Let Me Go (14 page)

Archie picked his filthy tux pants off the floor and transferred his phone and the compass into Jack's pockets, and then tucked his gun in his waistband.

Finally, he picked up the brass pillbox with the hair in it.

The pillbox was small, about the size of a child's palm. The brass lid shone under the bathroom lights. Archie held it in his hand for a long moment—such a perfect pretty object in his imperfect hand—and then he slipped the box into his pocket. There were many explanations, but that didn't mean it would hurt to run a DNA analysis, if only for his peace of mind. There was nothing to do about the rented tuxedo and shoes. They were ruined. Archie picked up the dirty clothes and eased them into the bathroom trash. As the tux fell from his hands the image of the gargoyle flashed in his mind again. His throat burned and he rubbed his eyes. Then he snatched the bottle of pills off the vanity. He pocketed the bottle as he headed downstairs. The pills made a satisfying rattle every time he took a step.

 

CHAPTER

19

 

The van was
small and dark and crowded and it smelled like BO and stale peanut butter and mildew and cigarettes. The cop with the five o'clock shadow sat in front of a bank of monitors, switches, and dials. Susan had to sit on the carpet, which was gray and stained with spilled coffee. Inside, the van didn't look like a van at all, but more like a recording studio in a submarine. The cop with the stubble was named Richard. He was sitting in a gray velour chair with armrests that looked like it had been salvaged from the driver's side of an RV. Richard's partner called himself Bear. He had a Vandyke beard and dark oval wire sunglasses pushed up on top of his head, and a stool to sit on that wasn't as comfortable as the chair, but still better than the carpet.

“I can call a cab,” Susan said, twisting her legs around in an effort to get comfortable.

“Sanchez will be here in a few minutes,” Bear said.

She'd been waiting for Sanchez for an hour now. Richard and Bear couldn't leave their post, apparently. But they also wouldn't let her leave until she was debriefed. She wondered if getting debriefed by the FBI involved waterboarding. She hoped it involved a bubble bath and an expensive hotel suite.

“Someone's on the move,” Richard said, his narrow eyes on one of the monitors.

Susan scooted forward on her knees and peered at the image on the monitor. A man was walking over the bridge, approaching the gate.

“Is that Jack?” Bear asked Richard.

“Can't tell yet,” Richard answered.

“It's Archie,” Susan said.

He was wearing different clothes, but it was Archie—she was positive. She knew his hunched shoulders and the way he kept his elbows bent, hands in his pockets, when he walked. He stopped at the gate and waited as it swung open. Then he stepped through it and got something out of his pocket and held it up.

“What's he doing?” Richard asked.

“Looking for a signal,” Bear said.

He seemed to find one, because he bent his head over his phone for a minute.

“He's sending a text,” Bear said.

“Should we pick him up?” Richard asked.

“Give him a minute,” Bear said. “See what he does.”

Archie got his car keys out of his pocket and held them loosely in his hand.

“He's walking to his car,” Richard said. “The valets parked along the road last night.”

“It's the Taurus,” Bear said. “It's a quarter mile back.”

Susan heard the sound of tires on gravel. Someone had just pulled up behind the van. Sanchez, probably. It was about time.

Susan's phone buzzed. Her bag was behind her so she was the only one who heard it.

She reached around and pulled her phone out and looked at it.

One new text from Archie Sheridan.

She opened it.

It read,
Don't talk to Sanchez.

Susan's mouth felt dry.

There was a knock on the back of the van.

Bear reached back to unlock the door. “There's your ride,” he said to Susan as he threw the door open.

Susan blinked into the sudden brightness. A short Latino man stared back at her. He had rough-hewn skin and thick dark hair, and features that looked like they'd been whittled by someone who didn't really know how to whittle but had decided to take a stab at it anyway. He smiled at her and lifted his eyebrows. “Susan,” he said. “I've heard so much about you.”

“Um, hi?” she said.

Sanchez held out a hand. “Let's go,” he said. “We can talk in the car.”

How was she supposed to get out of this one? Susan glanced down at her phone and, in one quick motion, deleted the text.

