Chandler took a drink of coffee. “Go on.”
“And let’s suppose that the person filing the appeal was a prisoner.”
“Is that a fact or just speculation?”
“I’m not prepared to say.”
“Well, I’m prepared to ask. Where is this prisoner?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you mean, you ‘don’t know’? If he’s a prisoner, he has to be in some prison somewhere, doesn’t he?”
“Not necessarily.”
“What the hell does that — ” Chandler abruptly closed his mouth and stared across the table. “Are you saying this person escaped from prison?” Fiske didn’t answer. “Please don’t tell me that your brother got all suckered by some con’s BS plea for help, went to the prison, helped bust him out and then the guy killed him. Dammit, please do not tell me that.” Chandler’s voice rose in his agitation.
“I’m not telling you that. That’s not what happened.”
“Okay. This appeal . . . do you know what it says?”
They had gone well beyond theories now, Fiske knew. He shook his head. “I’ve never even seen it.”
“So how do you know it exists?”
“Buford, I’m not going to answer that question.”
“John, I can make you answer that question.”
“Then you’re going to have to.”
“You know you’re taking a risk here.”
“I do.” Fiske finished his coffee and stood up. “I’ll grab a cab back to pick up my car.”
“I’ll drive you. I do have other cases I’m working, even if this is the only one the world cares about right now.”
“I think it would be better for both of us if you didn’t drive me.”
Chandler pursed his lips. “Suit yourself. Your car’s in the back lot. Keys are on the front seat.”
“Thanks.”
Chandler watched Fiske leave the cafeteria. “I hope she’s worth it, John,” the detective said quietly.
* * *
Chandler had put some inquiries of his own into play, and when he returned to his office he found a stack of paper on his desk. One standard line of investigation had been to obtain the phone records of Michael Fiske’s office and home phones over the last month. The results were catalogued in the ream of paper. The phone call to his brother was on there. There were others to family. A dozen of them to a phone number that had been identified as Sara Evans’s. That was interesting, he thought. Had both Fiske brothers fallen for the same woman? When Chandler got near the end of the list, his pulse quickened. After all the years on the job, that rarely happened anymore. Michael Fiske had called Fort Jackson in southwest Virginia several times, the last only three days before his body had been discovered. Fort Jackson, Chandler knew, housed a military prison. And that wasn’t all. Chandler scattered the piles on his desk until he found what he was looking for. The telex had been sent nationwide asking for assistance on apprehending the man. When he had seen it earlier, Chandler hadn’t thought much about it.
Now he intently studied the photo of Rufus Harms. He picked up his phone and made a quick call. Chandler needed one piece of information and he got it within a minute. Fort Jackson was approximately four hundred miles from Washington, D.C. Had Harms been the one to file the appeal John Fiske had mentioned? And if he had, why, according to Fiske’s “theory,” had his brother taken it?
Chandler looked back at the list of phone calls. His eyes flitted over one number without registering, perhaps because it was to some law office and there were several law-related calls on the list. But the name Sam Rider would have meant nothing to the detective even if he had focused on it for some reason. Chandler put down the phone list and contemplated bringing in Fiske and Sara Evans, and making them tell him what was going on. But then the instincts built up over thirty years kicked in with one precept clearly emerging: You can’t trust anyone.
* * *
“Come on, John,” Sara pleaded. They were in her office near the end of the workday.
“Sara, I don’t even know Judge Wilkinson.”