I sat on the bed, rubbing my hands on my knees and trying to comprehend all of this. “This is the point where you tell me what this has to do with Fritz,” I said.
“Let’s assume,” Trip said, “that the Davenports really wanted to find out what happened to their son. Calling in the FBI makes sense. But when the feds start poking around—and they are nothing if not thorough, these guys—who knows what they might find.”
I stared at them both. “Something big enough to keep the Davenports from wanting to find their son?”
“Big enough to want them to get rid of the FBI, anyway,” Diamond said.
I shook my head, remembering Mr. Davenport’s anger and frustration almost boiling off him. “You didn’t see Fritz’s dad,” I said. “After Fritz vanished, he came to our room. He wanted . . .” I paused, searching my memory. “He wanted to know where Fritz was,” I said slowly, still thinking. “But he asked me—he asked me something else. Before he screamed at me, he asked me . . .” Various scenes cycled through my brain, and suddenly I was watching the right one. “He asked me what Fritz said. He wanted to know what Fritz and I had talked about.”
Trip frowned. “I don’t get it.”
“What if Fritz knew something, something about NorthPoint? And his dad wanted to know if he’d said something—something to me?”
Trip shook his head, still frowning. “Why would Fritz say something to you about his father’s business?”
I ignored him. “Three months earlier, NorthPoint hired private detectives and paid them for a lot of work. What if they were up to something illegal? Or they were helping cover up something illegal that NorthPoint had done?”
“And two months after Nine/Eleven,” Diamond said, nodding slowly in agreement, “NorthPoint wins a contract with CENTCOM. Had to do with miniaturizing electromagnetic spectrum sensors. The kind of thing used on Predator drones. You can guess how much that was worth. If that had fallen through, NorthPoint might have stalled and missed out on all that government cash.”
Trip raised his arms, palms up and spread apart. “Are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?”
“I’m looking for a motive,” I said.
“You think Davenport had his son disappear?”
“I don’t know, Trip. That’s why we’re meeting.”
“We’re meeting because you asked me to dig into the Davenports. And I found some evidence to suggest that Davenport called off the feds because they might find out something that would ruin his company, not that he . . . offed his own kid.”
I thought again about Mr. Davenport in my room, surging up in my face and screaming at me. Was this the behavior of a concerned parent at the breaking point? Or of someone desperate to hide something?
“Does Mrs. Davenport have anything to do with NorthPoint?” I asked.
Trip blinked, clearly not expecting this. “No,” he said. “She helps raise money for charities, organizes flower shows, things like that. Nothing to do with NorthPoint.”
“Okay,” I said, “so Mrs. Davenport just wants her son back, which is why she calls the FBI. But Mr. Davenport quietly arranges for the FBI to get off the case. He knows something his wife doesn’t. Another point in favor of NorthPoint being involved somehow.”
Trip shook his head again. “I don’t think Frank Davenport had his son . . . erased. I don’t buy it.”
“You’re telling me the thought didn’t cross your mind?”
“For about a second before it died a righteous death. The parents are the first people the cops look at. And Frank Davenport isn’t a fool. He could convince the feds not to look into NorthPoint, but he couldn’t keep them away if there was even a hint that he murdered his own son. There’s no way, Matthias. Diamond, help me out here.”
I looked at Diamond. His military uniform was crisp, his shoes polished so they shone like dark mirrors. He’s killed people, I thought suddenly. My old roommate had probably shot and killed insurgents in Iraq. The thought seemed to blow a fuse in my brain; for a moment, I couldn’t comprehend anything but the idea that Diamond had taken someone else’s life. Slowly, Diamond shook his head. “I’m with Trip on this one, Matthias. It’s not impossible, but I don’t think it’s likely. I’ve met Davenport a couple of times. He’s ruthless, and maybe he did something that he didn’t want exposed, but I don’t see him hiring someone to kill Fritz. Too risky, makes him too vulnerable.” He eyed me. “That doesn’t answer your question, though.”
“Question?”
He shrugged, almost sadly. “What happened to Fritz?” he said.
I glanced at Trip, who sat back as if my glance had pushed him back into his seat. “Don’t even think about asking me to look into that,” he said. “I’ve used up a lot of favors to get this info. No way am I going to start asking people whether or not they think Frank Davenport could have had his own son disappear.”
“I get that,” I said. “And thanks for what you’ve found. But you think Fritz’s disappearance might somehow be tied into NorthPoint?”
Trip shrugged. “Looks possible. Although we don’t know how.”
Slowly, I nodded. “Okay,” I said. “No worries. I’ve got another idea.”
A FEW HOURS LATER, evening fell as I drove into Washington. I’d been to D.C. several times, mostly on day trips from Blackburne when I was a student, and my view of the nation’s capital was complicated, a blend of postcard images of the White House and the Capitol with a kind of nausea of the soul, an inherent distaste for political machinations. Overlying all of this was a thin but bright layer of romantic idealism, like a coat of varnish on a moldering but beloved oil painting. No matter how cynical I could be, there was something about driving over the Potomac on the Teddy Roosevelt Bridge and seeing the crystalline blaze of the Kennedy Center reflected in the water, or the white columns of the Lincoln Memorial, or the obelisk of the Washington Monument thrust into the indigo sky—these sights gladdened and quickened something within me. It was not without regret that as soon as I crossed the river, I curved to the left, leaving the familiar sight of the Kennedy Center behind as I headed for K Street and Georgetown.