Patriot Lies (Jack Widow Book 14) Page 11

"Please," he said.

  Widow walked past them and onto the elevator. Tunney followed, along with Kidman, who pressed the button for the first floor.

  Tunney stood between Widow and Kidman, fuming. It was obvious that he felt betrayed that an organization that he could once depend on had abandoned him. And he felt betrayed by his friend.

  The elevator buzzed and lifted them up a floor. It dinged, and the doors slid open.

  Kidman stepped off and led them back down the hall and through the metal detectors, where he pointed at a different desk cop than before, but at the same desk. They must've rotated or changed shifts.

  "You can retrieve your weapon there. Thank you for coming."

  Kidman put his hand out for Tunney to shake.

  Tunney shook it reluctantly.

  He said, "We’ve been friends for years, Tom. I can't believe you're shutting us out like this. We brought you guys a goldmine of evidence."

  "Sorry, Brigs. It's the way it is. It's Shaw's case. Not mine. Plus, the department isn't going to let a PI work a murder case with us."

  Tunney said nothing. He just pulled his hand away and walked over to the desk to sign his weapon back out.

  Kidman looked at Widow.

  "Sorry, Widow."

  Widow said, "Don't be. Doesn't make a difference to me."

  Widow left Kidman and joined Tunney, who had finished getting his gun back. He holstered it in his shoulder rig and motioned for Widow to follow him.

  They left the police headquarters, back through the doors, across the square, and past the mural and statues.

  They climbed back down the concrete steps and crossed the long field of grass until they got back to the car.

  Tunney unlocked it remotely and hopped in.

  When they were both inside with the doors shut and the engine still off, Tunney spoke.

  "I'm sorry, Widow. I know you did all that work. Now, they're cutting us out."

  Widow shrugged and said, "Don't be sorry. I figured they would do that."

  "You did?"

  "It was a fifty-fifty shot. Technically, there's probably some department regulation forbidding PIs to work hand in hand with police in a murder investigation."

  "There is, but I've never heard it exercised before. Not when the PI in question is a former FBI agent and a friend of the detective."

  "I wouldn't take it personally. It wasn't your friend's call. Plus, it had nothing to do with some department regulation. They did it because of Haspman."

  Tunney nodded and said, "Yeah. You're probably right."

  "I am right. We just learned that potentially the city's own fire marshal might have had a hand in deleting evidence."

  Tunney nodded.

  Widow said, "It seems to me the very best-case scenario is that Haspman mistakenly thought a murder was an accident, which still means he's incompetent."

  "Worst-case scenario?"

  Widow looked out the windshield and then over at Tunney.

  "He erased those cameras on purpose."

  Tunney started up the car. He gassed it; a couple of taps on the accelerator got the engine purring.

  Widow didn't know why people did that. But he wasn't a mechanic. Maybe it helped to wake up the system.

  Tunney asked, "Where to now?"

  "They said Haspman's office was down the street. Let's pay him a visit."

  "We really shouldn't."

  "Why not?"

  "The police might want to keep him out of the loop if they suspect him of covering up the brutal murder of a homeless man."

  "We won't mention the police to him. He's the FI who called Eggers' death an accident. We're merely following up."

  "He might blow us off. The fire marshal doesn't typically meet with the public."

  "He won't. Trust me. He'll be so curious and probably a little nervous about why we're there in the first place. We'll be on the top of his priority list."

  Tunney started to reverse the car so he could make room in the front to pull out into traffic.

  He asked, "What the hell are we going to ask him?"

  "I’ll think of something."

  Tunney got the BMW out, and they were back on the move.

  Sixteen

  The District of Columbia Fire Marshal’s office was located at the fire department headquarters on Fourteenth Street.

  The fire marshal’s office was inside the building, top floor, nestled in one corner office that overlooked the street. If anyone inside had been looking for Widow through the window, he would've seen him because Tunney parked on the street diagonally from the building's main entrance.

  The building itself was four stories. It was squashed between two other buildings double that size. It was mostly red brick with four huge red doors big enough to fit a fire truck through, which might've been how they were originally intended to be used. Widow wasn't sure.

  On the building's rooftop, there was a white steeple with a bell inside, like on a church.

  Widow didn't know how old the building was or how long the fire department had been there, but this building looked one, maybe, two hundred years old—maybe more.

  He pictured, way back in the day, a time when the fire department headquarters was a functioning fire station. He pictured old-time fire trucks barreling out of those huge, red doors, carrying tanks filled with water and buckets to disperse the fires. He pictured groups of firefighters forming a line at the scene of a fire. He imagined them running back for refills of water, and then running to the fire to throw it over the flames.

  He wasn't sure if that's how it worked, but that was how he imagined it.

  The building itself looked well maintained but definitely old.

  Widow followed Tunney through a smaller door built into one of the larger ones.

  The ground floor lobby had high ceilings with exposed brick and an industrial-looking air ventilation system. There was some security, but not like the MPD headquarters.

  The only security people on-site were a couple of Capitol Police uniformed cops. Widow wasn't sure if they were actually on guard duty or just happened to be there at the same time that he was, on official business maybe.

