Page 19 of Identity Unknown
“I’m very glad you didn’t, and there’s nothing for you to be sorry about.” I watch Norm Duffy and the woman with him take a shortcut through a parking lot, bumping over a curb onto Smith Avenue.
“I should have stopped him.” Marino’s Ray-Bans stare after them. “What the hell is he up to? Who’s he working for? Let me see it.”
Marino holds out his hand as I follow him to the back of his truck. I give him the envelope, and he tears it open, sliding out a document printed on heavy-stock cream paper with an elaborate Washington, D.C., law firm letterhead. Marino skims through several pages, making outraged quiet grunts.
“Well, I think we know who Norm’s working for now,” he informs me. “Ryder Briley’s giving notice that he’s suing you, the medical examiner’s office, the governor, and listing the reasons why.”
“No huge surprise. I figured this was coming.” I can’t stop seeing the mocking look on Norm’s face as he shoved the envelope at me. I could feel his hatred like heat.
“The Brileys’ daughter hasn’t even been dead twenty-fourhours and they’re threatening to take people to court?” Marino says.
“And what’s he accusing me of??”
“Making false claims and disparaging statements that are politically motivated because of yourmutually advantageousrelationship with the governor.” He tucks the document back inside the envelope. “Also racketeering.”
“I’m a mob boss? Maybe I should be flattered.”
“It’s not funny.”
“I’m not laughing,” I reply as we collect our bags and gear.
We follow the sidewalk to the private terminal’s entrance, walking into a hushed lobby of formal furniture upholstered in chocolate-brown leather. Paneled walls are arranged with modern art, and splendid arrangements of fresh flowers center tables. Granite countertops offer coffee and tea, the small refrigerators stocked with beer, wine, bottles of flavored vitamin water and other beverages.
I stop at a wall arranged with clear plastic bins of sweet treats for guests to help themselves. Small packs of Life Savers, mints and gum with sugar and without, bite-size candy bars, licorice drops, and my attention is fixed on the brightly colored candy-coated peanuts.
“Not M&M’s per se, but the same sort of thing,” I point out while helping myself to a small paper bag that hasBriley Flight Servicesprinted on it.
As I’m saying this, I’m aware of the dome camera in the ceiling overhead. Turning a handle above the opening in the bin, I fill the bag with enough candy-coated peanuts to test in the labs. But I don’t let on that my interest goes beyond wantinga snack. I crunch on a few of the candies in case anybody’s watching.
Marino helps himself to a bag of his own, shoveling a handful into his mouth as we reach the front desk. The older woman behind it looks up from her computer, giving us a practiced smile. In front of her is a microphone that enables her to deal with UNICOM calls from inbound pilots requesting parking and fuel. I look around for Lucy, not seeing her.
“We’re meeting the pilot of a helicopter that should have just landed.” I recite the tail number to the woman at the desk.
“She stepped out for a minute… And here she comes,” she replies as Lucy appears on the other side of the glass door leading out to the ramp.
CHAPTER 8
My niece walks in, her mouth grimly set, and I can feel her intensity humming like a power line. Formidable in a black flight suit and baseball cap, she carries a pistol in a drop-leg holster, a black tactical backpack slung over her shoulder. Her eyes are masked by computer-assisted photovoltaic “smart” glasses, the lenses this moment tinted dark green from the sun.
“We’re just about ready,” she announces to Marino and me.
The woman at the desk returns Lucy’s government credit card and a receipt for fuel. She tucks them into her badge wallet.
“How was the drive over?” Lucy asks us.
“Peachy,” Marino says with heavy sarcasm.
“This way.” She indicates for us to follow her.
“Where are we going?” he puzzles, and she says nothing else for now.
Lithe and deceptively strong, her short mahogany hair touched by rose gold, Lucy isn’t recognizable as the pudgy know-it-all who spent vacations with me while she was growing up. In those days she was a redheaded tomboy in owlish round glasses, her face scattered with freckles. Marino would call her Peppermint Patty when he wasn’t teasing her about something else.
After Janet and their son, Desi, died at the beginning of COVID, Lucy moved into the guest cottage on Benton’s and my property. But that doesn’t mean we see her often. The last time was five days ago when she told me there were issues with the Secret Service’s stand-alone cloud computer. Her presence was required at the training center and cyber lab some forty miles from Old Town in a rural part of Maryland.
As it’s turned out, her being there was fortuitous. The helicopter she pilots is hangared on the grounds. When the Secret Service was alerted about Sal Giordano’s disappearance, she was able to mobilize immediately.
“We’ll step in here for a minute,” she says.