Capitol murder

Chapter Forty

Dana was frustrated. Bobby Schatz wouldn’t let her talk to their client, and Terry Crawford wouldn’t give Schatz any discovery. Every time she asked Schatz what he wanted her to do, he would tell her to relax. But relaxing was not in Dana’s repertoire.

Dana did have other cases, and she spent time on them, but business was still slow, and she found herself with a lot of spare time. Finally, out of boredom, Dana made a list of the things she knew about Ron Tolliver’s case. It was a very short list, but there was one item on it she thought she could pursue, although she had no idea whether her investigation would be of any benefit to the defense.

Dana knew where Tolliver had been arrested, and she rode Jake’s Harley to the place. A FOR RENT sign had been hooked onto the chain-link fence that surrounded a weed-choked yard. Dana doubted anyone would be renting until the yellow crime-scene tape disappeared. She parked at the curb and made her way to the front door. Because the house was still officially a crime scene, all she could do was circle the house, looking in the windows. The only thing she learned from that exercise was that the interior of the house looked like hell. Dana wasn’t surprised. She knew from her experiences with the D.C. police that SWAT teams didn’t tidy up after a raid.

Dana canvassed the neighbors, but that didn’t turn up anything useful. Tolliver and a woman had moved in a few months before his arrest, but they’d kept to themselves to the point where the neighbors didn’t even know their names. The neighbor across the street had seen Tolliver go and come on a number of occasions, but he’d only seen the woman in Tolliver’s company. The neighbor on Tolliver’s right had seen him leave and return but had never exchanged words with him or the woman. Before she left, Dana checked the FOR RENT sign and wrote down the name, address, and number of the real estate agent who was handling the property.

T he real estate offices of Kendall amp; Marquoit were on a corner in a commercial area of Bethesda, Maryland. A receptionist guided Dana to the office of Mary Ann David, a handsome blonde in her midforties. David greeted Dana with a smile and offered her a seat.

“Myra said you’re interested in our rental on Pendleton Place, Miss Cutler.”

“Yes, but not in the way you think. I’m an investigator, and I’d like to talk to you about the man who rented the property.”

David looked concerned. “I’ve already told the FBI agents everything I know.”

“I’m working for Bobby Schatz,” Dana said, handing the agent one of the business cards Schatz had printed for her. “He’s Mr. Tolliver’s attorney.”

“Who?”

“Ron Tolliver is the man who rented from you.”

“I rented that house to Stephen Reynolds.”

Dana nodded. “Reynolds is an alias. His real name is Ronald Tolliver.”

“I don’t know if I should discuss anything with you without asking the agents if it’s all right.”

Dana flashed her warmest smile. “Mrs. David, you don’t have to get the FBI’s permission to talk to me, and I’d hate to inconvenience you by having to subpoena you to court.

“Look, I’ll level with you. My boss can be a bit of a prick at times. I’m only interested in background material. I’ll probably never see you again. But Mr. Schatz will go nuts if I tell him you wouldn’t talk to me. You look like you’re pretty busy. I’m sure you don’t want to get subpoenaed to court and have to sit in the hall outside a courtroom all day only to answer a few innocuous questions under oath that you could have answered for me today.”

David looked alarmed. “Are you threatening me?”

“Hell, no. I believe in live and let live. I know that the stuff you tell me won’t be important enough to make you a witness. It’s Mr. Schatz. If I tell him you wouldn’t talk to me, he’ll assume you know something important, and the next thing you know, a process server will ambush you outside your house, and Mr. Schatz will make you sit in the corridor all day out of spite. I’ve seen him do this before. So, what do you say? I’ve got a few harmless questions, then I’ll be out of your hair.”

David sighed. “What do you want to know?”

“How many times did you meet Mr. Tolliver?”

“The first time was when he came to this office and told me he wanted to rent two properties.”

“Two?”

“Yes.”

“Did he have specific places in mind?”

“Yes, the house on Pendleton and the one that burned down.”

“Tell me about the house that burned down.”

“It’s out in the country on Saffron Lane. The FBI told me that they thought your client torched it.”

“Can you give me the address?”

David ran her fingers over her computer keyboard and found the address.

“Did Tolliver tell you why he needed two places?”

“He said he had a construction business and he needed a place for some of his workers to live.”

Dana was sure she knew exactly what “work” the men who lived on Saffron Lane did.

F inding the house on Saffron Lane was easy once the wind shifted. Even after all this time, the smell of burning wood lingered in the crisp fall air. Dana wandered around the immolated skeleton, sifting through the ashes with the toe of her boot and finding nothing of value. If there was evidence linking the inhabitants of the rental to FedEx Field, it had been carried off by FBI forensic experts.

A thought occurred to Dana as she rode home. The suicide bombers had worked as hawkers for four different concession stands. The newspapers had reported that all of the concessions were owned by Lawrence Cooper, who had been murdered on the Sunday of the failed suicide mission. Cooper had to have been approached before the football season in order to place the men in the concessions.

Then there was the attack itself. The newspapers were reporting that ambulances loaded with explosives had been strategically placed around the stadium for maximum destruction. This indicated that the bombers were working with engineers and explosives experts.

This operation was obviously not a spur-of-the-moment affair. Everything about it screamed advance planning. No aspect of the plot would have been left to chance, including the place where Tolliver and the suicide bombers were going to live. The Kendall amp; Marquoit real estate group had been chosen for a reason, but what was that reason?

Dana parked on the side of the road and punched in Mary Ann David’s number.

“This is Dana Cutler, Mrs. David. I’m sorry to bother you again, but I do have one more question. Did Mr. Tolliver tell you why he chose your firm to rent from?”

“I did ask him. We always like to know who referred a client.”

“And what did he say?”

“If I recall correctly, he said we had come highly recommended.”

“By who?”

“He never said.”

D ana opened her front door and picked up the mail from the floor, where it had fallen after the postman shoved it through the slot. She tossed her jacket on the sofa and shuffled through the mail as she walked into the kitchen, where she fixed a cup of coffee.

Dana carried the mug downstairs to her office in the basement of Jake’s house. As soon as she logged on to her computer, she went on the Internet and Googled Kendall amp; Marquoit. The Bethesda office was an East Coast branch of a California company. Dana Googled the board of directors and got a shock. Jessica Koshani was a director. There were many other board members. Dana ran a check on all of them. Most of the directors did not raise a red flag, but one man did. Dana scolded herself for profiling and bigotry against people with Middle Eastern names, but she felt a little less guilty when Imran Afridi turned up in an article in a Karachi newspaper that detailed Afridi’s short detention and interrogation after a car bomb took thirty-six lives. The article contained a photograph. Dana decided that Afridi looked a little like Omar Sharif. After reading some more articles about Afridi, Dana called Patrick Gorman.

“Pat,” Dana said as soon as the editor of Exposed answered his phone.

“How’s the intrepid reporter?”

“I’m in need of companionship.”

“Are you asking me out on a date?”

“In your dreams. No, I want you to fix me up with your friend; the one I met at the National Museum of the American Indian.”

“Any special reason for the meeting?”

“Imran Afridi. He’s a Pakistani businessman. I want to know everything your friend can dig up on him.”