Then she took Sanchez's hand and stepped out of the van.

 

CHAPTER

20

 

Sanchez had taken
Susan to the FBI's Portland Field Office. Archie had arranged to meet them there. In the meantime, he could only hope that Susan had gotten his text.

The FBI's Portland office was in the Crown Plaza building downtown, within walking distance of the Willamette. It wasn't a pretty building, or really notable in any way. Just a concrete gray box filled mostly with law offices, except for the fourth floor, which housed the FBI.

Since it was Sunday, most of the building's other tenants were closed, and the place was empty except for a uniformed security guard whom Archie had passed smoking outside in front of the massive revolving doors of the main entrance, and who had waved Archie by with barely a glance.

Archie walked through the lobby, past the shuttered café, to one of the banks of elevators, and then punched a security code into the elevator keypad. When the elevator doors opened on the fourth floor, Sanchez was waiting for him. Compared to most government facilities, the Portland FBI offices were rather stately. There were marble floors, orange and gold hall carpet runners, and glossy maple doors. But scratch the surface and it was just like any other office: steel drinking fountains in the hallway, emergency floodlights mounted on the walls, a paneled drop ceiling cluttered with fluorescent lights and fire sprinkler heads. Archie could hear the drinking fountain humming.

Sanchez looked alarmed.

“She's sick,” he said. “She said she's having a really bad period. In the car on the way over she said her cramps hurt so bad she couldn't even talk. I found her some Midol. But now she says she feels like she might vomit.” Sanchez's eyes flashed with concern. He was a man who only had sons. “Is this normal?”

Archie had to work hard to suppress a smile. “Where is she?” he asked.

Sanchez led Archie down the orange and gold carpet, through a pair of maple double doors with gold letters that spelled out
FEDERAL
BUREAU OF
INVESTIGATION
, past an American flag planted in a floor stand, to a door with a women's restroom symbol on it.

“I'll check on her,” Archie said.

He approached the door. Sanchez hung back, pacing. Archie knocked. “Susan?” he called.

“Um, I'm really bleeding a lot,” Susan's voice called through the door. “And throwing up. You don't want to come in here. It's like
The Exorcist
.”

Archie opened the door a crack. “It's me,” he said. He could smell cigarette smoke and quickly entered the bathroom before Sanchez caught a whiff of it.

The bathroom had one sink and three metal stalls. Two of the stall doors were open. The other one creaked open as Archie walked in. He could see Susan's feet under the partition, two dirty Converse All Stars.

As Archie came around the open stall he saw that Susan was sitting on the toilet, fully clothed, a cigarette dangling between her fingers. The gold dress was stuffed in an open brown paper grocery bag and she was back in her street clothes—tights, the silver skirt, a tank top with the red hooded sweatshirt over it. The hood was up. She'd scrubbed all her makeup off. There was still pink liquid bathroom soap around her hairline. Her sweatshirt had dark spots where water from the sink had splattered on it.

“What took you so long?” Susan asked, ashing her cigarette into the toilet.

“I had to make a call,” Archie said. He didn't add,
or Henry would have rushed the island with a SWAT team.

“I did what you said,” Susan said. “I've barely said two words to him.”

“He's ready to call an ambulance,” Archie said. “I think you've traumatized him.”

“Men really can't handle menstruation,” Susan said, rolling her eyes. “It freaks you guys out.” Her gaze landed on his shoes. She looked impressed. “Are those Italian?”

Archie looked down at his feet. “I don't know.”

Susan took a drag off her cigarette. “Now what?” she asked, grinning.

She liked this, Archie realized. She was enjoying herself. He'd created a monster. “Now we talk to Sanchez,” Archie said.

“But you said—”

“We talk to him,” Archie said. “But we're careful about what we say.”

“Why?” Susan asked, pulling at a hole in the knee of her black tights.

“It's probably nothing,” Archie said. He tried to be diplomatic in how he put it. “But Leo had some reservations about how much Sanchez could be trusted.” Archie gave Susan a serious look. “Can you follow my lead?”

