Death Never Lies

Chapter One

The newspapers later said that they were high on meth or crack or some other drug with a name that sounded like a line from a movie. But none of that mattered. When Franco Herrera and Ricky Bazzel took over Sam’s Speedy Mart they were just two crazed gunmen waving assault rifles and screaming orders.

Give me the money!

Don’t look at me!

Nobody move!

Open the safe!

Franco thought that the woman in the red sweater was moving around too much so he sent a burst of fire into the shelf of dish soap a few inches above her head. Green, orange and purple goo splattered like greasy rain. Franco smiled and fired off an extra couple of shots just to see more stuff blow up.

Barely a hundred yards from the store, Detectives Greg Kane and Ralph Amoroso were on their way back to Robbery-Homicide when the All-Units call came in. Ralph glanced left just as the Speedy Mart’s front window exploded under another burst from Franco’s AR-15. Theoretically, the guns should have been restricted to single-shots but Ricky had paid an extra hundred each to convert them to fully automatic. The fifty shot clips had cost another hundred on top of that but as he watched the glass fly across the parking lot Ricky figured that it was all worth it. He loved the AR-15. It made exactly the right statement: Nobody better fuck with me.

Amoroso mashed on the brakes and the detectives’ Crown Vic screamed as it went into a sideways slide. Both men jumped out and turned toward the building before the car had stopped bouncing on its shocks. The store’s front door shattered to another burst and a second later Franco jumped through the empty frame. He paused for an instant at the edge of the parking lot and, wild-eyed, stared at the two cops in cheap suits who were aiming pistols at him in apparent slow motion.

Fuck! Franco screamed and pulled the trigger before he had even raised the muzzle. A stream of slugs skipped off the asphalt like stones across a pond. At the same instant Kane and Amoroso opened fire. With a bewildered look Franco suddenly paused then tumbled backward, emptying the rest of his clip into the sky.

Ralphie, are you hurt? Kane shouted.

A trickle of blood ran down Amoroso’s cheek. The detective ran his hand across his face and stared at his palm.

No, it’s just a scratch, Ralph said then looked up into the face of death.

As if by magic Ricky Bazzel had materialized on the sidewalk, rifle raised. He held the trigger down and a line of slugs marched across Ralph Amoroso’s chest then crunched through the Crown Vic’s windshield toward Kane. From the corner of his eye, living in some odd universe where time had slowed down, Kane saw Amoroso fall and the bullets walk their way toward him — THUMP - THUMP - THUMP . . . .

In an instant Kane stopped thinking about ducking or running or curling into a ball underneath the car. Rage flared inside him like a spark hitting a mist of gasoline. Kane raised his gun straight out in front of him and ran toward his partner’s murderer, firing as fast as he could pull the trigger. As if buffeted by a sudden wind Bazzel staggered back, half turned, and fired one more round before collapsing. The last bullet hit the top of a cement parking-stop, skipped upward at a shallow angle and smashed into the side of Greg Kane’s head.

Kane stared at Bazzel’s body and the growing red-black pool creeping away from it then everything started spinning. While he was still trying to figure out what had gone wrong Greg Kane fell over and, with sirens screaming from someplace far away, he watched the world go black.

Chapter Two

Washington D.C.

Two Years Later

A year ago Travis Sawyer had been the general manager of his father’s Chevy dealership but a promise to Clean Up Washington, a bland but clean-cut appearance, and a half-million dollar campaign contribution from his grandfather had turned him into Congressman Sawyer. Normally Frederick Immerson wouldn’t have wasted his time on a freshman congressman but the Chairman had asked him to give Sawyer the dog-and-pony-show and since the Department of Homeland Security was looking for a seven percent increase in their next appropriation Immerson was willing to oblige.

Immerson and Sawyer reached the squad room where the GS-13 Investigators were based and Immerson paused at the entrance to give his standard speech about the important work performed by the Department of Homeland Security’s Office of Special Investigations. As instructed, everyone was at their desks busily flipping through files or pounding their keyboards. Everyone except Gregory Kane who was notably absent. Immerson forced his gaze away from Kane’s vacant desk and pasted on his most sincere smile.

