Supreme Justice

Chapter Forty-nine

Dana had neglected her other cases while she was in Oregon, and she played catch-up starting the morning after her visit to Brad Miller’s apartment. She was finishing a report in an industrial-espionage case when she heard the ringtone of the cell phone with the number few people knew.

“Yeah?” Dana said.

“It’s Pat; I’ve got an assignment for you. We’re going to do a feature on Indian legends like shape-shifters and Indian vampires.”

“Do Indians believe in vampires?”

“Don’t be a bigot. Surely you don’t think that the only cultural group that can have vampire legends are lily-white Eastern Europeans? You’re not an Aryan supremacist, are you?”

“Definitely not where vampires are concerned. Go on.”

“Anyway, a good place to start is the National Museum of the American Indian. Have you been there?”

“Not yet. Jake did a photo shoot inside, but I was out of town conducting surveillance.”

“Well, here’s your chance to level the cultural playing field with your boyfriend. Somebody in that place should know a few legends you can use. Why don’t you drop over as soon as you can so you can get a jump on the story.”

The National Museum of the American Indian, part of the Smithsonian Institution, was located at Fourth Street and Independence Avenue. The museum was one of the more interesting architectural structures on the Mall. The adobe brown, curvilinear building was designed to resemble natural stone formations and was a stark contrast to the buildings that surrounded it.

The height of the tourist season had passed, and the crowds at the museum were sparse this early in the day. When Dana entered, she found herself in a large open space where she could look up unimpeded to a dome ceiling five stories above her. A ramp wound upward to the exhibits on each floor. From the top of the ramp, an observer could look down on the visitors as they entered. It was an excellent place to check to see if someone you were meeting had a tail.

Gorman had not given Dana a description of the person she was going to meet or a name, but she assumed he’d given her contact her description. After wandering aimlessly around the entryway for a few minutes, Dana concluded that no one was going to approach her there, so she started up the ramp and began wandering through the exhibits. She was alone in one of the galleries studying an exhibit of Pacific Northwest Indian artifacts when a man walked in front of the display case. He was wearing a Washington Nationals baseball cap, a shiny Nationals jacket, jeans, and running shoes. His complexion was pale, and his brown eyes were focused on a collection of Tlingit cedar-bark baskets.

“Do you think the Tlingit Indians believed in vampires?” he asked.

“Beats me,” Dana answered, “but I’m a reporter working on a story for Exposed about Indian legends, so read the paper next week and you’ll know the answer to your question.”

“If you go to the end of this exhibit and look left, you’ll see a stairwell. Why don’t you go up to the landing on the top floor and check for vampires. I’ll join you when I’m satisfied you haven’t been followed.”

Dana entered the stairwell and walked to the highest landing. A few minutes later, Gorman’s contact joined her.

“What do you want to know?” he asked. Dana appreciated the lack of chitchat. She also noticed that he hadn’t told her his name, and she assumed he’d only give her a false one if she asked.

“I was working on a story and I was threatened. I’m guessing the person who threatened me was sent by Dennis Masterson. How worried should I be?”

The man chuckled. “That one is easy. Having Masterson mad at you is like being on the receiving end of DEFCON 1. When Masterson was head of the CIA, he could send a drone with a nuclear warhead into your bathroom while you were on the potty.”

“But he’s not head of the CIA now, so how dangerous is he?”

“Very. He can’t send the drone anymore, but someone like that has assets that will do whatever for a price, and Masterson has the money to pay the price.”

“OK, you’ve succeeded in scaring me,” Dana said.

“Then I’ve done you a favor. Do not fuck with this guy.”

“One more question. The person who made the threat was about six two; solid build like a linebacker, blond, and I thought I heard a Scandinavian accent.”

“The Swede. I think his name is Thomas Bergstrom, but I wouldn’t bet on it. He uses a lot of aliases. When Masterson was with the CIA, Bergstrom was the person he used for the dirtiest assignments. I would take any threat he makes very seriously.”

“Would it do me any good to go to the authorities?”

The man laughed. “Masterson is the authorities, even if he’s not in government anymore. My advice, do what you were told to do or be prepared to sit up with a shotgun every night for the rest of your life. Oh, and don’t start your car, ever.”

“You’ve made your point.”

“Good, because the person who set up this meet likes you and wants you to live to a ripe old age. That story you were working on is not worth your life.”

“One more thing. I know where I can find Masterson, but where can I find Bergstrom?”

The man’s face lost all trace of humor. “Are you wearing earplugs? Did you fail to hear everything I just told you? The last thing you want to do is find this guy, because it could be the last thing you do.”

“I appreciate your concern, but I still want to know.”

“Yeah, well, that’s something you can do on your own. It’s a crime to help someone commit suicide.”

The man shook his head before stalking off. He looked sad, like a patient teacher who had tried his best but had finally given up on a spectacularly dull student. Dana knew that she’d screwed up. Pat had called in a chit for her and she’d blown it. She was deciding whether she should go after the contact and apologize when her cell phone rang.

“Dana,” Ginny Striker said, “I may be in trouble and I need your help.”