Walk the Wire (Amos Decker #6)(68)

“No!” barked McClellan.

Jamison said, “Fine, we’ll keep eyes on the place until we get a warrant issued.”

“On what grounds?” snapped McClellan.

“On the grounds that you’re harboring a witness who we need to speak to right now. Did you hear that, Mr. Dawson?” Jamison added in a raised voice.

Dawson came around a corner and stood behind McClellan. He looked both pissed off and weary at the same time.

“What do you need to speak to me about?” he said.

“Do you want to do this out in the hallway?” said Decker. “I would have thought you’d want some privacy.”

McClellan glanced at Dawson, who shrugged.

The apartment was spacious and luxuriously furnished. Decker had noted, as they came down the hall, that they’d passed number 509 and had not seen another door until they came to 503. So McClellan had apparently cobbled together several units into one.

He looked around and said, “Nice place.”

“Why are you here?” demanded McClellan. “We’re busy.”

“With what?” asked Decker.

“That is none of your business,” retorted McClellan. “Federal agents or not,” he added, looking spitefully at Jamison.

Decker eyed Dawson. “He was at your hotel that night. You’re working on this big deal, you said. You told us that McClellan finally has his business model right, which means maybe no more booms and busts for him. And you’ve been acquiring property on the cheap. Now you’re meeting secretly?”

Jamison said to Dawson, “You’re selling out to McClellan, aren’t you?”

Dawson eyed McClellan. “Guess the cat’s out of the bag, Stu.”

“We don’t care what you’re doing with McClellan,” said Decker. “And this will go no further,” he added when McClellan looked like he was about to erupt in anger.

Dawson slipped his hands into his pants’ pockets. “Then what do you care about?”

“I’ve got two murders, one suicide, and a missing person.”

“Suicide?” said McClellan.

“Walt Southern ate a bullet.”

McClellan looked at him goggle-eyed. “Walt? Why?”

“We don’t know yet. Maybe a guilty conscience. Did you know him well?”

“I knew him. But we weren’t close or anything.”

Decker eyed Dawson, who changed expression when he caught Decker’s gaze. “Guilty conscience?” said Dawson. “What for?”

“Can you think of a reason?”

“No. And I didn’t really know the man well enough to have knowledge of any demons that might have led to his killing himself.”

“Surely he would have done your wife’s funeral.”

Dawson’s eyes narrowed at this provocative statement. “So what if he did? That wouldn’t make us best friends.”

“So Walt Southern did the autopsy on her?”

“Yes. And it was confirmed that she died from carbon monoxide poisoning. And—” Dawson stopped and stared at Decker. “What are you implying?”

“I’m not implying anything. And what did Alice Pritchard die of?”

“Exposure. She apparently tried to make it to her car when Maddie didn’t show up. They found her outside, frozen stiff.”

“And the text your wife sent you?”

“I was in France with Caroline. We didn’t see it until the following morning. By then, it was too late.” He looked away.

Jamison said, “That’s what Caroline told us.”

“How is Liz Southern?” asked Dawson slowly.

“Shaken, distraught, as you would imagine,” answered Jamison.

“You know her?” asked Decker.

“Walt moved here about twenty years ago and started his business. But Liz is from London. Our families knew each other. Her parents are dead now, and she and Walt live, well, now she lives in town. But she still has her parents’ farmhouse about ten miles outside of town. And she and Caroline have become good friends over the years. Liz is older than Caroline, of course, doesn’t have any siblings, and never had any children. I think she sees Caroline as a younger sister.”

McClellan interjected, “So now can you get on with your investigation and leave us to our business?”

Decker eyed Dawson. “Caroline is very proud of her new restaurant. Does that get sold to this guy, too?”

McClellan said sharply, “This is private business.”

“Again, an answer in itself.”

Dawson said, “Don’t worry. Caroline will be just fine.”

“I wouldn’t bet the farm on it,” replied Decker.





LONG-RANGE NIGHT OPTICS were Will Robie’s best friend. He was lying prone, sighting through one of his favorite pieces of surveillance hardware. It didn’t match the “eyesight” of the radar array facility he was watching currently, but it was more than good enough for his purposes.

He’d been here for an hour and during that time had barely moved. Being able to lie motionless and intensely focused on his target for inordinately long periods of time was Robie’s bread and butter. Without it, he couldn’t do his job.