His brother rushed in and took the papers. He scanned them under the flashlight’s arc.
“You still ain’t told me how having these pieces of paper is gonna help your butt any which way.”
“I ain’t thought that all the way through, but I’d rather have them than not have them.”
“Well, let’s get out of here before somebody has us.”
They had barely made it to the receptionist area when they both heard the footsteps, two sets of them. They glanced quickly at each other. Josh pulled the pistol and punched off the safety. “Cops. They know we’re here.”
Rufus looked at him and shook his head. “It ain’t the cops. And it ain’t the Army. Building’s deserted. If it was them they’d come in here sirens going and the next sound we’d be hearing is glass breaking when the tear gas canisters come through the damn window. Come on.” Rufus led the way back into Rider’s interior office and softly closed the door. All they could do now was wait.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
* * *
Chandler walked around Michael Fiske’s apartment. He knelt down and examined the gouge mark in the floor caused by John Fiske’s swing with a tire iron. If the blow had found its mark, this mystery might have been solved. Chandler rose and shook his head. It was never that easy. His men were putting the finishing touches on the apartment. Black carbon dusting powder lay everywhere in piles like magic sprinkles, which in a way they were. They had taken Michael Fiske’s prints for purposes of elimination. They would have to get his brother’s as well. Since John Fiske was a lawyer licensed in Virginia, his fingerprints would be on file with the Virginia State Police. He should get Sara Evans’s prints as well, he figured. She had undoubtedly been here too. He looked down the hallway. In the bedroom, perhaps? However, his inquiries had revealed only that the two had been good friends.
He had met with Murphy and his clerks. They had gone over all the cases Michael had been working on. Nothing really stuck out. That line of investigation would simply take too long. And people were dying.
John Fiske’s unwillingness to confide in Chandler had cost him. As Fiske had earlier deduced, Chandler had cut off the flow of information to him. Chandler had played fair with the Feds, though, and passed along what he had to McKenna, including his newfound information on Rufus Harms’s escape from prison and Michael Fiske’s earlier calls to the prison. He had also informed McKenna of the missing appeal Fiske had told him about. McKenna had thanked him but had been unable to add any new information of his own. As if on cue, he heard a sound at the front door and the FBI agent walked into the room — after showing his ID card to the uniform outside and being added to the crime scene list, Chandler assumed. Crime scene. Well, it was one of sorts, Chandler said to himself.
“You’re working late tonight, Agent McKenna.”
“So are you.” The FBI agent’s gaze swept the area, starting at the center and marching outward grid by grid. “So, is the director of the FBI just a little bit on your butt, or a lot, to get this thing solved?”
“Same as your boss. In the Bureau you get double kudos if you solve the crime in time for the evening news.” McKenna flashed a rare smile, although it was as though his mouth didn’t know quite how to manage it, because the effect came off as lopsided.
Chandler wondered if the man did it on purpose to throw people off. Because he’d had a weird feeling about the guy, Chandler had discreetly checked out Warren McKenna. His career at the Bureau was first-rate in all respects. He had been assigned to the Washington Metropolitan Field Office at Buzzard Point for eight years after transferring from the Richmond Field Office. Before his career at the FBI, he had done a brief stint in the military, then completed college. Since that time McKenna had done nothing except make positive impressions on his superiors. One curious thing Chandler had found out: McKenna had refused several promotions that would have taken him out of the field.