I kissed her on the forehead and told her I’d be back in a week.
As I pulled away, she was squinting at me. I left quietly. I couldn’t bear to ask any other questions and find out that I’d receded in her memory once again.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
By 2:30 p.m., I had landed in D.C. Upon arrival, I noted no new emails from my team. I had sent Cassie a note last night about my mom, so there was a possibility that my colleagues were leaving me alone, believing I would take some time off.
Barry Kemp from ATF had texted, though, telling me that if I got to Washington before three, he’d meet me for a late lunch.
As I took an Uber to the address in the Adams Morgan neighborhood that Kemp had given me, I saw a text from the owner of the condo that I rented for Camila and me. He was considering selling the place. I bit at my lip, but did not respond. Too much else going on.
I got out of the Uber in front of a restaurant called the Federalist Pig, a barbecue place that Frank had brought me to on a trip to D.C. years ago.
Inside, I introduced myself to Kemp, who was six foot three, with a sturdy, muscular figure. He ran 250 pounds but carried it well in a dark blue suit, white shirt, and red tie.
“Why don’t we order, and we can sit out on the patio and chat?” he said, directing me to the woman at the counter.
I ordered a brisket sandwich with beans and brussels sprouts. Kemp asked for a jalapeño sausage with a side of mac and cheese. We made our way outside and sat across from each other at a table made of butcher block.
Kemp had avoided meeting in his office at ATF, then sent me to a restaurant fifteen minutes away, well past the lunch rush when no one was around. Since my concern was loose lips at the ATF on our weapons investigation, I appreciated his approach.
“So,” he said after we got our food and made the requisite small talk, “you can imagine my disbelief at the idea that a major arms manufacturer is making a buy-build-shoot kit.”
“I never said it was amajormanufacturer,” I replied. “Director Poulton asked that, and my answer was that we never found out.”
Kemp had a wide face with a big jawline and no facial hair. “Before your C.I. was killed, you mean?”
“Precisely,” I said.
“And you don’t know who killed him?”
“Not yet,” I said, “but we don’t think it was one of J. P. Sandoval’s guys.”
I gave Kemp background on the texts we’d seen on Freddie’s phone, detailing how the gang didn’t appear to know he was dead. How when we found that out, I made the call to light the mobile home on fire.
As I described that night, Kemp laughed and shook his head, speaking in an accent I placed as Oklahoman.
“You’re one cool customer, Camden,” he said. “Your team has a great reputation. ’Course, we know Jo Harris from when she was one of ours. A lot of people thought she was a ballbuster, but the guys I talked to said it was a big loss when she pulled that stunt and got sent away.”
Six years ago, Congress’s lack of funding for ATF had upset Shooter. While at a federal gun range, she’d used her incredible firearms accuracy to write F-U-C-K C-O-N-G-R-E-S-S in bullet holes across a series of targets. On the same day, a senator from Massachusetts was getting a tour of the place. Same hour, in fact.
Jo was transferred to a remote ATF outpost shortly thereafter. A year later, like me, she was recruited to join PAR.
“If you scratch the surface of any of us at PAR, you’re going to find a story like that,” I said.
We dug into our food then. As we ate, Kemp asked about PAR’s mission and how we judge success. I shared with him the fraud part of the case that got us started in Hambis and how we planned to trade that to a DA in Florida.
“And Craig’s all right with that?” Kemp squinted, referring to Poulton.
“I haven’t told him yet,” I said. “I’ll inform him later.”
“Oh, man,” Kemp laughed. “You’re gonna be in hot water, Camden.” He poured red sauce over his sausage. “I’ll keep that part to myself.”
He finished his meal quickly and examined me. “So,” he said. “You’re a smart guy. Straightforward. You got concerns about my team?”
“You have to liaise with firearms companies on a regular basis. I would say monthly, but with the number of active shooters lately, I know you’re talking with some of them every week.”
Kemp wrinkled his forehead. “And you think what—one of our guys is cozy with them? Gonna tip ’em off?”
