Authors: Alafair Burke
M
cKenna’s love life had never been noteworthy until she met Patrick. Two college boyfriends. A shack-up for the last two years of law school, more to save rent than as an audition for marriage. She was starting to get into a relationship with Jason Eberly, aka Nature Boy, when Patrick came around and ruined her for anyone else. Until she met him, breaking up meant exactly that. No polite holiday cards. No phone number stored in the cell. No staying friends. She and Patrick kept going back to each other until they finally got it right.
When she called Jason that morning, it was the first time she had spoken to him in over a decade. She used her maiden name, and even then, there was an awkward silence on the other end of the line. Too composed to ask, “Who?,” Jason obviously needed a moment to place the name. There was another long pause when she asked to see him. “McKenna, I’m, um—I’m very flattered, but I’m married. Two kids. I don’t know how my wife would feel about—”
She resisted the urge to blurt out, “In your dreams!” She was the one who’d broken it off. “Oh, I should have explained. It’s about a group called People for the Preservation of the Planet—for a story I’m working on. I work at
New York City
magazine now.”
“Given that you called me at the firm, you probably know I’m not at the epicenter of the conservation movement anymore. I sold out to the man.”
“Really, I just want to pick your brain. Fifteen minutes. You can bill me if you want.”
From the looks of his office, she was thankful he hadn’t taken up her offer of payment. His sleek glass desk was the size of a queen bed. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered an unobscured view of Central Park. He greeted her with a quick hug, more a pat on the back than an embrace. “You look great, McKenna. Getting out of the hellhole that is legal practice must be the secret to the fountain of youth.”
“The law thing seems to have suited you well.” She was telling the truth. Where he’d been a bit shy and goofy-looking as a younger man, he now appeared confident and comfortable in his own skin.
“You’re interested in the P3s?”
“Is that what they call themselves?” she asked.
“Guess it’s supposed to sound more hard-core, reminiscent of a gang name like the 18th Streeters. They’re an offshoot of the Environmental Liberation Front, or ELF. Even ELF is considered an ecoterrorism group, but the rumor is that P3 was formed by a couple of guys who found ELF’s practices a bit too . . . tame.”
She couldn’t imagine how Susan could be connected to such a group. “How big are they?”
“I don’t know a lot about them,” he said. “The groups I associated with stayed away from ELF. And we were just beginning to hear whispers about a more radical offshoot. These days, the only time I give groups like that any thought is if they’re causing problems for my clients.”
“What kind of problems?”
“Protesting a nuclear power plant, trespassing to collect water samples they hope will validate some conspiracy theory about toxins. But some of these groups go off the deep end. Bomb threats. Chaining themselves to trees scheduled for a chainsaw. Burning down new construction. Breaking animals out of research laboratories.”
“Are they national or located in a certain region?”
“Like I said, I’m no expert. Are you focusing specifically on the P3s, or is your article about ecoterrorism in general?”
She tucked her hair behind her ears—an action that Susan once called her “tell” when trying to teach her poker. “Ecoterrorism in general, but I’ve found that focusing on one example, then placing it in a broader context, can be really effective.”
“Ah, right, like your article on Judge Knight. Excellent job, by the way. Well, if the People for the Preservation of the Planet are going to be your next Big Pig, I think I’ve got the right contact for you. I had to hammer out a document subpoena with an FBI agent last year when one of our cosmetic clients was targeted by activists for testing mascara on rabbits.”
McKenna knew that her face revealed her disgust.
“Never gave any thought to where your makeup comes from, huh? Anyway, the agent knew this ecoterrorism stuff backward and forward. I could give her a call and grease the wheels. Maybe you can get a sit-down.”
He dialed a number and put his phone on speaker. Four rings. “You’ve reached Special Agent Jamie Mercado.”
At the beep, he picked up the handset. “This is Jason Eberly. We worked on the . . .” He said the first half of the name of a well-known cosmetic company, then smiled at McKenna. “That matter involving the rabbit research last year. I have a friend here—McKenna Jordan with
New York City
magazine. She’s been researching a group called People for the Preservation of the Planet. She was hoping to get some background information, and I thought of you.” He left his number and asked for a return call.
McKenna was thanking him for his time when his phone rang. “Well, that was quick,” he said, looking at the caller identification screen. “This is Jason. Thanks for calling me back so quickly, Agent Mercado. I’ve got McKenna right here. I’m going to put you on speaker, if that’s okay.”
“Ms. Jordan, this is Jamie Mercado with the FBI. I’m going to need you to come into the field office to see me. We’re at 26 Federal Plaza. You can check in on the twenty-third floor.”
