Deadly Past

by Kris Rafferty

  He pulled her into his arms, feeling helpless. “Tell me what happened.”

  “I saw them. They were alive. I don’t remember seeing anyone else.”

  “Doesn’t mean the killer wasn’t there,” Charlie said.

  She tilted her head to look at him. “I didn’t see anyone. I don’t know who killed them. I never saw anyone.” He wiped a tear, and then gave her a squeeze. “Then I tripped.” She touched the back of her head, glancing at him. “No. I remember being hit from behind.” She sighed, draping herself against his chest.

  “Do you remember hearing gunshots?” he said. She shook her head. “Then the kills happened when you were unconscious.”

  “When I woke at the crime scene, they were dead, and I still had my gun. It had been used; I could smell it.” She grimaced. “My pocketbook and my phone were in the car, so I still couldn’t call it in. The vics were dead, so I left, more afraid of contaminating the crime scene than anything else. I was walking back to the car, and felt faint. I knew I couldn’t drive. I remember heading toward the safe house, climbing the stairs, and then it gets fuzzy. I don’t know how I managed to find a bed to pass out on, but I did. I don’t know why I didn’t call anyone.”

  “We might never know. It’s a miracle you survived,” he said. “Your DNA is at the crime scene and will be processed with the rest of the samples. If your gun casings are there, too, with your prints, they’ll request a DNA sample.” Her lips tightened, and she nodded. “The connection will be made, and you’ll be implicated.”

  “If I’d only managed to stay conscious just a little longer, I might have called Benton, and we wouldn’t be in this situation.”

  “I don’t know about that,” he said. “Your gun was discharged. The killer allowed you to live for a reason. Those seem to be two bombs that haven’t gone off yet. Odds are the next call Benton receives from an anonymous source will cause him to call you in for questioning.”

  She rubbed her face, clearly shaken up. “Who shot my gun?”

  “A better question is, when will the safe house techs discover you were the culprit that deleted video?”

  Her forehead thumped onto his chest, and her fingers bit into his waist. “Charlie, I look guilty as sin.” He nodded, but she couldn’t see him agreeing, so he didn’t feel bad about being brutally honest.

  “Our unsub knew you were there,” he said. “He knew you. Didn’t kill you.” She nodded. “We have to assume they thought better of killing an FBI special agent.”

  Cynthia grimaced, shaking her head. “They thought of a way to use me.”

  “What’s the odds the killer is our anonymous source?” Charlie said.

  “You’re the math guy. You tell me.” She lifted her brows, sniffing. “Got a plan?”

  “My last plan isn’t working out so well,” he said.

  Cynthia’s gaze softened, and the look in her eyes made his heart swell. “It was a fine plan,” she said. He kissed her, and didn’t stop kissing her until she was wiggling in his arms, arching toward him.

  “I want to make love to you, Cynthia.” His heart was pounding, and his fingers were inching to strip her bare as she wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him close.

  “I want you to make love to me, Charlie.”

  This is it, he thought. His chance to have it out with her finally about how their relationship was about more than simply loyalty and friendship. She loved him. Really loved him. It was time for her to admit it.

  “Cynthia?” He’d just blurt it out and hope for the best. If his declaration of love made her run for the hills, well… He’d do what it took to change her mind.

  “Yes?” Her eyes were round, barely focused as she stared at his lips, nipping at them, luring him into kissing her again. “Charlie?” The phone rang. “Crap.” She pulled the phone from her suit jacket pocket, and then exchanged glances with Charlie. “Benton.”

  He nodded and loosened his grip, stepping back. “Answer it.”

  Inhaling sharply, she visibly steeled herself before accepting the call. “So, found the unsub yet?” She listened, her stricken expression at odds with her cavalier tone of voice. “Well, what’s taking you so long?” Cynthia turned her back on Charlie but leaned against him, pulling his arms around her waist as she adjusted the phone so he could hear what Benton was saying.

