“I saw it.”
“And given his high-end job at the Marine base, I assume he wasn’t missing any fingers.”
“No disfiguring marks, either,” Uzi said. “And he didn’t have any overt government inclinations or he would’ve failed the Yankee White background check. It’s pretty intense.” He thought a moment, then said, “Can we assume that Ellison was the one who placed it?”
“Best not to deal in assumptions. Logic is better. So let’s look at it logically based on your scenario. Bottom line, the day after the chopper is taken down, Ellison’s erased. Professional job from what I saw in the file. Nothing personal in the crime scene. Just a surgical hit. Very clean.”
“Which suggests and supports the group theory.”
“Forgetting their reliance on bombs to eliminate their enemies, I’d agree. Go with what you’ve got and deal with the facts: Ellison worked on the choppers, the choppers exploded, then Ellison is eliminated. Logic suggests it was done to cover their tracks. Who’s pulling the strings?”
“ARM?”
Vail sighed, leaned back in her chair. “Prime suspect. But you need proof. A smoking gun.”
“More like discarded C-4.”
Vail closed her file. “I think you’ve got enough to run with.”
“Maybe.” Uzi reached over and closed the door and lowered his voice. He was about to take a risk, but he trusted Vail and believed that whatever he told her would remain between them. “I’ve got another theory. Douglas Knox, the NFA and ARM.”
Vail’s eyebrows rose. Her eyes darted from side to side as she processed what Uzi was suggesting. “Conspiracy?”
Uzi shrugged.
“For what reason? I mean, that’s big stuff, Uzi.”
“Glendon Rusch’s pro-gun-control policy.” He briefly recapped his meeting with Bishop, then sat back and waited for her response.
She twisted her lips in thought. “Well, as conspiracy theories go, it’s intriguing. Up there with Oliver Stone’s JFK theory. But we’re not talking Hollywood here. You have to actually prove it.”
“I’m not stupid. I know it’ll be next to impossible. These people know how to cover their asses. And Knox has deep contacts just about everywhere you look.”
“Have you floated something by the AG?”
Uzi had not thought of going straight to Winston Coulter. He was, after all, head of the Department of Justice, and the DOJ was the FBI’s parent, so to speak. If Coulter authorized an investigation, Knox’s displeasure — and resulting heat — would fall on Coulter, not on Uzi. And with Uzi’s new reputation for blowing the whistle, hiding behind the AG’s shield was fine with him.
“Think I should?”
“I don’t know. Probably best to wait till you’ve got something more… explosive.” She squinted. “Sorry — couldn’t resist.”
“What do you think of my theory?”
“Honestly?”
Uzi made a face. “No, lie to me.”
“Fine,” Vail said. “It scores pretty high on my bullshit radar.” She leaned forward. “I’m not saying it’s not what’s going on here, but a few accusations and numbers thrown around by a guy who may be a paranoid conspiracy nut himself… I’d need more than that to even consider it. I dealt with Knox once, and he was firm but fair, and at the end of the day, supportive. I don’t know him near well enough to draw up anything even resembling a behavioral profile, but going just on gut instinct, I can’t see him being part of a conspiracy to assassinate the president-elect.”
Uzi twisted his lips in disappointment, but knew she was right. His proof was as thin as his theory was compelling. But that was just it: it was a theory. He needed evidence — and until he got some, he was nowhere.
Uzi’s cell was ringing. He set his iPad onto the dashboard, having finished dictating his thoughts on the salient parts of Vail’s profile. While trying to keep his left hand on the wheel and one eye on the interstate, he fished through his overcoat, which was folded beside him. By the time he rooted out the phone, the caller had left a voicemaiclass="underline" it was Madeline telling him to report immediately to the attorney general’s office.
He returned Madeline’s call, hoping she could provide some background on the meeting. She could not. Uzi left a message for Shepard, then exited the interstate and arrived at the Department of Justice several minutes later. He checked in with Winston Coulter’s personal assistant, then turned to take a seat. But before he was able to sit, the woman told him the attorney general was ready to see him.
Uzi hesitated a moment, trying to figure out the reason for the meeting. Not only was it called at the last minute, but Winston Coulter was notorious for making people wait, a trait Uzi figured was part of the power game a lot of Washington bureaucrats played. Yet Uzi had been ushered in the moment he arrived.
Given the peculiarity of the situation, Uzi’s interest was piqued, to say the least. But maybe this visit, whatever its purpose and no matter how unprecedented, would give him the opportunity to discuss the restrictive order Knox had placed on them in accessing the NICS database.
Uzi walked into the spacious office, where a portly Winston Coulter sat behind his desk chattering on the phone. He did not acknowledge Uzi’s presence, keeping his gaze fixed on the ceiling. Uzi immediately realized that standing in someone’s office while he ignored you was infinitely more intimidating than waiting by yourself in a comfortable anteroom.
Uzi stood there a moment, then began to peruse the wall hangings. Certificates, law degrees and decrees, the usual photo ops with politicians. The office, though personalized, contained all the trappings and decorations Uzi had seen a hundred times.
“No, he’s here now,” Coulter said. “I’ll take care of it. Thanks for the heads up, Victor.” Coulter slammed down the phone and met Uzi’s gaze. “Agent, seems we’ve got a bit of a problem.”
Uzi stepped closer to the large maple desk, but did not sit. “With what, sir?”
“I just got off the phone with Victor Ripclaw. You know who Victor Ripclaw is, Agent?”
“Name rings a bell, but I can’t—”
“Victor Ripclaw is the managing partner with Hayes Patino Sinclair Ripclaw. You’ve heard of that law firm, haven’t you?”
“One of the largest on the east coast.” And one with enough clout to be able to pick up the phone and get through to the attorney general of the United States.
“Exactly right, Agent. You know why Mr. Ripclaw called me?”
“Sir, with all due respect, if we could get to the point—”
“His client is Nelson Flint. Is that blunt enough for you?”
Uzi closed his mouth. That was a revelation of significance. “Nelson Flint’s with Hayes Patino Sinclair Ripclaw? Doesn’t that strike you as odd, sir?”
“Whether it strikes me as odd or not, Agent Uziel, is irrelevant. Mr. Ripclaw is quite upset over your two visits to Mr. Flint’s place of business.”
“It’s a right-wing militia compound, sir. I wouldn’t exactly call it ‘a place of business.’”
“You didn’t call it a place of business. I did. And the point, Agent Uziel, is that you should not have been there unless you had a warrant.”
“With all due respect, sir, the first time we were there they gave us access voluntarily. The second time we never set foot on their property. Regardless of what their Madison Avenue lawyer claimed, we didn’t need a warrant. We just went there to ask questions during the normal course of our investigation.”