Call to Treason

FORTY-SIX

There is an impunity that comes with being once-removed from danger. A lock on the door. A police officer on the beat. A man of influence standing between you and those who want to hurt you.

In each case, it is an illusion. Darrell McCaskey knew that from his years at the FBI. He was betting that the young and inexperienced Lucy O’Connor did not. Before the afternoon was over, she would.

McCaskey and his wife had been released from the holding cell at the First District Substation. Detective Howell personally drove them to their car, which had been taken to the DMV impound lot at 65 K Street NE. The detective called ahead to have it released and waiting.

Howell was surprisingly forthcoming about what had happened. McCaskey felt as though he had suddenly been drafted as father confessor. Not that he minded, as long as he did not have to keep any of the intelligence a secret.

McCaskey did not judge the man. Fear and self-preservation always colored people’s reactions. On the FBI he had seen countless crimes of passion that were conceived, executed, and regretted within the space of five minutes. That did not absolve the perpetrator, but McCaskey understood the drive.

McCaskey was sitting beside his wife in the backseat of Howell’s car. When the detective was finished, McCaskey asked him what he expected in exchange for his cooperation.

“A way back out,” Howell said plaintively.

“That may not be so easy. When we get these people, you know they will finger you,” McCaskey pointed out.

“I know they’ll try,” the detective said. “I’ve been thinking. I can pretty much cover my own actions. If you two will say that I was working undercover and feeding you information from the start, that will neutralize their charges.”

“When you cornered us in the apartment, you did not give us the option to explain things to you,” Maria said angrily.

“They had me on a leash,” Howell said. “I’m sorry.”

“If General Rodgers did not call, we would be standing in front of your district attorney right now instead of driving to our car,” she went on.

“I would have found a way to make this go away,” Howell said.

“You say that as if it is an upset stomach,” Maria said. “This would have been with us the rest of our lives.”

“Yes, but in fairness, you did enter the woman’s apartment unlawfully.”

“We picked a lock to get a leg-up on something big and ugly,” McCaskey interjected. “On the Richter scale of crimes, that is one point zero.”

“Look, I already said I screwed up,” Howell told him. “Hell, I screwed up in the military, too, which is what got me in this fix. What I did then wasn’t even a crime. The tribunal made it one to give some punk kid absolution for feeling guilty about consensual sex.”

“A punk kid,” Maria said. “You mean a boy? A man?”

Howell nodded as they pulled up to the lot. “I took the hit for him because I knew what he was going through. I cared about him. I could have appealed the decision, but I didn’t. Then these bastards dig it out and throw it back at me. I felt — only for a moment, but that was long enough — that I had earned myself a free pass for one future misdeed. This one. If I thought it would grow into what it did, I would never have agreed to help them. It was wrong. If you help me, I can make amends through continued public service. I’ve done a damn good job till now. If not, I’ll atone in prison, which doesn’t help anyone.” He looked back at McCaskey. “The blue line, Darrell. Stick with me on this one. Please.”

McCaskey opened the door and stepped out. He walked around to the driver’s side. Howell rolled down the window.

“If I did what you asked, I would not be able to look Mac McCallie’s widow in the eyes,” McCaskey told him. “I will fight for you, Detective, I promise. But I will not lie for you.”

Howell’s face flushed, but he did not reply. He simply rolled up the window and drove away.

Maria took her husband’s hand. “You did the right thing,” she said. “I am proud of you.”

“Boy, I wish that made it all better.” He sighed. He watched the detective’s car as it turned the corner.

As afraid as Howell had been when he made that decision, McCaskey imagined it faded to insignificance beside the fear and loneliness he was feeling now. He wished there had been another way out. Maybe he should have bucked it up to Paul.

“Or maybe he should have behaved himself,” Maria said.

“What?”

“I know you,” Maria said. “You are standing there wishing this all could have been different. Detective Howell made his choices. People died. He has to live with the consequences.”

“I know,” McCaskey said. “You know, I love what I do, but I there are times I hate what I have to do.”

Maria gripped his hand more tightly and gave him a quick, reassuring smile.

The couple went and got their car. They nosed into the thickening traffic of rush hour.

There was little McCaskey could do for Robert Howell but, ironically, there was still one thing he could do for Mac McCallie. And McCaskey intended to do it.

He would find and punish the people who put this tragedy in motion.