After the Fall (39 page)

“You said a couple of things,” Long said. “What else?”

“Badur Hammadi,” Sharkey said. “He also showed up at Abdul's place last evening. Went in, recorded on security camera, but no evidence of him leaving. When our guys were in there to pick up her computer, they did a quick inspection. Nobody home. Nothing out of order.”

“So what you got,” Long summed up, “are three
don't knows.”

“Only a matter of time, sir,” Sharkey said, starting to get up, knowing her boss wanted to leave.

“When you do find Hammadi,” Long asked, “any basis to keep him?”

“Guy's got a clean record. Naturalized citizen. Good job in a bank—Chase Manhattan.”

“What about Dr. Abdul?” Long consulted his notes. “Adawia? That how you say it?”

“Yeah, she goes by ‘Addie,'” Sharkey said. “Didn't get anything out of her except acknowledgment that her father was the Doctor Jamail Abdul, and her father is ill. She's concerned about him. Her last trip home was four years ago. Hasn't seen him since then. And don't forget, she has a ticket to fly to London on Friday.”

“All things considered,” Long said, rising from his chair, gathering his papers, “we have more important threats to worry about than these two. Follow up on the hard drives. If there's nothing there, let the woman leave the country, but have Immigration pull her green card so she's not coming back. Hammadi is another story. He needs to tell us about that satellite image the NSA pulled up in Baghdad. As for Harter, let Philly take care of him.”

“We'll grab Hammadi, sir. He'll tell us what we want to know.”

“Hands off, hotshot. Leave the shady stuff to the CIA. Now, I'm off to see my kid's game.”

T
HURSDAY
, M
ARCH
5

Laura tried to disguise her trepidation as she headed to the table in the far corner of the lobby where a middle-aged black man sat alone. Fashionably dressed in a navy-blue suit, white shirt, striped navy-and-white tie, he appeared the epitome of a successful business man, except for his hair, worn in an old-fashioned Afro. Lonnie Greenwood stood up as she approached. Taller than Tim, maybe six-foot-three, lean but muscular.

“I'm Laura Nelson,” she said, extending her hand.

“Lonnie Greenwood.” He took her hand, shook it with a firm grasp. “I've been curious to meet you for a long time, Dr. Nelson. Thanks for meeting me here on short notice. When my secretary found out from your office you were here… Well, I do believe in serendipity.”

Laura didn't know what to say. She remained silent as she sat in the chair he held for her.

“I work for Detroit Mayor Coleman Young,” Greenwood said, “and happened to be in Washington to go over some matters with former DC Mayor Marion Barry, a gentleman who's gotten himself in hot water, as you may know. But he's determined to make a comeback, and he's got friends who will help him.”

To say something, Laura asked, “You said you know Mayor Freedman from Tampa, my hometown?”

“Yes. I know Sandra. She's the person who told me about
you. She speaks highly of you. But I hear your new hometown is Philadelphia. I know Mayor Green too. But never mind mayors. I want to talk about my son. You've looked into his case?”

Laura sighed with relief as Greenwood moved into familiar territory. “I know about your son,” she said. “I reviewed his records. I agree he needs a lung transplant, and I was able to move him to the top of the list in Tampa. When Dr. Plant—who's taking my place at Tampa City—gets a lung with a favorable match profile, it will go to your son. And, of course, I'd recommend Immunone therapy. The clinical trial results are—”

Greenwood reached over and took her hand. “Bless you,” he said. “Johnny is my only child. Maya, his mother, moved from Detroit to Tampa in 1969 before he was born. I know you were in medical school in Detroit during that time.”

“Yes,” Laura said. She didn't like his familiarity with her history. But the man did seem genuinely grateful for what she'd done on behalf of his son. Waiting lists for lungs were long. In Tampa, there were thirty-eight qualified candidates, and a healthy lung from a compatible donor came along rarely. No telling how long it would take to get a match for young Johnny Greenwood, but he would get top priority.

“I told Lucy Jones I'd be seeing you.” The man's Afro bobbed as he spoke. “She was pleased. She's a big fan of yours. Made me promise to give you her best wishes. More than any human being on this planet, I respect that woman. Losing two sons, raising four daughters on her own. Well, you knew her back then.”

