Kendrick looked flustered, as if he didn’t know what to do, but he shrugged and led them down a long pale-gray-carpeted hallway past a series of niches in the walls, each with a bust of a famous eighteenth-century Frenchman, beginning with Louis XV and Voltaire, each labeled with their dates of birth and death.
“Those wigs must have been hot,” Ollie said. “Makes my scalp itch to look at them.”
Kendrick turned, grinned, and pointed to the last bust set in a place of honor: Marie Antoinette. “This one’s Mrs. Bowler’s favorite, and the only woman. Mrs. Bowler says she wore enough perfume to float a boat. They didn’t bathe much back then. Mrs. Bowler also said the real Marie Antoinette didn’t have that much bosom.”
They passed a half-dozen gilt-edged doors, heard voices as they passed. Kendrick said, “All the doors are closed because Mrs. Bowler likes everyone to keep themselves private, clients and secretaries included. The world has ears, Mrs. Bowler says.”
Kendrick opened a set of double doors, stepped into a conference room, and announced, “Mr. Duce—ah, Mr. and Mrs. Bowler, two FBI agents are here to see you. I’m sorry, but they insisted.”
A thin, basketball-tall man rose, a half-eaten bear claw in his hand, sputtering as he wiped his mouth. “Kendrick, what is this? These agents did not call to request a meeting. I have nothing to say to them.” He waved a thin hand at piles of papers on the table. “I’m very busy, Kendrick. Take them away.”
Ruth smiled. “Mr. Bowler. Mrs. Bowler?” She introduced herself and Ollie. They handed over their creds, waited, saying nothing more until Mr. Bowler, scowling, handed them back.
Mrs. Bowler she said as she rose, “My husband does not have time to speak to you. He’s preparing for a very important court case. You do understand, don’t you, that he is not obliged to speak to you?”
Ollie nearly spurted out a laugh. Mr. Bowler was a good six feet six inches, and his wife and partner topped out at no more than five feet, her head barely reaching his armpit. She was about the same age as her husband, early fifties. She was dressed as elegantly as her husband, both of them proud products of Barneys, if Ruth didn’t miss her guess. Unlike her husband, Renée Bowler wasn’t holding a bear claw.
Kendrick said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Bowler, but they were insistent, sir.” Kendrick, no fool, slipped out of the room quickly, closing the double doors behind him.
Ollie said, “We’re here to speak to you about Manta Ray—Mr. Liam Hennessey. You are his lawyer, isn’t that correct, Mr. Bowler?”
Bowler drew himself up and threw his head back, trying to intimidate, but he couldn’t pull it off, what with his pale eyes darting back and forth between Ruth and Ollie. Still, even though they could tell he was worried, he kept his voice calm and professional. “I was Mr. Hennessey’s lawyer, but I no longer represent him. Like every other citizen of the District, I heard it on a news bulletin when he escaped federal custody. Incredible incompetence on law enforcement’s part, I have to say. I did my best by him, a prison term rather than a lethal injection, but that was enough. I’ve washed my hands of him, removed him from my client list, and I will have nothing more to do with him. So I have nothing more to say to you, either. Now, if you don’t mind, I have work to do.”
Ruth saw a sheen of sweat glisten on Bowler’s forehead. She pulled out her stone face and said, in a voice colder than an ice floe, “Mr. Bowler, you will either speak to us here or we will escort you to the Hoover Building. The venue is up to you.”
He stared at her for an instant, a deer in the headlights, before looking at his wife. Despite her size, Ruth recognized at once it was Mrs. Bowler who drove this bus. Maybe more rottweiler than bus driver, even in her four-inch stilettos.
Ruth turned to her. “You are aware your husband was the only one listed as visiting Mr. Hennessey at the Northern Neck Regional Jail. We’ve checked the video cams, of course, and there was no doubt it was your husband who visited him on several occasions. Only your husband could have brokered a deal between Mr. Hennessey and whoever arranged Hennessey’s escape. We suspect it was in return for the contents of the six safe-deposit boxes he robbed a month ago, isn’t that right?”
Bowler’s forehead continued to shine with sweat while Mrs. Bowler examined the bright pink polish on her thumbnail. Then she frowned a bit. Had her nail polish chipped? Ruth watched her toss her bobbed blond hair. “Surely you have some understanding of lawyer-client privilege, Agent Noble. Shall I recite the statute to you both, Agent Hamish? Mr. Bowler had no role in Mr. Hennessey’s escape from federal custody. It would be unethical for him to answer any questions about his conversations with his client. You need to leave now.”
Ollie said pleasantly, “If Mr. Hennessey and Mr. Bowler were conspiring to set Hennessey free, there is no privilege, Mrs. Bowler, as I’m sure you know. Mr. Bowler, your firm isn’t in financial trouble. You, personally, do very little criminal work. The question I have is why you would accept carrying out anything as dicey as this since you had to know we’d come knocking on your door. I doubt you’d want to risk leaving a financial record, so I would guess you’ll claim your work for Mr. Hennessey was pro bono. Tell me, did whoever put you up to this threaten you, or perhaps know about something you would rather no one found out about?”
As he spoke, Ollie handed Mr. Bowler a sheet of paper. “You’ll recognize these two names because they’re your clients. Both of these individuals are under investigation for money laundering for MS-13, the Salvadoran drug cartel. The federal prosecutor seems to think you were involved, and he’s working hard to nail it down. That doesn’t put you in a very good position. Disbarment, prison—more than enough to motivate you to cooperate with us. If you do, we’re sure the federal prosecutor would be willing to close his file on your involvement.
“Now’s the time to show good faith. Who were you really representing, Mr. Bowler? Who paid you to broker a deal with Liam Hennessey?”
Mrs. Bowler said, contempt in her voice, “There are no charges against us, and if there ever are, they’ll be proved groundless. We are a reputable firm.”
Ruth ignored her. “Mr. Bowler, you have to know that when we apprehend Mr. Hennessey, he will tell us in great detail how you helped facilitate his escape. He will throw you under the bus without any hesitation. And if he should die instead, you can be sure we’ll investigate you until we find every piece of dirt hidden under your expensive carpets. We’ll investigate your clients until they realize you are a liability. I doubt your Russian clients, in particular, will be pleased with you, and I hear they’re not known for their forbearance.”
Mr. Bowler’s Adam’s apple worked frantically above his Gucci tie. Ruth leaned forward. “You wouldn’t do well in prison, Mr. Bowler. You are not a young man. You wouldn’t be able to defend yourself against the predators. For your own sake, you should tell us the name of the person who hired you to broker the deal with Hennessey.”
Mrs. Bowler laid her small hand on her husband’s arm. “Ignore her, Duce.” She whirled back to face them, her palms flattened on the table. “You will listen to me, Agent Noble. My husband did not broker any deal. Hennessey is a resourceful man. He obviously had ways to reach his cohorts on the outside. My husband had nothing to do with Mr. Hennessey’s escape.”
The double doors flew open. “Mother? What is going on here? What is Kendrick going on about?”
Ollie and Ruth turned to see a young Amazon stride into the conference room like a force of nature. She was six feet tall, with long dark brown hair clipped away from her face, strong sharp features, not above thirty. She was the image of her father, and the third Bowler listed in the firm name. They’d know quickly enough if she was her mother’s daughter.
Ruth knew exactly who she was, but she asked, “And who are you?”
“I am Magda Bowler.” A sculpted eyebrow went up. “And you are?”