Final Sins (24 page)

Loud rapping roused Wyatt from sleep. He looked at his clock on the wall: 6:15 p.m.

He’d been awake for much of the day, but had taken a nap on his sofa around five o’clock. Irregular sleeping habits were one of the hazards of working the night watch.

He checked his peephole and saw a man and woman in official-looking suits in the hallway. Immediately he knew they were trouble.

He opened the door. “May I help you?”

“Victor Wyatt?” the man asked.

Nobody called him Victor. “Yes.”

“We’re from the FBI. We’d like to talk to you.”

He could ask what this was about, but there was no point. They would tell him when they were ready. “Sure, no problem. Come on in.” It had to involve Abby. He was sure of it.

He sat on his couch and gestured vaguely to the other seats available—a somewhat ratty armchair and an uncomfortable folding chair with a canvas seat. Perhaps wisely, the two agents chose to stand. Of course, this also gave them a psychological advantage over him, but he tried not to worry about that.

“You’re acquainted with a woman named Abby Sinclair,” the woman said. She was about forty, with reddish blond hair. Somehow he had the impression he’d seen her before.

“That’s not a question.”

“No, Mr. Wyatt. It’s a statement of fact.”

“Do I know you?”

“I don’t believe so.”

“Come to think of it,” he said, “I never did get a look at your credentials.”

This was an obvious play for time, but he knew they had to show him their ID upon request. They did. He studied the two leather-backed ID folders. The man was named Ronald Hauser, and the woman ...

“Tess McCallum. Now I know why you look familiar.”

“Your reputation precedes you,” Hauser told her sardonically.

“You did a hell of a job on Mobius,” Wyatt said, not trying to kiss up to her, just stating a fact. “And the Rain Man ... Medea ...”

Something crossed McCallum’s face when the last two cases were mentioned. “Abby’s never spoken to you about me, I take it?”

“Why would she? Does she know you?”

“She’s ... she’s a friend of mine.”

Wyatt found this hard to believe, and said so.

Hauser cut in. “Why is it so implausible? You’re in law enforcement, and you’re a friend of hers. A very close friend—aren’t you, Mr. Wyatt?”

“It’s Lieutenant Wyatt,” he corrected. “LAPD.” As an intimidation tactic, this was weak. The feds never allowed themselves to be impressed by local law officers.

“Yes. We’re very much aware of your rank.” Hauser’s tone was cool. “Do you think it’s appropriate for a lieutenant of the LAPD to be consorting with Abby Sinclair?”

“I don’t know.” He glanced at McCallum. “Is it appropriate for an agent of the FBI to
consort
with her?”

Hauser wouldn’t be put off. “You’ve had a long-term, secret relationship with Miss Sinclair. You’ve visited her at the Wilshire Royal on numerous occasions. And you’ve used an assumed name.”

He thought about denying it, but knew it was hopeless. “That’s not a crime.”

“Conspiring with a vigilante
is
a crime. Lieutenant Wyatt.” Hauser was bearing down, playing the bad cop. “Giving inside information to a civilian who routinely goes outside the law is a crime.”

Wyatt shrugged, feigning indifference, though his heart was starting to race. “You’re fishing. You don’t know anything.”

McCallum took over. Her voice was gentle. “Abby’s in trouble, Victor.”

So she was the good cop. Using his first name, making nice, showing sympathy. Oldest ploy in interrogation techniques, but damn if it didn’t work.

“Call me Vic,” he said reluctantly. “That’s what everyone calls me.”

“Okay, Vic.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“She’s implicated in the murder of a federal agent.”

He shook his head, rejecting the idea out of hand. “That’s not possible.”

“She claims she was acting in self-defense.”

“When is this supposed to have happened?” But he already knew.

“Last night.”

Hauser broke in again. “Have you had any contact with Miss Sinclair in the past twenty-four hours?”

Lying to FBI agents was a federal crime. “Yes.”

“When?”

“She showed up here last night. She was here when I returned from work. I was supervising the night watch.”

“What time was this?”

“About three thirty a.m.”

“What did she say to you?”

“Nothing much. She was a little ... stressed out. Wanted to bunk with me. That’s all.”

“When did she leave?”

“Sometime before I woke up.”

Hauser scowled, observing Wyatt’s unruly hair. “Looks like you just woke up now.”

“I was up earlier, about seven a.m. Abby was gone by then. I’d only gotten three hours’ sleep, so I took a nap about an hour ago.”

“Abby showed up last night at three thirty in the morning,” McCallum said, “and you didn’t ask her what it was all about?”

“I asked. She didn’t want to talk about it. She’s not real big on sharing.”

McCallum nodded. “Keeps her distance.”

“Always has.” He felt a moment of connection, of shared understanding with this woman, and fought it off. It was what she wanted him to feel.

“Look, Vic,” she said in a disarmingly low voice. “Abby killed one of our people. There may be extenuating circumstances. But we’re not going to know until we get her cooperation.”

“What are you asking for?”

“We need to determine her whereabouts.”

“So you can arrest her.”

“So we can begin to sort things out. Now—as soon as possible—before the situation gets any more out of control.”

“You mentioned the Wilshire Royal. Post some men there. She’ll show up eventually.”

“No, she won’t. She’s gone to ground.”

“How can you know that?”

“Because I’ve spoken with her on the phone. She admitted pulling the trigger. She knows we’re after her. She won’t be going home.”

Wyatt stood, unable to remain seated any longer. “Wait a minute. You’re saying she confessed to the crime?”

