“I’ve always trusted your judgment about such things, Carl. You know these clients better than anyone. I’ll sign off on the list and submit their names, along with our recommendation, to the various state corrections departments.” He was about to take another sip, then paused. “Remember, though-we were just warned to stay out of the spotlight. Is there anyone on your list who might provoke any more public controversy?”
Carl Frankfurt picked up his fork and broke off a piece of trout parmesan. “Of course not. My furlough candidates, especially, are model clients. You wouldn’t believe how much they’ve grown. Ken, I would trust every one of those guys with my life.”
TWENTY-SIX
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.”