Laura nodded, wondered if she should pull back her hand, but didn't.

“Did you know she credits you for ‘saving' her daughters? When Stacy started to drift into the gangs, you befriended her. And now she's a brilliant doctor. Making a name for herself in Atlanta at the CDC. You know, I saw you at her medical school graduation party at Lucy's house. I couldn't help but notice how all the Jones girls looked up to you. Frankly, I was dumbfounded—under the circumstances.”

Where was he going with this? Does he know I killed one of Lucy Jones' sons?

“And little Katie is a psychiatrist. You didn't know Anthony, but that boy was going places—until he got mowed down by the cops. I was there that night. I was in ‘Nam too, but I never saw anything like that July night in 1967 when Detroit burned.”

Anthony had been in a vegetative state when he'd been assigned to her—her first patient. That's how she'd met Lucy. How eventually she had found herself cornered one disastrous night in a deserted parking lot by Anthony's brother Johnny. And, ultimately, how she'd come to kill Johnny. How much of this did Lonnie Greenwood know?

“The Detroit riots,” mumbled Laura. “Terrible times.”

The man let go of her hand, and now sat with his head bowed in contemplation. “You seem like a nice woman,” he finally said. “But I gotta tell you that I know. I know it was you who shot Johnny. Snake told me. Snake also said he was shaking you down for drugs. Would have kept it up too, if he hadn't gotten himself killed. Bet you didn't know that it was my gun he used to kill that doctor at the graduation ceremony.”

Laura felt her heart stop. The weapon that killed her beloved David, Patrick's father, belonged to the man now sitting across from her?

“Learned a lot about guns in ‘Nam. Got shot up there too. Still got a gimpy leg.”

Still, Laura said nothing. Her breaths were shallow, she felt faint, but she met his eyes, questioning.

“I was down, and Snake took the weapon off me so I wouldn't off myself. Wasn't until I got into rehab that I even cared enough to look up Maya. Found out I had a son. He was four years old then. Had a lot of breathing problems, pneumonia, things like that. Eventually got diagnosed with cystic fibrosis.”

Laura couldn't hold out any longer. “Why are you telling me this, Mr. Greenwood?”

“Please, call me Lonnie.”

“Okay, Lonnie. And I'm Laura.”

The man reached into his pocket and pulled out a three-by-five-inch faded photo. She recognized the background as Detroit, but not the exact location, somewhere around the medical complex. “See that mural on the building in the background?”

Laura nodded, then gasped. She recognized four out of the five faces: Johnny and Anthony Diggs, Ray Rogers—aka Snake—an unknown young black man, and Lonnie Greenwood with a very large Afro.

“Snake painted that mural. Then the city tore down the building. He was enraged with the world.” Lonnie pushed the photo closer. “We called ourselves the Alexandrine gang,” he said. “All dead now, except me.” He pointed out the three boys she'd known back then: Anthony, Johnny, Snake. “There's me and Willie, poor kid overdosed on heroin.”

Laura stared at the photo, then pointed out Lonnie. “I've seen you before. I was a medical student when they brought you into the ER that night. Was that Maya with you?”

Lonnie straightened, his eyes widened in shock. “Yes. So you know—”

Laura cringed at the memory. “I was with the chief of surgery for an orientation. He took me into your treatment room. So yes, I know. There'd been a television crew filming in the ER that night.”
And I was injured that night too
. Nothing she intended to share with Greenwood.

“Then you're only one of a very few who know about my infirmity. With my buddies all dead…”

Laura wondered what it must be like for a young man to go through life with his penis destroyed by his girlfriend's firearm blast. Maya must have been pregnant at the time. Laura wondered if she'd spent time in jail.

“Son of a bitch.” Greenwood grimaced, set his glass of water down, and leaned in closer to her. “So I know your secret and you know mine.”

“What do you want from me?” Laura asked.

“I wanted help for my son,” he said. “Once your Tampa mayor mentioned your name, I made the connection, remembered what went down in Detroit.”

What went down in Detroit. The focus even now of Laura's constant nightmares. If only it had been just a nightmare.

