Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

T WO NIGHTS LATER DEVINE WALKED resolutely up a steep, slippery street in Seattle, while the darkness, varnished with a marine layer, shrouded him like a sheet fort laid by a child. The nearly forty-five-degree upward angle caused his heartbeat to accelerate. At least he wasn’t carrying an eighty-pound rucksack, only a six-ounce cup of coffee.

Behind him was a harbor filled with commercial, military, and recreational activities all of a nautical kind. Ahead of him the rest of the city was splayed out on multiple hills like a modern fortress with clear views of approaching armies. He was staying at one hotel and now heading to another, to meet with someone. Well, two people, actually. He knew very little, but at least he knew that.

The flight here had been uneventful. Five hours on a United Airlines A320. Campbell had sprung for first class so Devine could stretch out his long legs on the narrow-body jet. He’d also allowed himself the luxury of a beer since it was free in that part of the plane. In any event, it beat a vomit seat on a cram-packed Air Force C130, but then again, riding coach, or even being out on the damn wing, would’ve done that.

Seattle was always chilly, rainy, and foggy at this time of year. Devine had been here before and found the city interesting and consistent in certain respects. But like any large metropolis, something could jump out and bite you with little warning.

He located his destination in a part of the city that was still awaiting a full facelift. The four-story hotel was sandwiched between a vape shop and a cannabis dispensary that had fake ivy glued to its brick exterior. The combined smells reminded him of the time he’d been thrown into a Dumpster as part of an unofficial West Point meet-and-greet courtesy of a half dozen drunken upperclassmen, all of whom were now commanding armed men in uniform.

The small, shabby lobby was empty, and the single banged-up elevator was out of order. There was a silver coffee urn and a stack of cups set on a round table with a sign that read HOT APPLE CIDER, HELP YOURSELF.

Devine did not help himself. He threw his coffee into a trash can and headed up the stairs.

On the third floor he turned right and trudged to the end of the hall. The carpet was torn and stained; the walls needed repainting. And apparently, the fuggy cannabis smell and sickly sweet pop of the vape shop had pierced the thin exterior walls on either side of the hotel, morphing into an alchemy of intoxication for those dwelling here. Devine held his breath so he wouldn’t get stoned and addicted simply by inhaling air.

He thought he heard the creak of a door, the slight sound of a footstep, and Devine also seemed to sense a shadow or two here and there. Yet no threat materialized, so he assumed it had to do with the curiosity of people working or staying here. He let go of the butt of his Glock and kept going.

He gave a special rap at the last door on the hall and got another one in return, which he answered with another combo of raps. He felt a bit like he was in a 1960s-era spy flick, but at least you couldn’t computer-hack a secret knock. The door opened by the width of the slender burglar’s chain, and a woman peered out at him.

“Travis Devine?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“ID?”

He produced it. She unchained and opened the door fully, and motioned him in. She poked her head out and glanced down the corridor before closing and locking the door.

He noted that she held a dark, matte-finished Sig nine-mill in her right hand. She was around five-five, a little lumpy in figure, and her features were drawn. Her stringy brown hair, with more than a few gray strands, bracketed her forty-something face. She looked sleep deprived and unhappy all in one dreary package.

She reholstered the sidearm and showed her credentials. “FBI Special Agent Ellen Saxby.”

Devine ran his eye over the tiny room, noting the tattered carpet, the old furnishings, and the general air of neglect. Devine next spied the half-eaten meatball sandwich from Subway on a side table. An open door off this room revealed a modest bathroom that looked like it dated back to the 1970s. He also noted a closed door apparently leading into the sole bedroom. Then there was the stained couch with a pillow and blanket strewn across it that rested against one wall of the room. This was apparently Saxby’s humble place to lay her weary head.

“FBI per diem gone through the shitter?” he said, eyeing the woman.

“The government has to live within a budget, too, Devine.”

He thought about his flying out here first class, but that was a rare thing indeed.

“I know, but most Americans probably wouldn’t think the government even has a budget. Where’s Betsy Odom?”

“Napping. In the only bedroom.”

“Just you here?” Devine said.

She nodded. “I’ve gotten about ten hours of shut-eye total over the last few days.”

“How’d you get so lucky?” he asked.

“Probably because I accused my supervisor’s fav boy of being a misogynistic dick. My complaint got fav boy reassigned to a cushy post at the New York Field Office and here I am, a glorified babysitter in a shithole masquerading as a hotel that smells like wolf’s piss.”

Devine leaned against the wall, a bit surprised by both the woman’s negative attitude and her revealing such personal information to a stranger. “So tell me about what’s going on.”

“Your people didn’t brief you?” she said, obviously caught off guard by his query.

“They said they hadn’t been fully read in. So I need to get updated.”

“Tell me what you do know and we’ll go from there.”

“On the other side of that bedroom door is, presumably, Betsy Odom, age twelve. Her parents recently died. The Bureau is interested in the girl because of her uncle, Danny Glass.”

“Okay, do you know who Danny Glass is?”

“I actually knew him, briefly, when he and I were in the Army.”

“Can you elaborate on that?”

