Bethesda, Maryland
Tuesday, November 18, 1:25 p.m.
“It’s me, Danika.”
“Hi there, Mr. Hunter! How are you this afternoon?”
“Great. Any calls or messages?”
“Not since yesterday’s call from that detective, um, Mr. Cronin.”
He stopped pacing his kitchen floor. “Call?”
“Didn’t he get in touch with you last night?”
“Why, no. How was he supposed to do that?”
Pause.
“Well, sir-you gave me Ms. Woods’s number, and you told me to use it to contact you if I couldn’t reach you. Detective Cronin, he called yesterday and said it was an urgent matter, so-Well, I gave him that number… He told me he’d be calling Ms. Woods right away to reach you.”
His mind raced, considering possible implications.
“Mr. Hunter? I hope I wasn’t out of line, doing that.”
He forced a smile, hoping she’d hear it in his voice. “Oh, no. Not at all, Danika. That’s fine. I’m afraid I didn’t get his message, though. Perhaps she had her phone off. I’ll call him back right away. Any mail?”
“Nothing today.”
“All right. Thanks. You have a nice afternoon, now.”
“You too, Mr. Hunter.”
He closed the phone.
Thought some more.
He took the cell into his den, pulled Cronin’s business card from the small stack on his desk, then thumbed in the number.
“Cronin.”
“Dylan Hunter. You were trying to reach me?”
“Oh… Yes. That’s right, Mr. Hunter. I was.”
But you’re surprised to hear from me.
“So what’s up, Detective?”
“I was…just going through some things and was hoping we could sit down and chat. Are you able to meet me later this afternoon?”
Forced casualness.
“No problem. How about my office? Three o’clock okay?”
“Sure. That’ll be fine. See you then.”
He snapped the phone shut. Flipped it over, thumbed off the cover, removed the battery. He’d dump this one on the way into town.
Something was off.
He thought about how Annie had left so abruptly late Sunday morning. And how she hadn’t wanted to talk that evening. Okay, she was sick. But then there was their phone chat last night. She seemed to be responding mechanically, volunteering little, with forced cheerfulness. Something like the way Cronin’s voice sounded now.
He tapped the battery against the desk top.
Felt Luna rub against his shin.
“Hello, girl.” He picked her up, put her on his lap. Began to pet her, soothing his own nerves.
“If Cronin wanted her number so badly,” he said aloud, “he must have either spoken to her, or left a message for me. Then why didn’t she tell me?”
The cat purred in response to his voice and the strokes down her back.
What if he had talked to her, though? About what?
“Maybe he said something that upset her.”
“Mrrrrr.”
“That could explain why she sounded so strange on the phone last night.” He swiveled the chair gently from side to side. “But it wouldn’t explain why she seemed upset the day before.”
He tried to recall the sequence of events. Everything had been great on Saturday, and it seemed fine when she got up on Sunday morning. Then she got some coffee and sat at the table. He remembered how she looked when he told her that he had written a new piece. Authentically excited, even thrilled. Then he left her to read the paper, went into the kitchen for a refill, and phoned Wonk.
And when he returned to the table, she was sick.
Or upset by something she read?
“Okay, let’s assume she really was sick. What about last night, then?”
He tried to remember the details of that call. Her voice seemed too flat at first, as if she didn’t want to really be talking to him. Then, abruptly, too cheery. He asked how she was. Better, she said. What was she doing? Oh, just cleaning up after dinner. Want to come here and stay over on Tuesday night, Annie? Sure.
It had gone like that for several minutes. Usually, she was eager to hear his voice, eager to chat. This time it was like pulling teeth.
Another thing: She hadn’t mentioned that she’d seen or heard about his confrontation at the MacLean news conference. Not until he brought it up and asked her. She said she had. Then she added only: “You made your points very well.”
He remembered feeling a bit let down. In the past, she’d been excited about his writing, always telling him how much she admired him for fighting for crime victims. And this was his biggest coup so far. Yet her response was oddly muted-as if she were just trying to be polite.
