far as the Bureau is concerned, if there is a leak, every member of
your squad, including you, is at the top of the list. And that’s how
the Bureau’s following that up.”
As soon as he left her office, Reynolds had thrown her shoe against the
closed door. Then she had thrown the other one, just to be sure he was
aware of her extreme displeasure. Paul Fisher was officially off her
sexual fantasy list.
Reynolds raced down the exit ramp, hung a left on Braddock Road and
fought through some late traffic backup until she turned off and
entered the quiet residential neighborhood of the slain FBI agent. She
slowed when she reached the Newmans’ street. The house was dark, a
single car in the driveway. Reynolds parked her government-issue sedan
at the curb, got out and hustled up to the door.
Anne Newman must have been watching for her, because the door opened
before Reynolds could ring the bell.
Anne Newman didn’t attempt to make small talk or ask Reynolds if she
wanted anything to drink. She led the FBI agent directly to a small
back room that had been set up as an office with a desk, metal file
cabinet, computer and fax machine. On the wall were framed baseball
cards and other sports memorabilia. On the desk were stacks of silver
dollars encased in hard plastic and neatly labeled.
“I was looking through Ken’s office. I don’t know why. It just seemed
..
“You don’t have to explain, Anne. There are no set rules for what
you’re going through.”
Anne Newman wiped away a tear as Reynolds studied her. Clearly the
woman was near the breaking point, on all fronts. She was dressed in
an old robe, her hair unwashed, eyes red and puffy. Yesterday
afternoon, the most pressing decision she probably had to make was what
to have for dinner, Reynolds assumed. God, it could all turn on a
dime. Ken Newman wasn’t the only one being buried. Anne was right
there beside him. The only catch was she still had to go on living.
“I found these photo albums. I didn’t even know they were back here.
They were in a box with some other things. I know this might look bad,
but .. . but if it helps in finding out what happened to Ken .. .” She
faded out for a moment as more tears plunked down onto the photo album
she was holding with its tattered, seventies-style psychedelic cover.
“Calling you was the right thing to do,” Anne finally said with a
bluntness that was both painful and gratifying for Reynolds to hear.
“I know this is terribly difficult for you.” Reynolds eyed the album,
not wanting to prolong this any more than absolutely necessary. “Can I
see what you found?”
Anne Newman sat down on a small sofa and opened the album and pulled up
the clear plastic sheet that kept the photos securely inside. On the
page she had opened to was an eight-by-ten photo of a group of men in
hunting garb holding rifles. Ken Newman was one of the men. She
pulled out the photo, revealing a piece of paper and a small key
pressed into the album page. She handed Reynolds both and watched her
closely as the FBI agent examined them.
The piece of paper was an account statement for a safe-deposit box at a
local bank. The key, presumably, fit that box.
Reynolds looked at her. “You didn’t know about this?”
Anne Newman shook her head. “We have a safe-deposit box. But not at
that bank. And of course that’s not all.”
Reynolds looked back at the bank statement and she jerked
involuntarily. The name of the box holder was not Ken Newman. Nor was
the billing address for the house she was in. “Who’s Frank Andrews?”
Anne Newman looked like she would burst into tears again. “God, I have
no idea.”
“Did Ken ever mention that name to you?” Anne shook her head.
Reynolds took a deep breath. If Newman had a safe-deposit box under a
false name, he would have needed one thing to set up the account.
She sat on the sofa next to Anne and took her hand. “Have you found