Forgive Me(96)

Bryce and Graves were working out of the DC office, which was a lot nicer than his digs in Baltimore. Newer cubes, better lighting, but it still looked like an office anywhere, except that a lot of the employees carried guns. The room they shared was a cramped space with poor lighting, two phones, two laptop computers and not much else. Soon they would be moved to the official war room—a state-of-the-art command center with satellite feeds, banks of high-tech monitors, computers, the works. But until the IT wonks got them established, they had to make do with the accommodations.

Bryce didn’t think he’d be on desk duty for long. Markovich had vanished without a trace and as the hours slipped away, more marshals would be called in to assist with fugitive apprehension. The media wasn’t helping to spread the word. A story about a guy jumping bail didn’t carry the same weight as a prison break, so coverage had been spotty at best. Still, the tips were coming in, and Bryce was busy entering them into the tracking system while trying to figure out which ones merited a closer look.

“I’m going to get some more coffee,” Graves announced, sounding a little apathetic. He wanted to be in the field, as well, but was dressed for office duty in a blue polo fronted by the U.S. Marshals insignia, black belt, and dark pants. Bryce had on the same outfit.

“If they have any more of those peanut packets bring me one, will you?”

Bryce’s desk phone rang. It was another tip on Markovich, somebody in Alaska swearing the alleged trafficker was on his charter fishing trip. That one would go to the bottom of the pile. But at least the tips were coming.

Graves returned with two coffees, but no peanuts. “They’re out.”

Bryce looked disappointed, an expression that changed to curiosity when a U.S. marshal Bryce didn’t recognize poked his head into their small office.

“Cormack Donovan,” the man said. He was a tall and thin fellow with brown hair, a boyish, clean-shaven face, and canny eyes.

Bryce didn’t believe Donovan was on the Markovich task force, hadn’t seen his name on any of the circulating memos, or noticed him at the multitudes of debrief meetings.

“How are you Baltimore boys adjusting to life here in DC?” Donovan asked. He had a sort of fluty voice, not exactly threatening.

“Good,” Bryce said, entering more data into the system. “It’s not too different.”

Donovan stepped fully into the office and took a look around. “Listen, boys,” he said, sitting on the edge of their worktable. “If you could put in a good word for me, let the right people know you’re short-handed and could use a little help on Markovich, I’d really appreciate it. I’d like to get in on this detail, even if it means the phones.” The envy came off Donovan like a bad case of BO.

“What are you supposed to be doing?” Graves asked.

“I’m actually working witness protection. I’m supposed to relocate a guy named Dante Lerardi, but I popped over here first because I’m trying to get in good with the SOC, career stuff, you know? So anything I could do to help out with their ops, I want to do it. I’d love the opportunity, if you know what I mean.”

Bryce shrugged, his way of saying he understood. Witness protection wasn’t as glamorous as fugitive apprehension. Marshals jockeying for position and status among the ranks wanted in on the hottest action, and it made sense Donovan wanted a seat at the Markovich table.

Instead of a firm offer, Donovan went away with high hopes and low expectations he and Bryce would work together.

By the time afternoon rolled around, Bryce was famished. He wondered if Angie was available to grab an early bite to eat. He would call only when he knew he could make it happen. He didn’t want to make plans with her he’d have to cancel. Bryce played no games. He wasn’t after a conquest, didn’t simply want to get Angie into the sack. That kind of dating was for the younger set. He knew what he wanted and would go after her patiently and persistently, but always gentlemanly.

Afternoon turned into evening and Markovich had turned into a ghost. All leads were drying up like desert rain. It was going to be a late night, and Bryce’s hopes for a dinner date with Angie were all but dashed. Not everyone at the U.S. Marshals Service working overtime was disappointed by the lack of progress.

Cormack Donovan had returned to the cramped office while Bryce and Graves were packing up their belongings to move into the war room. “Hey, guys, I just wanted to say thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” Bryce said, not at all sure why he was being thanked, and not feeling any compulsion to ask.

“I’m on the task force now,” Donovan said with a broad smile. “I figured you two put in a good word for me.”

“For sure,” Graves said, nodding. “We talked you up big time.”

Bryce just smiled. “What happened to your witness?”

Donovan shrugged. “I don’t know. One minute I was on the Lerardi detail, and the next thing I know I’m off. I guess they got some other guy to watch him thanks to you two.”

Bryce’s smile retreated. He and Graves hadn’t done a thing to help out Donovan, but Bryce thought it sounded a lot like what had happened to Ray Anderson all those years ago, back when he was on the Antonio Conti detail. One minute Ray had a witness to protect, and the next minute that witness was gone.

Bryce’s gaze reverted to his laptop, but his focus was fractured. Donovan lingered in the doorway, motioning to someone Bryce couldn’t see. Soon enough a second U.S. marshal, dressed similarly to Bryce and Graves in a polo and slacks, appeared in the doorway. He was fair-skinned, lean, fit, and tall, with an angular face and a jaw that almost came to a point. His short hair, cut military style, revealed a broad and nearly creaseless forehead. His eyes were blue and held all the warmth of stone. Without a smile, his expression was a blank.