“As if she really didn’t mean it,” he said aloud.
The cat tapped his hand with her paw. He started to pet her again.
Something had happened. His gut now told him it started on Sunday morning. When she sat at the table and started to read his article.
What was it about the article?
He looked at the cell phone lying on his desk. He was tempted to call her, ask bluntly what was wrong.
No. It was better to wait until tonight. When he could see her reactions, read her eyes.
Whatever it was, it couldn’t be good.
Washington, D.C.
Tuesday, November 18, 3:02 p.m.
“Mr. Hunter?”
He glanced up from the papers on his desk. “Come on in, Detective Cronin.” He motioned to the guest chair.
Cronin smiled and was just settling in when Hunter spoke first.
“You’re concerned about something, Detective.”
It took him off-guard. As intended. But Cronin was good. He took his time making himself comfortable, all the while looking at him steadily.
“I am.”
Hunter nodded and waited him out.
Cronin gave it up. “So let me get to the point. I’ve been checking into your background, Mr.”-he paused a second, just to lay emphasis on the next word-“Hunter. And I’m having a bit of trouble.”
He smiled at the cop. “I’m not surprised.”
Cronin didn’t expect that, either. “No?”
“First, may I ask what prompted you to want to check my background?”
Cronin hesitated, obviously weighing his words. Then said, “You’ve managed to get under the skin of a lot of important people.”
“You don’t say.”
“And they want to know why you’re doing this stuff. I’ve been asked to find out more about you.”
“Asked?”
That made the cop smile-against his will, he could tell.
“Okay. Not exactly asked.”
“I appreciate the position you’re in, Detective Cronin. So, let me guess: You want to know why all information about Dylan Lee Hunter goes back only a couple of years, then dead-ends.”
Cronin stared at him, again thrown off-balance. Good.
“Well, it does arouse my curiosity.”
“I changed my name. Quite legally, I may add.”
“From what?”
Hunter held his eyes. “From a name that only I need to know.”
“Maybe I do, too.”
“Not unless I’m a suspect in some kind of a criminal investigation.”
“Maybe you are.”
He leaned back and laughed. “No, I’m not. You’re fishing, Detective. I know you have your orders, but that’s all this is. A fishing expedition. You said it yourself: I’ve gotten a lot of veddy, veddy important people’s panties in a bunch, and now they’re looking to get something on me. To shut me up.”
The cop looked uncomfortable. Obviously, this wasn’t going the way he’d planned. “You mind showing me some current ID?”
“Not at all.” He drew his wallet from his sports jacket and handed it over.
Cronin inspected it, starting with the Maryland driver’s license. Glanced up at him. Pulled out a small spiral-bound notepad and a gold pen and jotted down some details. “I’m wondering if the Chevy Chase address on this license is valid,” he asked.
“You might find me there. Sometimes.”
“Where else might I find you?”
Hunter spread his hands. “Here. There.”
“Give me your Social.”
He rattled off the number. “For what good it will do you.”
Cronin stopped writing, raised his cold blue eyes from the pad. “You mean it’s a phony?”
“Oh, it’s real, all right. But it won’t help you go back more than about two years, either.”
“You mind telling me why?”
Hunter sighed. “Okay. Maybe once you hear it, you’ll understand. And get off my back.” He repeated what he had told Annie-about being a young investigative journalist in Ohio, falling afoul of the Mob, having to get out of state and change his identity.
Cronin listened, keeping a poker face. When Hunter finished, he could tell something was still bugging the cop.
“You say you changed your name legally to Dylan Lee Hunter. But you still didn’t explain why I won’t get your real name when I run your Social. Nobody ever gets a new SSN,” he said. Then his expression changed. “Unless-”
“Bingo. WITSEC.” He used the insider acronym.
“You’re telling me you’re in the Witness Protection program? So you testified against the Mob, then.”
“No. I just shared my information with the feds. I never got into court. But they were kind enough to enter me into the program, anyway. New identity, with a new SSN. So if you run the number, you’ll find it on file at the Social Security Administration. But that’s all you’ll get from them.”
