Page 18 of Identity Unknown
“Making her an easy mark,” I reply. “Just add a grain of fentanyl to something she eats or drinks. Then show up to finish her off, assuming she’s not already dead. Try to make it appear she died from a fall.”
“Same thing I’m thinking,” he says as we near Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport. “Her place was near Lake d’Evereux and really isolated.”
“That’s not where the Brileys live now, not even close,” I reply, a passenger jet roaring low overhead. “They’re here in Alexandria near Northridge.”
“But at the time Mattie Fey’s property backed up to the Brileys’. She told friends she was building the fence because of what awful neighbors they were,” Marino explains.
“Luna was a year old then, and her parents claimed the construction noise was making her cry constantly,” Marino is saying as he takes the airport exit. “Several months after the journalist tumbled down the stairs, the Brileys moved to some other big property.”
“I’ve never heard of this case. How was it signed out?” I ask.
“An accident. Elvin Reddy didn’t even question it.”
“That figures. Were the Brileys ever mentioned in connection to it?”
“No. And two years later they were living near Fort Belvoir,where he got into a road rage altercation when a car supposedly cut him off. Two days later the other driver was shot to death while walking to his mailbox,” Marino says, the Potomac River straight ahead sparkling deep blue beyond the tree-lined shore.
“And how was he signed out?”
“Same thing. An accident. Elvin Reddy decided the bullet was a stray from a hunter. Apparently where it happened is fairly close to a hunting camp.”
“That sounds like something he would concoct,” I reply. “Especially if he was appropriately persuaded it was in his best interest.”
When I was hired to replace the former chief medical examiner, I knew the legacy he left would be abysmal. His messes are why I was called back to Virginia after decades away. Roxane Dare appointed me as a fixer, and it seems all I do is clean up after Elvin while he and my former secretary, Maggie Cutbush, watch from a distance.
Since I fired her last summer she’s resurfaced as the deputy director of the useless Department of Emergency Prevention that Elvin now heads. Their northern district office is located on the top floor of my building, and a perfect example of my going from the frying pan into the fire.
Marino follows Smith Boulevard through the airport as it loops around Alaska Airlines and United. Then the statue of Ronald Reagan appears around a copse of flowering trees. Marino keeps glancing at his mirrors, and I know when he’s not liking something he’s seeing.
“What is it?” I ask.
“I’m wondering if the Brileys own a silver Suburban,” hereplies. “I hate that I can’t run plates anymore. Drives me batshit.”
“I didn’t notice a silver Suburban at their house yesterday, but that doesn’t mean much.”
“One’s been on our tail for the past few minutes,” Marino says. “Some bald guy with a beard behind the wheel. He looks sort of familiar, maybe? And there’s a woman with long blond hair in the passenger’s seat.”
Ahead on our left is the small terminal where we typically meet Lucy when flying with her. Marino drives into the parking lot, and I turn around to catch the silver Suburban swinging in behind us.
“Okay, now I’m really not liking this,” he says.
“I’m not either.” I watch in my side mirror as he stops close to the entrance.
“Sit tight.” Marino opens his door as the Suburban’s driver opens his, and I can’t believe it.
Fired security officer Norm Duffy climbs out. He’s grown a mustache and beard since I last saw him. In jeans and lace-up boots, he has on a loose-fitting button-up shirt that likely hides whatever firearm he’s carrying. He’s gained considerable muscle mass, the top of his shaved head tattooed.
“What the hell…?” Marino’s hand is within easy reach of his pistol as he shuts his door.
I roll down my window to hear them as Norm Duffy walks in my direction, reaching into his tactical sling bag. He coughs quietly, clearing his throat as if he has a cold or allergies.
“Hey, Norm! What are you doing?” Marino raises his voice, his hand on his gun.
“I’m fucking you. That’s what I’m doing.” Norm slides out a large manila envelope, shoving it through the open window, and it lands in my lap. “Have a good one! Because I know I will!”
He’s laughing and coughing as he returns to the Suburban, sliding back behind the wheel. Marino types the plate number into his phone as I climb out of his truck.
“Shit!” he explodes. “I’m sorry, Doc. He’s damn lucky I didn’t shoot him. Damn, I came close.”