Jacob ducked under the tent, beads of sweat running down his dark skin. “Sir, one last question.”
“Yes, Jacob?” Whittaker replied calmly.
“What am I arresting da man for, sir?”
“Obstruction of justice and withholding vital information in a criminal case.”
Whittaker looked at the two agents. “Sound good?”
They both nodded. “Great place to start,” Beth replied.
Jacob returned to the van and opened the sliding side door. The driver joined him and they walked over to Jacob’s car, opening the back door. Briggs was already steaming. He exited the car and started towards the tent, pointing at the detective. Jacob grabbed the man’s wrist and had him cuffed before Briggs realised what was happening.
“What the hell are you doing, man?”
“I am placing you under arrest…”
Jacob didn’t manage anything more, or at least anything more that could be heard over Donovan Briggs’s tirade. The man cursed, screamed and fought the two constables all the way to the van while being live-streamed to multiple countries by the news crews barely constrained by the police barricade. The irony of using Jensen Massey’s own method of coercing attention was not lost on Whittaker.
“I’ll go play good cop for a bit,” Kowalczyk said, and walked towards the van, trying his best to stay out of camera view.
“He’s an ass,” Beth said, once her partner was out of earshot, “but he’s a good agent.”
Whittaker was watching the man walk away and wondered if Beth had read his mind. “I’m hoping so,” he said, and turned her way. “How come you two are partnered if you don’t get along?”
“There’s not many of us in our department and my regular partner was out of town,” she replied. “Just luck of the draw he was on call today.”
Whittaker had far more pressing matters at hand, but his natural curiosity got the best of him. “You appear to give him a lot more respect than he reciprocates. You’re more tolerant than most people would be.”
Beth looked at the ground for a moment. “I made a mistake on a case a few months back, so I’m paying my dues.”
“You still have your badge, so the law and your boss must have felt you acted appropriately,” Whittaker said kindly.
“As I’m sure you do here, detective, we have in-depth procedures and protocols we follow. But in law enforcement, the situations always vary. That’s what we’re trained to handle. Adjust, adapt and make the right decision. I had to make a call on the Indian Creek case, and I went with a hunch. Someone died.”
“If you made your decision based on all the information available in the moment, then it’s all you could do,” Whittaker pointed out.
Beth took a deep breath before replying, “The decision was whether to wait for back-up, or enter the building. I chose not to wait. A gunman was inside the warehouse with a hostage. An informant of ours, whose cover had been blown. I thought we could save him if we went in right away. I made an assumption.”
“But you couldn’t save him?”
“He was already dead. We were never going to help him,” Beth answered, “and the agent with me was killed by the gunman inside the warehouse. If we’d waited, we could have taken him without a loss.”
“Now that’s an assumption, Miss Ricci,” Whittaker replied. “No one knows what would have happened, as it never took place. There’s a million different scenarios that could have happened.”
Beth managed a weak smile.
“Our job revolves around data and facts,” Whittaker continued. “We gather all we can, but it’s rarely enough. If we waited for all the evidence to be in place before we did anything, we’d never solve a crime. At some point in the process, we must make decisions that only humans can make. Often that involves hunches, gut feelings, and sometimes assumptions. It’s the nature of our job and we pray we get it right more than wrong.” He rested a hand on her shoulder. “Post event, the data and facts are always different. More information is available, as the scenario has already played out. Everyone has the answers and thinks they know best the next day.”
Beth slowly nodded and bit her lip. “Thank you. I appreciate the kind words. I have to keep my head down and do a good job. Hopefully, one day everyone will move on.”
“You need to be the first,” Whittaker said.
She smiled, but he knew that was much easier said than done. His own guilt presently threatened to give him a stomach ulcer. Whittaker went back to the map on the table, then paused, thinking of one more question. “But why is Kowalczyk so uptight over it?”
Beth squinted as she looked at the detective. “It was Dan’s partner who was with me that day.”
29
Tenuous Links
Faith turned the last page containing Myra Shah’s chicken scratch and looked at her own notebook where she’d copied everything relevant. Or at least what she estimated to be relevant. And could read. Miss Shah would not have won any awards for her penmanship.
Brandt returned from the bedroom, where the crime scene team and medical examiner had taken over. “Could you decipher those hieroglyphics?”
“Some,” she replied. “A few have me stumped. I’m guessing she started these notes today after speaking to the cop in Cayman. This notebook looks brand new and there’s only a handful of pages used. I get the impression she was reminding herself of the story and jotting things down as she recalled or looked them up.”
Brandt turned a pocket-sized spiral-bound notebook, similar to the one from the kitchen, around in his hand. “They found a box of these things under the bed,” he said, pointing a thumb towards the bedroom. “I had a quick look and they all appear older. She writes a date on the front of each one, the date she starts that book would be my guess. Everything in the box was at least 18 months old.”