  Widow and Tunney walked through the enormous lobby, bigger than the one at Metro, and over to a desk reception area. The reception desk wasn't manned by an armed guard, also different than Metro.

  Tunney talked to a woman behind the counter, dressed in her own clothes. He offered her his business card that read Brigs Tunney, retired FBI. Private Investigator. Licensed.

  Widow stepped back and waited, letting Tunney do his thing.

  After a few minutes of banter, Tunney turned back and walked to Widow.

  "Okay. He'll see us. Gotta say that was easier than I thought it would be. Without an appointment."

  "Maybe it was your charm that did it?"

  Tunney chuckled and said, "You a comedian now?"

  Widow shrugged.

  Tunney said, "Okay, let's go."

  He went first, and Widow followed. They walked to the elevator, unescorted. Tunney kept looking around, expecting someone to stop them and tell them that there had been some sort of mistake. Someone who'd tell them that the fire marshal didn’t take visitors off the street. But it never happened.

  Tunney reached the elevator first and hit the call button. They waited.

  The elevator came, and the doors opened, and Tunney stepped on first. The elevator was empty. Tunney clicked the button for the top floor.

  They rode all the way up to the end of the elevator's travel capacity and waited for the doors to open and then stepped off on the top floor.

  The floor was carpeted. A sign posted across from them on the wall labeled the offices in both directions.

  Tunney eyeballed the sign and saw the way to the fire marshal's office. He turned right and led the way. They started at the center of the floor.

  Before following, Widow looked left and right. He inspected both directions of the hallway. It was another SEAL habit.
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br />   Widow needed to count exits, count doors, look for movement. He saw a couple of men in blue jumpsuits walking in the other direction. He saw a young woman walking toward him from the other end of the hall. She held documents on top of a black binder, pressed against her chest. She stopped at the elevators and smiled at Widow.

  She gave him a casual, "Hello."

  He returned it with a smile of his own. Then she turned and pressed the elevator call button, which only took a second because their elevator was still there. The doors opened, and she got on.

  Tunney called back to Widow.

  "Widow. Come on. It's this way. End of the hall."

  Widow acknowledged him and followed.

  They had to turn one curve in the hall, and then, they saw a closed door, black and heavy.

  Tunney wrenched the knob and jerked the door open. They entered.

  Through the door, there was another reception area, with a head secretary posted at the desk, as well as two more behind her, seated in another room.

  It was the configuration that forced Widow to presume their ranks. Plus, the first secretary was older than the two behind her. And she had more of a professional tone and way about her that indicated she was clearly in charge of the operations of the receptionist area.

  Beyond the assistants in the back, Widow saw through two more open doors; each was on opposite sides of the reception desk. It appeared that they both led down two different sides of the same hallway.

  The hallway circled all the way to the back of the office and then swung back around to the reception area.

  Tunney went to the desk and did the same thing as downstairs with the new secretary. He smiled and exchanged banter. He made all the same pleasantries and jokes that he made with the one downstairs.

  Widow was starting to see that Tunney had a routine he used on receptionists. Widow pictured the same basic chitchats being used in a long career in the FBI. It was something that Tunney had started three decades in the past and perfected to the script it was now, like a finely tuned routine.

  The secretary reciprocated the chitchat. Then she told them both to have a seat. She told them that the fire marshal would talk with them as soon as he could.

  Widow and Tunney nodded and sat down beside each other in a couple of chairs made of leather. They looked expensive, too expensive to be in a government waiting room, at least to Widow's liking. They belonged more in a cigar lounge at some country club that Widow had no business being in.

  "This is a nice office," Widow said.

  "Yeah. Kinda reminds me of the director's office."

  "Director of what?"

  "The FBI."

  "You've been to his office?"

  "Her office. When I was at the bureau, we had a female director for the first five years I started there."

  "How many times you been to her office?"

  "Several."

  "Why?"

  "I was constantly getting my balls busted about conduct. And so on. Nothing major. I just liked to do things. I get bored doing paperwork, and most of my job as a special agent was tons and tons of paperwork and reading and waiting around."

  Widow nodded.

  Tunney asked, "What about the NCIS? You guys do a lot of boring work?"

  Widow barely ever had to do paperwork. That was what Rachel Cameron was for. She had been his director. She and her staff of support agents did all the paperwork and recon and intelligence analysis for Widow's missions. But there was no reason to inform Tunney about all that.

  So, he said, "It's the worst."

  "Yeah. It must be the same for everyone. I bet the CIA has mountains of paperwork."

  "This furniture though is so nice. Too nice."

  "It's a boss thing."

  "Guess when you get promoted to the executive level of all fire departments, then you get the royal treatment."

  "I'll say."

  They stayed waiting for longer than Widow expected, longer than he liked to sit in one place. They waited and waited.

  Tunney was staring at his phone when the main receptionist finally spoke.

  She said, "The fire marshal will be ready soon, gentleman."

  Tunney said, "We know he's a busy man. Tell him to take his time."

  She nodded.

  Widow said, "Thank you, ma'am."

  They looked at each other and ended up waiting half of the next hour. Widow noted the time by checking a wall clock that hung behind the main receptionist.