  “…warrant for Charlie’s bank statements was denied due to lack of evidence,” Benton said, “but we’re still digging. With enough culpable evidence, the judge will relent. Try to convince Charlie to release his bank statements, please. He’s being stubborn, and I’m positive the more cooperative he is, the quicker we can clear this up and direct the team’s attention back toward the real killer. You should already know this, Deming. You’re allowing your feelings for Charlie to cloud your judgment.”

  “Sue me,” she snapped.

  “Don’t tempt me. The longer he waits to give his accounts up, the guiltier he looks. Tell him,” Benton said. “He’ll listen to you.”

  “I’ll think about it,” Cynthia said, but Charlie knew she was simply stalling. They both knew what was in his account ledger: an incriminating million dollars. “I’m on my honeymoon, however, so I can’t promise anything.”

  There was silence on the line for so long Cynthia was soon biting her lower lip. She glanced over her shoulder at Charlie, but he had no idea what the silence meant, either. She’s the one that knew Benton well.

  “Understood.” Benton hung up. Cynthia’s shoulders sagged and she leaned against Charlie as if her legs were about to buckle.

  “I can’t take much more of this,” she said.

  Charlie thought about Benton’s words, then smiled. “I think we just got good news.”

  Cynthia turned in his arms and embraced him. “Don’t trust it.”

  “We have a reprieve,” he said. “I’m not in jail, and you don’t have to check in with the boss.”

  “Hmm.” She smiled. “In a perfect world, I’d say take me to bed, lover.”

  He smiled, seriously considering her idea. “We could make the world perfect.”

  “Or,” she said, tilting her head to the side, studying his expression. Then she left his arms and rushed out of the room. Charlie caught up with her in the living room, in front of the television. Remote in hand, she was watching the local news, and reports of the Chinatown Massacre were on every channel. “I think we need to see one of the scariest people I’ve ever met.”

  He folded his arms over his chest, watching her rather than the news. “If it’s an either-or, I vote for stripping naked and having sex.” When she ignored him and instead frowned at the television, he sighed and collapsed onto the upholstered chair next to his couch. It gave him a bird’s eye view of another pile of Socks’s plunder. Dropping on hands and knees, he peered into the corner, under the television. A black magic marker, a stuffed cat toy mouse, a tiny, shiny purple flower charm, and a pair of sunglasses. Another cache of Socks’s stolen booty.

  “Huh? What did you say?” She was now frowning, arms akimbo, the remote forgotten in her hand. “Why are you on your hands and knees? Aren’t you even curious to know who I think we need to interview?”

  “You want to interview Dante Coppola,” he said, peering under the television stand. “The Coppola syndicate crime lord. Am I right?” He glanced at her to see her nod. “My idea is better.”

  “What idea?”

  He swept his hand under the stand and pulled out more items from under it. “We make glorious, hot, sweaty love, as I…” Tell her how much he loved her. Damn. As if she’d be capable of focusing on anything but her desire to interview Coppola and save their careers, their freedom. Nope. Long, drowsy kisses, and multiple orgasms would have to wait.

  “As you what?” Now he had her attention.

  Charlie sat, the pile of Socks’s booty at his side. “Let’s put a pin in m
y idea. I’m thinking our anonymous source might be getting as antsy as we are, and might decide to drop a bomb before we’re able to fly to Florida and back.”

  “That’s what I’m thinking, too,” she said.

  “Might as well go down swinging.” He hopped up from the floor. “Do me a favor? My arm isn’t small enough to reach all the way under there. I’ve got most of it, but I can’t get the last bit.”

  Her lip curled with distaste. “It better not be dead, whatever it is.”

  “Cats are supposed to kill mice. It’s what they do, but whatever this is, it’s not dead or alive.” He sat on the floor, indicating under the television with a flick of his fingers.

  She grimaced and bent, crawling on her hands and knees until she was close enough to lay flat and retrieve the pile. “This is getting old.”

  “I’ve had her for over a week now, and it’s just getting worse.” He was no better at understanding cats than he was understanding women. “I think I need a cat whisperer.”

