We Know

Induma's lips pursed. She said, "Will you tell me the rest?"

It wasn't quite a test, but there was a lot riding on my answer. A pot boiled over on the stove and hissed, then stopped hissing. I said, "Yes."

Induma's mouth tensed; she was pleased. I filled her in. When I was done, she drew back from the counter-her first movement through it all. Her back cracked. She moved the scorched pot from the burner and turned off the stove.

She asked for the torn sheet of numbers and perused it, as mystified as I was. Finally, with a shrug, she handed it back.

"I wish we had more information on the guys who arrested you when you were seventeen," she said. "Last names, anything."

I pictured Slim and the big guy. How the big guy twisted the dial with those wide fingers. Radio sucks out here, huh?

I said, "I always figured they were flown in from another office just to shake me up and get me out of the picture. Only told what they needed to do and not much more."

"Yeah. I guess there's always someone willing to follow orders without asking questions."

"You think I could still be nailed for Frank's murder?"

"I doubt it. It would be hard to convince a grand jury or a judge that the same evidence they'd had for seventeen years suddenly makes a different case."

"But it's always there. The threat of busting me. No statute of limitations for murder."

"Yeah, but if the authorities were going that route, they wouldn't have tried to make you the hero of San Onofre. I'd guess that charging you for Frank's murder would open up a lot, call attention to the wrong things for the wrong people."

"If I become a problem, it would probably be easier just to kill me the way they did Charlie."

Her jaw firmed. She didn't like considering that, but she also didn't argue with me. "Well, for the moment no one's trying to kill you. And whoever directed you to that P.O. box doesn't have official clout, or they would've just charged into the post office and searched number two-two-nine."

"Unless they needed me to find what's in it."

"Either way, it seems like whoever's watching wants to give you some leash and see if you'll lead them to whatever they're looking for."

"Which is exactly what I don't want to do."

"If you let this whole thing drop, you're probably safe. You've spent years avoiding all this. Why pursue it now?"

"The way this reared its head? It's not just going to vanish."

"Yeah, but you could."

I thought about those 2:18 wake-ups, how they'd returned with the vengeance of a shunned relative. "I've been running for seventeen years. I know now I'm not gonna get away."

"But are you ready to face it?" Her expression registered her skepticism.

I had no easy answer. The question gnawed at me. I redirected: "Can you look into the backgrounds of the Secret Service agents for me? Sever and Wydell?"

"What do you mean 'backgrounds'?"

"They're both in the L.A. office now, in Protective Intelligence. Is there some way to find out if they ever worked a protection detail out of D.C.? Then we'd have a pretty good idea if they had strong loyalty to a particular political figure. Like Bilton."

"Or Caruthers," she added.

"Sure. Him, too. Though it seems less likely."

"But worth looking into, no?" She noted my discomfort. "Why does that bother you? Would it really upset you if Caruthers was behind this?"

"I could care less if Caruthers is behind this," I said. "I care if Frank is."

There it was.

The anger in my voice underlined how deeply the notion cut me. I looked away, fearing how much showed in my face. I said, "We don't know if either candidate is or isn't involved. All we know right now is that the Secret Service is hooked into this thing differently than they're letting on."

"Meaning?"

"Wydell claimed that the Service wasn't called in until Charlie asked for me at San Onofre. The more I turn this over in my head, the more it seems like the time frame's too tight between then and when they stormed my apartment. I think Wydell's lying. My guess is the Service was there with LAPD for the shoot-out in Culver City."

She said, "You're still calling him Charlie."

"Whatever his name, I don't believe the profile."

Induma said, "Let's pull it up, then, see if there's anything more specific you can use."

I followed her to the living room. She set her laptop across my knees but leaned over me to navigate through the folders. I turned to look at her as she typed. Our faces were close.

The document chimed into existence, pulling my focus back to the screen. A rap sheet, complete with booking photo. Mike Milligan had pockmarked cheeks and sullen eyes.

He looked like a terrorist all right, but he looked nothing like Charlie.

Chapter 20