We call this ‘the bull pen,’ Congressman. Each of these agents—

What I don’t understand, Sawyer broke in, is why we need all these people in the first place. Shouldn’t the FBI be handling whatever it is you do here?

The FBI is a fine organization but—

I mean, all these people pushing papers at taxpayer expense just to do the same sort of thing that the FBI is already doing. It all seems like bureaucracy run amok to me.

Immerson made a conscious effort not to let his irritation show.

Actually, Congressman—

You’re completely wrong, Gregory Kane interjected, appearing from Immerson’s blind side. Sawyer turned toward Kane and looked as if he had just noticed a bad smell.

Congressman Sawyer, this is Agent Gregory Kane. Neither man offered to shake hands. Kane the Congressman is—

Confused, Kane said. "The FBI is organized into various bureaus and departments whose funding and manpower go up and down like Paris skirt lengths depending on the crime du jour. Right now that’s terrorism and human trafficking. Next week it might be industrial espionage and bribes to members of Congress. Kane gave Sawyer a hard stare. What never gets much attention or funding are threats against non-elected federal employees."

So, if my mailman gets mugged you spring into action? Is that it? Sawyer snapped.

No, we usually leave that to the Postal Inspector and the local police. We’re more concerned with something like an attempt to blackmail the chairman of an FDA review panel into approving a multi-billion dollar drug or bribing a testing lab to pass defective medical equipment destined for a V.A. Hospital or the theft of the access codes to the copy machines installed in the executive offices of the Department of Energy. If you think the FBI is going to give top priority to anything like that you’re . . . . Kane finally noticed Immerson’s wild eyes and sweating brow. . . . mistaken.

Sawyer’s lips were pinched into a tight line. None of his employees ever spoke to him like that. Nobody, not waiters, not store clerks, not even bank managers spoke to him that way. He was a millionaire and a Congressman and, according to his deacon, one of God’s chosen for Christ’s sake, and this bureaucrat thought he could call him out? Sawyer very much wanted to do something about it but the investigator’s broad shoulders and big hands and most of all his hard eyes made Sawyer pause and think again.

Kane, aren’t you supposed to be finishing the report on the Jeffers case?

Kane turned to Immerson as if surprised to see him still there, then nodded contritely.

Yes sir, I’ll get right on that. Congressman, a pleasure meeting you. A polite nod in Sawyer’s direction and Kane was gone as quickly as he had appeared.

I’m sorry, Congressman, Immerson said in almost a whisper. Kane is a great investigator but, well, you have to understand his history. He was a senior detective on the Baltimore PD when he and his partner ran into two gunmen high on drugs. The thugs killed his partner and tried to kill him but he charged into their fire and shot them both. He saved a store full of people but, Immerson sighed, he was shot in the head. Immerson’s hand described a path along the left side of his skull from front to back just above his ear. He recovered, he has a mind like a steel trap actually, and he’s a terrific investigator. Sometimes it’s almost like having our own little Sherlock Holmes, but, aaaahh, he’s a bit short tempered and he has a tendency to say things out loud that he would be better off keeping to himself. The doctors assure us that it’s temporary. In the meantime, well, he was a hero and we make allowances. And he closes cases. I’m sure you understand.

"A hero you say?

Charged right into automatic weapons’ fire to take out the criminals. They gave him a medal.

Well, wounded in the line of duty, I suppose you have to cut him a little slack, Sawyer allowed.

I’ll tell you what — why don’t you let me take you to lunch? I can fill you in on some of our more interesting cases. It’s pretty exciting stuff and it never makes the papers. All ‘need to know’ you understand.

Sure, I wouldn’t mind getting something to eat, Sawyer said, giving Immerson a weak smile.

Through that door, Immerson told him, pointing, then he gave Kane a quick, nervous glance before heading for the exit.