  “Hmm,” Cynthia said, handing over a sock, sunglasses, and a desiccated baby carrot. “Gross.”

  He shrugged, slipping the sunglasses into his pocket and gathering up the other items. He placed them on the side table. “Will the FPC warden allow us to see Coppola?”

  “It’s a minimum-security federal prison camp. I’m listed as one of the arresting agents, so I have jurisdiction.”

  Charlie arched a brow. “Club Fed. Should I bring a bathing suit?”

  “Do you own a bathing suit?”

  Now that he thought about it… “No.”

  She dusted her hands off and allowed Charlie to help her to her feet. “We lean on him, see what happens. Couldn’t hurt.”

  “Sure it can. Florida is out of state.” She averted her gaze, as if that changed the fact that what she’d proposed could land them in jail. “Benton will find out, and when he discovers we’re interviewing Coppola, he’ll label us flight risks. Best case scenario, he’ll see our visit as obstruction of justice.”

  “Or conspiracy. I know,” she said. “Hopefully by the time he hears anything he’ll be thanking us, because we’ll have a lead.” Her expression told him even she knew that outcome was a long shot.

  “Since when did you start believing in fairy tales?”

  “You think too much,” she said. She grabbed her purse and left the living room, leaving him to turn off the television.

  He gathered up the marker and the purple charm, tossed the toy mouse back on the floor, and followed her out into the hall and into the kitchen. The other Socks plunder remained on the counter where he’d left it earlier. Charlie added this stuff to the pile, putting the purple flower charm next to the purple heart charm. Pieces of a set? He supposed they could be his mother’s…. Charlie took a picture and texted it to Delia before turning his attention back to the growing pile. He was worried about Socks, who was weaving his way around Charlie’s ankles. Every time Charlie attempted to pet the cat, Socks ran away, only to come back and rub against his legs again.

  “Cynthia, did I ever tell you that Socks reminds me of you?” Cynthia didn’t answer. When he looked up, he noticed she’d left the kitchen. “What do you think, Socks? Do you think she’ll keep us?” The cat wandered away, not deigning to answer, or maybe Socks didn’t know either.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Charlie was a rules guy, and as a Quantico-trained investigator, Cynthia admired that, but it meant he was less than comfortable going rogue. Charlie being Charlie, he supported her efforts anyway. Didn’t mean he liked it, or liked crossing state lines and interviewing a man linked to a murder case that was implicating him. They were inviting a ton of blowback, so flying to Florida was a stupid move. That was a given. Especially since any investigation involving the Coppola syndicate put Dante Coppola on the top of a short list of suspects. So, in effect, two prime suspects speaking privately…collusion, anyone? Or worse, conspiracy. The optics were bad.

  She knew it, but felt they didn’t have much choice. Waiting around for the other shoe to drop wasn’t her style, and if one more person impugned Charlie’s integrity, Cynthia feared another cold-cocking incident. Benton’s treatment of Charlie had been the final straw, flipping her between furious and afraid and back again whenever she replayed the interview in her head. As if Charlie could murder six WITSEC witnesses. For money he didn’t need? Did Cynthia believe Benton was sold on Charlie’s culpability? No. In fact, she believed Benton didn’t want to believe it, but he had to follow the evidence, so that meant Cynthia had to fight back. With Florida. She needed to redirect Benton’s attention to where the true evidence pointed…with a little help from Dante Coppola.

  It took them just under five hours to fly from Boston’s Logan Airport to Pensacola International. Soon she and Charlie were flashing their credentials at security personnel to gain admittance to Federal Prison Camp (FPC) Pensacola, Florida. It was a minimum-security facility, low staff-to-inmate ratio, with dormitory housing. More Sandals resort than Orange Is the New Black. The limited perimeter fencing screamed third-world luxury, not corrections department. Even so, it was a legitimate work- and program-oriented prison, with inmates who were allowed “approved” visitors. It was Friday, 7:00 PM, within visiting hours, so she and Charlie avoided an awkward petition to the warden that would have triggered Benton being notified otherwise. FBI credentials and a call to the appropriate correctional counselor (CC) was all it took to be included on the visitor’s log. The visit was approved by the time Charlie drove the rented Camry onto the FPC’s grounds.

