“God,” said Jamison with a shiver. “Knowing she’s dead, this is creeping me out.”
Decker looked at the time stamp on the film. “Ten days ago.”
“She looks…normal enough. Not like anything’s weighing on her mind,” observed Jamison.
“You mean like a spy ring about to be cratered,” said Decker. “And she arrested for espionage?”
Jamison snapped her fingers. “Maybe that’s where she got the money.”
“Maybe. But Agent Brown didn’t tell us how long this had been going on. And we still can’t find a connection between Berkshire and Dabney.”
“Well, Dabney obviously had another life that was invisible to those who knew him. Maybe Berkshire was also a gambler and they met that way.”
“Right, pick someone with a gambling addiction like yourself to convey secrets to. I’m sure nothing could go wrong there.”
“It’s still possible,” persisted Jamison.
“But why would he need her, Alex? What skill set or advantage does a substitute teacher offer to a connected guy like Dabney who’s selling government secrets?”
“Maybe teaching is a cover. Maybe she’s an actual spy. That’s why we can’t find anything on her going back past ten years.”
“That
might be,” said Decker, though his tone evidenced he was not convinced of this. “We need to run the plate.”
“You think it’s registered to someone else?”
“No, I don’t. I think it’s registered to Anne Berkshire, just under another address. And maybe another name.”
“So you do think she’s a spy or something.”
“Or something,” replied Decker.
When she looked at him he added, “Brown said that critical secrets were stolen by Dabney. He had to pass them along to someone. If they were working together, you’re right, Berkshire had to be part of some spy ring. If she didn’t pass the secrets on yet, we might be able to stop the apocalypse that Brown was describing.”
“But if she was a spy why wouldn’t she have passed on the secrets by now?”
“There could be any number of reasons.”
Jamison added, “And pray that our enemies don’t have them already. Or else we’re in deep shit.” She paused. “You don’t think Brown was talking nukes, do you?”
Decker looked at her. “Keep saying prayers, because I don’t know if she was or not. But the lady didn’t strike me as someone who overstates the case. So her worst-case scenario is probably Armageddon.”
“Wonderful.”
CHAPTER
18
“DAMN!”
Todd Milligan stood shoulder to shoulder with Decker as they surveyed the house the next morning.
The rundown on the Honda’s license plate had led them here. A ramshackle farm cottage down a rural road in the middle of Loudoun County, Virginia.
Decker nodded at Milligan’s exclamation. “From multimillion-dollar condo smack in the middle of upscale suburbia to this.”
“But why would she even have this place, Decker?”
Decker started walking toward the house. “That’s what we’re here to find out. But Berkshire’s starting to strike me as someone who had a purpose behind every act. So let’s start with that notion and see where it takes us.”
There was a small outbuilding behind the cottage, more a lean-to than anything else. But inside it was the Honda.
“We might need a warrant to search the house and car,” Milligan pointed out.
“The only person able to object is dead,” replied Decker.
He tried the car door but it was locked. “The keys might be in the house,” he said.
They trooped to the front door. It was also locked.
Decker leaned his heavy shoulder against it and it was no longer locked.
They stepped inside and the old wooden plank floors creaked ominously under their weight. The air was musty and the room was chilly.
Milligan pointed to a fireplace in the front room. “That might be the only source of heat.”
“No, there was an aboveground oil tank at the rear, and there’s a radiator against the wall over there, though none of that may be working.”
They walked through the three rooms. The kitchen had an ancient, empty fridge, a small stove, and a sink with stains. Decker turned on the water and a small blob of brown gunk came out.
He poked his head into the sole bathroom. There was a toilet, a cracked mirror, a roll of toilet paper on the wall, and that was about it. The bathtub/shower had no curtain and there were rust stains on the linoleum, which was curled up in innumerable places. Decker flushed the toilet. Nothing happened. He tried a light switch. Again, nothing.
“Okay, I doubt she was actually living here,” he said. “No water and no working bathroom and no juice.”
Milligan gazed around. “I wonder if she even owned this place. It looks abandoned. Maybe she just used it as sort of a hideout.”
“Which raises the question of who she was hiding from. And if she was hiding, why buy a multimillion-dollar condo and expensive car, work at a school, and volunteer at a hospice? All that puts you out in the public eye.”
“My wife’s a schoolteacher. And while I know she loves working with the kids, if she had millions in the bank, she might be doing something else.”
“What grade does she teach?”
“Eighth. Where kids make the jump from nice, innocent kids to something a lot more complicated and emotional drama runs deep and hormones are out of control. Some days she comes home looking like she got hit by a bus.”
“In my book, all teachers are underpaid,” said Decker.
There were wooden steps leading down to a dank cellar. The floor down there was dirt. Milligan had pulled out his flashlight and shone it around.
Behind massive cobwebs there were wooden planks set on top of cinderblocks, forming crude shelving. Stacked on the planks were rotting cardboard boxes. Decker opened each of them and Milligan pointed his light inside.
“Junk,” said Milligan, after examining old lamps and ragged magazines and broken bric-a-brac. “I bet all this belonged to the former owners,” he added.
Decker nodded absently. He looked around the small space, his gaze, with the aid of Milligan’s powerful light, reaching into each corner.
“I bet she’s never even been down here,” noted Milligan.
“No, she has.”
“How do you know that?”
“Point your light at the steps coming down.”
Milligan did so and saw the new wood that had replaced boards that had obviously rotted away.
“The cellar door also had a new hinge on it.” Decker took the flashlight from Milligan and aimed it at a patch of dirt in a far corner.
Milligan drew closer and said, “Footprints. Small. A woman’s.”
“Berkshire’s.”
“Good eye, Decker,” said Milligan.
Decker didn’t seem to hear him. He leaned against the stone wall of the cellar and cast the light beam around. The illumination