office.
“Excuse me, sir? You want to see me?” She glanced at the file he held in his hands.
Lieutenant O’Hanrahan glanced up from a paper he was reading. The desktop was covered with more papers. “Yes, Detective Bishop, I do. Have a seat.” He gestured to the chair on her side of the desk. He put the paper on top of the others, and straightened the mess into a neat stack, before slipping them into a folder.
Jessie waited, but his obvious stalling made her nervous. “So…?”
“Detective Bishop, I’ve heard from various sources, that you’re dating a man named Mark Taylor?”
Jessie straightened, squaring her shoulders. Is that all this was about? She’d already talked to Internal Affairs about this. “Yes, I am, but it’s okay, sir. I discussed it with IA and made sure that I wasn’t breaking any regulations. Mark had a few scrapes with us before, but he was cleared every time.”
O’Hanrahan nodded. “Yes, I’m aware of that, but I’m afraid this is different. Your…boyfriend is in custody right now-”
“What? Why?” Jessie scooted to the edge of her seat. What had Mark gotten into this time? It had only been, what? Four months since the last time he’d been questioned when he interfered with an investigation. He promised it wouldn’t happen again. She gripped the sides of the chair. He’d better hope they locked him up, because if not, she was going to kill him.
“Hear me out, I wasn’t finished. It’s not us who have him-it’s the Feds. Taylor had a run in with one of our guys, and when it came over the radio, the Feds called and said they want him. It seems they were preparing to arrest him, when lo and behold, his name pops up on the scanners.”
All thoughts of murder flew from her mind. “The FBI? What do they want with Mark?” Her pulse quickened.
“It has to do with September 11th. They want to question him about it.” He held up a hand when Jessie opened her mouth to ask more questions. “Hold it, that’s all I know. I just thought I’d give you a heads-up.”
It took Jessie a few seconds to realize that O’Hanrahan was done. “Sir, would I be able to talk to him?”
Her lieutenant regarded her with a mixture of pity and regret. “I can send the request up the chain, but it’s doubtful. At least, not right away. I do have the name of the special agent in charge. It’s Johnson. “
“Thank you.” At least it was a place to start. She stood, amazed that her legs held her. “Did they take him to the Metropolitan Correctional Center?”
O’Hanrahan nodded. “I expect FBI will have some questions for you as well.”
That hadn’t occurred to her, but she’d welcome the interview. Mark had some peculiarities, but she had no doubt he was a good guy.
A bead of sweat raced down Mark’s back, and he could feel more gathering on his brow. The room stank of stale cigarettes and body odor. He picked at a cigarette burn on the scarred table. How long were they going to keep him waiting? It had to have been at least an hour, but there were no clocks in the room so he didn’t know for sure. The window on his right reflected only the inside of the room and he knew it had to be a two-way mirror.
The door opened and Mark’s heart tripled its rate. Even though he wanted to straighten the mess out and had wished someone would come talk to him, a shiver of fear shook his body. Johnson led a new group of agents into the room. He carried a folder and set it on the table across from Mark.
The agent sat and took out a pair of glasses, perching them on the end of his nose. Mark hunched over the table, keenly aware of the two remaining Feds flanking him.
Johnson tapped the folder with one index finger. “I have some very disturbing information about you, Mr. Taylor. Especially in light of recent events.”
“There’s an explanation. This is all just a misunderstanding.” Mark’s head ached and he rubbed his temples.
“Do you admit that you made a series of phone calls on the morning of September 11th to various government agencies?” He opened the folder and sorted through several documents. Running a finger down a line of print, he added, “Calls that began a full three hours before the planes hit?”
“Well, yeah. Of course I admit that. I left my name.”
“How did you come by your information?” Johnson leaned towards Mark and said, “And I must caution you that withholding important details will only make it go worse for you.”
“It’s gonna sound crazy, but hear me out.” He tried to laugh, but it fell flat. “See, the thing is, I have this camera and when I take pictures, the photos sometimes come out much differently than…” He hesitated. How could he explain this in a way that would make sense?
Johnson cut in, “Get on with it.”
Mark swallowed. “Sorry.” He wiped his hands on his thighs and darted a look at the other agents. “The photos-they show up in my dreams, only with more detail. And my dreams…they come true.” Johnson narrowed his eyes and Mark rushed on, “It’s the truth and because I see what happens before it happens, I can change it… sometimes.”
He closed his eyes as the visions of the planes hitting the towers played in his mind. “Only, it didn’t work on September eleventh. There wasn’t enough time. That dream…well, I’ve had some bad ones before, but…” He shuddered and opened his eyes, but couldn’t get the images out of his head. He ground the heel of his hand against his brow as if he could erase them.
“Stop!” Johnson slapped his hand down on the table top.
Mark jumped, then froze.
“I don’t have time for this crap. We have tapes of your calls. We have records that you traveled to Afghanistan two years ago. We know that you associated with Mohommad Aziz, a suspected terrorist.”
Mo? A terrorist? Mark didn’t buy it. He had known the guy for years. He was no more a terrorist than Fred Flintstone.
Johnson took a sheet of paper out of the folder, grabbed pen from his shirt pocket and shoved them both across the table. “Please write down everything you did and the names of the people you met in Afghanistan.”
Anger simmered inside of him and Mark tried to shove it down. He eased the paper back towards Johnson. “I already admitted I made the calls. You have the tapes.” Glancing at the two agents beside him, and then back to Johnson, he shrugged. “Yeah, I did go to Afghanistan. It was work related. Mo Aziz is a free-lance photojournalist I’ve known for about five years now.”
Agent Johnson’s eyes narrowed. “Oh really? How interesting.” He jotted something on a note pad.
“Listen, would ya? He’s no terrorist. He’s a good guy. He wanted to do a story on women’s rights, or lack of them, actually, in that country. Mo had some connections there, so we were able to go places where outsiders aren’t normally welcome. He interviewed the people and I took the photos. It was a hell of a book and I was proud to help with the photos.”
Johnson nodded, his pen scratching across the paper. “Good. Where can I find a copy of this book? So we can verify your story.”
Mark sighed. “Unfortunately, it was never published. Nobody was interested in the plight of the women of Afghanistan at the time.” He scratched the back of his neck.” Last I talked to Mo, he was still shopping it around.”
“So, you have no proof that this book exists?”
“I have my negatives,” Mark said. “You’re welcome to see them.” Should he have offered them? Maybe he should ask for a lawyer. His hope that this would all be quickly sorted out, faded.
“Believe me, we will. In fact, a search warrant on your home has already been executed.” Head bent, the agent continued writing.
“Oh.” Shit. He didn’t have anything to hide, but hated the idea of strangers going through his things.
“That make you nervous?” Johnson raised his eyes and smiled for the first time. Mark wanted to punch the smug look right off his face.
“No.” His voice shook with anger so he cleared his throat. It wouldn’t help matters to lose his temper.
Johnson motioned to the agent on the left. “Why don’t you get Mr. Taylor something to drink?” He looked at Mark. “You have any preference? Coffee? Soda?”
He wanted to refuse, but fear and anxiety had caused his mouth to feel like cotton. “Water’s fine.”