  Entering the main complex, parking, nodding to armed guards in khakis and polo shirts as they walked by, Cynthia found it hard to hide her roiling stress. Charlie kept close, the picture of an affable, if a bit bored, “partner.” She knew it had to be an act, because if Charlie was framed and convicted, he wouldn’t land in a Club Fed. He’d do hard time amidst a prison population that would know he’d spent his career putting people like them in jail. How could he not be stressed?

  She ran her thumb along the edges of her wedding rings like they were worry stones and scanned the grounds, taking note of the multiple security look-out towers to their left and right. Yesterday, they’d joked about going on the lam, but this place was no joke. The evidence against Charlie had accumulated past the point where spousal privilege would tilt the balance for or against a conviction. Posh though this FPC was, it clarified a few things for Cynthia.

  Nothing was off the table if it stopped Charlie going to jail.

  And if that included knocking him over the head to get her way and hauling Charlie’s ass to a non-extraditing country, so be it. Some asshole thought he could frame Charlie and use their lives as chess pieces in some fucked up machination? Unacceptable. Cynthia had…a future still nebulous in detail, but it was hers, and she wanted Charlie in it. She didn’t share this red-line-that-could-not-be-crossed to Charlie, of course. They still had options to explore, but she’d made confidential calls on a burner phone to her investment manager and sent preliminary, non-traceable texts to contacts out of country. Cynthia had backup plans, and she was not playing.

  They moved down the long walkway bisecting the two fenced-in outdoor grounds. Every guard seemed to be staring, curious or bored. A dark haired, buzzed cut young guard opened the entry door, and then she and Charlie stepped through into a fluorescent-lit foyer. It was bare, shining white tile, white walls, with a visiting room security booth ahead. She and Charlie exchanged glances, and he gave her a perfunctory grin and wink before they approached the booth and flashed their credentials. The guard was female, mid-thirties, with short, curly hair and an imp-like face. She wore a Kevlar vest over her tan uniform, was armed, and seemed deadly serious as she studied their credentials, matching the photos to their faces.

  Experience had her leaving her pocketbook in the car to streamline vetting. Now she only needed to surrender weapons through the slot in
the Plexiglas window, and her expensive Kate Spade would remain safe from rough searching hands. Last time, it cost her a bundle to repair their mistreatment of its delicate lining. Unsheathing her ankle and belt knife, she passed them and her gun in through the slot and watched as the guard logged them and moved them into a bin on the wall in the back.

  “Special Agent Deming. Dr. Foulkes.” The guard nodded.

  “We’re here to see Dante Coppola,” Cynthia said. “You should have the paperwork and approvals already.”

  The guard consulted a computer monitor to her right, and then nodded, returning their credentials through the slot. “Before you enter, protocol requires a pat down, so if you have any other weapons on your person, please relinquish them.” She looked at Charlie in particular, since he hadn’t handed any weapons over.

  Charlie shook his head. “Nothing.”

  Two burly corrections officers, men as tall as Charlie, wearing Kevlar vests and side arms, approached. If their sizes didn’t intimidate, watching them snap on latex gloves and their surly attitudes would. The pat down was thorough, and ended with an even more thorough metal detector wand sweep. Afterward, forms were signed, log entries updated, and then they were led through metal doors to the left. The curly-headed guard who had originally processed them into the building met them on the other side of the doors. She seemed less intense now that they’d passed screening. She was even smiling.

  “I’m Officer Bentley,” she said. “Mr. Coppola already has a scheduled visitor. We weren’t sure when you’d arrive, so we didn’t cancel on her,” she said. They walked down the gray-carpeted hall, passing multiple closed white metal doors.

  “Her?” Cynthia said.

  “His new wife.” Bentley lifted her brows, and gave the impression she had lots to say on the subject, but wouldn’t. “Today is her normally scheduled visit. Now that you’re here, we’ll cut it short.”