3rd Degree - James Patterson [54]
Santos removed a series of black-and-white photos from the envelope. “This is a rally we were keeping track of. October twenty-second. Six months ago.”
The photos were surveillance sweeps of the crowd, no one in particular. Then one face was circled. Sandy hair, a narrow chin, a thin beard. Huddled in a dark fatigue jacket, jeans, a scarf that hung to his knees.
My blood started to race. I went up to my board and compared it with the FBI photos taken in Seattle five years before.
Stephen Hardaway.
The son of a bitch was here six months ago.
“This is where it starts to get interesting.” Phil Martelli winked.
He spread out a couple of other shots. A different rally. Hardaway again. This time, standing next to someone I recognized.
Roger Lemouz.
Hardaway had an arm around him.
Chapter 73
HALF AN HOUR LATER I pulled up on Durant Avenue at the south entrance to the university. I ran inside Dwinelle Hall, where Lemouz had his office.
The professor was there, outfitted in a tweed jacket and white linen shirt, entertaining a coed with flowing red hair.
“Party’s over,” I said.
“Ah, Madam Lieutenant.” He smiled. That condescending accent, Etonian or Oxfordian or whatever the hell it was. “I was just counseling Annette here on how Foucault says that the same forces which historically depress class affect gender, too.”
“Well, class is over, Red.” I flashed the student an “I don’t want to see you in here in about ten seconds” look. It took her about that long to gather her books and leave. To her credit, Red flashed me a middle finger at the door. I returned the favor.
“I’m delighted to see you again.” Lemouz seemed not to mind and pushed back in his chair. “Given the sad affairs on the news this morning, I fear the subject is politics—not women’s development.”
“I think I misjudged you, Lemouz.” I remained standing. “I thought you were just some pompous two-bit agitator, and you turn out to be a real player.”
Lemouz crossed his legs and gave me a condescending smile. “I’m not sure I understand what you mean.”
I took out the envelope with Santos’s photos.
“What I’m really getting a kick out of, Lemouz, is that I’m what’s keeping your ass away from Homeland Security. I pass along your name, with your public statements, the next time I see you, it’ll be in a cell.”
Lemouz leaned back in his chair, still with an amused smile. “And you’re warning me, why, Lieutenant?”
“Who said I am warning you?”
His expression changed. He had no idea what I had on him. I liked that.
“What I find amusing”—Lemouz shook his head—“is how your blessed Constitution is so blind to people in this country who are wearing a chador or who have the wrong accent, yet so high and mighty about the threat to a free society when it comes to a couple of greedy MBAs and a pretty D.A.”
I pretended I hadn’t even heard what he just said.
“There’s something I want you to look at, Lemouz.”
I opened the envelope and spread the FBI photos of Stephen Hardaway across the desk.
Lemouz shrugged. “I don’t know. Perhaps I’ve seen him…. I don’t know where. Is he a student here?”
“You weren’t listening, Lemouz.” I dropped another photo in front of him. A second. And a third. The ones taken by Santos and Martelli. Showing Hardaway standing with him, one with his arm draped across the professor’s shoulder. “How do I find him, Lemouz? How?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know. These photos are from some time ago. I believe he was a professor detained after nine-eleven. Last fall. He hung around a couple of our rallies. I haven’t seen him since. I don’t actually know the man.”
“That’s not good enough,” I pressed.
“I don’t know. That’s the truth, Lieutenant. He was from up north somewhere, as I remember. Eugene? Seattle? He hung around for a while, but it all seemed to bore him.”
For once, I believed Lemouz. “What name was he going under?”
“Not Hardaway. Malcolm something. Malcolm Dennis, I think. I don’t know where he is