Twenty Years Later(23)

As Walt stared at his old Bureau boss now, two things occurred to him. First, Scott Sherwood—his old station chief from when Walt was a young detective in New York State, and whom Walt had accidentally run into at the survivors meeting—was the one who ratted out his location. It was suddenly obvious why Scott had insisted so strongly on exchanging contact information. Second, if James Oliver had gone to the trouble of planting Scott Sherwood at the survivors meeting to pin down Walt’s whereabouts, he sure as shit wanted something. And if the Bureau wanted something from him three years after they forced his retirement, it was nothing good.

“Let me guess,” Walt said. “That little bird was a shithead named Scott Sherwood.”

“You always were the sharpest agent I had. I see nothing’s changed.”

“A lot’s changed, Jim.”

Jim Oliver looked around Rick’s Café. “That’s for damn sure.” He pointed at Walt’s glass of rum. “But some things have stayed the same.”

“Old habits die hard. Can I get you one?”

Oliver shrugged. “When in Rome.”

Walt waved over the waitress. “Two more, please. Hampden Estates overproof on the rocks.”

“No problem,” the waitress said in a pleasant Jamaican accent.

As she walked toward the bar, Walt looked back at Oliver. “This shit’s expensive. I assume the Bureau’s picking up the tab?”

“Why would you assume that?”

“Because if you’re sitting in front of me at a cliff-side tavern in Negril, Jamaica, the Bureau wants something. And if this is an official meeting, the agency can pick up the tab.”

Oliver shrugged again. “Why not. It’s the least we can do.”

A collected gasp came from the crowd as the cliff diver stood up on the platform perched high in the birch tree. With his legs tight together, he puffed out his chest and extended his arms straight out to his side, crucifix style. Then he bent at the knees and jumped. His body rotated in a slow backward somersault as he jetted toward the water, taking a full two seconds to cover the one-hundred-foot jump before landing feet first and disappearing into the cobalt water, barely producing a splash in the process. The crowd erupted in cheers.

“I must admit,” Oliver said, taking his gaze off the action and looking back at Walt, “retirement sure sounds good at the moment.”

“Forced retirement. Remember? You made me quit. But it’s grown on me. And, Jim, I’m really happy here all by my lonesome.”

“Come on, Walt. A forty-something-year-old guy, in the prime of his life, day drinking by himself at a bar in Jamaica? You’re not happy, you’re a goddamn cliché.”

“Whatever you think about me, just know this: I’m not interested.”

“Is that any way to treat your old boss? I came all the way down here to see my friend and have a chat.”

“That’s exactly what’s worrying me.”

The waitress delivered their drinks and Oliver raised his glass.

“To old friends?”

Walt hesitated a moment, and then shook his head and exhaled a lungful of pent-up anxiety. “Goddamn, Jim. It’s good to see you.”

“You too, pal.”

They touched glasses and each took a sip of rum.

“Now stop screwing around and tell me what you want.”

Oliver’s expression went stoic. “It has to do with a case you investigated. We need some help.”

“I didn’t investigate cases for the FBI. I gathered intel.”

“It’s a case from before you joined the Bureau.”

“Before I joined the Bureau? We’re going back a ways, my friend.”

Oliver nodded. “Twenty years.”

Walt squinted his eyes. “Which case?”

“Cameron Young.”

“Wow. Now there’s a blast from the past.”

“So you remember it?”

“Of course I do. It was my first homicide—wealthy novelist found hanging naked from his balcony in the Catskills. The image is still burned into my memory.”

In addition to the crime scene, Walt remembered other things about the case, too. He had started his career in law enforcement as a cop in New York State’s Bureau of Criminal Investigation before working his way up to the detective squad at the ripe age of twenty-eight. The murder of Cameron Young was his first solo case. Because the victim was a high-profile writer, Walt’s first investigation had been conducted under the hot lens of the media. Every discovery had been made public, and his margin of error was narrow. He knew from the outset that he could make no mistakes. And he hadn’t. He conducted a meticulous investigation and gathered his evidence by the book and with no corners cut. The shortcuts came from those above him.

But it was not Walt’s job to build the prosecution’s case, only to gather the evidence and turn it over to the DA’s office. And he had. All his ducks had been arranged in a neat row, the DA had convened a grand jury, and the indictment of Victoria Ford was imminent. Then 9/11 came and the case fizzled and disappeared. Afterward, Walt heard rumors about the district attorney and the manipulation of evidence. When he searched for specifics, he found only resistance and dead ends. A year later, the FBI recruited him to fill one of the many holes in counterterrorism. He forgot about the Cameron Young case and gave up detective work to chase terrorists.