Cronin regarded him for a moment, then rested an elbow on the table. “You want me to believe this wild story, but you still don’t want to tell me who you really are.”
He slammed his palm on the table. “Come on, Cronin! You’ve already admitted you’re under orders to dig up dirt on me for the people holding your leash, dirt they’ll use to try to muzzle me. So, I’m supposed to trust you to keep my real identity secret? While there’s still a standing Mob contract out on me? Don’t make me laugh.”
Cronin’s face softened. “Look, Hunter-whoever the hell you are. I meant it last time, when I said that a lot of us like what you’ve been doing.”
“I don’t like what you’ve been doing to me in return.”
“This isn’t my idea. Anyway, why didn’t you just tell me all this stuff last time? Save us all a lot of misunderstandings?”
Time to toss him a bone. He sighed, lowered his voice.
“Look. I do appreciate your position, Detective Cronin. But you see how I make enemies. And if you keep poking around and asking questions about me, the people I’ve been trying to avoid all these years might hear about it. And put two and two together. And then I could wind up dead.”
Cronin watched him, unblinking, for a long time. Then nodded. “Okay. I’ll try to tread lightly in the future.”
Hunter nodded, stood, and offered his hand. “I’d appreciate that. So would some far-off relatives. They don’t like me much, but they’d feel obligated to show up at my funeral.”
Cronin smiled and shook his hand.
Falls Church, Virginia
Tuesday, November 18, 6:10 p.m.
“Okay, I talked to him,” was the first sentence out of Cronin’s mouth.
She tightened her grip on the phone. “Go ahead.”
He told her. It surprised her. Then disturbed her.
“I don’t understand. He never said a thing about being in the federal Witness Security program. He told me that other story-about consulting a skip tracer, then doing it all himself.”
“Maybe he was trying to protect you in some way. Or himself. I don’t know. Maybe he thought telling you that the feds were hiding him might scare you off.”
“Why would being in Witness Protection be any scarier than what he told me?”
“Yeah, you’re right. That doesn’t make a lot of sense, does it.”
How could he lie to her?
She began to pace in front of her fireplace. “Tell me honestly, Detective,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady. “Do you believe him?”
He was silent a moment. She heard a ringing phone and voices in the background.
“Ms. Woods, I deal in facts. I can only tell you what I know. I know his SSN is real, and that it’s issued to his current name-I confirmed that with Social Security in Baltimore. His IDs-driver’s license, credit cards-they’re all real, too, just as you thought. And all the dates of issue conform to his story.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
She heard him sigh. “Okay, let me put it this way: Nothing so far contradicts him being in Witness Protection. But, could he be conning us? Sure. It’s possible. He’s very smart. Very cagey.”
Not what she wanted to hear. “Can’t you check out his story with the feds?”
“I can try. Maybe get somebody in the U.S. Marshals to talk. They run Witness Protection. But I’m not optimistic. It would take a court order to force them to open up his records. And to get court paper, I’d need to give the judge a damned good reason. Right now, I’ve got jack.”
“I understand.”
Her eyes tracked around her living room, pausing on furnishings that she and Frank had picked out and purchased years before. She suddenly felt as she did in the days after he left. Small. Exposed.
“I’m sorry I can’t tell you something definitive,” Cronin was saying. “Ms. Woods, in my experience, everybody has baggage. But your guy-he’s carrying more than Amtrak.”
She had to laugh. “All right. Thanks for telling me what you’ve found out, Detective. It’s a relief to know this much.”
He was silent.
“Is there something else?” she prompted.
He took his time before replying. “You’re on the job this many years, you get feelings about things. This somehow doesn’t feel right.”
“I know.” Her throat felt tight.
“So, you feel it, too… Okay, tell you what: I’m going to stay on this. And I suggest you try to keep an eye on him, too. Jot down notes of his comings and goings. You never know when a timeline might come in handy.”
“Yes,” she said, trying to ignore the quivering knot in the pit of her stomach. “You never know.”
