The Rule of Nine by Steve Martini Read Free Book Online

photos were freeze-frames from the surveillance video in the building the day James Snyder had violated security with an unidentified man.
    Bart Snyder looked at them closely. Two of the pictures showed his son in various strides walking with another man down a stark white hallway. There was nothing on the walls except a single sign over Jimmie’s shoulder in the distance in one of the shots. The other man looked as if he was late middle age, overweight, heavy jowled, and, from what Snyder could see, he possessed a fair-size gut hanging over his belt. He was perhaps an inch shorter than Jimmie and was wearing a baseball cap, so it was difficult to make out the features of his face in two of the pictures. The third shot looked like an enlargement taken earlier in the sequence, because the sign on the wall was larger and he could actually make out some of the lettering. When he read the few words that were visible, Snyder knew instantly where the pictures had been taken. He had often heard about it, but he’d never seen it. It was off-limits, like the holy of holies, one of those insider places in D.C. that the active set among the power elite talked about, like playing the back nine at Spyglass in Carmel. It had been in the news recentlybecause the president wanted to use it. He didn’t have one like it. The picture showed only the head and shoulders of the man in the baseball cap. Here his face was a little clearer, but the angle of the shot was still bad, so the bill of the cap continued to obstruct a clear view of one eye and put a shadow across his face.
    â€œHave you ever seen that man before?” said the agent.
    Snyder started to shake his head.
    â€œPerhaps a friend of the family or a relative, someone your son might have known?”
    â€œHe’s no relation. I know that.” Snyder studied the photographs a few seconds longer, then shook his head again. “I’ve never seen him before.”
    â€œYou’re sure?” said the agent.
    â€œYes.” He handed the pictures back to the agent.
    â€œJust one more thing,” said Wallace. “Do you know whether your son might have taken a trip recently to the area around San Diego in California?”
    Snyder thought about it, and then shook his head. “Not that I know of.”
    â€œDo you know whether he recently conferred with a lawyer regarding any legal matters?”
    â€œIf he needed a lawyer, I assume he would have called me.”
    â€œI see. But you say he didn’t tell you about the problem at work, the security breach.”
    â€œNo. Was it that serious?”
    â€œWe don’t know. Did he ever mention a name to you, a lawyer named Paul Madriani?” asked Wallace.
    â€œHow is that spelled?” said Snyder.
    The agent spelled the last name for him as Snyder wrote it down on a pad on his desk and looked at it. “It sounds a little familiar, but not off the top of my head. Do you know where he practices?”
    â€œThe area around San Diego,” said the agent.
    â€œI see. Do you know what field of law?”
    â€œDid your son ever mention that name, Mr. Snyder, or could you have referred him to someone by that name?”
    â€œNo,” said Snyder. “And I can’t recall my son ever mentioning him. What makes you think my son talked with this lawyer?”
    â€œI’m sorry, but I can’t discuss that.” Thorpe and the FBI were reasonably certain that Madriani’s business card had been planted on James Snyder’s body by whoever killed him. Still, they were crossing all the t ’s and dotting all the i ’s. There was always the long shot that Madriani wasn’t telling them everything he knew. He could be involved with whoever killed Snyder. Then again he could be hiding something that wasn’t necessarily criminal but which fell into the dark hole of lawyer/client confidence. It anyone knew, it was likely to be Snyder’s father, who as