The Second Girl(53)

“So are these leads something he should also know about?”

“Let me work it through my way, Mr. Gregory. I still stand with what I said before. Give it through the end of the week. If I don’t have anything solid then, I never will.”

“But you said you have leads? That’s good, then.”

“A lead is simply something that needs to be worked. If I develop something solid from it, then I’ll call you right away.”

“Thank you for keeping me informed.”

I’m such a bullshit artist, but Ian Gregory is either clueless or won’t tell me how much trouble his daughter really got into. I don’t think he’s clueless.

After I get off the phone with him I snuff out my cigarette and light another one. My house has always been a comfort zone, but since this mess I made with Leslie, I find that it’s less comforting. It’s true what they say. You never know until someone’s gone. But she’s not dead, and I’m not dead, so there’s hope.

Cell phone rings.

“Frank Marr,” I answer.

“Hey, Frank, this is Davidson.”

“What’s up, Scott? You got good news for me?”

“Afraid not, and that’s what we have to talk about. You have time to stop by the office here?”

Oh shit. I can tell by his tone that something’s up. I’m hoping Edgar didn’t get stupid brave and give me up.

“Talk to me now. What’s going on?”

“Need to talk in person. It’s sensitive. If you haven’t had supper, I’ll order a couple of sandwiches from Jack’s.”

“No, I’m good. I can be there in about an hour. Why don’t we meet at the FOP Lodge, though? I could use a beer.”

“Like I said, it’s sensitive. You know how it is there. I’ll owe you a dinner some other time, though. So I’ll see you at about six o’clock?”

“Yeah, I’ll be there.”

I’m thinking supper may not come for a while.





Forty-seven



I’ll admit it. I think about running, getting the f*ck outta Dodge. I’ve got the stash. I’ve got the cash, and I certainly know where to get the good fake identification. But then I figure that although Edgar might be a little stupid, he’s not that brave. He’s gotta know that if he turns me in, I’ll give up everything I know about him. And he knows I got a lot to give up. Even without that, it’d be his word against mine, and he’s a piece-of-shit coconspirator in a juvenile abduction and rape case.

Yeah, I’m not gonna run.

But I still walk into the Nickel clean. No backpack and no pill container. Just in case.

Scott answers the door of the unit’s third-floor office after I buzz it a couple of times.

He’s wearing tan BDUs and a navy blue polo shirt with a gold embroidered MPDC badge on the left chest. He looks tired.

“Thanks for coming in.” He smiles.

“No problem, brother.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you not wearing a suit.” Davidson smiles again.

“That’s because you’ve never seen me at home before, and that’s where you dragged me out of.”

“Well, I appreciate you taking the time.”

I follow him to his desk.

Davidson’s partner, whose name I forget, is sitting at his desk, and a man and a woman wearing pricey tan tactical pants with several zippered pockets and open vests with even more pockets are sitting at the desks that were unoccupied the last time I was here. Everything about them is fresh. It’s how I know they’re Feds.

A large man with short spiky hair and a black suit is leaning against a wall. He shoots me a nod like he knows me. He has a visitor sticker like mine. I notice part of the silver badge secured to the left side of his belt. It looks like Fairfax County.

“Frank, this is Special Agent Donna Hernandez and her partner, Agent Chad Hawkins.”

She offers her hand and a “Good to meet you,” and we shake, and then Chad offers his, but with only a slight smile.

They seem relaxed, sitting on their chairs on wheels and leaning against the wall. Scott’s partner is relaxed too, but with his feet propped up on his desk.

“And I think you know Detective Caine over there,” Davidson says with a motion of his head toward the large man against the wall.

“We’ve spoken on the phone,” I say.

He straightens up and reaches out to offer his hand. We shake. He returns to his wall.

“Have a seat, Frank,” Scott says, offering me the chair in front of his desk.

He sits down, and then I do, too.

I notice three boxes that contain bagged and tagged evidence.

“Looks like you just executed a search warrant,” I say.

“Yeah, Edgar Soto’s home.”

“So you got the punk. Good job. He talk?”

“No. That’s why we appreciate you getting down here.”

“I’ll do what I can,” I say reluctantly.

“Did you ever find Edgar Soto and talk to him?” Davidson asks.

“Whether I did or didn’t is privileged information. You know that.”

“C’mon, Frank, we need your help with a couple of things here.”