He put his cigarette out in the ceramic container, one of those overdesigned contraptions intended to be mildly decorative. Someone made that, Gabe thought, although probably not in this country. That was someone’s job, poor bastard. Most people had jobs like that. Meaningless, disposable, of no import. Whatever his frustrations, his work mattered. He never lost sight of that.
He checked his watch and realized he needed to get to the staff meeting. An oddity, scheduled for day’s end on a Monday instead of a Friday, suggesting that it might actually be about something. But whatever the topic, it would circle back to the Youssef case. All the meetings did.
He arrived for the 4:30 P.M. meeting at exactly 4:29. Punctual but busy, that was the message to send. Show up five minutes early and everyone wondered why you were so free. One second after the boss, and you were toast. With the calculation that Gabe brought to everything at work, he chose a seat in the middle of the room, one where he could make eye contact with the boss but also steal looks at Lombard Street if it got too deadly dull.
He listened attentively, looking for opportunities to contribute, but only if he could be original, meaningful. No talking for talking’s sake. Still, no matter how on point Gabe was, he never seemed to earn more than an impatient frown. The boss woman just wasn’t in his corner. True, she hadn’t hired him and she wasn’t here for the long term, but her indifference bothered Gabe. Why didn’t she like him? He was good and eager and hardworking. In his head he was a rising star, and his inability so far to persuade others of that fact had been the biggest shock of his postcollege life. After a lackluster year with a Wall Street firm, he decided the federal system would be more of a meritocracy, less inclined to be impressed by prestigious law schools and things like law review. Albuquerque had been okay, but Baltimore was supposed to be closer to the center of things, especially terrorism. So he came back east, only to find out that they now thought Al Qaeda was infiltrating Mexico. Gabe never seemed to be in the right place at the right time.
The meeting was just a regular staff meeting, a nuts-and-bolts thing, but the boss lady did bring up Youssef at the end.
“I know you don’t want anyone in this office to talk to the press about Greg,” said one of the more senior prosecutors, a woman on whom the boss just doted, Terri Hamm. She got the hot cases, the big drug dealers, the gang members who were getting federal death-penalty sentences. Again, it was a matter of having the connections, of knowing the agents who would bring you the good stuff. Youssef had been doing a lot of those cases before he moved to antiterrorism.
“I don’t want anyone in the office to talk to the press, period,” Gail said, and everyone laughed dutifully. A joke, but not.
“The thing is, that lets the Howard detectives off the hook, because no one’s calling them on what a shitty job they’ve done. And the less that’s said, the more people on talk radio feel free to indulge in wild speculation, some of which leads right back to this office. We look awful, through no fault of our own.”
“It is a delicate situation,” conceded the boss. “But I’m more concerned with Greg’s widow than with public perception. And I don’t think talk radio represents mainstream opinion.”
“Still, it shakes people’s faith in our overall ability,” Terri Hamm said. “The one thing we’re supposed to be able to do is solve the death of one of our own. Why can’t the Howard County police at least provide updates, let people know that the case isn’t completely stalled? They were pissed when the one fact about the ATM got out, but that wasn’t our fault.”
“We have no official role in this, although an FBI agent is acting as an unofficial liaison. And what’s the use of announcing they’ve developed leads if they don’t want the leads to get out? I think they’re right to hold back the information about the toll plaza and the ATM card.”
Although Gabe’s gaze was focused, his expression appropriately serious, he allowed his mind to wander. He had barely known Youssef, who was killed two months after Gabe started, and what he had known made him resentful: the Egyptian wonder boy, the son of a Detroit deli owner. Youssef had gotten a lot of hot assignments for the wrong reasons, in Gabe’s opinion. It was sheer public relations. Forget Abu Ghraib, forget Guantánamo-look at this handsome A-rab who’s working for the U.S attorney.
Still, Gabe’s brain was poking at something almost in spite of itself, prodding and nudging. He risked a question, despite the fact that Gail was clearly ready for the discussion to end.
“The toll plaza-are we talking about the fact that the car went through cash booths, even though it was outfitted with an E-ZPass?”
“Yes. Clearly the driver didn’t know that Greg had E-ZPass on his car-or thought that going through the cash tolls would keep the device from being activated. So we still know exactly when he went through the McHenry Tunnel and when he entered and exited the New Jersey Turnpike.”
“But there’s another time, right? Not just on the trip north, when we think the killer panicked and headed to a place he knew so he could dump the car and get away, but on the trip out of the city, right?”
The boss lady sighed, not bothering to conceal her impatience. “Yes. What’s your point, Gabe?”
“Nothing.”
But something had clicked for him. He just didn’t want to feel his way through the idea in front of this throng.
The meeting ended, and Gabe’s little brainstorm might have moved on, replaced by his own work, uninspiring as it was. But on his next trip to the smoking pad, he saw Mike Collins, a DEA agent, the kind of guy that other guys wanted to impress, even if he wasn’t the star he used to be. Collins had a fierce rep. Strong, broad-shouldered, laconic, Collins never wasted a word. He barely wasted a facial expression.
“You and Youssef were buddies, right?” Gabe ventured.
“We worked on some cases together. I wouldn’t call him a friend.”
“But you knew him, right?”
That earned only a slow, terse nod.
“So did you see him as a secret faggot?”
“I don’t talk shit. About anyone.” With just that handful of words, Collins made it clear that Youssef didn’t deserve to be gossiped about, while Gabe did.
“I’m not talking…shit.” The phrase sounded thin and mealy in his mouth. “I’m interested in some facts that don’t seem to fit.”
“Such as?”
“I’m just working off hunches right now. I’m not saying I can shoot down the working scenario. But it’s something I want to think about.”
Collins stared at him for several seconds before speaking. No more than three, but they were exceptionally long seconds, in which Gabe had time to consider every way he was inferior to this man. He tried to stay quiet, imitate Collins’s style, but he broke down, rushing to fill the silence.
“It’s the toll plaza. Not on the trip north. The first time, on the way out of the city to where he and his trick are going to do…whatever.”
Collins still didn’t speak.
“He must have been behind the wheel on the trip out, right? If he picked someone up and was taking him to a safer place to…rendezvous. Why doesn’t he use the E-ZPass lane? He did coming into the city, earlier that night.”
“Maybe he didn’t want to leave a record of his movements. People in our line of work tend to be paranoid.” Collins managed to make it sound as if Gabe were not in that group, not one of them.
“But if you’ve got the thing, it still registers. Using a pay lane doesn’t keep it from engaging.”
Collins shrugged. “Depending on traffic, you can’t always control what lane you end up in. Especially coming onto the highway from Boston Street, as Youssef is thought to have done. That would have been the fastest way from Patterson Park. You get hemmed in by the trucks, you go where you can.”