Hoshi’s eyes narrowed. “Find out about what?”
Uzi summarized Bishop’s information, then pointed to his laptop. “You take the executive leadership of the NFA and I’ll take our esteemed director. Let’s start there. See where it leads us.”
Hoshi swiveled her chair to face the screen and went to work.
Two hours later, Uzi rose from his seat and stretched toward the ceiling. “I’m hungry. You?”
Hoshi fought off a yawn. “I could use some coffee.” She looked at Uzi’s LCD monitor and inched closer. “What’s that?”
Uzi turned to find a blinking red cursor beside a short paragraph of text. “Hmm. Interesting.” He re-read the few sentences, then leaned back to consider what he’d seen. “I ran a little program I wrote last year. It takes a set of facts, like people’s names and other identifying info — SSNs, drivers license numbers, whatever you’ve got — and compares it to other people in a given database, using the parameters you set for the search.”
Hoshi squinted at him. “You wrote a program that could do all that?”
Uzi shrugged. “In my spare time.” He realized what that might say about his lack of a social life, but he was more interested in the information he had just discovered. “So I gave it certain names to compare. I wanted it to tell me if it found any crossover relationships. And here we go,” he said, pointing to the screen. “It found one between Douglas Knox and Skiles Rathbone, president of the NFA. They grew up in the same neighborhood, went to the same high school and college, and graduated the same year.”
“Yeah, and that means what? Guilty by association? Guilty of what?”
Another blinking light grabbed Uzi’s attention before he could answer. He looked at the screen, read the information, and grabbed for his cell phone.
“Who are you calling?” Hoshi asked.
“A partner in crime.” He moved the handset to his mouth as the line connected. “Hey. We need to talk.”
Hector DeSantos hesitated. “Like some time tomorrow, or first thing in the morning—”
“Like now. It’s important. But not over the phone.”
DeSantos groaned. “Fine. Come by my place. But I’ve got company.” He gave Uzi directions and hung up.
“Get yourself a coffee, then keep on that,” he said, waving a finger at his laptop. “Play with my program some more, see what you find.”
“Looking for anything in particular?”
“Find me connections. Anything linking our two dead bodies, Rusch and Marine Two, the NFA, Knox, Coulter… and throw ARM into the mix for good measure.”
Hoshi bit her lip.
“Think of this as just any old investigation. Forget the names for a minute, who these people are. We have a responsibility to look into anyone and everyone. If you thought I was involved, I’d expect you to be pulling my sheets. Understand?”
“Whether or not I understand isn’t the issue. The director and attorney general — you think they’d understand if they found out what we were doing?”
Uzi looked away. “Call my cell if you find anything. Save everything into an encrypted file and email it to me. I’ll look at it later.”
Hoshi’s pleading eyes made Uzi feel guilty for a moment. But he knew he was doing the right thing — an investigation was an investigation, regardless of the players involved. When a trail was laid down, it was his responsibility to follow that trail, no matter where it might lead.
He kept telling himself that as he made his way to the parking garage.
Uzi nosed his Tahoe up to the brick security booth at Hector DeSantos’s Beekman Place condominium in Adams Morgan. The immaculately groomed, trendy townhouse complex looked like an architect’s attempt to bring small-town neighborhood sensibilities to the nation’s capital. But its rural community flavor was primarily a function of aesthetics; Uzi surmised these units figured prominently on each homeowner’s statement of net worth.
Uzi gained access to the development from a pudgy guard wearing a faux tin badge pinned to a polyester white shirt frayed around the collar. After the black iron gate pivoted open, Uzi drove into the private street and parked in a guest slot beside a row of young oaks.
As he got out of the car, the tone of his Nokia bleated from his pocket. He answered it as he made his way down the brick sidewalk that ran the length of the attached townhouses.
“Hey, it’s your buddy — Danny Carlson.”
Uzi instantly dug the name from his memory. Danny Carlson was Nuri Peled’s cover. “Danny, my man, what’s the word?”
“I’m not finding anything. I’ve been digging — under beds and rocks, in drawers and closets, you know the deal. Turning up all sorts of stuff, but nothing that’d help you.”
Uzi stopped at the base of a small staircase and leaned against the wrought-iron railing. “I’m not surprised. It’s looking domestic.”
“What did I tell you?” Peled said.
“Yeah, well, at least we got a chance to see each other again. I’m sorry I lost touch. I kind of shut down. Just so I could go on. You know?”
“I do, my friend. And I’m sorry I let you lose touch. That was my mistake. Let’s not let that happen again. Agreed?”
A smile spread Uzi’s lips. “Yeah. Agreed.”
“It was good seeing you again, Uzi. Anything comes up, I’ll let you know.”
Uzi ended the call, then continued up the steps to DeSantos’s townhouse. Before he could knock, the front door opened and his partner invited him into the tiled entryway. A burst of laughter escaped from the adjacent kitchen area.
“Sorry to bust in on you so late. This could be important.”
DeSantos waved a hand and did his best to deflect Uzi’s concern. “What’s up?”
“Oh, you’re right!” A woman in tight jeans emerged from the kitchen with a glass of wine in her hand. “He is a stud.”
She moved into the entryway and eyed Uzi from a few feet away, her body angled perpendicular to his, her head following the path of her eyes: from his feet up to his face.
“This is Maggie,” DeSantos said. Uzi expected him to show a hint of embarrassment, but then remembered who he was dealing with, and the DeSantos’s “open” relationship.
Uzi extended a hand. “Glad to meet you, Maggie.”
She took his hand, squeezed it, and giggled. Her eyes widened slightly.
“And this is Trish and her daughter, Presley. My goddaughter,” DeSantos said, squaring his shoulders with pride. The toddler was draped atop her mother’s chest, arms dangling loosely over Trish’s shoulders.
Uzi nodded to them; the sight of the two-year-old girl, lying sleepily against her parent, triggered thoughts of Maya. He shuddered inside. “I’m… I’m really sorry to barge in like this.”
“Nonsense,” Trish said. “We were just getting ready to go. Pres was asleep on the couch, and I’ve gotta get her into bed before she wakes up for good.”
As Trish kissed Maggie good-bye, DeSantos gently stroked the girl’s hair. The munchkin hunched her shoulders as if being tickled, then turned slowly and saw DeSantos. Her eyes squinted as a smile broadened her face. She reached out and gave her godfather a big hug and kiss.
Uzi grinned at the sight of his tough partner melting under the little girl’s touch. He knew the feeling, but the memories were too painful, and he forced them aside.
“I’m going to walk them out,” Maggie said.
The door closed and DeSantos motioned Uzi down the hall. “So you found something.”
They entered the kitchen, a large square with stainless steel appliances, a temperature-controlled wine cabinet, and honey-stained wood floor. Maggie obviously liked peppers, as the red chilies adorned the frilly curtains, wallpaper, placemats — even the magnets on the refrigerator.