Greg Kane tried to focus on his work but his brain continued spitting out data points — Sawyer’s watch was a $3,000 Tag Heuer but the $60 shirt and off-the rack suit and shoes screamed Macy’s. That meant that the watch was likely a present which meant that there was money in the family someplace but it wasn’t his. Either the parents or the wife, Kane decided, which likely made Sawyer a man who craved a lot more than he had. Based on him shooting off his mouth about something that he should have known he didn’t know anything about, it was pretty clear that Sawyer’s ego surpassed his intelligence. Kane absently categorized the Congressman as someone who had been born on second base and felt that he’d been robbed of a triple. That bulge in his tummy and the little veins around his nose told Kane that Sawyer was drinking too much and exercising too little.

The way he cinched in his belt and sported a red-silk tie signaled that he was concerned with his appearance. And Kane didn’t miss Sawyer’s sideways glance at Marjorie either. The Congressman was on the hunt for some action, Kane figured, while the wife and kids were back home planning church suppers and organizing prayer breakfasts. Useless sack of shit! Kane decided then sighed and tried to control his anger. Focus on the file, he ordered himself. Focus.

Everything had been so much easier before COV, Clarity Of Vision, had descended on him. His old life had been soft and fuzzy and half a blur and then Ricky Bazzel skipped a bullet across the surface of his brain and everything changed. When he came back to his senses he found that the world had suddenly become bright and sharp and hard-edged. He felt like a man who had lived a lifetime with poor eyesight and then had been given his first pair of glasses. And there were the dreams. He used to dream like everybody else, confusing, jerky little scenes in misty places where people appeared and disappeared without reason or warning. Now his dreams were detailed, crisp and clear, with all his senses intact and the most crystalline of them all were the recurring dreams involving his dead brother, Tommy.

Had people been this stupid, vain, petty and clueless his whole life and he had just never noticed before? Kane was reminded every day that the world was heavily populated by idiots and that most of the ones who weren’t morons were psychopaths, egomaniacs, bastards or crooks which was even worse. If he were in charge — No, stop it! he ordered himself. Stop bitching, stop complaining, stop imagining how much better the world would be if only people were smarter and better. You drove away your wife and ruined your job. Wasn’t that enough? Kane scolded himself. He closed his eyes and took three slow, deep breaths.

Greg opened them again and looked guiltily around the bull pen. No one seemed to have noticed anything. Kane forced himself to concentrate and paged through the Marilyn Jeffers file. Two minutes into the first interview he had known that she was up to something. It hadn’t taken him long to find out what. She’d started out by leaking the Mine Safety and Health Administration’s inspection schedule to the Tip Top Coal Company and then had branched out to supplying half a dozen other mines with not only advance notices of safety inspections but also the personnel files of the inspectors. She’d created a dummy LLC in Virginia to receive the payoffs but had foolishly listed her brother as the LLC’s Manager on the form she filed with the bank when she opened the account. Stupid, stupid, stupid! But stupid crooks were a good thing. If they weren’t morons it would be a lot harder to catch them, he reminded himself.

You find something good, Agent? Danny Rosewood asked, noticing Kane’s smile.

The suspect put her brother’s name on the bank account where the payoffs were being deposited.

Score! Danny said and raised five fingers up high. Greg hesitated then awkwardly raised his own arm as well. Get you a cup of coffee, Agent?

No, Danny, thanks. I’m good. Rosewood nodded and Kane watched him wander toward the break room. Officially Danny Rosewood was a GS 10 support tech but his actual job was doing whatever the investigators wanted that they didn’t have the time or energy to do for themselves, everything from subpoenaing bank and telephone records to reviewing surveillance footage to making coffee and ordering another box of file folders. Danny was a glorified gofer, but a gofer with a dream. Rosewood wanted to be an Agent. He wanted to carry a badge, which wasn’t unusual but, unlike most wannabees, Danny had a plan.

