Beyond a Reasonable Doubt Ch. 01

"Seeya later."

"You bet."

The door closed and lurched up to the next floor; I walked to my office and got my coat, then called forensics and told them to fax a copy of the fingerprints to Brennan. My other line lit up and I took the call: it was Dick Tate.

"Hey Woody! Long time no see, amigo. Wondered if you'd like to have lunch and swap lies."

"Hey there yourself! What the hell have you been doing? You still chasin' lyin' husbands?"

"Only when I'm not screwing their wives!"

"Yeah. Ain't Viagra a wonderful thing?" We laughed. "Listen, I have to drop by and see Pete Brennan for a minute, but how 'bout I meet you for a bowl of chowder at Betty Lincoln's?"

"Be good; like old times. Say about noon?"

"That'll be fine."

"Okay, buddy. Can't wait. Be good to catch up on things." He hung up; I'd managed to tell him of FBI interest in the case and told him to meet me near Ballard Locks, and he'd told me he had something important to discuss. Hopefully, if anyone was monitoring the line they'd not get too suspicious.

I drove over to the main FBI office in the Wa-Mu building and talked with Brennan; he told me they'd handle the notification and I thanked him.

"Any leads?" he asked.

"Nothing solid yet. I'll let you know as soon as something breaks. I assume you'll start your own investigation?"

"Already have."

I nodded. "You got a private number?"

He squinted, sat down and wrote out two numbers: "The first is unlisted, anytime. The second is my home number."

"Understood."

"You got something?"

"I need to confirm a few things, probably know something in the morning." He nodded.

"You need me, just call."

"Pete, if I need you it'll be too goddamn late to call."

"That bad?"

"Worse."

"You sure you don't want to fill me in?"

"In the morning."

"Okay."

"Pete?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't put a tail on me, okay? I'm expecting someone to try and I don't want you to run 'em off."

"Fuck."

"Promise, Pete?"

He stood, held his hand out. "Scout's honor, Woody."

I smiled. Like I said, Pete was a good cop.

I drove down to my boat on Lake Union and put the Zodiac in the water, then took off toward the locks. So far I hadn't seen anyone on my tail, either on the ground or in the air.

Tate was standing on a dock about a hundred yards shy of the locks and I pulled over and had him hop on; if anyone had followed him they'd have to hustle to follow us now -- but he hadn't seen a thing either. I puttered over to the south side of the channel and we both watched the shore as we trolled along.

"Victim was an FBI agent, supposedly clean."

"His name Dan Harvey?" Tate asked.

"Yeah. How'd you find that out?"

"The IP for Mary-Jo's contact. It's Tottenham alright, and there's been a lot of activity between him and this Harvey fellow over the past few months. A lot of meets at a code name, some place they refer to as the Hole in the Wall."

"How original."

"So Harvey was FBI, huh?"

"Yeah, and supposedly clean. White collar crime."

"Think maybe he got onto someone, maybe Mark?"

"Possible, but I doubt it. Why all the contact?"

"Maybe they were working a joint task force? Undercover?"

"That's a stretch. Ran into Mark this morning; he didn't let on he knew the guy. Any luck on a photo?"

"Yeah. Pulled one off the net, from the Post-Intelligencer; about a year old so it ought to do."

"Good deal."

"So Mark knew the guy and didn't own up to it? And the tattoo? You think the girl might know the name of the club?"

"It's a good bet. Yeah, I think she will. She's a little weird."

"Say, you think we could grab a bowl while we're out?"

"Yeah. You know, that actually sounds pretty good." I upped the throttle and scooted up channel toward Fisherman's Terminal and tied-off below Chinook's. With any luck we'd missed the lunch crowd; we got lucky and sat way back from the entrance; Tate covered that angle and I watched the dock. We ordered clam chowder and coffee and had just begun to relax when Dick sat upright and coughed attention.

"Tottenham," he said under his breath. "At the desk, trying not to look this way."

"Fuck."

"What have you gotten into, Woody?"

"Your guess is as good as mine?"

"Well, here he comes..."

The waitress came by and dropped off two huge bowls of chowder and some Tobasco.

"Damn, that looks good!" Tottenham said when he got close. "Tate! What are you doing here? Where's your Nikon?"

I turned and looked up at Tottenham.

"Shit! Well, looky who's here!"

"Hey Chief."

"Shit. This is like old times, huh?"

"You alone, Mark?" Dick asked. "Wanna join us?"

"Kind of you to ask, but no. I'm meeting Pete Brennan, should be here any minute."

My heart lurched.

"Well, good to see you Dick. Woody, check in with me this afternoon, would you?"

"Right Chief."