“I haven’t asked you before. But it would help if you told me where he lives.”
She took a slow breath. “I’m not ready to do that,” she said. Then added: “Not yet.”
Bethesda, Maryland
Tuesday, November 18, 8:25 p.m.
“Hi, you,” he said.
She stood in his doorway with an overnight bag and a little smile. “Hi, you.”
He searched her eyes for an instant, then drew her close and kissed her.
“Missed you last night,” he murmured.
“Me, too.” She squeezed him.
He took the bag from her, then her coat. “Feeling better today?”
“Much. Thanks.”
His eyes followed her as she wandered into the living room, then stopped to pet Luna, who was sprawled on the sofa. She wore a brown pantsuit. It was the first time she had dressed in anything other than a skirt or dress in his presence.
“Have you eaten?” he asked, hanging the coat in the entryway closet.
She tossed her purse on the sofa and sat. “Yes… No. I mean, I’m not hungry. Some wine would be nice, though.”
“Relax there and I’ll fetch some.”
He observed her out of the corner of his eye from the kitchen while he pulled a Chardonnay from the refrigerator, uncorked, then poured it. She was stroking the cat, but watching his reflected image in the dark window of the balcony’s sliding door.
He felt the tension.
He pasted on a grin and brought their glasses over. Handed her one, clinked it with his, then took a nearby armchair instead of sitting beside her. So that he could watch her.
“How was work today?” he asked.
“Oh. All right. Not as bad as usual.”
“Want to talk about it?”
“Not really.” She took a sip.
He had debated whether to wait her out or simply confront her. Her eyes remained focused on the cat, not him. That decided it for him. She was trying to gloss over whatever it was.
But he never let anyone gloss over anything.
As she raised her wine glass again, he asked: “Then what else could be bothering you, Annie Woods?”
Her glass paused in mid-air; her eyes shot to his, startled. “What do you mean?”
He held her glance and very deliberately lowered his own glass to the coffee table. “Something’s been bugging you. Since Sunday morning. And it wasn’t just the Mexican food from Saturday night. Don’t you think we should talk about it?”
She took a deep breath, her breasts rising against her suit jacket, then falling.
“All right. It was your article. That started it.”
“Figured as much. What about it?”
She put down her glass, sat back. Her eyes were-what? Worried?
No. Wary.
“Dylan,” she said carefully, “you know that I’ve believed in what you’re doing. For crime victims. They didn’t have a voice until you came along.” She stopped.
“But…”
“Yes. But. But I think you’ve gone a bit too far.”
“Annie, if anyone else on the planet said that to me, I’d answer: ‘Why should I give a damn what you think?’ But because it’s you, I’ll bite: How have I gone too far?”
“You’ve gone beyond attacking criminals and the people in the legal system who free them. Yes, they deserve to be exposed. And I’m proud of you for doing that. But now-now you’re targeting private individuals. Reformers. People who sincerely believe in rehabilitation and are only trying to do what they think is the right thing. Okay, maybe they’re naive do-gooders; but their only real sin seems to be an excess of idealism.”
“Idealism,” he repeated. “And what are their ‘ideals’?”
She shrugged. “Turning criminals away from crime.”
“By making excuses for them?”
“Maybe some of them are trying to understand why they commit crimes. Perhaps they’re looking for explanations.”
“Tell me: What, exactly, is the difference between an ‘explanation’ for crime and an ‘excuse’ for crime?”
“Look, Dylan, you know that I don’t agree with them. I’m not trying to defend what they advocate.”
“Aren’t you?” he asked. “You seem to be saying that I’m attacking them unfairly.”
She looked away. “But why focus attention on them? I just don’t see how they are responsible for what those in charge of the courts and jails do.”
“You don’t? Annie, my article laid it out. The MacLean Foundation has supported or engineered everything that’s wrong in the system. They’re professional excuse-makers for criminals. Politicians quote their studies and statistics when they gut tough sentencing laws. Lawyers and judges rely on their excuses and recommendations when they turn criminals loose.”
