Withholding Evidence by Rachel Grant Page B

point nearly a block away from the man’s apartment in the Anacostia neighborhood. The man arrived home minutes after Keith took his position. He appeared twitchy, ready to bolt. Keith would bet good money his bag was packed; he was just waiting for his moment.
    He needed to know why this bastard had insulted Trina, and why he had mentioned Keith specifically.
    Ruby looked furtively out the window, and Keith wondered if he had gone soft or if he was just stupid. Backlit behind thin curtains, he might as well have painted a target on his face.
    Keith plucked out his phone and dialed. “Something stinks about this, Rav. Ruby is a tool.”
    “After work, Sean is going to bring Trina here. Her roommate Cressida too. I don’t like the security at her place, and I’m starting to wonder if this could be about her, not you.”
    “A safe house is a better idea. You’re knee-deep in a campaign. Too many people coming and going.”
    “She can’t join you, Keith. Not until we determine who the intended target is.”
    Keith held back a sigh. “I know that. I meant a different safe house.”
    “I’ll see what I can arrange.”
    Down the street, Ruby checked the roadway in front of his apartment again. “I think Ruby is going to rabbit.”
    “I’m sending an operative to take over surveillance. I don’t like you leaving the safe house. Give me thirty minutes.”
    “I can take care of myself. I used a surveillance detection route. No one followed me.”
    “The point of a safe house is to hide.”
    Keith grimaced. “I was going insane hiding.”
    “Then go back to the Virginia compound and use the shooting range again.”
    He’d spent two days at the compound last week, sighting in a new M110 rifle and Sig handgun, replacements for the ones he’d lost in the blast. He’d blown through hundreds of rounds to fight the frustration of knowing there’d been zero progress in the investigation of the explosion. The idea of more target shooting held no appeal. “No, thanks.”
    “After your replacement gets there, come in to the office. Lee is coming in to map out the computer issues at the Alaska compound. We can bring you up to speed on the issues at the same time.”
    “Fine.” Keith hung up and watched. Waited, all the while feeling uneasy. Anxious. At least going in to Rav’s office would give him something to do. Ten minutes passed, then his phone vibrated. Hopefully Sean had located Walt Fryer.
    No such luck. His caller was Josh Warner, a member of his SEAL team, and one of the few men who was more family to Keith than his biological brothers. He’d considered moving back to the San Francisco Bay Area when he left the service, but after his visit with his dad, he’d accepted that there was no reason to call California home anymore, and in fact, keeping the width of the continent between him and his father could only be a good thing. So he’d settled in Falls Church, and the fact that Josh lived in the DC area played a role in that choice.
    “We’ve got a problem,” Josh said.
    Keith was more alarmed by Josh’s tone than his words. After serving in the SEALs together, the problems they’d faced had ranged from a crappy dinner in the mess hall to calling for air support because insurgents had them pinned. Josh’s tone said this wasn’t a mess-hall sort of problem. “What’s going on?”
    “The rehab center just called me. Owen left.”
    Keith swore. “And they let him?”
    “They couldn’t stop him. He’s voluntary.”
    “But they’re supposed to call you before it gets to that point—”
    “Someone screwed up, that’s for sure. But the administrator said everything was going fine. Owen was doing fine. Participating. He was one of the model patients. Then he got a phone call and just…flipped out.”
    Dread snaked up Keith’s spine. “Who called him?”
    “That’s the strangest part. No one knows. Whoever it was, they knew the password, so the rehab center let Owen take the