The Fix

  breeze. The sky was cloudy and the promise of rain was in every air molecule.

  Decker was sitting on the front steps of his apartment building drinking his first cup of morning coffee. He had risen especially early, showered, and dressed in faded jeans and his Ohio State pullover. His scraggly hair was still damp. He sipped his coffee and occasionally closed his eyes, letting his perfect memory roll back over the last few days, looking for something that would give him traction on this case.

  But each time, he opened his eyes with the firm conclusion that his memory was actually perfectly imperfect, because nothing had occurred to him.

  The door opened behind him and two people stepped out.

  Tomas Amaya had on his work clothes: corduroy pants, heavy work boots, and a denim shirt with a white T-shirt underneath. A San Diego Chargers football cap was on his head, his curly brown hair poking out from under it. His hard hat was in his right hand.

  Danny had on jeans and a navy blue sweater. His school bag was over his shoulder. He looked sleepy and his chin drooped against his slender chest. As Decker moved aside to let them pass, Danny yawned deeply.

  Tomas nodded at Decker and then glanced quickly away. Decker watched as the pair headed to the old car with the garbage bag windows. Danny put his bag in the backseat as Tomas opened the driver’s side door.

  Decker heard a car coming fast and turned his attention to the right.

  Tomas evidently heard it too, because he called out to Danny in Spanish. The little boy jumped into the passenger seat while his father pulled out his keys and slid into the driver’s seat. He hadn’t even managed to close his door before a Camaro slid to a stop in front of the beat-up car. Two men climbed out, one large and one small. Pistols were in their waistbands. The large man was white, the small one Hispanic. The small man had on a suit with a vest but no tie. His dress shirt was buttoned all the way to the top. The large man had on cammie pants, a long-sleeved compression shirt outlining an impressive physique, and what looked like combat boots.

  The small man walked over to the driver’s side while his partner stood in front of the car, his hand on top of his pistol.

  A string of spoken Spanish made Tomas Amaya get out of the car. He stood there staring at his feet.

  The small man coolly appraised him, cocking his head from side to side and then smiling. Then he called the other man over.

  The white guy took two long strides to reach them. Then, without warning, he clocked Tomas so hard that he flew backward and landed on the hood of the car. The guy stepped forward and cocked his fist back to deliver another blow.

  “Hold it right there!”

  The two men looked over at an advancing Decker. His pistol was out and aimed at them, and his FBI creds were held up in his other hand.

  “FBI. Guns down, on the pavement, hands interlocked behind your heads. Now!”

  Instead the two men ran for their car, jumped in, and tattooed rubber on the pavement as their smoking tires gained traction and they hurtled backwards out of the parking lot, hit a sharp J-turn, and then the driver floored it. Within a few seconds they were out of sight.

  Decker raced over to Tomas, who was still slumped on the hood.

  “Dad!” called out Danny as he jumped out of the car and ran to his father.

  Decker holstered his weapon and helped Tomas to sit up. “You okay?” he asked.

  Tomas nodded and rubbed the blood off his mouth. When he looked up at Decker, his features hardened. “I’m fine.”

  “You sure? He hit you pretty hard. You might have a concussion.”

  “I’m fine!”

  Tomas pushed off the hood, staggered momentarily, and then regained his balance. He barked at his son, “Entrar en el coche.”

  “Wait a minute,” said Decker. “Who were those guys?”

  Tomas glanced at him. “It is nothing to do with you. I will deal with it.”

  “But I can help you. I’m with the—”

  “No necesito ayuda!”

  Tomas got in the car and started it up. Decker had to jump back as he slammed the car into gear and screeched out of the parking lot, leaving Decker to stare after them.

  He caught a glimpse of Danny looking back at him, and then the car turned the corner and, like the Camaro, disappeared.

  Decker walked back over to the front steps, picked up his cup of coffee, and walked back inside. “So much for a relaxing morning,” he muttered.

  As he stepped inside his apartment, Jamison was leaning against the kitchen sink yawning and rubbing her hair. She was still in her sleepwear—shorts and a T-shirt. Decker could hear the Keurig machine doing its thing.

