It was like everything else in his life: one mountain to climb after another. He was always the smallest person in class, had shitty eyesight, no athletic coordination, was far from brilliant, and a social misfit. Only his dogged determination had kept Dawson from getting lost behind life’s eight-ball. He had persevered, gone to law school at night, and worked his way into this job.
Oblivious to the spent-petroleum smell in the air, he threaded his way through the maze of boxes, each of them containing sloppily labeled manila folders stuffed with pages from cases current, pending, or dismissed. It represented detritus that continued to build as the years wore on. The tiny office was made even smaller by protruding snap-on bookshelves that jutted from every wall. Dawson’s footsteps tapped against the chipped and dingy linoleum, over to a dog-eared cardboard box with STAPLES The Office Superstore printed across its red front. He bent down and removed a stack of clipped papers. Arching upright, he tossed a shock of bangs from his forehead and, with the pad of his palm, pushed his horn-rims up the bridge of his nose. Opening the folder, he held it outright as a parishioner might hold a hymnal. He read his own note: no indication of source.
No indication who had mailed him those pages from San Diego a month ago? How could that be?
Somebody with access to confidential records on both Cannodine and Drucker had found a conscience. Someone anonymously sent to his attention several photocopies of receipts with Cannodine’s signature, suspicious trade confirms from numbered foreign accounts, and evidence of funds transferred from the Cayman Islands. With what he had, Dawson confronted Jackson’s branch manager and suggested he might become the target of an SEC investigation.
“If you haven’t done anything illegal, Mr. Cannodine,” Dawson had said, “then you have nothing to fear.”
When Cannodine’s body flinched and his face took on the look of a dehydrated apple, Dawson became convinced the man knew plenty. By the third visit, a threatened subpoena seemingly in his future, Cannodine had asked about immunity. Immunity inquiries, anybody in law enforcement knew, often marked the big first step towards gaining cooperation.
But then, a day-trader’s rampage cut Dawson’s inquiry short. Bullshit. If Zerets, or whatever the hell his real name was, hadn’t blown himself up, nobody would have bought that idiotic story. Now, the agent remained alone in his lingering doubt. He didn’t believe for a minute Zerets committed suicide. Someone set the swine up—Dawson didn’t know how, but the murderer was just another disposable pawn.
Same with Stanley Drucker—a dimwit who couldn’t lead a barbell to gravity—yet somehow had managed to move hundreds of millions of dollars in and out of his managed accounts at a numbing velocity. And except for recent losses, he had made ungodly returns on his investments. Then, after an initial visit by Dawson, came his monumental suicide. And everything fell so damn conveniently into place: Drucker loses millions of dollars and is depressed. According to his ex-wife, he has a history of alcoholism and violence. A search of his house uncovers materials and instructions on bomb-making. Since not a molecule of Drucker remains, there is nothing more to pursue. The Director of Enforcement’s Special Assistant, Freeman Ranson, even suggests that Dawson had pushed too hard and set Drucker off.
And because of Ranson, the pressure on Dawson increased daily. Ranson took every opportunity to criticize—claimed Dawson felt bitter over having failed with the Treasury manipulation case he’d brought, and failed to make stick, against Stenman Partners a few years back. That he always pushed too hard and needed to back off and be less passionate. Some of what Ranson said was true. Dawson was bitter—damn bitter— but that had nothing to do with this case. People had committed crimes that dug deeply into the financial system, maybe deeply enough to stagger a few Wall Street institutions. Dawson felt the filth in the joints of his bones and it pained him. He cared about the law. To him, it mattered.
“You don’t listen to anyone and you’re dangerous, Dawson,” Ranson had said in front of the Director. “You’ve got a weak case and you go nuts, threatening people. Somebody needs to clip your wings.”
“Ranson’s an asshole,” Dawson now said as he clamped shut the file. “A flaming asshole.” The agent found himself wishing he stood six-foot, two inches and weighed two hundred and twenty pounds, instead of five-six and one hundred and forty. If he had the size, he’d kick Ranson’s ass. Maybe not kick his ass, but threaten to kick his ass and scare the shit out of him.
“Mr. Dawson? Oliver?” Angela Newman, the secretary he shared with two other agents, stood at his door. “Did you need something?” she asked.
With his office door always open and the walls paper thin, Angela had heard his outburst.
“No. Talking to myself.” His head bent down to his thick-soled black shoes. He put the more scuffed of the two behind the other. It was a clumsy attempt to hide the fact that in over a year, he had yet to get a shoeshine.
“If you’re sure.” She turned and stepped away.
“Angela,” Dawson said, reacting to an impulse. “Can you ring the FBI lab? Find out who did the tests on those materials I got in May from San Diego?”
“Certainly.” Angela, raw-boned, with a narrow chin and crooked teeth, smiled. “Anything else?” she asked.
Dawson felt flush. He liked Angela and wished he wasn’t such a coward. Nobody would care if he dated his secretary. Ask her if she’s free for a drink after work, he urged himself. “Uh, maybe if you . . .” He stalled.
“If I what?” She batted her eyes.
“ . . . if you wouldn’t mind making that call now, I’d appreciate it.”
“Of course, Oliver.”
Dammit, he scolded himself.
Fidgeting, he watched her turn and leave. Her dress draped long and limp, a floral pattern with bunched shoulders and a pink ribbon cinched around her tiny waist and tied in a bow. Stringy, dirty-blond hair brushed against her collar in the back just before she disappeared around the corner. The others in the office made fun of Angela, calling her the old maid. She was thirty-five—younger than him. Not old, he thought. And even if the others didn’t like her looks, Dawson found her expressions kind.
One day, he vowed, I’m going to ask her out.
Dawson picked up his soda and downed the last three ounces. He pulled open his drawer and grabbed another can, listened to the hiss of the airborne carbonation—a whisper of his addiction—then took a deep swig and waited. Waited for a break. Waited for someone to step forward and give him another lead. Waited for Angela Newman. Waiting—that’s something he had long ago become accustomed to.
Fifteen minutes later, Angela returned to his open door, “The FBI lab technician?” She had tears in her eyes.
“Yes,” Dawson asked, attempting to present as pleasant a look as possible.
“Had an accident.”
“Terrific. Let me guess. He’s off work for a month and I can’t get my damn files back.”
“It’s—” Her voice shook. “It’s worse. He was with another agent. Killed. Shot in a horrible accident.”