“I was West Point and he was enlisted but we fought together once in Iraq. I lost track of him after that, but now I know the government is going after him for a bunch of crimes.”

Saxby glanced at the bedroom door and started speaking in a low voice. “He’s currently the defendant in a federal RICO prosecution that will start up soon right here in Seattle. It was originally filed in New York but a change of venue was granted, so here we are on the West Coast. Glass is out on bail because he can afford the best lawyers. But he’s on a tight leash. He’s got unlimited financial resources and his own jet. So they took his passport and he’s wearing an electronic monitor on his ankle. One step out of line and his butt goes to jail for the duration.”

“I understand he’s trying to become his niece’s guardian with an eye to adoption?”

“Yes. He’s filed a petition for emergency minor guardianship.”

“What does that mean exactly?”

“Washington state changed its laws and procedures on guardianship a few years ago. Now, it usually takes sixty days to finalize a guardianship petition. But you can circumvent that by filing an emergency petition, as Glass has done. If granted, the emergency guardianship usually lasts only sixty days. That’s why at the same time Glass also filed for what’s called Minor Guardianship. The family court overseeing the matter merged those two cases into one, which is customary.”

“But he doesn’t have custody of Betsy. The Bureau does. How did that happen?”

“DOJ went straight to court on the same day the Odoms died and got the court to grant the FBI temporary guardianship. But Glass’s lawyers found out we were Betsy’s guardian before the ink was hardly dry on our emergency application. And the next day, Betsy, since she’s over twelve, was served with notice that Glass was looking to become her guardian and knock us out.”

“I guess that was no surprise.”

“But it was also suspicious. It was like Glass knew her parents were going to die and had everything prepared beforehand.”

“Do you have proof of that?”

“I wish.”

“Will he be able to become her guardian? And adopt her? I mean, the guy’s a criminal.”

“An alleged criminal. The RICO case hasn’t been proven and you’re innocent until that time. So technically, to the family law court, he’s clean as a whistle.”

“But the judge can consider the RICO indictment?”

“Absolutely. And we hope that’s enough to keep him from becoming her guardian.”

“You got guardianship on the day her parents died? How so fast?”

“We’ve been after Glass for years and knew all about his sister and brother-in-law. We refocused on them when they came into money recently under suspicious circumstances. When they died DOJ worked their legal magic, and I was sent here to assume guardianship of a girl I’d never laid eyes on before.”

“You said the Odoms came into money under suspicious circumstances?”

“We suspect Glass was the source, but have no proof. Maybe as a bribe if they knew something incriminating about him. The funds were used to purchase a home and a car.”

“So exactly why is the girl important to you?”

“She could have overhead something. Seen something. If she’s a danger to Glass, or he thinks she is? That’s why we stepped in.”

“Have you gotten anything out of her along those grounds?”

“No. She’s pretty tight-lipped.”

“What exactly are Glass’s ‘alleged’ crimes?”

“The RICO suit charges drug manufacturing and distribution on a grand scale, extortion, fraud, bribery, human trafficking, and the theft and sale of historical artifacts from the Middle East and Asia, among other charges. Glass has a string of legit businesses of all shapes and sizes, and we believe the illicit proceeds are laundered through them.”

“So how can a judge allow a guy like that to adopt her?”

“There are no guarantees, Devine, but we do have one potential ace in our hand.”

“What?”

“Betsy has a say in all this.”

“Does she want to go with him?”

“I don’t know. Like I said, she plays her cards very close to the vest. That’s why I said it was a potential ace.”

“And I’m here to escort Betsy to a meeting with her uncle?”

“Yes. Tomorrow at the Four Seasons.”

“Why do they need me? You’re her guardian.”

“When two eight-hundred-pound gorillas like the FBI and DHS climb into the ring with each other, Devine, who the hell knows what will happen? Now, what’s so special about you that you got this gig?”

“I guess it’s because I knew Glass from our military days back in Iraq. I suppose the powers-that-be thought that might come in handy. So how did her parents die?” he asked.

“Dwayne and Alice Odom died of drug overdoses in their car. Betsy apparently tried to revive them with Narcan. Not the first time she’d done that, I heard. Word is they ingested a heavy dose of fentanyl, so they were goners as soon as it hit their bloodstreams. Died right in front of her.”

“Damn. Pretty traumatic for anyone, much less a kid.”

“Their lives up till then were a bit of a shit show. Moving constantly. Homeless off and on. Not sure how Betsy even managed to go to school on a consistent basis. We did learn that Glass and Dwayne Odom were not close. Glass was considerably older than his sister. Sort of a big brother protector growing up.”

“So brother and sister were tight?”

“Apparently. But then Dwayne entered the picture when Glass was still in the Army and swept Alice right off her feet. Dwayne was also a number of years older than Alice. He’d been around in life while she was pretty cloistered and na?ve. I guess Alice saw something in Dwayne that she wanted. They got married and had Betsy sometime later.”

“So can I talk to her?”

A slight sound made Devine glance over at the bedroom door. It was now open. And standing there was Betsy Odom, with her curly auburn hair, freckled skin, and a round face of stone staring dead at him.