Susan dropped her cigarette butt into the toilet water between her legs and brought a hand to her forehead in an exaggerated salute.

Archie suspected that Susan Ward had never followed anyone's lead in her life, but he didn't see a lot of options. “I need you to lie to the FBI,” he said. “Can you do that?”

 

CHAPTER

21

 

Archie glanced over
at Susan. She was chewing on her fingernails, sleeves pulled over her palms, hood up, reeking of stale cigarette smoke and hair spray. They were sitting across from Sanchez in a small, windowless room that had all the maneuverability and ambience of a storage closet. Sanchez was sitting ramrod-straight, eyeballing Susan like she might burst into flame.

“What's this space used for?” Archie asked Sanchez. Archie had been in the FBI interview rooms, and this wasn't one of them. That was good. It meant that the room probably wasn't equipped with a surveillance system, though with the FBI you never knew.

“It's clean,” Sanchez said. “No surveillance. We had a bunch of junior agents in here sorting paperwork for a big case.” He slipped a hand into his pocket, pulled out a tin of mints, and snapped it open. “We can talk,” he said. He held the open tin across the table like a peace pipe. Neither Susan nor Archie took a mint. Sanchez closed the box and dropped it back in his pocket without taking one, either. The mints left a lingering fine dust of white peppermint-smelling powder floating in the air.

Archie had known Sanchez for almost as long as Archie had known Henry. Sanchez had been the FBI liaison on the Beauty Killer case. He had put in as many hours as anyone on the task force. Now Archie found himself searching his memory for any signs that Sanchez might be corrupt. But he couldn't come up with anything. No exotic vacations. No extravagant purchases. The man drove a twenty-year-old Honda Accord with a dented fender. Archie was the one trussed up in ridiculous, expensive clothes. Sanchez was wearing pale blue jeans and a tan jacket over a golf shirt. The jacket was khaki, with patch pockets and epaulets that made him look a little like a safari guide or zookeeper. Archie had seen Sanchez wear it dozens of times. The guy wasn't exactly a clotheshorse. His parents still lived in Mexico. There was nothing flashy about him. Which just meant that if he was corrupt, he was careful. In the meantime, Carl Richmond was dead, and Raul Sanchez was now essentially running Leo's undercover operation. If he wasn't dirty, Leo needed him. If he was dirty, Leo was in serious danger. Either way, Archie had the feeling that he needed to parse what he told Sanchez right now very carefully. Leo's life might depend on it.

“I saw Leo,” Archie said. “Last night and again this morning.” He looked Sanchez in the eye, trying to communicate the seriousness of the situation without frightening Susan. “You need to get him out of there.”

Sanchez sat up a little and uncrossed his arms. “He wants out?”

“No,” Archie said, with a glance in Susan's direction.

Sanchez looked at Susan. “Give us a minute,” he said.

Susan hesitated. Archie put a hand out, motioning for her to stay where she was. “She's a part of this whether she wants to be or not,” Archie said. “And she already knows too much.” That was all true. But he also needed her here. He needed a witness. If Sanchez was dirty, then the conversation they were about to have might become important.

Sanchez nodded and Susan relaxed back into her chair.

“The party was a cover,” Archie said. “To get people on the island. They know they're under surveillance, so they invited five hundred guests and hoped the more important ones would get lost in the shuffle.” Nice plan. Apparently it had worked.

“What kind of meeting?” Sanchez asked.

“Leo says they're working on some deal with the Russians,” Archie said.

Sanchez's eyes widened almost imperceptibly. The expression of surprise seemed authentic. “Did you see any of them? Can you identify players?”

“It was a
masquerade
ball,” Susan said with an exasperated roll of her eyes. “As in,
masks
.”

“It wouldn't hurt to look at pictures,” Archie said. He thought of the Russian outside Jack's office. “Not everyone was wearing masks.”

Sanchez fixed his attention on Susan. “Are you sure you didn't see any of these people?” he asked. “Maybe you heard someone speaking Russian?”

Susan nibbled on a cuticle.

“Answer him,” Archie told her.

“I didn't see or hear any Russians,” Susan said. “Were they wearing fur hats?”