McKenna could tell by the tone of the agent’s voice that she was not offering a friendly sit-down for assistance with an article.
“I appreciate the offer, Agent Mercado, but would tomorrow work for an appointment? I want to make sure I’m thoroughly prepared so I can make the best use of your time.”
“Am I correct that you have been investigating the People for the Preservation of the Planet? Known as the P3s?”
“I wouldn’t call it investigating. I’ve been researching an article.”
“And how exactly did you end up focusing on that group?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“I can play back Jason’s message if necessary. He said you were interested specifically in the P3s.”
“Is there something wrong, Agent?”
“Like I said, Ms. Jordan, I’m going to need you to meet me at the field office. And just to be clear, I can get a grand jury subpoena if one is required. There is no privilege that protects journalists from testifying.”
McKenna couldn’t imagine what this FBI agent thought she could possibly offer. It looked like she would find out soon enough. “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
A
s Scanlin approached apartment 404, he heard the repetitive thump-thump-thump of generic dance music. He rapped the base of his fist against the front door to the beat, then heard the volume drop. A voice behind the door yelled, “Wrong apartment, man.”
“Police. Just a couple quick questions, Mr. Roca.”
Roca was tying his black silk robe when he opened the door. Scanlin was overpowered by the oaky smell of cologne.
“Sorry,” Roca offered as he turned to primp his hair in a full-length mirror just inside the entrance. “Running late for a date. The smell fades fast. I swear.”
Roca didn’t seem interested, but Scanlin flashed his badge out of habit. A quick look around the studio apartment revealed more tasteful choices than Scanlin would have expected, given the first impression. Natural wood floors. White walls. Neutral furniture. What Melissa would have called “pops” of color from matching pillows and accessories. Had to be either a girlfriend’s or a decorator’s touch.
“You sure you’re at the right place?” Roca asked. “Can’t think of anything police would need here.”
“It’s an old case. Taking a new look. You remember Susan Hauptmann?”
Roca shook his head immediately, then paused as the name sank in. “Oh yeah. That’s the girl from next door. What happened with that?”
Scanlin shrugged. “That’s why I’m here. We never talked to you back then.”
Roca laughed nervously. “You’re kidding me, right? That was, like, eight years ago.”
“Ten.”
“Talk about taking your time.” Roca walked to a double-wide closet and began flipping through a row of neatly hung dress shirts. “What do you need to know?”
“Did you know her?”
“No. I mean, by sight, yeah. Exchanged pleasantries in the hallway, that kind of thing. But I didn’t even know her name until after everyone was looking for her.”
“You were out of town when that happened.”
Roca squinted, searching his memory. “That’s right. Got sent to L.A. on a client project for over a month. When I got back, the posters were still up. That kind of thing.”
“Susan was a pretty girl,” Scanlin said. “
Really
pretty. Liked to date, from what I heard.”
“Yeah, I’d see her come and go with guys. Girls, too. You know. Social, like that.”
“How about you? She never came or went with you?”
“This has to be a joke. Seriously, is someone punking me?”
Scanlin took out his badge again so Roca could get a better look. “No joke. Just crossing all the T’s. Making sure we didn’t miss anything. Turns out one of your neighbors heard you arguing in here with a woman two nights before Susan disappeared. Sounded to her like domestic violence. Lo and behold, after Susan disappears, you up and leave for a month. Then there’s that pesky arrest you had for assaulting a woman a few years ago.”
“That girl was crazy. She found lipstick on some cigarette butts in my garbage and started trashing the place. I was trying to calm her down, and she called 911 on me. You can’t think—”
“I’m just trying to make sure the lady you were fighting with two nights before your neighbor disappeared wasn’t Susan Hauptmann. So why don’t you give me a name, and I’ll be on my way.”
“It was ten years ago. I have no fucking clue.”
“So
think
, Roca. And I’ll make it easy for you. It was November twenty-seventh, on Thanksgiving.”
“Dammit. Fine, okay. Um, wait. I was gone by then. Figured I was starting the L.A. gig December first, I might as well make it down to Santa Fe to see my folks for Turkey Day. I left the day before. Hold up. Who called the police about this supposed argument at my place?”
Scanlin didn’t respond.
“Was it that crazy bird in 402? Had to be. Now she’s nearly deaf, but yeah, she was still calling the cops constantly back then. She was always getting the apartments mixed up. Apparently directional hearing wasn’t a real strength.”