Rosewood constantly scanned the Internet for classes on police sciences. If some college was offering a night-school seminar on interrogation techniques, Danny was there. When the Government Printing Office issued a new manual on investigative procedures or forensic protocols, Danny was their first customer. He made a pest of himself to the investigators like Greg Kane, always asking questions, always wanting to know how they did what they did. Half the Agents avoided him and the other half competed to see how ridiculous a war story they could con Danny into believing. But not Greg Kane. Danny Rosewood was the only person in the office, except for maybe Fred Immerson, whom Kane actually respected.

Danny wasn’t especially smart or creative. He certainly didn’t have a charismatic personality and he wasn’t a deep thinker. But Danny Rosewood had one quality that Greg Kane admired — Danny worked harder to make the most of whatever talents he had than anyone Kane had ever known. Kane was sick of nonentities like Travis Sawyer who were mediocrity personified and were too arrogant to even know it. At the other end of the spectrum were gifted people who wasted their talents or drifted along, doing just enough to get by when they were capable of so much more. Danny, on the other hand, knew he wasn’t the smartest guy in the room and that he never would be, but every day he made a hundred and ten percent effort to be the best person that he could possibly be and that determination earned him something beyond price — Greg Kane’s respect.

Kane turned back to his computer and started typing the Jeffers report which Immerson would forward to the U.S. Attorney. Just as he was about to hit Send Kane’s cell buzzed. The caller was one of his oldest friends, Professor Martin Fouchet. Marty’s wife was sick and Greg could tell from the way Marty’s eyes darted away when he talked about Caroline that she wasn’t doing well. Kane said a little prayer that Marty wasn’t calling to tell him that Caroline had died and tapped the accept icon.

Marty, what’s up?

Greg, I think I need your help. I think something’s wrong.

Wrong?

I was supposed to have a meeting today with the Senior Deputy Director of the Department for the Control of Dangerous Biological Agents and Toxins and he wasn’t there, hadn’t been there since the middle of last week.

Hadn’t been where since last week?

The Department of Health and Human Services. He’s disappeared. Gone. No one’s seen him or heard from him since last Wednesday. No calls. Nothing. He’s not answering his phone, not responding to emails. A man with his responsibilities doesn’t just wander off. I think something may have happened to him.

Half a dozen questions raced through Greg’s head.

You said biological agents and toxins? What are we talking about?

Chemicals, drugs, things that could be used to make poisons or illegal substances, precursors. I filed a request for an exemption for . . . well, the name wouldn’t mean anything to you, the short version is ACX. It’s on the prohibited list. I have to have a supply of it for my research. He was going to approve my request for an exemption, Greg! He told me that last week. Today was just supposed to be a formality, one last interview and he was going to sign off on it so I could get the ACX past customs. But now he’s disappeared and nobody wants to do anything.

OK, Marty, I understand—

Greg, you’ve got to find him. As long as he’s just missing I’m stuck in limbo here. I’ve got to get permission to import the ACX in order to complete my research.

I understand. Give me the missing guy’s name and contact info.

Albert Brownstein, Senior Deputy for the Health & Human Services Department for the Control of Dangerous Biological Agents and Toxins. His office is on Independence Avenue.

OK, Marty, I’ll go over there and see what I can find out. In the meantime, email me Brownstein’s contact information and anything else you think might be helpful.

You’ll let me know what you find?

I’ll call you this afternoon.

Kane hung up and looked around for Immerson but his boss was still at lunch with Congressman Asshole. Shit! Greg sent Immerson an email on where he was going and retrieved his gun from his bottom desk drawer.

Chapter Three

The Department of Health & Human Services filled a six-story concrete building on Independence Avenue across the street from Bartholdi Park. Washington’s bureaucracy was still struggling with the reality that the farther technology advanced the more mayhem a handful of people could unleash. Back in the days of black powder and brass cannons half a dozen determined malcontents might have managed to take fifteen or twenty lives. Now with C4 and step-by-step instructions on how to make nerve gas just a few clicks away, a couple of nut-jobs could kill thousands and shut down a city of millions. Looking at the endless warren of cubicles that stretched out in front of him Kane wondered if the Government’s efforts to prevent a disaster weren’t little more than a replay of the Dutch boy madly trying to plug the holes in an already collapsing dike.

