we can think of. Since I heard you ask Braden for the file, the firm instructed me to talk to you. It's that simple.'
'I don't know what you're talking about. It's that simple.'
'You know nothing about the file?'
'Of course not. Why would I take a file from a partner's office?'
'Would you take a polygraph?'
'Certainly,' I said firmly, even indignantly. There was no way in hell I would take a polygraph.
'Good. They're asking all of us to do it. Everybody remotely near the file.'
The beer and coffee arrived, giving us a brief pause to evaluate and reposition. Hector had just told me he was in deep trouble. A polygraph would kill him. Did you meet Michael Brock before he left the firm? Did you discuss the missing file? Did you give him copies of anything taken from the file? Did you assist him in obtaining the missing file? Yes or no. Hard questions with simple answers. There was no way he could lie and survive the test.
'They're fingerprinting too,' he said. He said this in a lower voice, not in an effort to avoid the hidden mike, but rather to soften the blow.
It didn't work. The thought of leaving prints had never occurred to me, neither before the theft, nor since. 'Good for them,' I said.
'In fact, they lifted prints all afternoon. From the door, the light switch, the file cabinet. Lots of prints.'
'Hope they find their man.'
'It's really coincidental, you know. Braden had a hundred active files in his office, and the only one missing is the one you were quite anxious to see.'
'Are you trying to say something?'
'I just said it. A real coincidence.' He was doing this for the benefit of our listeners.
I thought perhaps I should perform too. 'I don't like the way you said it,' I practically yelled at him. 'If you want to accuse me of something, then go to the cops, get a warrant, and get me picked up. Otherwise, keep your stupid opinions to yourself.'
'The cops are already involved,' he said, very coolly, and my contrived temper melted. 'It's a theft.'
'Of course it's a theft. Go catch your thief and stop wasting your time with me.'
He took a long drink. 'Did someone give you a set of keys to Braden's office?'
'Of course not.'
'Well, they found this empty file on your desk, with a note about the two keys. One to the door, the other to a file cabinet.'
'I know nothing about it,' I said, as arrogantly as possible while trying to remember the last place I'd put the empty file. My trail was widening. I'd been trained to think like a lawyer, not a criminal.
Another long drink by Hector, another sip of coffee by me.
Enough had been said. The messages had been delivered, one by the firm, the other by Hector himself. The firm wanted the file back, with its contents uncompromised. Hector wanted me to know that his involvement could cost him his job.
It was up to me to save him. i could return the file, confess, promise to keep it sealed, and the firm would probably forgive me. There would be no harm. Protecting Hector's job could be a condition of the return.
'Anything else?' I asked, suddenly ready to leave.
'Nothing. When can you do the polygraph?'
'I'll give you a call.'
I picked up my coat and left.
Sixteen
For reasons that I would soon understand, Mordecai had an intense dislike for District cops, even though most were black. In his opinion, they were rough on the homeless, and that was the standard he invariably used to measure good and bad.
But he knew a few. One was Sergeant Peeler, a man described by Mordecai as 'from the streets.' Peeler worked with troubled kids in a community center near the legal clinic, and he and Mordecai belonged to the same church. Peeler had contacts, and could pull enough strings to get me to my car.
He walked into the clinic shortly after nine Saturday morning. Mordecai and I were drinking coffee and trying to stay warm. Peeler didn't work Saturdays. I got the impression he would have rather stayed in bed.
With Mordecai doing the driving and talking, and with me in the back, we rode through the slick streets into Northeast. The snow they had forecast was instead a cold rain. Traffic was light. It was another raw February morning; only the hearty ventured onto the sidewalks.
We parked at the curb near the padlocked gates to the city lot just off Georgia Avenue. Peeler said, 'Wait here.' I could see the remains of my Lexus.
He walked to the gates, pushed a button on a pole, and the door to the office shed opened. A small, thin uniformed policeman with an umbrella came over, and he and Peeler exchanged a few words.
Peeler returned to the car, slamming the door and shaking the water off his shoulders. 'He's waiting for you,' he said.
I stepped into the rain, raised my umbrella, and walked quickly to the gates where Officer Winkle was waiting without the slightest trace of humor or goodwill. He produced keys by the dozens, somehow found the three that fit the heavy padlocks, and said to me, 'Over here,' as he opened the gates. I followed him through the gravel lot, avoiding when possible the potholes filled with brown water and mud. My entire body ached with every move, so my hopping and dodging were restricted. He went straight to my car.
I went right to the front seat. No file. After a moment of panic, I found it behind the driver's seat, on the floor, intact. I grabbed it, and was ready to go. I was in no mood to survey the damage I'd walked away from. I had survived in one piece, and that was all that mattered. I'd haggle with the insurance company next week.
'Is that it?' Winkle asked.
'Yes,' I said, ready to bolt.
'Follow me.'
We entered the shed where a butane heater roared in a corner, blasting us with hot air. tie selected one of ten clipboards from the wall, and began stating at the file I was holding. 'Brown manila file,' he said as he wrote. 'About two inches thick.' I stood there clutching it as if it were gold. 'Is there a name on it?'
I was in no position to protest. One smart-ass remark, and they would never find me. 'Why do you need it?' I asked.
'Put it on the table,' he said.
On the table it went. 'RiverOaks slash TAG, Inc.,' he said, still writing. 'File number TBC-96-3381.' My trail widened even more.
'Do you own this?' he asked, pointing, with no small amount of suspicion. 'Yes.'
'Okay. You can go now.'
I thanked him, and got no response. I wanted to jog across the lot, but walking was enough of a challenge. He locked the gates behind me.
Mordecai and Peeler both turned around and looked at the file once I was inside. Neither had a clue. I had told Mordecai only that the file was very important. I needed to retrieve it before it was destroyed. All that effort for one plain manila file?
I was tempted to flip through it as we drove back to the clinic. But I didn't.
I thanked Peeler, said good-bye to Mordecai, and drove, cautiously, to my new loft.
* * *
The source of the money was the federal government, no surprise in D.C. The Postal Service planned to construct a twenty-million-dollar bulk-mail facility in the city, and RiverOaks was one of several aggressive real