Scanlin gave closer thought to the layout of the small complex. Four apartments on one floor. Five floors total. Two voices fighting inside an apartment. The echo of the stairway running floor to ceiling through the center of the building like a fire pole. Thanking the man for his time, Scanlin left Roca to his primping and crossed the hallway to apartment 402.
H
er neighbor had been right: Vera Hadley was nearly deaf. She was also a hoarder. What probably began as small stacks of magazines, newspapers, collectibles, videotapes, out-of-season clothing—just waiting for the right moment to be sorted through—had grown into layers of padding throughout the apartment. From what Scanlin could see, the poor woman had enough free space to navigate from the entrance, to one empty spot on her sofa, to the kitchen, and—God willing—to a bathroom.
They’d been making progress since Scanlin had given up any semblance of speaking in a normal voice and begun screaming into her hearing aid. Yes, she remembered Susan Hauptmann from down the hall (followed by a saddened
tsk
and a shake of the head). Yes, she remembered frequently calling the police over the years. Yes, she supposed it was possible that if an argument had erupted in that “nice woman’s” apartment, she might have attributed it to the “carouser” across the hall.
When he gave her the date of the noise complaint and asked what she recalled about the incident, he expected either a blank stare or a long recitation of every dispute she’d ever overheard. What he did not expect was the woman to stand up from her cubbyhole on the couch and say, “Let me get my notes.”
T
oo familiar. Recast.” McKenna remembered her editor’s comment, red-penciled in the margin of the manuscript for
Unreasonable Doubt
. The note was in response to McKenna’s depiction of an FBI agent who appeared at the local police precinct to exercise federal jurisdiction over the investigation.
But McKenna had met a few FBI agents in her time at the district attorney’s office, usually when the feds were cherry-picking her best drug cases, and they’d all been straitlaced, clean-cut, and rigid. They had deep voices, didn’t laugh, and favored midpriced suits from places like JoS. A. Bank. Just because it was a stereotype didn’t mean it wasn’t true.
But Jamie Mercado didn’t fit the mold. She was petite, with long, dark, wavy hair and a full face of makeup, complete with cherry-red lipstick. Like agents McKenna had worked with in the past, she wanted answers, but instead of resorting to legalese and bureaucratic officiousness, Mercado leaned across the table toward McKenna, raising her voice in obvious anger. These were moves McKenna associated more with the NYPD than the FBI, and she had experienced them only from the other side of one-way glass.
“For a full-time reporter with a reputable magazine, you don’t seem to know much about a topic you’re supposedly investigating. Not the name of a single person associated with the group. No information about the organizational structure or geographic focus. Not the details of even
one
of their suspected anti-industry missions.”
“I told you,” McKenna said, “I just started looking into it.”
She knew that any false statement to a federal agent—even outside a courtroom, whether she was under oath or not—was a felony. She was not required to offer information, and she could refuse to answer, but she had to ensure that every utterance from her mouth was true—at least technically.
“Yes, you’ve said that so many times, you’re beginning to sound like a windup doll. So, fine. I went to college. I remember what it’s like to write a paper. You think you have an idea, so you dig around a bit to see if you’re interested, if there’s enough material to merit a deeper search.”
McKenna nodded in agreement. No falsity there.
The college Mercado was referring to would have been the University of Idaho. In a quick briefing from Jason Eberly, McKenna had learned that Mercado was a good and thorough agent who treated her hunt for ecoterrorists as a personal calling. With the resources of a large law firm and their corporate clients behind him, Jason had done some digging into Mercado’s background to get a better sense of the woman who had been his bunny-blinding client’s best ally against the protestors. After two years of full-time college, she took another four to graduate because she had to help raise her younger sister. Her father, a logger, went on disability after his chain saw hit a railroad spike that activists embedded in the trunk of a western red cedar in the Nez Perce National Forest.
“But from what I remember,” Mercado continued, “you still have to get the idea from
somewhere
. A newspaper article. A comment made by a friend. A report on the radio. How did you come to hear about the P3s? They’re one of the lesser known militant environmental activist groups.”
“I don’t always remember where ideas come from.” Technically true.
“When you say you’ve just begun your research, what do you mean? What precisely have you done?”
McKenna could refuse to answer, but there was no privilege to avoid testifying if Mercado got a grand jury subpoena. And this was her opportunity to learn more about the P3s and why an FBI agent was so determined to talk about them.
“I’d be more comfortable sharing my work product if I knew you had a real need for it, Agent. My understanding is that the FBI is prohibited from engaging in general information gathering about political groups.”
McKenna’s lawyering skills weren’t entirely rusty. The statement was perfect. An offer to cooperate. The reference to work product, suggesting she had something of value to offer. The not so veiled threat to expose the FBI’s activities if they ran afoul of federal restrictions against domestic spying.