Brownstein’s subordinate, the Senior Assistant Deputy for the Department for the Control of Dangerous Biological Agents and Toxins, was Sandra Cray. Kane found her in a packing-crate-sized office on the Department’s fourth floor.

Ms. Cray? I’m Agent Gregory Kane, Department of Homeland Security, Kane announced, holding up his creds.

Sandra Cray’s chair was jammed between a steel desk mounded with brown folders and a windowless gray wall. Her complexion, already sallow under the fluorescent lights and the glow from an ancient Dell monitor, now paled even more.

What? Homeland Security? Cray looked at Kane with an expression halfway between confusion and fright.

Greg took that as an invitation and squeezed into the lone chair with his knees almost bumping against the front edge of her desk. With a long stretch of his arm he closed the door behind him.

When was the last time you saw Senior Deputy Brownstein?

What’s this all about?

It’s about the last time you saw or talked with or communicated with Senior Deputy Brownstein. Is there some reason you don’t want to answer that question?

What? No. Of course not!

Frightened people usually talked more than was good for them which was just what Kane wanted. He stared at Sandra Cray and waited for her to begin babbling in an attempt to prove herself innocent of a crime of which she had not yet been accused. It didn’t take long.

Ummm, last Wednesday, around a quarter after five. I usually stay later but my daughter had a cello recital and I, well, anyway, I said goodnight to him on my way out.

And after that? Any calls? Emails?

No, I mean, I don’t think so.

You don’t think so? What does that mean?

Cray looked helplessly around her tiny, steel box as if searching for a way out. A picture of a palm tree against a setting sun was stuck to the wall behind her. Kane calculated that she had just enough clearance to swivel around and stare at it during those moments when she felt the room closing in on her.

I got a text, a partial text, from his cell around eight o’clock Wednesday night. I had my phone turned off for the recital so I didn’t see it until Thursday morning when I was getting ready for work.

Kane stared at her for a heartbeat then snapped, Am I supposed to guess what it said?

Sandra gave him a chastened look and answered with exaggerated care. Two words: ‘Sandy, I’m’ and that was all. Kane stared. After another heartbeat she continued. Albert was the only one who called me ‘Sandy’ so I’m sure it was from him.

You don’t like people calling you ‘Sandy’?

I’m not a beach! she snapped, then continued in a forced-calm tone. My name is Sandra, not Sandy.

But Brownstein was your boss and if he wanted to call you ‘Sandy’ you couldn’t stop him. Sandra just stared at Kane. When he didn’t show up at work on Thursday did you call him?

"Of course. I called his home and his cell. He liked to keep his work calls separate from his personal ones so he had two phones, but they both went to voice mail. I also emailed him, several times, but I never got an answer. And I texted him. Cray gave Kane a so there" look.

Greg stared at her and conspicuously made a note in his pad. What did you do next?

What do you mean?

What do I mean? Your boss goes missing. You can’t reach him. You’ve got an interrupted after-hours text from him. Are you telling me that you just ignored it and decided that eventually he’d show up dead or alive?

Are you saying that Albert is dead?

Jesus, how stupid is this woman? Kane thought but somehow managed not to say it out loud. Instead he took a deep breath and tried again.

Was Mr. Brownstein having any problems that you were aware of? Money trouble? Disputes with anyone?

No. Our relationship was strictly business.

Why would she go out of her way to add that? Kane thought. Does that mean she’s trying to cover up the fact that something was going on or that she would be insulted if anyone thought that she had become involved with Brownstein?

You didn’t socialize?

No. Sandra gave Kane a hard look. OK, Kane thought. You wouldn’t touch him with a ten-foot pole. Got it.

Has anything unusual happened in the last few weeks? Was Mr. Brownstein upset, nervous, preoccupied, different in any way?

No, he was the same as always, but as I said, we didn’t have a personal relationship so I wouldn’t know anything about what was going on in his private life.

Yeah, I got that loud and clear, Kane thought.

Did you do anything in response to Mr. Brownstein’s absence?

