Page 35 of Dead Fall

Greer smiled. “Right after we hooked it up. I was just going to text you from my car.”

Touché, the FBI man had thought. This process might end up being collaborative in the end, but there was going to be a lot of push/pull before then. Neither of them was going to hand over leads or evidence without fully kicking the tires on them first. It was unfortunate, but it was just the nature of the game—especially when two different organizations were competing for first prize.

He and Fields had left Greer and the Commodore parking lot to piece together the rest of Burman’s evening.

From the Uber ride, to the gyro restaurant, and finally back to his penthouse, all of his movements were accounted for. Nothing was out of place or unusual, except for the broken CCTV camera at the rear of his building, which could have simply been a coincidence.

Carolan, however, didn’t like coincidences. Without sufficient proof to the contrary, his position would remain that the rear camera had been sabotaged.

Despite a thorough canvassing of the area, there were no additional CCTV cameras with a clear view of the back of Burman’s building. If he had, in fact, been the victim of foul play, his killers couldn’t have hoped for a more favorable scenario.

The missing wallet, the scuffed-up toes of the man’s shoes, the very public nature of his death, his criticisms of the Russian President, and, most importantly, Carolan’s gut, told him that they were looking at a murder. He just needed more proof.

D.C. Metro police had gotten a warrant for Burman’s phone and had turned it over to the FBI in hopes that they could crack the encryption and unlock it. There was no telling how long that would take. The Bureau’s team was excellent, but it was a painstaking process. Too many unsuccessful attempts at unlocking and the phone could self-destruct, destroying any evidence that it might contain.

Carolan wasn’t at a dead end, yet, but he was quickly running out of alleys he could head down. It was the reason he had come into the office this morning. When he got to a point like this in a case, he wasn’t fun tobe around. He could be a real short-tempered prick. His wife didn’t deserve that.

He was also a big believer in the old saying that getting things done is a matter of applying the seat of one’s pants to the seat of one’s chair. Being successful in any endeavor, even in the world of criminal investigations, was all about perseverance.

As former Senator Greg Wilson was the only potential lead they had, he had decided to spend the morning digging further into him.

He had hoped to interview Wilson in person yesterday, but when he had called Wilson’s office, he had been informed that Wilson was out of town on business and wouldn’t be available until Monday.

The fact that the former Senator had eaten dinner with the victim the night before and then had left town shortly after the body had been discovered wasn’t exactly a mark in the plus column for him.

Nevertheless, Wilson’s assistant had willingly volunteered that her boss was seeing a client up in New England and that the trip had been on the books for some time.Yet another “coincidence,”Carolan thought to himself, displeased.

Booting up his computer, ready to do a nice, deep dive on the previously embattled Senator, his phone rang.

“Special Agent Carolan,” he said, picking it up.

It was Fields. “Boss, you’re going to want to hop online.”

“Why?” he asked, opening a browser tab.

“That blog in Florida—the one with all the coverage about the supposed killer cannibal Alejandro Diaz.”

“The Public Truth. What about it?”

“Just take a look at the site,” she replied. “I’ll hold on.”

Carolan punched in the address and waited for it to load. Once it had, he was shocked to see photos of himself all over it.

The 50-point headline, bracketed by flashing red sirens, read:MANGLED BODY FOUND ON D.C. SIDEWALK. DIAZ STRIKES AGAIN?FBI LAUNCHES MANHUNT.

The photos ranged from wide shots of the crime scene at Burman’s building to tighter shots of him arriving, stepping into the tent covering the body, and then going upstairs with Fields. They were followed bymultiple photos of the Commodore Yacht Club, including Carolan entering and leaving with Fields, as well as standing in the parking lot with Detective Greer while Burman’s black Tesla was being towed away.

Carolan knew, without a doubt, who had taken the photos. It was that dumpy, redheaded guy he had seen outside Burman’s carrying the camera with the long lens.

D.C. Metro’s radio traffic was encrypted, so the man must have had a source inside the department.

A leak inside a law enforcement organization was never a good thing, but one so close to an investigation with massive national security implications was downright dangerous.

He thanked Fields for the tip and told her he would call her back. He wanted to read whatThe Public Truthwas “reporting” about Burman’s death and to see what he could learn, if anything, about the redheaded man with the camera.

His deep dive into Greg Wilson would have to wait.

CHAPTER 11

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