“I bet the newer pads were in her desk, and he took them,” Beth commented.
Brandt nodded. “So, what have we got?”
“Search for the University of St Petersburg and find the staff listing,” Beth said, by way of reply. “We know Massey’s wife was a professor there, so it’s not surprising the university is in her notes, but she mentions another professor by name. I think she wrote down Griffin, but look for anything with seven letters beginning with G. Or maybe C.”
Brandt used his mobile to search the internet, finding the university’s webpage and then their faculty listing. After a brief hunt through the website, he looked up.
“Davis Griffin, professor of Environmental Studies.”
“Bingo,” Faith exclaimed. “Same department as Mrs Massey.”
Faith keyed her lapel mic. “Grant, let’s dig up anything you can find on Davis Griffin. He’s a professor at the University of St Pete.”
“10-4,” came the short reply.
Faith tapped a finger on her own notes she’d made. “What was the father’s name?” she asked her partner.
“Briggs.”
“Right, but what’s his first name?”
“Um, Donovan I believe,” Brandt replied.
“So maybe this is a company name,” Faith mused. “Does Grayson mean anything to you?”
“That’s the son,” Brandt recalled. “Someone talked to him this morning.”
Faith keyed her mic again. “See what you can find on Grayson Briggs, particularly in connection with Griffin.”
“10-4. Griffin is coming up clean as far as any police record. A couple of parking tickets and one speeding violation in the past ten years. Looks like he’s tenured at the university. Been there a long time.”
“Okay, thanks,” Faith replied into her mic. “Let us know if you find anything else.”
An EMT wheeled a gurney across the living space towards the bedroom and a commotion broke out by the front door, where a policeman held someone at bay. The two agents looked around and saw a blonde woman in tears having a heated discussion with the officer.
“I think that’s the woman in the picture,” Faith
said, and nodded towards the bedroom where she’d seen the framed photograph.
They both walked to the door.
“Excuse me, officer,” Brandt said politely to the policeman who was blocking the doorway. “Ma’am, please calm down and tell us your name.”
Brandt positioned himself so the woman couldn’t bolt past the policeman into the condo.
“I’m Erika, Erika Novak,” the woman said, wiping tears away. “What’s happened to Myra?”
Brandt glanced over his shoulder to his partner, who nodded, confirming the woman was the one in the picture.
“Step inside ma’am, and we’ll talk in the living room.”
He guided Erika inside and steered her towards the sofa facing away from the bedroom. She allowed herself to be herded and sat down without a fuss.
“Can you tell us your relationship to Miss Shah?” Faith asked softly.
Erika looked back and forth between the two agents. “We’ve been dating for nearly six months. Please tell me what’s going on.”
“I’m sorry to tell you we found Miss Shah dead, here in her condo,” Brandt said firmly, but with sympathy in his tone.
The partners waited while Erika broke down into sobs and buried her head in her hands. The worst part of law enforcement was delivering a death notice, and they both thanked their lucky stars it was a rare occurrence for an FBI agent. It was usually a uniformed police officer left with the awful task.
After a few minutes, when the first wave of grief began to subside, Brandt continued. “Miss Novak, can you think of anyone who’d want to hurt her? An angry former boyfriend or girlfriend, perhaps?”
Erika looked up, her face red with mascara smeared around her puffy eyes. “Someone murdered Myra?”
“It appears that way,” Faith replied.
“Murdered?” Erika repeated, struggling to process the news that undoubtedly would be a defining event in her life. “She was a beautiful soul; I can’t imagine anyone wanting to hurt her.”
“Had she mentioned any recent difficulties? Work issues? A difficult story? Anything like that?” Brandt asked.
Erika shook her head. “Not that I can think of. I mean, she was with me last night, and this morning we had breakfast out, while we walked the dogs. It was maybe eleven or so when we caught the news coverage of the girl abducted in the Caribbean. Myra said she knew the kidnapper.”
“Did she explain anything to you about the story or how she knew the man?” Faith asked.
“Not really. She just said he’d come to her months ago, and she’d worked on a story with him,” Erika said, trying hard not to break down again. “Then she began trying to reach the police on the island.”
“Did you hear Myra talking to someone over there?” Brandt asked.
“Eventually, yes. But I don’t know who it was. Right after that, she said she had to come here to her condo. Her old notes and computer were here. She usually kept her laptop with her at all times, but we went to a movie last night and ended up at my place instead of hers.”
“She didn’t say anything more to you about Jensen Massey, or mention any other names?” Faith probed. “We believe she met someone here earlier today and obviously we’d like to talk to them.”