I called Albert’s boss, our boss, the Deputy Assistant Director and I told him that Albert hadn’t come into work.

When did you do that?

Cray glanced at the ceiling as if trying to remember the formula for calculating the circumference of a circle.

Friday afternoon, she said finally with a hint of pride. Well, I didn’t want to get Albert in trouble if he was just, well, I don’t know, enjoying himself a little too much.

Did he do that, sometimes miss work because he was enjoying himself too much?

Albert? No, never. You could set your watch by him, but, well, there’s always the first time, isn’t there?

No, there isn’t, Kane thought but just nodded for her to continue. She just stared at him.

What did the Deputy Assistant Director say when you told him about Mr. Brownstein not coming to work?

He checked Albert’s file and said that Albert had six weeks accrued vacation so he was entitled to some time off. She paused but in response to Kane’s stare finally continued. He said that I should keep the office going until Albert returned and that I should keep a record of the number of days he missed so that his vacation time could be adjusted when he came back. He told me that if I hadn’t heard from Albert by the close of business today that I should call someone and file a report and to keep him in the loop.

So, you’re planning on filing a missing person’s report this afternoon?

If Albert hasn’t contacted me by then, yes, well, tomorrow actually. I’ve got a PTA meeting tonight and I won’t have time to sit around some police station filling out forms.

Sandra glanced at a watercolor of a cat in an overstuffed chair taped to the wall. A juvenile hand had printed Mr. Bonkers in purple ink at the bottom.

Your daughter’s work? Kane asked, pointing at the picture.

Olivia. She’s ten. For the first time Sandra Cray smiled.

Within thirty seconds of entering her office Kane had been frustrated to the point of wanting to strangle Sandra Cray but now his anger melted in the glow of her smile. He hadn’t missed the lack of a ring and the cheap drugstore makeup and her hair going brown at the roots. Sandra Cray was a single mother stuck in a prison cell of an office pushing papers from one side of her desk to the other for forty hours a week all in order to build some kind of a future for her child. Cello lessons and PTA meetings and a boss who called her by a name usually applied to a beach.

Jesus, what’s wrong with me? Kane thought.

Is that what you want me to do? File a missing person’s report?

No, Kane said, feeling empty inside. I’ll take care of it. I need Mr. Brownstein’s numbers, his email and his home address.

Sandra punched a few buttons and a few seconds later handed Kane a page ejected from the printer.

I’m going to check out Mr. Brownstein’s home. I’ll have some more questions for you after that. Call me if you hear from him. Kane stood and gave her his card: Agent Gregory Kane, Department of Homeland Security, Office of Special Investigations. Cray gave it a disinterested glance and dropped it face-down on her desk.

Open or closed? Kane asked as he maneuvered himself out the door.

Closed.

Kane nodded, then took a quick, final glance at Mr. Bonkers before locking Sandra Cray back into her cell.

Chapter Four

Kane almost made it to Brownstein’s apartment before his boss caught up with him. For a moment Greg considered letting the call go to voice mail. A host of excuses — dead battery, dead zone, heavy traffic — flitted through his mind but they were all stopgap measures at best. Eventually he’d have to deal with Immerson and he figured that he might as well do it now.

Kane.

What do you think you’re doing? You’re not supposed to be in the field without your partner.

Useless is attending a seminar on Transformative Political Correctness and Advanced Paper Pushing.

His name is Eustace, not Useless! I’ve warned you about creating a hostile work environment, Kane.

I guess I confused his name with his job performance. I suppose that’s why he’s taking the Political Correctness seminar. Sorry, it won’t happen again.

You know it’s not . . . . Immerson paused, familiar by now with Kane’s habit of getting the other person so irritated that they lost sight of what they wanted to talk to him about in the first place. Just get back here until your partner returns.

I would but this is an emergency. Lives are at stake.

Lives are at stake?

The Senior Deputy Director of the HHS Department for the Control of Dangerous Biological Agents and Toxins has gone missing.

What?

