Edge

just before we met at the Hyatt, it had indeed occurred to me that Ryan’s accounting assignment might be the reason he’d been targeted. “I had my associate look into that, checking out Chief of Detectives Lewis, the police chief himself, people on the commission. Even a few people in city hall.”
    But, I added, duBois had found no evidence of any malfeasance. She’d spoken to dozens of officers and administrators within the department, armed with her pen and calculator. What Westerfield and Teasley had found, the money shifting from one account to another, seemed to duBois to be innocent.
    “It was,” Ryan confirmed, frowning. “Yeah, some money went to the wrong accounts but it just sat there until somebody found it and then got transferred back. That’s why I was involved—not investigating, just coming up with better procedures to move cash between the various departments.”
    “Well, the U.S. attorney thought it was a chance for a great political corruption prosecution. I didn’t let on that it was a dead end. I kind of egged him on when he started down that path.” I didn’t mention to the Kesslers that Freddy had caught on and helped.
    I don’t know. They were whispers. . . .
    Joanne said, “Don’t you people work together?”
    A good question and the answer was: not always.
    Ryan shrugged. “I’ll send him whatever you need, sure.”
    “Everything. Only, the most impenetrable first.”
    He gave a smile.
    “Westerfield’s going to want to talk to you too. Just tell him the truth, let him sort it out.”
    “But be a little mysterious,” Ryan offered.
    “That’d be great. Think back to any conspiracy theory books you’ve read.”
    Joanne remained for a moment, standing awkwardly, shoulders forward. I knew she wanted to call Amanda. But I couldn’t let her. I didn’t want anybody other than my contacts at the slammer in Loudoun to know the girl and Carter were there. She didn’t ask again, though, just said good night, then headed down the hall.
    I noted Maree’s computer, sitting on the couch. She’d probably gone to bed too; I was suddenly aware that with the young woman absent, the safe house was oddly sedate. Whatever else you could say about her, Maree livened up the assignment like no other principal I’d ever had.
    Mr. Tour Guide . . .
    Ryan brought all the files into the den, where I was sitting and checking emails. He began to organize them and set them in neat stacks on the desk.
    “Here’s the first batch,” he said. He dove back in.
    The defensiveness and hostility from when we’d met were gone completely. “Ask you a personal question, Corte?”
    Normally that sets off klaxons but for some reason I said, “Sure.”
    “How’d you get into this baby-sitting job? Wait, is that an insult?”
    “Not to me.”
    “Right.” He laughed. “How’d you get into it? Were you like somebody’s personal bodyguard or anything?”
    “The short answer is I got arrested.”
    An amused glance. “Now that deserves an explanation.” Ryan limped to the kitchen, called, “Coffee?”
    “Sure,” I replied.
    He brought me a large mug, remembering I liked it black.
    “So?” Ryan continued to leaf through his documents.
    I explained how I’d started orienteering at the University of Texas in Austin and had gotten interested in sign cutting.
    He frowned at that and I explained.
    “Tracking, like Indians?” he asked.
    “Exactly. Well, one weekend I drove down to San Antonio for an orienteering competition. It was a long one, all day. I’d hit the halfway control point and I’d decided to take a different route to the next point, not the straightest one. Sometimes the straightest take a lot longer.
    “Well, I was moving through some brush and heard what I thought was somebody crying. I wentto see and I found a family. They were obviously illegals who’d come over the Rio Grande sometime in the past day. I thought maybe one of them was hurt, so I went up to them.”
    “You speak Spanish?”
    “It helps in Texas.” And in my present line of work.
    “Guess it would.”
    “I was in competition gear—like a tracksuit—so they didn’t think I was police. I asked what was wrong. They said some men were after them. They’d stolen the father’s wallet—all his savings—and tried to rape the couple’s teenage daughter. The father grabbed one of the men’s guns and they fled but the men were after them. I had my mobile and I said I’d call for help. They