  The waiting around felt like an eternity before the fire marshal called for them.

  Finally, one of the underlings behind her stood up and came around the reception pen through one of the side doors. She came right into the waiting room through an open door. Instead of calling out to them, she greeted them at their chairs.

  She said, "Gentlemen, the fire marshal will see you now."

  Tunney nodded, but Widow was the first to stand up.

  Tunney grabbed at Widow's Havelock sleeve and whispered to him.

  "Let me do the talking."

  Widow didn't respond, just noted that to be the second time that Tunney had put a hand on him. He didn't react to it, didn't threaten the guy, just noted it. It was a habit. He didn't like it, but it seemed to be part of Tunney's style. Lots of older guys who were retired cops had a way of touching and talking to people that wouldn't fly in today's culture of safe spaces. Tunney was one of those kinds of cops.

  Tunney followed the lower-level receptionist back through the door and down the hall. Widow followed them both.

  At the end of the hallway, they stopped and found a single black door, no window. The fire marshal's name and rank were posted on the outside skin of the door in gold lettering.

  The receptionist opened the door for them and announced them like they were entering a royal court from four hundred years earlier.

  The office was huge. It wasn't just another executive office. It was an executive suite.

  It was set on the building's corner with two huge windows. One overlooked the street, and the other looked out to a tiny alley between the buildings.

  The fire marshal sat behind an enormous oak desk big enough to float over crashing waves. The office was clean and organized but cluttered with knickknacks. There were numerous awards and trophies and a little American flag on the desk.

  Widow saw an open door. Beyond it were a private bathroom, shower, and everything. There was another door. It was closed, but Widow bet that behind it were a bedroom and a closet.

  The fire marshal's executive suite was basically a nice apartment.

  On another side of the office, near the alley window, there were three leather lounge chairs and one leather sofa, all black. They faced each other. They must've been there for meetings that involved several people.

  Widow wondered if policy talks went on in this room. He suspected there was a lot about government he didn't know. Maybe the fire marshal was a position heavy with duty and policy.

  Sitting behind the desk was a bald black man somewhere in his fifties. Widow guessed it was closer to the end of the decade than the beginning. He wore a navy blue jumpsuit with his last name printed on a nametape just above his left breast pocket. The jumpsuit's collar was plastered with insignias. It reminded Widow of an officer at sea.

  He paid little attention to the insignias, as he had no idea what they meant.

  A ball cap matching the jumpsuit uniform lay on the desk in front of the fire marshal.

  The man wore dark frame glasses marked with an expensive designer brand that Widow had never paid attention to before. He’d heard the name but just didn't register it. Fashion wasn't his thing. His only goal in that department was to match his socks every day.

  The air nearly reeked of cologne. Widow didn't know the brand. The only time in his life he’d ever worn cologne was in the tenth grade when he went to homecoming with Cristina Sing, the prettiest girl he knew, way back then. His mom had made him wear cologne from one of his dead grandpa's bottles. He
didn't recall the brand, only that it had a French name and came in a bulky, green bottle. It smelled of musk, not unlike a man who spends all day underneath the hood of a car in a mechanic shop down in Mississippi in the nineteen fifties, which wasn't what his grandpa had done, but that's what it smelled like.

  The man stood up and stepped away from the desk. He came around and stopped in front of them and offered them seats in the leather chairs.

  On the walk over, Tunney introduced himself and Widow—both, as private investigators. He also mentioned Aker by name as his employer.

  The fire marshal introduced himself, touching his chest with a heavy hand. He somewhat resembled a gorilla that had been taught how to talk.

  "I'm Jay Haspman, the fire marshal above all fire marshals."

  He spoke with pride in his voice and his demeanor, a bit too much—in Widow's opinion.

  Widow wasn't sure if what he was saying was even true. He didn't know if whoever sat at the head of the fire department in DC reigned over all fire departments across the country. It might've been true, but then again, it might've been a lie too, a sense of self-grandeur.

  The idea made him think of the postmaster general or the surgeon general. Both of those positions were over their respective departments.

  Why not the fire marshal in DC? Why wasn't he called the fire marshal general? Widow wondered.

  He wasn't going to dwell on the question because he figured that line of thinking could lead him down a rabbit hole that he wasn't interested in going down. He had no time for that. Plus, he couldn’t care less. All he cared about was getting justice for Eggers.

  Haspman wore a gold Rolex on one wrist, along with a few expensive-looking rings.

  Tunney explained to Haspman who they were and told him that they represented Eggers' estate, which led them to question his death.

  He told Haspman that they’d found some evidence that might alter the conclusions of how Eggers died. Beyond that, he didn't give Haspman any specifics. He left that up to Shaw and Kidman.

  Tunney took a notepad and pen out of his inside coat pocket. The movement whipped open his coat, showing off the weapon in his shoulder holster, which Widow suspected he had done on purpose. It was an old tactic, used with suspected liars in an investigation. Showing off the weapon was an act of intimidation. You couldn’t just take out a gun and threaten a suspect with it, but if they saw a glimpse of it real fast in a holster, it reminded them that it was there. It put them on edge, where Tunney wanted them to be.