Brennan walked in and they took a table across the huge restaurant from us.

"I think I've lost my appetite," Tate said.

"At these prices? Better go find it, and fast."

He laughed. "Too bad you're on duty."

"Ain't that the fuckin' truth. Nothing like a cold one with chowder."

"So. What the fuck do you think is going on?"

"Damn, Tate, I have no idea. Maybe Harvey found something on Tottenham, or maybe they were just into the same shit and he met up with Cruella de Vil. Anyway, I asked Pete not to throw a tail on me. I don't think he was lying when he said he wouldn't."

"Really? Well then, Woody, you're missing something. Something big. Why the hell would Tottenham and Brennan both be here? Now? I hate to say it, but it sure feels like someone's following you."

"Us," I said.

"Right. Us." He coughed, looked over at Brennan. "Thanks, I think."

"Don't matter, Tate. Food's good, sun's out... what else matters?"

"Good thinking, Woody." He shook his head at that, and I really couldn't blame him for feeling put-upon. "You'd better think about lining something up with the girl soon."

"Yeah. You working anything major right now?"

"Nope. Not even anything minor."

"Things that slow?"

"Slower. In a recession nobody gives a damn if their spouse is cheating 'cause nobody has any money. I'd sure hate to be a divorce attorney these days."

"No, no you wouldn't. I can guarantee you they've made enough off me the last twenty years to keep themselves in Gucci loafers the rest of their goddamn lives." We laughed, but we'd both been there and done that. Most cops have, and I guess that's why most cops grow old by themselves. Bitter and cynical doesn't even begin to describe it.

We finished up and paid the bill, Dick went over to say 'bye to Tottenham and Brennan while I washed up, then we hopped into the Zodiac and continued up channel to the lake and my boat. The shore was lined with boat dealers and houseboats, and even Tate wanted to linger and look over the little floating shack where they filmed "Sleepless in Seattle."

Whoever it was tailing us was doing a good job; neither of us picked up anything until I turned into the little marina where I kept my boat and even then he was hard to see. Standing up on the second deck of a parking garage overlooking the lake we saw a man with binoculars and a walkie-talkie watching us; he looked away when we looked at him.

"Dark suit," Tate said.

"Sunglasses," I said.

"FBI," we both said. It was an old joke.

"Yeah, but pretty good anyway," Tate said, then we laughed.

"Why would they be watching us?" I said, thinking out loud. "I mean, we're not suspects?"

"Wanna follow you, I guess; see where you lead 'em?"

"Maybe."

"Maybe? What else?"

"Keep us from getting too close to something."

"Woody? You're getting paranoid."

"Damn straight. I hope I'm getting paranoid enough."

"Amen to that, Brother."

+++++

I dropped Tate off by the locks as the sun dropped behind some clouds; the plan was for him to fall way behind me on an agreed-upon route and see who was tailing me. I took my phone out and clipped it to my shirt pocket, hooked up a hands-free headset and took off down Market Street, then turned right on 15th Avenue and crossed Ballard Bridge.

The phone chirped and I looked at the screen. Dispatch.

"Woodward," I said when I answered.

"Detective, there's an urgent call for you from the Medical Examiners."

"Gimme the number." I scribbled the info on a pad and hung up. The phone chirped immediately.

"Yeah?"

"Two cars. Fed plates, and I'm pretty sure there's one on me too."

"Right. Go to the barn."

There was no way to beat this kind of operation; too many resources had been allotted -- and that, really, told me all I needed to know. The FBI had been running some kind of ops; Special Agent Harvey had been made and neutralized. Now, the question was: what role was Tottenham playing, and what did Brennan know, or not know?

I drove back to the lake along Mercer, wound around to Westlake and pulled into the MarinaMart lot and locked the car; I stopped at the pay phone outside the gate and called the MEs office. Mary-Jo picked up on the first ring:

"You alright?" I asked her.

"Yeah. You know the identity of the guy yet?"

"Yeah."

"Okay. So do I."

"What about the stuff you found inside the back door?"

"His property."

"Right. Want some dinner?"

"Sure."

"Ray's Boathouse, Shilshole. Eight o'clock."

"Okay."

"And you'll be followed."

"Okay." She sounded pretty uncomfortable now. There was a little quiver in her voice when she continued: "You too?"

"All day. I'll fill you in at dinner." I hung up, took out my mag-key and held it up to the gate; it buzzed open and I walked though, then turned when I heard cars pulling in. Two black Fords slipped into the lot and parked near mine; I thought I might as well wait for Tate and he pulled in a few minutes later - trailing his own duo of Fords. Tate got out and surprisingly all the other feds did too -- Brennan in the lead. As Tate walked my way the entourage did as well. I stood by the gate and opened it, watched as they filed past silently -- and there was something almost comical in their uniformity -- like every black suit and all the Ray-Bans in the Pacific Northwest had been scooped up by FBI agents, and here they were, my very own parade of Men in Black.

