‘But it’s got to be too late now.’
‘Cases get solved. A witness comes forward that can’t carry what they know any longer or DNA gives us a connection we didn’t have before.’
‘What about those? Who is Ramirez?’
‘He’s better known as the Nightstalker and he’s already in prison doing life, but his attorney is working hard on an appeal. If the attorney is successful we’ve got five good cases here so he can be charged again.’
Raveneau listed off the five victims. He pulled out the case file of a young woman, Marsha Smith, killed in 1966. He knew Candel didn’t really see the effort as worth it so many years after a murder. Yet Raveneau wanted him to see this.
After he shut the door, he said, ‘OK, let’s go, and I’ll drop you off on my way.’
They rode the elevator down and in the car before pulling away from the curb Raveneau reached around back and picked up the photo. It was wrapped in brown paper.
‘Tom Casey gave this to me to bring back to you.’
‘What is it?’
‘Open it.’
Candel unpeeled the brown paper as they waited at a light. He flipped the photo over then rested it on his knees, a studio shot, color, and bigger than 8 x 11, framed in oak, and Raveneau didn’t expect the intensity. He didn’t make a sound but tears started.
‘Mom. She looks beautiful. She looks happy.’
‘That’s your dad next to her.’
But he wasn’t looking at his dad. He was looking at his dad’s hand resting on his head and was disbelieving. ‘Me?’
‘What’s the matter? Do you think the kid is too good looking? That’s you.’
‘That can’t be.’
But Candel knew it was and as Raveneau turned left he heard the release and then a sob Candel tried to choke off and couldn’t. When he looked over there were tears running down his face. He bowed his head and tears fell on the glass over the photo. Raveneau drove slowly, gave him time before dropping him off.
Candel wiped the tears off his face and said, ‘Sorry, I just never…’
‘So he did know you. You’ll have to talk to Tom Casey. He said to tell you that you’ve got a standing invite at his house.’
Raveneau glanced over. ‘He didn’t make any offer like that to me. He gave me something else.’ Raveneau handed over the box Casey gave him. ‘He received two of these. Here’s one of them. Casey gave this to me to give you along with the photo.’
Candel took the box from him but didn’t open it yet. He cupped it in his left hand.
‘Your half brother has the other one. He’s on Facebook if you want to contact him that way. He gave me the contact info. I’ll give it to you when we stop. Your father married a Vietnamese woman. According to Tom Casey that was to get her out of Vietnam but she was also pregnant by him. Your brother’s name is Matt Frank.’
‘A brother?’
‘Yeah.’
‘And he got the last name?’
‘He did and he’s got mixed feelings like you. That’s a story you’ll have to get from him. He’s older than you by a few years and he’s got a specialty coffee business he’s trying to take global. He gets to California a couple of times a year so you can meet him here if you don’t go to Hawaii first.’
Candel opened the box with the dragon on it. He lifted out the medal.
‘Is this for dropping napalm on villagers?’
‘War is an often cynical calculation, but this is for exceptional heroism and bravery. They don’t hand them out like candy.’
‘But another bogus war.’
‘I know what you’re saying and I’ve had those feelings. My son died in Iraq. I had to find a way to separate how we got there from how my son did. Go talk to Tom Casey about your dad and figure out what the good things were. It’s time to turn the page.’
FORTY
Raveneau didn’t have any proof. He didn’t have any hard information and the Special Agent in Charge, Coe’s SAC, sat listening and then left in what Raveneau read as dismissal. Within ten minutes the other two agents excused themselves and Raveneau said to Coe, ‘I don’t need this.’
‘Everyone is looking for anything.’
‘I never said I had anything.’
‘I know.’
‘All right,’ Raveneau said and stood, adding, ‘I’m going to go see Drury.’
‘Drury was arraigned on murder and kidnapping charges; he’s not going to talk to you. He’s not going to talk to any of us ever again. We don’t have anything he wants and in his view we screwed him.’
‘He’s right, but we do have something he wants.’
‘OK, what’s that?’
But Coe wasn’t in a mood to listen. His eyes were red from lack of sleep. He was impatient, frustrated, exhausted, under pressure and carrying guilt for the blown surveillance. He expected Raveneau to come in and lay out a theory of the bomb plotters getting information from inside law enforcement at the federal level and Raveneau was nowhere near that.
But he did learn some things. Coe told him before his SAC walked in that the FBI got nothing from Khan’s house, his bank and phone records, his emails, his car. ‘Zero, zilch,’ he said. What Raveneau saw in Coe today was an agent running scared and tired, a guy in his mid thirties, committed to law enforcement and on the climb now wondering if his career arc just flattened out. So Raveneau let it go. He moved the conversation to Drury and held it there.
‘Four employees were shot to death in a cabinet shop,’ Raveneau said. ‘The owner of that shop and his wife are dead. If the same people are cleaning up after themselves it makes sense they would also take out John Drury because Drury can identify the man who hired him. I’d like to point that out to Drury. Why don’t you come with me?’
‘Right now, if I want to use a bathroom I have to get it cleared.’
Coe sighed. He pressed two fingers against his forehead as if he had a headache.
‘I’ll let you know if I learn anything,’ Raveneau said, and then paused at the door. ‘I got a call from Brooks this morning. Is he up to speed on everything?’
‘Oh, yeah, he’s right in the heart of it. He wants to know why the Secret Service weren’t part of the surveillance of Khan. Brooks is loud. Fuck him.’
Raveneau picked up la Rosa and as they drove across the city to knock on the blogger’s door, she worried that Raveneau wasn’t tuned in enough. He didn’t have a Facebook page. He didn’t have a Twitter account.
‘Isn’t Celeste tweeting?’
‘Yeah, she thinks it’s a good way to get the word out on the bar.’
‘So you’ve seen it. You know what it’s about. And you’ve heard of Andrew Fine, right?’ la Rosa asked as they parked. ‘Do you read him?’
‘I’ve read him, but I don’t read him. He’s a good writer but you don’t have to read him to know where he stands on everything.’
‘Leave that at the door. If anything, we need to flatter this guy. We need him to talk to us. He has a Twitter feed. He’s very witty.’
‘Do you follow his feed?’
‘Yes.’
‘Tweet this to him: the police are at the door.’
