Another tech walked past him carrying a computer. “We’ll tear it apart in the lab.”
“Good,” the head tech said. “Notice anything weird?”
“Yeah,” the tech said. “No phones.”
Pilcher looked up from the file. “What?”
“There’s no telephone in this apartment. The computer had a cable modem, the TV has cable. There’s almost no clothes in the closets, just a bed, the desk, computer, a few files — the ones you’ve got. Bathroom’s got a few toiletries and the kitchen’s pretty well stocked. But no phones.”
“She have a phone on her?”
“No.”
Pilcher turned his gaze to the broken cell phone on the floor. Stillwater had called him. From where?
He took out his own cellular phone and started clicking on the menu, checking his calling history, remembering the order of the calls he had made after receiving Stillwater’s two phone calls: the one about the apartment where he had told him about Irina Khournikova and the second one a while later that had been interrupted by the cops. The first call had been from Stillwater’s cell phone. The second call, though, had been placed from a different number. He jotted the number in his notebook, then dialed it from his cell phone.
The number rang and rang, but no one answered. Dammit, Stillwater! Where the hell are you?
Pilcher left the building and stood at the entryway, feeling the weight of the last nine hours on his shoulders. The night was warm with a light breeze, only a hint of smog. A pleasant night, not the type of night one would associate with such evil. Above him circled three or four helicopters, news TV he assumed.
“You the head FBI guy?”
Pilcher turned to face a broad-shouldered man in a trench coat. He displayed his badge identifying himself as Detective Christopher Flemming. Pilcher’s own I.D. still hung around his neck.
“I’m not in charge of this particular scene,” Pilcher said carefully.
“That would be Tittaglia,” Flemming said. “But you’re his boss.”
Pilcher nodded. “Sort of. What can I do for you, Detective?”
“You can tell me what this is all about.” Flemming kept his hands in his pockets but his expression was watchful.
Pilcher came off the steps and locked eyes with the detective. “You’re familiar with the attack in Baltimore?”
“Sure. We get Homeland’s bulletins, too. Code Red. Might even mean something for a change. This Stillwater one of them?”
Pilcher shook his head. “No. He’s a special investigator for the Department of Homeland Security. He’s at least a step or two closer to these bad guys—”
”He is a bad guy, Pilcher. He busted the jaw of a cop. He resisted arrest. He’s a material witness and a possible suspect in a homicide. We want him. He’s ours.”
Pilcher started to protest, but stopped. He changed tack. “Who was Austin Davis?”
“You tell me. He a terrorist?”
Pilcher shrugged. He needed information, not this crap. “I was told Austin Davis was a physician at Walter Reed. Is he military?”
Flemming scowled. “Was. Served in the Army in the Gulf War. He’s been a civilian since ‘92.”
There’s the connection, Pilcher thought. His gaze took in the remaining onlookers. Overhead at least two helicopters continued to circle.
Flemming said, “What’s going on upstairs?”
“Nothing to concern you.”
“If it’s a murder up there it’s our jurisdiction. If it’s in any way related to this Derek Stillwater, it’s our jurisdiction.”
Pilcher gave Flemming a flat stare. “It’s not going to happen, so don’t bother asking. File the paper if you have to, but that apartment is ours, end of story.”
Flemming started to protest, but apparently decided to save his breath. “This Stillwater, what can you tell me about him?”
Pilcher said, “Nothing. I can’t tell you shit. And you’re wasting my time. When Superman Stillwater took his amazing leap over the truck, managing to overpower two armed cops at the same time, which way did he go before he disappeared?”
Flemming glared at him. “What’s Stillwater do for Homeland? Some kind of spook?”
“Which way did he go, Detective?”
Flemming shook his head. “You tell me something and I’ll tell you something.”
Pilcher wanted to scream. “Fine,” he said through clenched teeth. “He’s an expert on biological and chemical warfare.”
Flemming’s eyes grew wide. “So this attack in Baltimore—”
”Hey, you’re catching on. Which way did he go?”
Flemming pointed.
Leaving the detective behind, Pilcher retrieved a big Mag Lite from the Ford Taurus and headed into the alleyway. The far end was blocked by a tall wooden gate. He aimed the flash toward the ground, saw what might have been dots of drying blood. He followed it to the fence. Impatient, he pulled out his cellular and punched in the number of Stillwater’s last known phone. He listened. Nothing. He shut off the phone and, with a sigh, pulled himself over the fence and dropped down on the other side. Pilcher, bending to the ground, found more of the blood trail, drips maybe six, seven feet apart. Stillwater hadn’t been bleeding in a way that seemed fatal and he had probably been moving fast. Did he have a vehicle around here? After he’d been picked up by the Coast Guard at the Scully house Pilcher had no idea how the troubleshooter had been getting around.
Pilcher followed the blood, but lost it after twenty or thirty yards. Stillwater might have stopped bleeding or might have jumped into a car and sped away. He couldn’t tell.
He tried the cell phone number again, straining his ears to hear the ring. He raised his eyebrows. Was that…?
He followed the faint sound of the cellular phone ringing, growing louder as he approached another alley about one building down from the dead woman’s apartment. Slowly he stepped into the dark corridor. The sound of the phone was loud. He scanned the flashlight beam around. There was movement in the debris and a large black rat scuttled out, eyes glittering in the light before moving further into the shadows.
There!
Pilcher shut off his phone and the electronic buzzing stopped. There was no sign of Stillwater except a black cell phone in a pile of debris next to the gray stone wall of the building. He picked up the phone and carefully dropped it into his jacket pocket.
He felt conflicted. He had the phone. The phone was evidence. The phone was a direct link to the terrorists. He needed to get it to the lab as fast as possible and start a team of agents tracking down any calls that had gone out or come into the phone.
But what about Stillwater? Despite the fact the two men were from different agencies, Pilcher had recognized something in the man, a kindred spirit, someone who wasn’t interested in climbing the political or corporate ladder, in currying favor or kissing ass. Stillwater just wanted to get the job done.
Pilcher thought of his daughters. Whenever his energy flagged on the job he thought about his children and his wife, reminded himself that he was protecting them, creating a country, a world even, for them to live in safely. America… Americans… was too big a concept. Too ephemeral, too abstract. But he would fight for his children.
He decided to give the search for Stillwater ten more minutes, then rush the phone back to the lab.
So…
Where had Stillwater gone?
The alley was dark, dirty, the pavement slick with grime and grease and God-knows-what. There was a rotting food odor that seemed to rise up from the pavement. A rusted green Dumpster halfway down the alley spewed garbage — the rat’s home, no doubt. He flashed his light in the Dumpster, just in case, but saw only garbage. He was sure the cops would have, too.