42 USC 351A, Kane answered knowing that the cryptic reference would raise Immerson’s frustration level another few points.

What the hell are you babbling about?

That’s the Public Health Security and Bioterrorism Preparedness Response Act section that deals with the control of biological agents and toxins. The Department of Health and Human Services oversees the importation of potentially dangerous biological agents and toxins. Albert Brownstein is the HHS administrator who handles importation permits and exemptions. He’s the guy in charge of keeping bio-weapons out of the country and he’s gone missing. Obviously this is a job for Homeland Security.

That doesn’t mean it’s a job for you. Come back here, now. You can open a case file and it’ll be assigned to the next team in the rotation.

Sure, I could do that but what if at this very moment someone is using Brownstein’s stolen credentials to bring in some kind of a bio-weapon? I mean, how would it look if hundreds of people died and then the press found out that we could have stopped it but that you pulled me out of the field because you were afraid that it was too dangerous for me to be alone on the streets of Washington D.C. without an armed escort?

Immerson waited five seconds before he trusted himself to speak.

Kane, I’m giving you a direct order. You have until six o’clock to get back to this office and file the proper paperwork on this supposed case. The line went dead.

Greg smiled and went looking for Brownstein’s building manager.

* * *

I have to have keys in case there’s a fire or something, Henry Appel said defensively as he opened a battered file cabinet.

It would be irresponsible not to, Kane agreed.

Ummm, 506 . . . 506 . . . 506, Appel muttered as he leafed through a drawer of manila folders. Yup, here it is, 506, Albert Brownstein. Do you want the lease app?

I just need access to the apartment for now.

Appel toyed with the key.

I’m not supposed to give these out, you know. Not without a warrant I mean.

It’s all right, Mr. Appel. I’m authorized. Kane bent forward and lowered his voice. It’s a matter of National Security.

Appel stared for half a second then almost forced the key into Kane’s hand.

I won’t tell anybody, Appel whispered.

Good man, Kane said giving Appel a little nod. Washington was a city obsessed with terrorists.

Warrant? I don’t need no stinkin’ warrant, Kane thought as he moved from Brownstein’s bedroom to what Kane named the hobby room. Originally it had been a second bedroom but now it contained a high-end photo printer, a Win 7 computer and a top-of-the line 23-inch high-def monitor.

Brownstein hadn’t bothered to enable password protection and when Kane pressed the Start button he saw that Photoshop was the last application that had been used. It didn’t take long to discover that the hard disk was filled with photographs. Kane found a two-thousand dollar DSLR and four extra lenses in the closet. A sampling of the computer’s images — trees, flowers, leaves and waterfalls — boiled down to one word: boring.

An hour later Kane finished his search of Brownstein’s emails, web browser history and address book. He found nothing even remotely interesting. You could set your watch by him, Sandra Cray said and it looked like she had been right. Albert Brownstein was as boring as they came. If there were any clues here about what had happened to him or where he had gone Kane wasn’t going to find them this afternoon.

Greg copied Brownstein’s address book, email folders and his on-line phone bills to a flash drive more out of habit than with any hope they would help him find the missing bureaucrat. Whatever had happened hadn’t had anything to do with this apartment or any of Brownstein’s friends or acquaintances. Kane was sure of that. No, something or someone out of left field had caused Albert Brownstein to go missing and Kane didn’t have the slightest idea of what or who that could have been.

When Greg returned the key to Henry Appel he put a cautionary finger to his lips. Appel gave Kane a little wink and silently closed his door.

Chapter Five

Kane had quickly learned that the key to successfully dealing with Fred Immerson was knowing how far he could push things before his boss snapped. Kane returned to the office at twenty after five, waved cheerily at Immerson and started the paperwork on Albert Brownstein’s disappearance. Most of the other investigators had already left but Kane noticed Danny Rosewood pounding away on Stan Ewald’s computer.

Agent Ewald said it was OK to use his machine, Danny said when he noticed Kane watching him.

Good.

He gave me a tip on interrogation techniques and I wanted to put it in my journal. Rosewood gave Kane a weak smile.

