Hell's Corner

CHAPTER 34

^“Didn’t know you and Riley Weaver were so tight,” said Gross as the FBI agent deftly handled the wheel of his Crown Vic on the way out of D.C.

Stone sat next to him; Chapman was in the backseat.

“Only met the man twice in my life. And neither time voluntarily. That doesn’t constitute ‘tight’ for me.”

Gross shot him a glance. “So why’d he come to you? And not me?”

“You’re his competitor. I’m just the man in the middle.”

Gross made a face. “We’ve got to cut this competitive shit out if we’re really going to protect this country.”

“Sounds good to me,” voiced Chapman. “You blokes are on the same side, after all.”

“It’s a little more complicated than that, Agent Chapman,” said Gross as he glanced at her in the rearview mirror.

“Just because you say it’s complicated doesn’t make it so,” she replied.

“Anyway, if NIC would cooperate with us, it would make all of our jobs easier.”

“And you don’t think every agency out there doesn’t say the same thing about the FBI?” said Stone.

Gross gave a resigned laugh. “I guess you’re right.”

“Weaver is still learning his way over there,” said Stone. “He doesn’t want the hammer to come down on his watch. He’s probably working this thing 24/7 using all conceivable methods. I was just one of them.”

“So where are we headed?” asked Chapman after a few seconds of silence as the nearly empty streets of D.C. flew by.

“Pennsylvania,” answered Gross. “That’s where the maple came from. A tree farm up near Gettysburg.”

“Do they know we’re coming?” asked Stone.

“No.”

“Good.”

“Shouldn’t you surround the place with agents?” said Chapman.

“Whoever was involved in this won’t be sticking around. We go in with heat, the people left behind might clam up. I want some answers and a bit of finesse never hurts.”

Many miles later they pulled past the gates of the Keystone Tree Farm. The paved road led them to a long one-story building painted white with a green metal roof. In the background were various outbuildings both small and large with several big enough to accommodate fifty-foot-tall trees. The parking lot held a few dusty pickup trucks, a compact car and a black Escalade SUV. The three climbed out of the Vic and headed to a door marked “Office.”

A plump woman in too-tight jeans directed them back to a small room where a large man sat behind a metal desk, a phone to his ear. He waved them in and pointed to two chairs. When Gross flashed his badge the man said into the phone, “I’ll have to call you back.”

He put down the receiver, rose, tucked in his shirt where it had ridden out and said, “Can I see that badge again?”

Gross moved closer and held his commission and badge out to the man for several long seconds. Even after the man looked away Gross held up the FBI shield as though to convey the significance of their presence.

“What can I do for you?” said the man uneasily.

Gross said, “A name would be good for starters.”

The man cleared his throat, “Lloyd, Lloyd Wilder.”

“And you run this place?”

“I’m the foreman, yeah. Ten years now. What’s this about?”

Gross perched on the edge of the man’s desk while Stone leaned against one wall and Chapman sat in a chair. All of them peered at Wilder, who swallowed nervously and nearly fell back into his chair.

“Look,” Wilder began, “those guys told me they were legal. Okay, maybe they didn’t have all the paperwork, but do you know how much red tape there is? Take me all day every day just to read through the stuff, and I can’t find anybody else willing to do this sort of work and—”

Stone, catching on to this before Gross did, said coldly, “We’re not with Immigration. The shield said FBI, not ICE.”

Wilder looked from one to the other. “FBI?”

Gross leaned down so his face was uncomfortably close to Wilder’s. “FBI. That fellow over there is with the counterterrorism folks. The lady with MI6 out of the UK.”

Wilder eyed Chapman with an incredulous look. “MI6. Like James Bond?”

“Better than Bond, actually,” said Chapman. “Like dear James on steroids.”

Gross added, “And we could give a crap about your illegal aliens, but if you don’t cooperate ICE sure will be interested.”

Wilder’s face sagged. “But if you ain’t here about them, what are you here about?”

“You watch the news?”

“Yeah, I check out ESPN every night.”

“I mean the real news.”

“Oh, I mean some days. Why?”

“Explosion at Lafayette Park?” added Gross. “You hear about that?”

“Hell yes. It’s all over the place.”

They all stared at him pointedly and he looked back, puzzled.

“But what’s that got to do with me?” he finally blurted out.

“We believe the bomb was planted in the tree that came from this place of business.”

“Come on, you got to be kidding me.” Wilder grinned weakly. “Wait a minute. You guys ain’t really Feds, right? This is some kind of joke, ain’t it?”

Gross moved closer to him. “When a bomb goes off that close to the president of the United States, I can’t find anything remotely funny about it, Mr. Wilder. Can you?”

The smile faded. “So this is the real thing? You guys really are cops?”

“We really are. And we want to know how a bomb got in one of your trees.”

As the full weight of what was happening descended on him, Wilder appeared to be hyperventilating. “Oh Jesus. Oh sweet Jesus.” The man started rocking back and forth.

Stone moved around beside him and placed a calming hand on his shoulder. “We’re not accusing you of anything, Mr. Wilder,” he said. “And from your reaction, it seems clear you don’t know anything about it. But you may be able to help us nonetheless. Now take a couple of deep breaths and try to relax.” He squeezed the man’s shoulder.

Wilder finally calmed and nodded. “I’ll do whatever I can to help you. I mean that. I’m a patriot down to my bones. I’ve been NRA all my life. Hell, my daddy was a union man.”

Gross sat down across from him while Stone remained standing. Stone said, “Tell us about each of the people who work here.”

For the next twenty minutes, Wilder pulled out employment records and went over each worker with them.

“That’s it,” he said when he’d finished. “And there’s not one on that list that’s smart enough to do anything with no bomb. Hard enough to get them to hold the right end of a shovel. Although that may be because my español’s not too good.”

Stone put his finger on one name on the list. “John Kravitz. He doesn’t sound Latino.”

“Well, he’s not, of course. But you’re barking up the wrong tree there. No pun intended,” he added hurriedly.

“Why?” asked Stone.

“He’s college educated.”

“I thought you intimated they were all stupid. And nothing against your line of work, but why is a college grad digging up trees?”

“We do more than that here. John’s degree’s in landscape design, horticulture, stuff like that. He’s a good arborist. Sees stuff no one else does. Why we hired him.”

“How long has he been with you?” asked Chapman.

“About seven months. Didn’t expect him to stay that long, but he seems content.”

“Has he been in to work this week?”

“Every day like clockwork.”

“Where is he now? Here?”

Wilder checked the clock on the wall. “He’ll be here in about thirty minutes. He only lives about five miles down the road in a little trailer park off the highway.”

“What else can you tell us about him?” asked Gross.

“He’s about thirty, thin, tall as you,” he said, pointing at Stone. “With brown hair and a goatee.”

“He get along with everybody?”

“Look, the other guys can barely put two words of English together and I’m not sure they’re even literate in their own language. Like I said, John is a college boy. He usually spends his lunch hour reading.”

“Know anything about his personal life? Political beliefs?” asked Gross.

“No. But I’m telling you John is no bomber.”

“Does he play basketball by any chance?” asked Gross.

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Just answer the question.”

“He told me he played in high school. We have a hoop out back. Boys play at lunchtime if they’re not out making a delivery.”

“Whose ball do you use?” asked Stone.

“Ball? We’ve got a couple around here. John I know has one.” Wilder looked flustered. “What’s a basketball got to do with a damn bomb?”

“We’re going to wait for John. When he gets here you have him come back to your office, okay?” said Gross.

“Do we really have to—”

“Okay?” Gross said firmly.

Wilder managed to whisper, “Okay.”