finishedexplaining it to Ram hours later, he left him, again, with this samequalification. And then he told him one more thing.
“There are many people who would kill us if they knew,” hewarned his son.
Ram Haroon types in the [email protected] and sends off his message:
Ram stretches his neck and decides to go for a run in thecool winter air. Is it late winter or early spring? He doesn’t even know. Hepays little attention to such things. Between schoolwork and this mission, hescarcely has had time to enjoy his stay in the United States. He has found thecountry to be a nice place to live, on the whole. The people are relativelyfriendly and generous. Yes, there are those who look at him askance basedpurely on his racial makeup. But that is the small minority of people. The paceis astonishingly quicker here than back home, with considerably more emphasis onmaterial possessions, but Ram has come to the conclusion that the Americans andhis people, generally speaking, are not very different at all. He was surprisedto learn this upon arriving in the Midwest two years ago. His friends overseasdo not see the U.S. as he does, just as the Americans do not see his homelandthe way he does. To the Americans, he assumes, his people are camel-riding,gun-toting extremists. The problem with the Americans is that they simply don’tunderstand the fundamental concept that people-his people and any others-aren’tborn to hate. They are bred to hate.
And that is a problem that Ram Haroon simply cannot control.He is just a small part of a greater machine, trying to reconcile competinginterests. To some he is evil. To others he is heroic. He will leave the labelsto others. He will focus on his task and complete it, like a good soldier. Andthe only thing he hopes for, after all of this is over, is that he will bealive.
Another thing he cannot control.
ONE DAY EARLIER…
Roger Ogren greets McCoy when she gets off the elevator atthe county building.
“Agent McCoy,” he says. “Thanks for coming to me. I couldhave made the trip.”
The trip being a walk of three blocks from the federalbuilding, where McCoy works.
“No problem. And call me Jane.” She follows him into hisoffice. The fact that he has an office separates him from several of theprosecutors on the floor, who are gathered in two large rooms she passes, eachassigned a chair.
Roger Ogren’s office is uncommonly neat. There is a tray forincoming mail that has only two pieces of paper in it, folded neatly. Lawbooks-the local court rules, attorney indices, the criminal statutes-are linedup precisely on a row of low, black metallic shelves on the back wall. One ofthat kind, she thinks to herself. She never trusts someone who cleans up everyday. If he says pardon the mess, she’s leaving. On principle.
Ogren takes his seat behind the desk. Behind him, McCoy seesfamily photographs that she assumes do not include a wife. Lack of a weddingring confirms it. It’s her instinct. Look at the finger. She has been hit on bymore married men than she can count.
She could see him as single. He’s overweight, notridiculously so but enough to add a second chin, a puffiness beneath his eyes,a stomach that covers the front of his belt. She can see it in the way hecarries himself, too, not the typical authority she sees in mostlaw-enforcement types. This guy has a chip on his shoulder, a wariness to hiseyes, like he’s wondering what everyone’s thinking about him. This is not apersonality trait she would expect from the man who has been handed this highlypublicized prosecution.
But there are explanations for that. One of them is seniority.He has the word lifer all over him. He has probably never held another job andprobably would not care to. So he’s up there on the chain, regardless of merit.But she senses another reason, and she knows these types, too. He’s a pit bull.Put him on someone and he doesn’t let up until they’re bloody and lifeless.
“We’re aware that you’re looking at the Senate,” Ogren says.“Aware from the newspapers, that is.”
Oh, a rebuke, right out of the gate. The feds have not beensharing, he is saying.
“I assume,” he continues, “that this is the reason for yoursophisticated eavesdropping device in her house.”
McCoy smiles at him, not pleasantly. Roger Ogren has beensworn to silence on this point, yet he raises the subject every chance he gets.
“I’ve done my homework,” Ogren says. “And if I’m right, youcan hear absolutely everything that goes on in her house.”
“Not quite everything,” McCoy answers. “But yes, it’s been agood device.”
The Infinity transmitter allows the eavesdropper to not onlylisten in on and record phone conversations; it also serves as a microphonethat permits the recording of all room sounds. Ogren has read up on it,apparently, and he’s thinking that McCoy must have some solid information fromhearing every conversation that Allison Pagone has been having in her house-inperson or on the phone.
“We didn’t bug her house to learn about your case,” shesays, not for the first time. “And I can tell you, based on what I’ve heard,that she doesn’t talk about your case in her house. I assume she limits thoseconversations to her attorney’s office. There hasn’t been a word about whethershe killed Sam Dillon, or anything like that. Really, Roger.”
“But you can confirm for me,” he tries, “that you’reinvestigating this bribery. This pharmaceutical drug bill.”
“I can’t confirm anything.” She smiles, not warmly. “Andyou’re not supposed to ask.”
Surely, Ogren knows there is more to it than that. If thiswere just about a public corruption scandal, the feds wouldn’t be so hush-hush.
“Well.” Ogren opens his hands, smiles plaintively. “SamDillon was killed just before he was going to testify in Operation PublicTrust. Am I wrong about that?”
“No, you’re not wrong.”
Ogren pauses a beat, blinks his eyes and looks away, makes aface. Finally he leans forward, laces his hands. “Sam Dillon was expressingconcern to people in his office. There was a problem. An ‘ethical dilemma,’ hecalled it. The obvious thought is that Sam Dillon discovered something, andwe’re thinking that this ‘something’ is this bribery thing you’reinvestigating. And if we think that, the defense is going to think that. Weneed to be ready. So I was hoping that you might give us a look-see at what youhave.”
“Our operation,” McCoy says, “has nothing to do withDillon’s murder.”
“I don’t think that it does, either. I know my story and Ilike it. But the defense is going to make hay.”
“The defense can’t look at what we’re doing,” she says.“It’s sealed information.”
“I know that, Agent.” Agent, he is emphasizing, not lawyer.That is his point here. Don’t you tell me about the law governing grand-jurysecrecy.
Ogren hands her a sheet of paper, a printout of the e-mailthat was sent from Sam Dillon’s computer at one- eighteen in the morning, earlyon the Sunday following Sam Dillon’s murder. “I wonder if you can make sense ofthis for me,” he requests.
“I’ve heard about it, sure,” McCoy says. “Everyone has.”
“She must have sent this.” The prosecutor points at thedocument. “We have her returning to Dillon’s house around one. She came backand sent that e-mail. Why?”
“To throw off time of death,” McCoy says, like it’s obvious.“She killed him at seven, but she wants people to think he was alive well afterthat time. Just in case anyone saw her there at seven.”
“That’s a big risk to take. That’s hard to believe.”
“That’s what makes it smart.” McCoy stares at Ogren amoment, to see if this is registering with him.