“Thought I'd use what we call—leverage,” he continued. “That's the main reason I contacted you. But I always planned to let
you
know
I
know what happened all those years ago. When I first started working for the mayor, I used to plot how I'd expose you, make you pay.” Lonnie leaned back, picked up his water glass, drained it. “But you know what? I see all the good you've done. Now you've jumped in to help my son, I don't want to harm you.” Lonnie's lips curled up in a crooked smile. “And now you have something on me.”

Should she say more? Should she tell him how Johnny had raped her? Threatened to kill her? That what she'd done was self-defense? Or just leave it at this between them? A sort of truce.

Laura met his gaze and, for a long moment, neither moved.

“Thank you,” she said, having made her decision.

Could she trust him? Would the truth always hover over her life like a shadow?

And the haunting question: should she tell Tim? Did she have the courage to tell Tim?

She didn't think so.

F
RIDAY
, M
ARCH
6

In daylight, Jake surveyed his surroundings. He'd chosen well last night, camouflaging the Blazer in a remote clump of dead trees on Maryland farmland, well off the beaten track. Small chance some farmer would detect the vehicle before he was long gone. The weather wasn't bad for early March, the temperature in the mid-forties.

Despite the cramped quarters, Jake had slept well. He'd changed into sweats, folding his dress clothes carefully. With the Blazer seat reclined, covered by his comforter, and the firm pillow he preferred, he had no complaints.

After stepping outside to urinate, he rummaged through the backpack for water and a protein bar. Clumsily, moving as fast as he could in the chilly front seat, he changed into the same suit he'd worn yesterday, but he pulled a clean shirt and a different tie out of the garment bag. Before heading off, he needed to select his carry weapons. Sadly, the sweet Browning had to be tossed in the Potomac last night, after he'd used it on the Arab. He'd take one of his Glocks as his primary, tuck it into the pocket of his bulky winter jacket; the Beretta would go in the ankle holster. Using a gun was not part of the plan for phase one of this mission: pick up Addie. Definitely, he'd need a firearm for phase two: assassinate Nelson, and it wouldn't be a handgun. Jake prided himself on his diverse skills: he could be mountain man; hard-core
assassin; city slicker. By the end of the day, he'd show the world all three.

When Addie hadn't shown up at the courthouse yesterday, he blamed Nelson. Addie idolized that woman, and Nelson would stop at nothing to get back at him for losing the Immunone data. So she played up to Addie to try to discourage her from marrying him. Well, this was a game she would lose, terminally.

Jake fired up the Blazer, appreciating the on-demand heater, and pulled onto the rural road, heading toward Rockville. He turned on the radio, then flipped it off, hearing only news and morning talk shows. He was not interested in the news. Hell, he'd be making the news today. But first, he had to put a few things in order.

He'd have to rearrange the gear in the Blazer into more manageable containers to prepare for the likelihood of changing vehicles. He cursed the asshole who had smashed his Jeep. He'd created the perfect compartments to store guns, ammo, camping gear. Now all that was out in the open. He'd gone to the trouble to download his eclectic collection of music onto a set of CDs, which he kept by his side in the Jeep right next to his assortment of maps. At least the Blazer had 4-wheel drive, but would the tires withstand the rough back roads?

Jake didn't like feeling scared, and he may never admit it even to himself, but he was scared to go back and reclaim his Jeep. Those cop cars spooked him. But how could the cops possibly have anything on the Jeep? The Philadelphia hit had been a few weeks ago. Nobody could connect it to him. Or could they? Nelson's voice message on Addie's phone did mention a
Jeep
.

On his way to Rockville, where he knew he'd find Addie at the Immunone press conference, he stopped by McDonald's, using the men's room to clean up and shave. After today, he may let his beard grow. Arab style. Addie would like that.

Heading toward Rockville, Jake forced himself to consider a worst-case scenario. What if that Arab's body was traced back to him? Lots of people would know that both he and the dead guy
were linked to Addie. Thankfully, he'd disposed of the gun. But if they did connect Mr. Arab to Addie, they'd check her apartment and find trace evidence everywhere. His and Mr. Arab's. No problem. He and Addie were to be married, of course he'd have left DNA and fingerprints. And she had a history with the Arab. So what?