I walked past them and hopped on board the boat -- Brennan and one other agent I didn't know followed me up, and Tate brought up the rear; we went down below and I put on coffee.

"Why'd you have to bring him in?" the unknown agent said, pointing at Tate.

I looked at the man and took in his smug swagger, his pompadour hair, then looked at Pete Brennan: "Don't you people still administer a test that measures the stupidity of your applicants?"

Brennan laughed; Pompadour bristled.

"Look, Woodward," Pompadour said, "its hard enough keeping a lid on things without you, well, without you bringing in every broken down old cop in Seattle."

"I guess you don't ever plan on getting old?" I said. "Is that about the size of it, asshole?"

Pompadour huffed-up, stepped toward me. "Sit down, Rollins," Brennan commanded. Pompadour sat, just like any other well-trained Doberman, but he kept his eyes locked on me.

"I thought you weren't going to throw a tail on me, Pete?"

"I didn't know you were bringing in reinforcements."

I nodded. "Hard to know who you can trust; I'm sure you understand."

Pete scowled. "Did you get the ME's report yet?"

"Nope." He handed me a copy.

"Read it."

I read it. The conclusions were pretty freaky. "Someone dosed him with Viagra?"

"Yeah. He might have been unconscious, by the time they killed him, anyway. Apparently some people can pop a woody, even in their sleep." Pompadour laughed at the misuse, I flipped him the bird. "Best guess is they jacked him off, then shot him up with potassium, caused a massive heart attack."

"They didn't find any..."

"No, it doesn't hang around too long... not much of a half-life. But there are a couple of puncture wounds consistent with an injection site..."

"Diabetes?"

"Fuck, are you kidding?"

"Had to ask."

"Anyway, I hope he was out before they did that to him."

"Okay Pete, why were you with Tottenham this morning?"

"He called, wanted to meet."

"And?"

"And nothing. He didn't even mention the case. Wanted to talk about some Homeland Security shit."

"You know about the tattoo on his chest?"

"What... no?"

"Says 'Love Me', right there in red and blue, right across his heart."

"Fuck."

"No shit, Sherlock." Pompadour, on hearing that little tidbit, turned vivid white on us. "Know any people in your office with something similar?" Both men shook their head.

"So, there's no tail on Mark," Tate stated, a dour look on his face. "That's fucking great. A roman legion on our ass and not one on the prime suspect. Perfect."

"Hey, not our fault," Pompadour said. "You kept us out of the loop, remember?"

"I have a hunch," I interrupted, "that we're dealing with a club of some sort. There may well be a lot of guys with that tattoo. Anyway, I hate jumping to conclusions."

"Right," Brennan said. I could tell he was still holding back. Who the fuck was this clown he'd brought with him?

"So, what's your interest in the case, other than losing an agent?"

"Sorry," Pompadour said. "Need to know basis only."

"So, let me get this straight: you think I don't need to know?"

"No. Not yet, anyway."

I looked at Brennan. He shrugged, said not one word, and didn't even bother to look apologetic.

"Fine," I said. "That's great."

"Your tax dollars at work," Tate said, smiling.

"When are you meeting the girl from the MEs office?" Pete said.

"What? Don't you know already?" Tate shot back.

"There's a limit to what we can do, Bucko. You know? Congress? Ever heard of 'em?"

"Doesn't seem to have stopped you guys much lately," Dick fired back.

Brennan's face was a blank mask: "So no," he said, "we're not monitoring phones."

"You going to drop the tail?"

"No. Not unless you'll wear a wire with a locator."

"No way. Not yet."

"Then we'll be around."

"So, why this meet?"

"Just don't try to shake us, alright," Pompadour said. "Waste of time; anyway, your field-craft sucks."

"Bet you didn't know your mother gave me a blowjob at lunch," Tate chimed in. "She's coming back for seconds in a little bit."

Pompadour fumed, stomped up the companionway ladder and jumped off the boat.

"Nice, Tate. Real class," Brennan said sarcastically. "Alright, the low-down is this: we're going to be on you, that's the point of this meet. Don't try to drop the tail."

"Why, Pete? What are you saying?"

"Just listen to me, Woodward. Don't think. Just listen. Act like you don't know or don't care, your choice, but don't shake the guys on your six."

"I don't like it, Woody," Tate interjected. "Not one fucking bit."

