‘Hello, Ian,’ Roe said over the phone. ‘Did you get a chance to review the materials I sent you?’
‘Yes,’ Parnell replied, ‘I’ve got them right here in front of me, and now I understand your dilemma.’
‘I don’t know if we’re ever going to find someone with the kind of access we need who’ll work with us.’
‘There wouldn’t be another Randall Johnson on Moy’s payroll, would there?’
‘Ian, I don’t have that many old boyfriends out there.’ ‘Well, what do you suggest?’
‘On the surface, I think Moy’s senior-level employees are a dead end. They’ve got too much invested in stocks and the pension plan to risk working with us. I think Cole is our best bet.’
‘The government fellow?’
‘Yes. He doesn’t have the financial incentives to make him loyal to Moy, and I understand that he recently went through a rough divorce.He’s precisely the kind of person we normally look for to help out with jobs like this. What do you think?’
Parnell sighed audibly over the phone. ‘I don’t see that we have much choice. Check Cole out very thoroughly before you approach him. I’d hate to have this explode in our faces.’
WASHINGTON, D.C.
December 4
Roe’s investigation of Michael Cole began at his current address, an apartment in a deteriorating building on the fringe of D.C.’s drug-infested war zone.
Cole’s divorce must have really pushed him into a hole, she thought.
The building manager glanced up briefly as Roe entered the lobby, then turned away, reminding herself that it was best not to notice unusual comings and goings in this neighborhood.
‘It don’t work,’ the woman’s voice called out as Roe reached the elevator. ‘It’s been broke for three days. You gotta take the stairs.’
After climbing up to the third floor, Roe walked down the dimly lit hallway to apartment 315. After selecting the appropriate tool from a set of lock picks that she kept in her purse, Roe easily defeated the flimsy lock and entered Cole’s apartment. The furnishings were sparse and inexpensive, all of the discount-store variety. The living room contained a battered leather recliner next to a reading lamp; a coffee table covered with a few paperback books and magazines; and a small color television propped up on a pair of plastic milk crates.
A thick layer of dust covered every horizontal surface in the apartment and an unusually repulsive odor filled the stale air. Roe found nothing in the kitchen that had been left out to decompose during Cole’s absence. A quick search quickly identified the dried-out trap of the toilet bowl, which allowed rancid sewer gasses to vent through the fixture, as the source of the stench. Cole obviously hadn’t been home in some time. Roe flushed the toilet to refill the trap and cracked a window in the bedroom to let in some fresh air. After a few minutes, the apartment seemed tolerable.
On the dresser, she noticed a low, flat bowl filled with change. Next to the bowl was a picture ID badge. Roe picked up the badge and studied it. The photo showed a man with a head of fine blond hair that was receding, thick, smooth cheeks, and just a hint of a double chin. ‘Cole,Michael H.,’ the badge read. Its color coding probably indicated areas to which Cole was permitted access. The job title read ‘Senior Systems Analyst.’ Roe let out a gasp when she tilted the badge to study the hologram in the corner.
‘My God,’ she whispered to herself, recognizing the three-dimensional emblem in the hologram: the CIA logo.
She set the badge down and calmed herself. Cole is a programmer, she thought, not a spy or an analyst. With the right motivation, this can still work.
Focused back on her objective, Roe continued her search. In the smaller bedroom, she found Cole’s home office. A corner workstation with personal computer and assorted electronic components occupied one end of the room. Roe opened the closet doors and discovered a pair of four-drawer gray metal file cabinets. Hanging beside the file cabinets were a wet suit, an air tank, and a plunge bag containing fins, a mask, and other scuba-diving paraphernalia. Roe would have never guessed that Cole was a sport diver, but, judging from the quality of the equipment, this was obviously one of his passions. She made a mental note of the scuba gear and moved on to the file cabinets.
The files were meticulously organized, making her search fairly simple. The credit-card statements showed him carrying a modest balance, but not wildly in debt. His bank balances told another story. The bank accounts he’d shared with his ex-wife had held respectable sums of money until a year ago, when they had dropped to zero. Their joint checking, certificates of deposit, IRAs—every shared asset had suddenly evaporated. All the old accounts had been closed, and the new ones bore only his name, and very little money.
Cole had suddenly lost everything, which struck Roe as odd. Both he and his ex-wife were working professionals; her deposits had been just as large as his. There were no children, no risky investments, and, as near she could figure, neither had joined a religious cult and given the money away.D.C.’s divorce laws weren’t that draconian toward husbands, especially when the wife also has a solid career.No, something else must have forced Cole to accept this outrageous settlement.
Roe skimmed further into the files and discovered one with a handwritten label: Divorce. Among the papers, she found the suit for divorce and the settlement papers. She sat down at the desk and began to study the paper trail that marked the end of Cole’s marriage.
The settlement confirmed what she’d begun to suspect; this divorce suit had never reached the courts. Cole and his wife had come to terms privately, leaving nothing for the court to do but grant the petition for divorce. She read through the terms, noting that Cole had initialed every item listed. He’d granted his ex-wife all but a few things that were of no interest to her.
In the final paragraph, Roe found what she was looking for. The settlement required that Barbara Cole remain silent about her reasons for the divorce; the official reason listed was ‘irreconcilable differences.’ The settlement also required that she deliver all materials, both originals and copies, of evidence related to Michael Cole’s extramarital activities to her ex-husband.
He bought her off. She caught him with his hands in the cookie jar, and he bought her off. But why would Cole cave in over an affair, Roe thought, unless it was more than just an affair?
Michael Cole had a secret hidden somewhere in his divorce—something he wanted buried badly enough to pay for his wife’s silence. As part of the settlement, a private investigator named Lou Gerty was to turn over all materials relating to the report he’d prepared for Cole’s ex-wife. Barbara Cole had blackmailed her exhusband, and whatever she had on him was precisely the kind of leverage Roe needed.
Roe had returned to her hotel and changed into a smart, conservative blue business suit. She pulled her hair back and applied her makeup in an austere fashion. The effect she was looking for was cool, professional, and intimidating.
She had little trouble negotiating the major streets of the capital. She located Gerty’s address at one of the recently restored office buildings along Pennsylvania Avenue. She parked her rental car in a nearby structure and walked up the street to the building.
‘Excuse me,’ Roe said as she approached the portly security guard seated behind the reception desk, ‘where can I find the Gerty Agency?’
The guard smiled and pointed to a bank of elevators. ‘Lou Gerty’s office is up on eight.’