“But the counselors, the people running the programs-they’re not the ones actually freeing the criminals. They’re just talkers.”
“Talkers who empower the bad actors.”
“Empower? What do you mean?”
“I’m saying that Edmund Burke was wrong.”
“Now you’re speaking in riddles.”
He had to stand, move. He went to the window of the balcony. Stared into the night.
“Burke famously stated, ‘All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.’”
“How true.”
“ Not true. He made it sound as if evil people are powerful. But they’re not. Evil people are nothing more than parasites who feed on others. They’re losers. Most can barely survive on their own, let alone triumph on their own.”
“But that’s silly! Bad people are powerful. They’re thriving. Sometimes, I think they run the world.”
He turned to her. “Ask yourself why, Annie. Ask yourself why there are such things as ‘career criminals’-losers like Bracey and Valenti, with rap sheets a mile long. Why weren’t they stopped cold after their first few crimes? And how did they get out again, even after what they did to Susie and Arthur Copeland? It’s not because they’re powerful; it’s because they’ve been empowered. They have millions of eager, do-gooder accomplices. All those ‘nice’ people who blabber about mercy and forgiveness, instead of simple justice. All those ‘nice’ folks who feel so sad and sorry for bad people-then feel so holy and self-righteous whenever they give monsters ‘second chances.’ Third chances. Tenth chances, fifty-ninth chances. Endless chances to hurt more innocent people. People like Susie and Arthur. And George Banacek’s boy. And Kate Higgins’s kid.”
Her gaze was directed at the floor; he went on.
“Yes, Annie, evil people do triumph, too often. But it’s not because ‘good people’ do nothing; it’s because of what they do. They actively encourage evil. While kidding themselves that they’re engaging in saintly acts of virtue. If I were into psychobabble, I’d call them ‘enablers.’ Enablers of predators. Do-gooders like that MacLean guy-they’re giving aid and comfort to society’s enemies.”
“That’s a really harsh view of the world.” Her voice sounded strained.
“The world is a harsh place. But who makes it that way? That’s why Edmund Burke had it wrong. He should have said: ‘All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is an enabler.’”
Abruptly, she stood. “Dylan, this conversation-it’s really upsetting me.”
“I see that. I can’t see why, though. You’ve never reacted this way to my earlier articles.”
“It’s just… I don’t know. And watching you at that news conference… It was… I saw things I didn’t expect to see.”
Her words were uprooting something inside him, leaving him feeling hollow.
“Annie,” he said quietly, “you saw exactly who I am.”
She approached him. He saw anguish in her eyes. “I know,” she said. She stood on tip-toes to kiss his cheek. Then pushed back. “I wish I could explain it to you, Dylan.”
“Why can’t you?”
“I’m sorry.” She blinked, seeming to be on the edge of tears. “This was a bad idea.”
She turned away and went back to the sofa. Picked up her purse.
“You’re not staying.”
She shook her head. “I have some things to sort out.”
He followed her to the closet, helped her on with her coat. She opened the apartment door, then turned to him.
He touched her face, ran his thumb lightly across her cheek. Watching her closely, he said: “You say you have ‘some things’ to sort out. ‘Things,’ plural. So, what else is bothering you, Annie?”
He caught it, a little flicker in her eyes. She closed them, turned her lips into his palm. Kissed it.
Then pulled away and headed down the hallway, toward the elevator. She didn’t look back.
He closed the door.
Stood there a moment, his palm resting flat against the cool surface.
He returned to the sofa. Looked down at her wine glass. Saw the faint trace of her lipstick on the rim.
He settled back into his armchair. Reached for his own glass. Took a large swallow.
So incoherent. So unlike her.
And it all started with his article.
The cat leaped from the sofa onto the stuffed arm of his chair, then slinked down into his lap. He rested his hand on the soft fur of her back. Felt her begin to purr.
But the article wasn’t all of it. One other thing he now knew for certain, from her startled reaction in the doorway.
She and Cronin had talked.
Talked about his past.
He pressed the chilled glass against his temple.
“I think they may be on to us, Luna.”