING. It was just modern and flashy enough to seem real. Just vague enough to never have anyone stop and ask what they do.