“She did.”

“And she
knows
it was a fed?”

“Yes.”

“And still she won’t give herself up?”

“That’s right.”

Wyatt turned away. He had to think about this. Think hard.

That Abby could kill a law officer was bad enough. That she could know what she’d done and still refuse to face the consequences ... it was incomprehensible.

Did he even know her? Had he
ever
known her?

“I couldn’t help you,” he heard himself say, “even if I wanted to. I haven’t talked to her since last night. I don’t have a clue where she is now.”

“We were thinking you’d have a way to reach her,” McCallum said.

He turned to face them. “Cell phone. Landline in her condo.”

“Those options won’t help.”

“They’re all I’ve got.”

McCallum stepped closer. “Possibly at some point she’ll contact you.”

“Why would she?”

“You’re her friend. She needs a friend right now. Or maybe you know how to contact her.”

“I already told you. I don’t.”

Hauser folded his arms. “Your cooperation would be advisable, Lieutenant Wyatt. That is, if you want to retain that rank.”

McCallum added, “We’re not trying to threaten you, Vic.”

Like hell they weren’t.

Wyatt noted how smoothly they switched from intimidation to empathy and back again. It was an act—yet they weren’t bullshitting him. He knew that. They’d lost a colleague. They were feeling the loss.

“We’re just telling you how it’s going to be. Lieutenant,” Hauser said. “Without your cooperation, we’ll have to report to your superiors. Internal Affairs will get involved.”

“We call them Professional Standards now,” Wyatt commented for no reason.

“They’ll be on the case,” Hauser went on. “They’ll want to know if you passed investigative details to Abby Sinclair. If you compromised the department, abused your authority, by cooperating with a private vigilante.”

“Abby’s not a vigilante. And I never told her anything confidential.”

“No, I suppose all you and Sinclair talked about was the weather.”

Apparently she wasn’t Miss Sinclair anymore. The bad cop was getting
badder
.

“Vic,” McCallum said in a softer tone, “let’s face it. It looks pretty serious for you. At the very least you’ll face disciplinary action. You could be terminated altogether. How many years have you put in at the department?”

“Fourteen,” he said quietly.

“And there could be legal action,” Hauser said. “Criminal charges. If Sinclair is found guilty of murder, you could be charged as an accessory.”

“That’s bullshit.” Bad cop was overplaying his hand.

“It’s unlikely things would go that far,” McCallum soothed. “The point is, you stand to lose a lot if you don’t give us your full cooperation.”

“I told you, I have no idea where she would go.” Wyatt met her gaze. “If you really do know Abby, then you know she’s not the type to confide in anybody. She plays it close to the vest.”

“That she does.” McCallum hesitated. “Did she tell you who her latest client is?”

They had to know already, so he answered. “Peter Faust.”

“How did you feel about her working for Faust?”

“It’s her business, not mine.”

“So you had no opinion.”

“Okay, it pissed me off, all right?”

“Took you by surprise?”

“Yeah.”

McCallum nodded. “Me, too. But maybe we shouldn’t have been surprised. Abby’s changed, don’t you think?”

“Haven’t noticed.”

“I think you have. I’ve noticed, and I don’t know her nearly as well as you do. She’s gotten more reckless. More dangerous.”

“Abby isn’t a danger to anybody—” He stopped himself.

“Tell that to Special Agent Mark Brody.”

“That’s the man she killed,” Hauser said.

“Right before she came here to console herself in your arms.” McCallum paused to let that sink in. “Vic, I want you to think about Agent Brody. He was a veteran, a Green Beret. After leaving the service, he joined the Bureau. On the Faust case he was under deep cover. He was taking big risks, dealing with a known murderer in a sting operation.”

Wyatt was trying not to let her get to him. “Now you’re going to tell me about his wife and kids.”

“Yes, I am. His wife, Patricia, is seven months pregnant with their second child. She already has a little boy. Now those kids will grow up without a father.”

He looked away. His throat was dry, “Because of Abby.”

“How would you feel if it was a cop she’d gunned down?” Hauser asked. “One of your guys?”

“It might just as well have been,” McCallum said. “You and Brody were on the same team. Whose team is Abby on?”

Wyatt shut his eyes. “Abby’s not exactly a team player.”

“No, she isn’t.”

He was silent. He didn’t know if he could stand by Abby if she’d killed someone who worked his side of the street. Killing a federal agent ... it really
was
no different from killing a cop.

But he couldn’t give her up. Couldn’t betray her. Not after all their years together.

He gathered himself. “You two are good,” he said as nonchalantly as possible. “Been working together long?”

“We don’t work together,” McCallum said. “I’m from out of town.”

“Right. Denver, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“You came to L.A. because of Abby?”

She nodded. “And because we lost one of our own. You know how that is. How many funerals have you attended? How many times have you had to put black tape over your badge?”

Too many times, was the answer. He tried not to think about that. “Working undercover,” he said, “you assume certain risks ...” It sounded weak even to him.

McCallum’s gaze drilled into him. “You accept the risk of being taken down by the bad guy. But Abby’s not the bad guy.”

“Or is she?” Hauser asked.

That was the big question. Abby played by her own rules—but maybe she’d lost the ability to set any rules.

“Look,” he said slowly, “what the hell do you want me to say? I don’t agree with all the choices she’s made. I didn’t like her working for a scumbag like Faust. I told her so.”

“What did she say?” McCallum asked.

“Nothing. I don’t know. We argued.”

“I’ll bet there have been a lot of arguments lately.”