Good, Kane repeated and turned back to his own machine. After a few more seconds of silence he heard Danny’s fingers back on the keys. He wants to talk about being an Agent, Greg thought, then corrected himself. He wants a friend.

Greg had just finished the case-intake notes when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

Hey, partner, having any fun?

Barrels and barrels, Kane said, refusing to look up.

Word is, Grant Eustace grabbed a chair and rolled up next to Kane, that Dad might be able to get us a piece of the Supremes Case.

Kane turned away from the monitor and tried to figure out which of Useless’ irritations to respond to first. He wouldn’t have minded Useless calling Immerson Dad if he had had the balls to do it to the boss’ face, but, no, whenever Immerson was around Useless was all Yes, Mr. Immerson and No, Mr. Immerson. As far as Kane was concerned calling Immerson Dad only behind his back was the hallmark of a coward and a suck-up.

Useless’ second transgression was referring to the threat on the life of Mr. Justice Hopper as the Supremes Case as if it had anything to do with the Office of Special Investigations, which it absolutely did not. Thirdly, it was just plain stupid to think that anyone was going to let the Office anywhere near that investigation.

The Marshals, the Secret Service and the FBI were already engaged in a full-scale turf war over that one. The job of protecting federal courthouses and the judges in them belonged to the U.S. Marshals. The job of protecting high-ranking government officials was historically the province of the Secret Service and the job of investigating attacks on federal judges belonged to the FBI. Since this was still only a threat the Marshals and the Secret Service were claiming jurisdiction. Since it had the potential to become an actual attack the FBI wanted in. It was absolutely idiotic to think that anyone was going to let their little office get involved.

Eustace took Kane’s silence as interest and bent closer, lowering his voice.

Whoever has a piece of catching the nut-job will get a big gold star on his record, Eustace said. I wouldn’t mind getting bumped up to GS 14. We could both use the extra money, right partner?

Typical magical thinking, Kane thought. Just wanting something badly enough will get if for you. Glory-seeking moron! Greg bit his tongue and started typing.

You’re a pain in the ass sometimes, Kane, Eustace said, but you do good work. I’m thinking that you can do your Sherlock Holmes voodoo while I keep the bosses off your back and together I bet we could break this thing. Division of labor, right? Eustace gave Kane a friendly slap on the shoulder. Greg had been typing searched and scowled when it ended up swarhed.

That did it. Kane’s control snapped and he spun around.

Grant, you’re a moron. And not just an ordinary moron. You’ve raised the bar on moronhood so high that if you got paid for it you’d qualify as a Professional Moron.

See, that right there, Eustace said, laughing and slapping Kane’s shoulder again, is why we make such a great team. You can get all your grouchy bits exercised on me instead of somebody who’ll take it personally. If you pulled that stuff on some FBI SAC you’d end up investigating people who put Canadian quarters in parking meters, but me, it just rolls off my back like a duck. Like a duck? Greg thought. Oblivious, Eustace babbled on. Then, once you’ve gotten it out of your system, you can go back to solving the case while I handle the bosses and type up the paperwork. Well, I won’t personally type it. The girl will handle that. Or, Kid Wannabee over there. Eustace tilted his head in Danny’s direction.

Kane struggled to unfreeze his brain. So much stupidity, so little time.

Grant, they’re not going to let us investigate a threat on Justice Hopper. It’s not going to happen.

Well, not with that attitude. Me, I prefer to think positive.

Positively, Kane screamed inside his head. It’s an adverb!

Eustace glanced at Kane’s monitor. What are you workin’ on? We got a new case?

Yes, Kane answered through clenched lips. The Administrator in charge of the HHS department that monitors importing potential bioterrorist materials has gone missing.

Missing, huh? Eustace said, peering at the screen. How long?

Since last Thursday morning.

Too long for your usual bender or shack-up. Any chance that he drove his car off a cliff or something?

There aren’t any cliffs between his apartment and the HHS building.

Into the Potomac maybe?

Unlikely, Kane said with an edge that could cut steel.