Justice Lost (Darren Street #3)(61)

“Can you get ahold of your grandfather on short notice?” I said.

“Usually.”

“Good, because I need to talk to the director of the TBI. Have him call me at this number on a secure phone before he leaves to go back to Nashville.”

I thanked Claire, hung up the phone, and drove toward my new office, hoping he would call.





CHAPTER 35

“What can I do for you, sir?” Hanes Howell’s voice was cold and demanding over the phone.

I was back in my office, going through a pile of reassignments Tom Masoner had recommended. He was apparently already spreading the word, too, because my e-mail folder was full of messages from people who weren’t happy. I got up, walked around the desk, and closed the door.

“Actually, there are some things I can do for you,” I said.

“I certainly didn’t hear anything useful in the meeting we had a little while ago.”

“I know, and I’m sorry. I couldn’t say much, but I need to talk to you. Alone. Someplace where nobody will see us together. And I mean nobody, including people from the TBI.”

“Why would I want to talk to you, Mr. Street, unless you want to make a confession or two?”

“Because I can help you blow this whole thing out of the water.”

Howell paused for a bit. “I don’t believe you,” he said. “If you have information pertinent to Mr. Morris’s murder or any other murders, why don’t you just call in my agents in Knoxville and get to work?”

“Because I have reason to believe your agents, or at least one of them, may have been compromised.”

“Compromised how? Do you know what? You’re really something. Your name has run across my desk more than once in the past as being a suspect in multiple murders. Now you have somehow managed to gain the ear of one of the most powerful men in the country and have gotten yourself elected to the district attorney’s office in Knoxville, which means there will no longer be any investigation of you in that city for any crime you may have committed. And now you get me on the phone, tell me you can ‘blow this whole thing out of the water,’ yet you insult the integrity of my agents and my organization in the process. Do you really believe I want to have anything at all to do with you, despite what some washed-up old fool like Roger Tate says?”

“First off, I’d be careful about who I call a washed-up old fool if I want to keep my J. Edgar Hoover clone job. And secondly, if you could manage to put that tremendous ego of yours in your pocket for just ten minutes and give me a little time, I guarantee you won’t regret it. Your agency will take down one of the most corrupt organizations in Tennessee since Ray Blanton was selling pardons out of the state capital, and you’ll come out smelling like the proverbial rose.”

“And you, Mr. Street? What will you get?”

“Some peace of mind. Maybe some redemption. A little more sleep.”

He paused again for several seconds.

“All right. I’ll talk to you at a safe house. You can’t know where it is, though. I’m going to send one of my personal-security agents—the agent I trust the most—to pick you up. He’ll be in a black SUV with tinted windows. You get in the van, he’ll hand you a bag, you put it over your head until he takes it off.”

“No cuffs,” I said. “No shackles.”

“You won’t be a prisoner, Mr. Street, but if you want to do this in a secure fashion, then this is the best way. He can be at your apartment in twenty minutes.”

“You know where my apartment is?”

“I know a lot about you, Mr. Street. Dress warmly. We’ll be outside and it’ll be cold.”

I left the office and drove straight to my apartment. I went inside, grabbed an overcoat, some gloves, and a stocking cap, and went back outside. The SUV pulled in just a couple of minutes later, the back passenger door opened, and I climbed in.

“Put this on,” a gruff voice said as a lightweight black hood landed in my lap. “Don’t even look at me.”

I did as the agent said, and we rolled out of the parking lot. Forty-five minutes later, the SUV stopped. From the sounds and the way the vehicle felt while I was riding, I was sure we had driven to Pigeon Forge or Sevierville or maybe even Gatlinburg. The mountains were full of chalets that people rented, and I was betting we were heading for one of them.

“Stay put,” the agent said. “I’ll come around and lead you in.”

The door beside me opened a few seconds later, and the agent took me by the elbow. He guided me up three steps onto a porch, through a door, and we stepped into a house that had a neutral, unused smell to it. It smelled clean, like they had someone come in and dust and vacuum on a regular basis, but there weren’t really any human smells outside of the agent’s aftershave.

“We’re going to step through some French doors, and you can take the hood off,” the agent said. I did so, the agent closed the door behind me and disappeared, and there sat Hanes Howell III, wearing an overcoat, gloves, and a wide-brimmed hat. He was smoking a pipe and drinking a cup of coffee. He didn’t bother to offer me one.

I was on the outdoor deck overlooking the mountains. They were beautiful, even without the colorful canopy of leaves on the trees. We were high up; I could see for miles, but I didn’t recognize a single landmark. I had no idea where I was.