“You can rest assured that we don’t gather intelligence against American citizens based on their exercise of First Amendment rights. Maybe if we did, I wouldn’t need to question a private reporter for essential background information after a bomb comes close to wiping out an entire residential block.”
McKenna felt the air leave her throat. She couldn’t breathe. A
bomb
? When her mouth finally opened, she felt herself wanting to tell Mercado everything. The subway video. The P3 button on the backpack. McKenna’s suspicion that the woman carrying the backpack was Susan Hauptmann. What had Susan gotten herself into? What had
she
gotten herself into?
Then she remembered all those interrogations she had watched from behind the one-way glass. Just as McKenna had chosen her words to convince Mercado to reveal her motivations, a good agent might say anything to test McKenna’s resolve. How many times had she seen detectives lie to get a confession?
“What bomb?” she asked.
“An explosion in Brentwood—out near Islip—last night. We’ve managed to keep it quiet so far. The Long Island papers are calling it a suspected gas leak.” Mercado pulled a photograph from a file folder and slid it across the table toward McKenna. The second level of the house was gone, replaced by shards of wood and drywall. “The next-door neighbor’s air-conditioning unit blew out of its casing. The expert tells me anyone within six feet of the epicenter would’ve evaporated into a ‘pretty pink mist.’ Those were his exact words—the kind of juicy tidbit you’d like for an article. It’ll be a while before we can identify them or know the number of bodies.”
McKenna had no way of verifying Mercado’s story. Was the agent holding up her half of an information-exchange bargain, or laying on the details to give a lie more credibility?
“What about the neighbors?”
“Got lucky. We found some other bombing materials at the site, but those didn’t ignite. Looks like the bad guys were building something and set it off accidentally. One of the surviving residents is a dumb little thing—barely drinking age, searching for an identity. Maybe thirty years ago she would’ve ended up with the Krishnas. Now she’s a so-called ‘environmental activist.’ She shacked up with a group of older P3s. Denying any knowledge of the bombing materials, but . . .” She trailed off, as if everyone knew that denials were predictable, false, and temporary. “They had enough fertilizer to take out an entire warehouse when mixed with the right ingredients. We don’t know the intended target, the date of the planned attack, or who else might be out there to complete the job. So I’m thinking that for a reporter who wants to do the right thing—a former prosecutor, to boot—that might be a good enough reason to answer a few questions.”
McKenna slid her iPad from her bag. “You remember last weekend a woman pulled a teenager from the subway tracks at Times Square?”
Mercado nodded.
“A girl on the platform tried to get a cell video of it. The video’s been deleted, but I managed to get this still shot of the woman’s backpack.”
“That’s the P3 insignia,” Mercado said.
“I didn’t know that at first, but yes. I read a few articles online about the group and then went to Jason this morning to see if he could point me in the right direction.”
“So you were just looking for the subway woman?” Mercado was clearly disappointed that McKenna didn’t have a more ambitious research project in the works.
“That’s all. I went to the kid who got rescued. I tried the MTA’s security cameras. This was just one piece of a wild goose chase. If it makes you feel any better, I won’t be writing about the bombing. Unless something goes down in the city, our magazine treats it like it didn’t happen.” McKenna didn’t know the area well, but Brentwood was out in Suffolk County, forty-plus miles from Manhattan.
“And you still don’t know who the woman with the backpack is?”
“No.” The denial was legally permissible, since McKenna didn’t
know
anything, but after the word came out, she wondered if she had done the right thing.
She could tell that Mercado believed her now. “When you were looking for your mystery girl, did any of these names come up?” The agent pushed another sheet of paper across the table.
McKenna didn’t recognize any of the four names—three female, one male. “Who are they?”
Mercado heard the question but didn’t answer.
“I told you, Agent, this isn’t on my magazine’s map. To be honest, most of what we print these days is what we call ‘lifestyle.’ What you’d probably call gossip. You won’t see a story from me on the bombing.”
“Doesn’t mean I need to share my sandbox, though, does it? You mind showing yourself out?”
McKenna could tell there was no point in arguing. She wished the agent the best of luck with the investigation and made her way back to the reception area.
She knew from her time as a prosecutor that the federal building was closely monitored. Her descent in the elevator, her march through the lobby, her traipse to the next block would all be on screens for Mercado and her pals to view, if they were interested.
So McKenna gave them no reason to be interested. She did her best to appear calm. Indifferent, even. But mentally, she was repeating the four names Mercado had asked her about, over and over again, committing them to memory.