  Jamison yawned again. “Did you hear like a car racing by or something?”

  “Or something,” said Decker as he rinsed his cup and put it in the dishwasher.

  “So you know anything else about Tomas and Danny?” he asked.

  “Like what?”

  “Like is he in a gang or something?”

  She shot him a startled look. “What, why do you ask that?”

  “Because two guys with guns just tried to shake him down. One of them nearly knocked his head off.”

  “What! Is that what I heard?”

  Decker nodded. “I intervened with my gun and creds, but the assholes didn’t stick around to get read their rights. When I tried to help Tomas he told me to mind my own business.”

  “Did you get the license plate of the car?”

  “Gee, why didn’t I think of that?” Decker said dryly.

  “Well, we can run it and find out who those guys are.”

  “They seemed to have a problem with Tomas. And the fact that he wants no help might mean he doesn’t have clean hands.”

  “That’s a big leap of logic, Decker.”

  “Not that big,” he retorted. “The fact that two guys he obviously knows showed up with guns and tried to beat his brains out might suggest there is an issue there.”

  Jamison made her coffee before answering. She took a sip and said, “I’m not awake enough to intelligently discuss this.”

  “Okay, when you are, let’s talk about it. And you might want to let Melvin know.”

  “Why Melvin? I’m the manager.”

  “And it’s his money and building.”

  She sighed. “I’ll call him. Are you going to run the plate?”

  “I will. But I’m not sure what else I can do. It’s not my case. We can pass it on to the local cops?”

  “But if Tomas is involved in something bad…?”

  “What do you want me to do, Alex? I don’t have a magic wand to make the world all perfect.”

  “Why don’t you run the plate but don’t tell the local cops. Maybe we’ll have time to run something down. And I can talk to Tomas and see if he’ll open up to me.”

  “From the look on the guy’s face this morning you’d have a better shot at flying out that window.”

  “I can try.”

  “Alex, these guys are dangerous. You don’t want to get mixed up in this.”

  “Oh, because my day job is so full of peace and quiet?” she shot back.

  He sighed and leaned against the counter. “You don’t want to bring trouble to where you live. I know that better than most.”

  Her features softened. “I know what happened to your family, Amos. But you can’t blame yourself for that.”

  “All I’m saying is tread lightly. And don’t do anything dangerous. And if you’re even thinking of treading close to that line, make sure I’m with you, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  He gave her a long look and then said, “I’ll always have your back, Alex.”

  Before she could answer he turned and walked away.

  CHAPTER

  16

  HARPER BROWN.

  That’s what the visitor’s nametag said.

  Decker and Jamison had walked into a small conference room at the Hoover Building and found Brown sitting next to Bogart and across from Milligan.


  Brown was about five-seven, lean and fit, with blonde hair down to her shoulders. She wore a black pleated skirt, a white blouse, and high heels. Decker put her age at late thirties. The face was mostly unlined except for a trio of creases in the middle of her forehead, which made Decker think that she either frowned a lot or thought deeply a great deal, or frowned when she thought deeply.

  She smiled when she saw Decker, rose, and held out her hand.

  “Amos Decker, your reputation precedes you.”

  There was a southern twang to her words that Decker placed somewhere between Tennessee and Mississippi.

  Decker shook her hand and glanced questioningly at Bogart.

  “Agent Brown is with a sister agency. She called last night and asked for this meeting.”

  Decker and Jamison sat down after Brown shook hands with her too.

  “What sister agency?” asked Decker.

  “DIA.”

  “Defense Intelligence Agency,” replied Decker.

  “That’s right,” said Brown.

  Decker said, “You’re like the military’s CIA, only your global reach is arguably bigger.”

  “And how did you come by that knowledge?” asked Brown, her smile not quite reaching her eyes.

  “I like to Google as much as the next person. Are you with the Clandestine Service, the Attaché Systems, or the Cover Office?”

  “I doubt you have the security clearances to hear the answer.”

  “There’s no doubt about it. I don’t have the security clearances to hear it.”

  “Amazing what’s on the Internet these days,” interjected Milligan, glancing nervously between the two as they stared stonily across the table at each other.

