That’s why Carol Lawrence was shot in the back, you little shit, I thought. You were protecting yourself.
“What about Tony Cosgrove?” I asked.
“What about him?” Dortman returned. “He went fishing. The mountain blew up. End of story.”
“Was he involved in the skimming?” I asked.
“He figured it out,” Dortman said.
“And he was going to tell? I believe that’s what you said in the article you wrote. I read it in some obscure engineering magazine or other.”
“I never should have mentioned his name,” Dortman murmured.
“True,” I agreed. “You shouldn’t have, but you did. So what happened?”
“I was out of the country when that all came down. For all I know, maybe Jack did get rid of him, but I had nothing to do with it.”
Being accused of three homicide charges is only marginally worse than two. I let that one go.
“What about Kevin Stock?” I asked. “Who’s he?”
Dortman shook his head. “I have no idea,” he said. “Never heard of him.”
A laser printer sat behind Mel. She reached around to it and removed a blank sheet of of paper, which she slid across the table so it came to a stop directly in front of Thomas Dortman.
“Maybe you’d like to write some of that down for us,” she said, passing him a pen as well. “Just to be clear.”
That little byplay seemed to be enough of a reality check to snap Dortman out of his spasm of stupidity. “You mean, like write down a confession or something?” he asked.
Like a confession exactly, I thought.
Mel didn’t reply because Dortman was already shaking his head. “I’m not confessing to anything,” he declared. “I want a lawyer. Now. You have to let me go.”
Darrell Cross had maintained his silence throughout the process. “No,” he said. “Actually we don’t. Not only did you have a dangerous weapon in your possession that you carried through security, we’ve now x-rayed your checked luggage. We know that there’s at least one weapon in there as well.”
“I have a license for that,” Dortman objected. “A valid license to carry. I want a lawyer.”
We all knew it was a little late for a lawyer, but Darrell Cross was entirely agreeable about it. “And you’ll have one,” he said. “With any luck, he’ll arrive about the same time we have the warrant to search your luggage. You’re welcome to use my phone here to call your attorney if you like. Have him meet you at the King County Justice Center down in Kent. Or, if you’d rather, you can call him from there-your choice.”
“I’ll call from there,” Dortman said.
“As you like,” Cross responded.
He pressed a button on his phone console. The door opened and the two TSA officers who had brought Dortman into the office appeared once more. “I believe Mr. Dortman here is ready to be transported.”
The guards led him away. I couldn’t help feeling let down. “I thought we were going to come out of here with a confession,” I groused. “Right up until you passed him that paper. Then he freaked.”
“Not to worry,” Darrell Cross said with his Cheshire-cat smile. He motioned toward the clock behind him. Only then, upon closer examination, did I notice the camera lens that had been discreetly concealed inside the face of it.
“You recorded it?” I asked.
“Every bit of it,” Cross replied. “Every single word, in full video and audio. Whenever we bring people in here, they’re always complaining that we’re abusing their rights. I’ve found it helpful to be proactive about that-to take preemptive measures, if you will. With all of us visible in the room, I think Mr. Dortman will have a hell of a time convincing anyone that it was a forced confession. Copies, anyone?”
“Yes, please,” Mel said.
And while Darrell Cross went to fetch ours, I sat there in his office and decided perhaps it was time to rethink my long-standing contempt for the TSA. Maybe Homeland Security wasn’t in such bad hands after all.
CHAPTER 22
Darrell Cross remained pleasant and cordial enough, right until Tim Lander showed up. He arrived with his legally executed search warrant in hand about the same time Darrell Cross’s warrant appeared. That was when some old-fashioned TSA rigidity and noncooperation arrived on the scene as well.
Before the situation devolved into open warfare, Mel was able to finesse things enough that we were finally able to open Thomas Dortman’s assorted luggage. The lid of one carry-on was stuffed with packets of hundred-dollar bills.
“Looks like he stopped by his bank this morning and closed out his accounts,” I said.
Mel nodded. “That’s probably why he hung around until Monday,” she said.
In the end Detective Lander settled for walking away with Dortman’s 9-millimeter Beretta while Darrell Cross took control of everything else.
As far as Dortman’s Lincoln was concerned, however, Lander held the trump card. The LS was specifically listed on his search warrant. It wasn’t mentioned on Cross’s. So after we left the TSA office, Lander, Mel, and I spent the next half hour walking through Sea-Tac’s massive parking structure searching for the vehicle. Because local spring breaks were already in process, the garage was packed to the gills. My idea was to start on the top floors and work our way down. It was a logical-enough choice but a bad one. It turned out Dortman had used valet parking. And why not? It didn’t matter how much it cost. Dortman wasn’t planning on coming back, so he wasn’t ever going to pay the bill, either.
In the long run, that was a benefit. Once we located the vehicle and showed the parking attendant the search warrant, he produced the keys. Lander opened the driver’s door, bent down, and peered at the floor. Then he stepped back. “Take a look,” he said.
Mel took a look herself. “Looks like dried blood to me,” she said.
“That’s what I thought,” Lander replied.
He had summoned a tow truck. He and the attendant were arguing over payment of the parking fee when my phone rang.
“You never called me back,” Ralph Ames said accusingly.
Ralph isn’t someone who gets his nose out of joint easily, but this time he did sound miffed.
“Sorry,” I said. “Mel and I have been caught up in a situation that’s just now settling down.”
“So did you tell her-about the nun thing?”
“No,” I said. “I didn’t have a chance. Why don’t you?”
The look on Mel’s face was thoughtful as she finished the call and handed me back my phone. “Two unidentified nuns,” she said. “That pretty well spells it out. Richard Matthews’s murder and Juan Carlos Escobar’s have to be related.”
“Not two unidentified nuns,” I told her. “Three.”
“Three,” she said. “What are you talking about?”
“LaShawn Tompkins. Shortly before he was gunned down at his mother’s front door an unidentified nun was seen lurking in the neighborhood. She was seen, but no one’s been able to find any trace of her. Initially I thought she was an eyewitness, but maybe now…”
“A nun who goes around shooting people or running them down?” Mel asked. “That’s ridiculous.”
But I’m older than Mel Soames, and maybe I’m more cynical. Not only that, I’ve met enough religious nutcases that the idea of an unhinged nun didn’t sound at all beyond the realm of possibility.
“It makes no sense,” Mel insisted.
“It’s still a possibility,” I told her. “And even if it’s a long shot, with both you and Destry Hennessey involved, we’d better give Ross Connors a heads-up on this, too.”
She nodded. When Ross didn’t answer his cell I called his office, only to be told he was locked up in a series of meetings. When those ended, he was scheduled to speak at a dinner meeting in Tacoma. I had to summon a full dose of blarney before I was able to wheedle the location of said meeting out of his secretary, but with Mel’s Sea-Tac performance as inspiration, I hung in there until I finally had the name of the restaurant-Stanley Seaforts.