What happened to the Tarvers?
Were they murdered? Or was he crazy to think so? That’s why he was here. To find answers. Or was it to hide from ghosts?
He’d lost Nora. He couldn’t save Emily Tarver. Admit it, his boss was right. That’s what this was all about.
Redemption for his failures.
Six Seconds 205
No. He was trying to clear a case and had to focus on it.
Graham tightened his grip on his bag, looked for his ride and left his doubts at the terminal.
Sergeant Luc Cleroux, the RCMP’s liaison officer at the embassy, enjoying the chance to speak French with Graham, had set things up for him.
To assist Graham, the FBI provided Chuck “two weeks to go before retirement” Carson, who picked him up at Reagan.
“Between us, you don’t want me to babysit you on this, what is it, an insurance thing?” Carson said as they headed downtown.
Graham considered Carson’s suggestion.
As a foreign cop in the U.S., Graham did not carry his gun and had limited powers of arrest. He was in Wash ington on various business matters, including confirming background on the Tarvers as it related to their Canadian travel insurance policy. If he betrayed the fact he was there to rule out homicide, he’d be on the next plane home. That was Stotter’s direct order and his promise.
“I think I can take care of myself.”
“Good. Here’s my card. Keep me posted and call me if you need anything.”
Graham’s hotel was a few blocks from the White House and The Mall. Graham checked in, showered, then followed up on inquiries. First calclass="underline" Cleroux at the Canadian Embassy.
“Yeah, I got nothing from my Interpol contacts,” Cleroux said in French. “Anyway, I’ve passed your other requests to Reg Novak, a good guy with MPD. He’s expecting your call.”
When Graham reached Novak, the D.C. detective invited him to the Metropolitan Police Headquarters on Indiana Avenue. The Henry J. Daly Building was named to honor the homicide detective shot by an intruder in 1994.
Novak, a craggy-faced veteran, signed Graham in with the usual firm handshake and “Have a good flight?” small talk.
After Graham cleared the electronic security, Novak led him to his office and put a cup of coffee for him on his desk. Novak groaned as he settled in his chair and flipped through his tattered notebook.
“Read about them in the Post. Just terrible what happened up there. Here we go. I ran those checks you’d wanted.”
Graham’s pen was poised over his notebook.
“And I got zilch. Sorry. Wish I could help you with more but Raymond Tarver is not in our system. The same for Anita. No complaint history at their house, either. They live in the district side of Takoma Park.”
“Nothing?”
“Not a thing. I did some asking around for you and what I can tell you is that Ray was a reporter, but he wrote more about national politics, international scan dals and whatnot.”
“I’ve heard that.”
“He was a real character, looked for big doomsday conspiracy stuff. Then he sorta faded, or something.” Novak shrugged before sipping from his Washington Capitals mug. “You might want to check with the feds, FBI, Secret Service, Homeland and the like. I heard Ray traveled in those circles.”
“I have an appointment later.”
“Good they could squeeze you in. Most of those allstars should be busy with the pope’s visit. I know some of our guys are helping. Not me personally, thank God. Got enough on my plate. But checking those watch lists can be a headache. These things tend to excite every nut job in the country.” He closed his book. “Think the Flames have a shot this year?”
“As good as the Caps.”
“So you still haven’t found Tarver’s body, have you?”
“No. Sometimes we never find them in mountain deaths.”
“I gotta ask you.” Novak’s gaze fixed on Graham’s, letting a detective-to-detective understanding pass be tween them. “It’s your case and all, but you didn’t really come all this way to look into insurance crap, did you?”
“I did. Among other things.”
“ Among other things. Care for some advice from a jaded old flatfoot?”
“Go ahead.”
“The primary activities in this town are ass covering and finger pointing.”
“It’s a government town.”
“It is. And from what I understand, Ray Tarver pissed off a few government people in security circles.”
“What’re you telling me?”
“Truth is often a fugitive in D.C. and searching for it can be damaging to your career. Be careful, my friend.”
Graham returned to his hotel with time to eat a club sandwich before heading to the United States Secret Service headquarters on H Street.
A number of days before his meeting he’d faxed his date of birth, passport number and RCMP regimental number, as security required.
“Special Agent Blake Walker,” Graham told the woman at reception when she’d asked who he was there to see.
She typed on her keyboard, spoke softly into her headset, then said, “Corporal Graham, Agent Walker apologizes. He has conflicting meetings and would like to reschedule, if you agree?”
“I’d prefer that we did this now, I’d only need about twenty minutes.”
“Stand by, sir.”
She spoke into the headset, listened, then nodded.
“Agent Walker will try to give you time now. Someone will be down to get you.” She exchanged Graham’s driver’s license for a visitor’s badge. “Please wear this at all times and return it to me when you leave.”
A man barely out of his teens, who was about six foot seven and wearing a loose-fitting dark suit, white shirt, tie and ID badge that said T. Simms, came for him. Graham figured him for an intern. Simms smiled at Graham in the elevator as the car ascended several floors before it stopped.
They stepped into a carpeted corridor dividing highwalled cubicles from closed offices. Tension was evi dent in the sober faces of people working at terminals and talking on phones in muted tones.
Graham’s escort delivered him to Walker’s office then left.
The door was open.
Walker was in mid-phone conversation, standing at his desk, kneading the back of his neck. He seemed to fill the room as he waved Graham in, held up two fingers, mouthing two minutes, then indicated the guest chair.
A good-size office window offered a slice of down town Washington. On the far wall, Walker was every where in framed photographs with several presidents, even the new one. And there was Walker with the CIA director, the FBI director, the UN secretary. There he was again with colleagues standing before Bucking ham Palace, in Red Square, in front of the Eiffel Tower, the Vatican and other capitals.
Two young girls grinned from the gold-framed pho tograph beside his monitor.
Walker finished his call.
“Sorry for that. Blake Walker.”
Graham shook his hand.
“Dan Graham.”
“I was dealing with my ex. You married?”
His personal question came without warning.
“No. I was. But, no, not anymore.”
“Good. Stay single. Enjoy life the way God had origi nally intended. Paradise before Eve came along.” Walker smiled, pointed to the mug on his desk. “Coffee?”
“I’m good, thanks.”
“Okay, let’s get to it. You’re here on the deaths of Ray Tarver’s family.”
“Yes. Just checking background, regarding the insur ance and trying to clear it.”
“No, no. Stop right there. First, why come to me?” Walker said. “How did my name come up in this?”
Graham passed a sheet of paper to Walker, who glanced at his watch before reading the document.
“I photocopied this from Tarver’s notebook,” Gra ham said. “It’s from a series of cryptic notations. This was one of his last entries. A handwritten note that says, See S.A. Blake Walker at SS on H again. ”
Walker took a deep breath then cursed under it.
“What is it?” Graham asked.
“This was not in the summary you’d sent me in your meeting request. Matter of fact, your summary was a tad short on details. Let me get my head around this. You still insist on me believing that you’re here solely to snoop around on Tarver for insurance purposes?”