"I don't care, Dick. I'm perfectly happy to lock you up for a few days if you won't play ball."

I got it then. Pete's reasoning was clear. "Okay, Pete. I got it."

He looked at me, relieved. "Be careful, Woody. I mean it."

"I hear you."

He tromped up the steps and all of the Feds trooped off.

"Okay," Tate said, "what am I missing?"

"We're the bait, the tethered goat."

"Oh."

"I couldn't have said it better."

+++++

I looked at my watch: a little after three.

"Better call Tottenham now," I said as I fished out my phone. I called dispatch, they transferred me.

"Chief? Woodward."

"Woody! How was ole Richard doing? Is he getting along well?"

"Not much business, he says. Barely making ends meet." Tate flipped me the bird.

"Oh really? Too bad. Well, pensions don't make up for sloppy retirement planning."

"No sir, they sure don't."

"Do you have the medical examiners report on the FBI guy?"

"I've got to go over and pick it up, sir."

"Oh? Well, fine, fine. Keep me posted on this, would you? Pete seemed pretty bent about it at lunch."

"Will do, sir." With that, the line went dead.

"You gonna meet the girl?" Tate asked.

"Yeah. Eight. At Ray's."

"Shilshole?"

"Yeah."

"You're gonna put on ten pounds today."

I looked down at my stomach. It was still flat -- except when I sat.

"I gotta take a nap," I said. "Been up for two days."

"Okay if I sit here?"

"Sure." I went forward and crawled in my bunk; I think I was out before my head hit the pillow.

+++++

Someone was shaking me, shaking me from somewhere far away.

I opened my eyes. "Fuck," I said.

"What?"

"I said fuck. As in, 'why is that whenever someone wakes me up it's not an insanely gorgeous redhead wanting to sit on my face.'"

"Ah. Yeah, I pretty much have the same problem. It's called getting old, Dickweed."

I sat up, rubbed my eyes. They burned, burned like someone had thrown acid in them. I reached over and grabbed some eyedrops, asked Tate what time it was while I struggled to put them in."

"Six-thirty. You got time to take a bath."

"Thanks. What have you been up to?"

"Looking through your porn stash."

"Hah-hah."

"I was reading a book. 'Cruising in Serrafyn,' by a couple named Pardey. Pretty cool stuff."

"Yeah, I met 'em at the boat show a couple years back. Nice people."

"Well, I get it now. The boat thing."

"Right. Well..."

"Oh, shit, excuse me..."

I shut the door behind him and hopped in the shower, looked in the steamed up mirror when I got out and freaked when I saw that stranger in there again. Man, getting old is the pits.

We locked the boat and went up to the parking lot; the black Fords were nowhere to be seen. Spooky.

"Okay. You sure you don't want to come?"

"No. I'm gonna go home. Got to feed my cat, commune with my Hustler magazine for a while."

I laughed. "As long as you keep the two activities separate!"

"That's just gross, Woody."

"Well, it's nice to know you're getting some pussy."

He stared at me, then shook his head. "You need to get out more."

"Hey, where do ya think I'm going?"

"This ain't a date, Woody. Don't forget that. Anyway, she sounds like damaged goods to me."

I nodded. "Probably right."

"I'll keep my phone on," Tate said.

"Right. Be careful."

"You too."

We got in our cars and I took off toward the bridge, then retraced my earlier route back out past the locks and pulled into Ray's. The lot was nowhere close to full; I wondered where the Feds were; I worried about Tate...

Mary-Jo pulled into the lot and parked; I got out and walked over, opened her door and helped her out. She'd gotten dressed for the occasion -- my khakis and boat shoes were a little shabby next to her rig. I held out my arm and she slipped hers in mine and we walked in, checked-in and went to the bar.

"You look fantastic," I told her. And the truth of it was she did. In fact, she didn't look anything like she had earlier that morning: her hair was down now, her face was made-up discreetly, the dress... well, classy describes it well. Black, low-cut in front, and her legs were simply stunning and a lot of 'em was on display; I felt myself responding to her before I knew what was happening. We got drinks and looked out over the Sound; a ferry was making its way across to Bainbridge Island -- and as this part of the bay is in the shadow of hills that make up Discovery Park the sky was very dark. The snow-capped Olympics across the Sound lay beyond the ferry and I simply wanted to get away from all the ugliness of my job and leave it behind while I could still do something else.

"What are you thinking about?" Mary-Jo asked.

"Out there."

"What?"

"I think I'm ready to retire."

"What? Out there?"

"Yeah."

"Oh, right. The boat."

"So, have a look at this." I pulled out the image of Tottenham and handed it over; she unfolded the paper and looked at it for a split second then folded it back up and gave it back.