  Bogart cleared his throat and said, “Agent Brown has some things to share on the Dabney-Berkshire matter. Things that we apparently are cleared for.”

  Decker sat back and looked expectantly at her. “That would be helpful. All we have right now are lots of unanswered questions.”

  Brown said, “I can’t promise to answer all of them, but I think I can give some clarity to certain pieces.”

  She put her elbows on the table and assumed a more businesslike look. “Walter Dabney has been involved in a lot of high-level government contracting work.”

  “We know that,” said Milligan.

  “But you don’t know of the work I’m going to tell you about.”

  She pursed her lips, took a few moments to marshal her thoughts, and plunged ahead. “Walter Dabney was apparently not the patriotic citizen that people believed he was.”

  “What does that mean?” asked Bogart.

  “That means that he was selling secrets to our enemies.”

  Jamison glanced at Decker, whose gaze held steadfastly on Brown.

  She continued, “We don’t believe that he was a true spy in the sense that he wanted to bring America down.”

  “Then what was his motivation?” asked Milligan.

  “Gambling debts. They were enormous.”

  “We don’t have any record of him being a gambler,” said Bogart. “Trips to Vegas, or—”

  Brown cut in, “There are many ways to gamble, Agent Bogart. Nowadays you don’t have to get on a plane and fly to Vegas or go out to the racetrack. All you need is an Internet connection. And the losses can be staggering. And he had to pay them off.”

  “By selling secrets,” said Jamison.

  “Yes.”

  “What sorts of secrets?” asked Decker.

  She looked at him. “Classified secrets. But I can tell you that they involve multiple contracts that his firm was working on across a half dozen DOD and civilian agency platforms.”

  “So serious matters,” said Bogart.

  “Very serious.”

  “Did anyone else at his firm know about this?” asked Bogart.

  “We don’t believe so, but we’re still looking into it.”

  “So why kill himself?” asked Jamison.

  “We were closing in,” she replied. “He saw it coming.”

  “You took a while to come forward on this,” said Decker.

  “This has been a very sensitive and long-running investigation. But after assessing the situation, the decision was made to send me here to convey certain information. We didn’t want you to be spinning your wheels unnecessarily.”

  “And why kill Anne Berkshire?” asked Decker.

  She scrutinized him. “I understand that you have hyperthymesia. And synesthesia. From a football injury.”

  “And does that somehow explain why he killed Anne Berkshire?” Decker said impassively.

  “No, just making an observation. As to Berkshire, we believe that she was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “And so why kill her if he was going to kill himself?” asked Decker. “What was she in the wrong place for? Him going nuts?”

  “It’s difficult to fully understand what’s going through the mind of a person who’s about to lose everything. Dabney was under enormous pressure. It’s highly possible that he just snapped. Or he thought she might be with the FBI, since they were right outside the Hoover Building. He may have been paranoid at that point.”

  “And it’s also possible that you’re wrong,” said Decker.

  “He was stealing secrets and he did it because of gambling debts,” retorted Brown.

  “Granted, that might be the case. But you could still be wrong about why he killed Berkshire.”

  “Do you have a theory?”

  “No. But when I do you can be pretty certain it’ll be the correct one.”

  “You seem very sure of yourself, Mr. Decker.”

  “Well, if I can’t be, who can?”

  “Right,” said Bogart suddenly. “We appreciate the information, Agent Brown. Where do we go from here?”

  She slowly turned to him. “I think, for you, nowhere. This is an active DIA case. We’re pursuing all possible leads. This is a national security matter and thus anyone investigating it must have the proper security clearances.” She glanced at Decker. “Which, unfortunately, leaves you out.”

  Decker ignored this and said, “What do you know about Berkshire?”

  “What?”

  “You must have investigated her. We found some curious elements about her past. You must have done the same.”

  “What we have found or not is an internal DIA matter. I only came here today as a courtesy to a sister agency.”

  “And to tell us we’re off the case,” added Decker.

  She looked directly at him. “Without getting into too much detail, I can tell you that the secrets that Dabney stole compromise strategic assets of this country. If certain of our