Erika shook her head but thought for a few moments. “I don’t remember her mentioning anyone, and she definitely didn’t talk about a meeting. She was busy making notes in one of those little books she always kept with her, so I left her to it. She gets really intense when she’s on a story.” Erika realised her own use of present tense and the tears flowed in torrents.
“Brandt, Graham, come down as soon as you can,” came the voice over the agents’ earpieces. “We have CCTV footage. You’ll find us in the parking lot out front.”
They rustled up a uniformed officer to take care of Erika and made their way down the stairs. The elevator had been put out of service while CSI checked for evidence. Outside in the searing heat, Brandt spotted the FBI van in the guest parking behind the building. Stealth had been thrown out the window once Myra’s body had been discovered.
“Hey Grant, what do we have?” Faith asked as they crammed into the tight quarters of the van. Two men in headsets sat before an array of electronic equipment.
“Rich is pulling all the individuals from the CCTV footage right now,” said the first man, Grant, who’d been the voice in their ears. “He’ll then run facial recognition,” he added as he clicked his computer mouse and brought up a web page on his monitor. “Meanwhile, I have a little more background on our university professor.”
“Where does Griffin live?” Faith asked.
“We’ll get to that interesting part of the story in a minute,” Grant replied.
The image on the screen was from the university website and described some of the work the Environmental Studies program handled, which partially funded the department. They all read quietly for a few minutes, learning how the Florida Department of Environmental Protection paid several universities, including the University of St Petersburg, to carry out short- and long-term studies on water quality in their areas. The main focus for St Pete was the Manatee River, whose sprawling estuary fed into Tampa Bay and the Gulf.
“Okay, got the gist of that?”
Both agents nodded and Grant brought up a PDF file which loaded from a web page. The title read ‘Florida Department of Environmental Protection Water Quality Assessment for Tampa Bay and St Petersburg’. It was dated for the year created and credit given to the University of St Petersburg for supplying the report to the Florida DEP in keeping with the Federal Clean Water Act requirements. Named on the report were Professor Griffin, two names neither agent recognised, and Grayson Briggs.
“Wait, so this is last year’s report, but Olivia Massey wasn’t involved?”
“Not according to the report and I’ve found it in multiple locations, all credited to these four people,” Grant explained. “It appears Briggs and the two other students were studying under Griffin and we don’t see Massey’s involvement anywhere.”
“Seems like a lot of work for four people to handle while taking or teaching classes,” Brandt commented. “I wonder if that’s normal to involve such a small group.”
Grant shrugged his shoulders. “I’ve no idea. I know professors often hand pick their brightest students for the most important projects.”
“Can we see the grades of those students?” Faith asked. “They’re not public record, are they?”
“The federal Family Educational Rights and Privacy Act prevents us, or anyone else, from accessing those records without consent,” Grant replied. “It would be interesting to know if those three were indeed the stars of the department, or if daddy’s generous donations to the school came into play.”
“So without all of us reading the gazillion pages of this exciting report, do we know what it says?” Brandt asked.
“Funny you should ask,” Grant replied with a grin and clicked to another web page on his screen. “Here’s an article that came out about six months ago, discussing the report and its findings.”
They all stared at the article from the Tampa Bay Gazette. Written by Myra Shah. The title read ‘Conflicting Water Quality Results’.
“Well, we’re getting a connection between all our players, but still nothing pointing towards any wrongdoing. And certainly no evidence leading us back to Olivia Massey’s accident,” Faith pointed out.
“Yeah, it’s all tenuous links,” Brandt added. “And why is Donovan Briggs the focus of Massey’s attention? You’d think he’d be after the son if there was something going on at his wife’s university.”
Grant clicked his mouse one more time and brought up a satellite map. “Here’s Briggs Paper & Packaging International, located in Fort Hamer. It’s a suburb to the south of Tampa.” He zoomed out from the factory to reveal a large body of water flowing past the property.
“Let me guess,” Faith said. “That has to be the Manatee River.”
“Bingo,” Grant
confirmed.
“And paper factories are notorious users of water in the manufacturing process,” Brandt pointed out. “Millions of gallons of toxic waste that have to be treated before being safely returned to the environment.”
“That can’t be cheap,” Grant noted.
“Maybe it’s cheaper to shortcut the treatment and buy off the report,” Faith suggested.
“We have a match,” Rich blurted from the back of the van. “From the CCTV footage,” he explained as everyone turned his way.
“Who?” Grant asked impatiently.
Rich angled his monitor towards the group. “I threw student IDs in the data to search along with the usual police and FBI records.” He pointed at the man’s face on the screen. “That’s Grayson Briggs.”
“Oh shit,” Faith exclaimed. “I better call the agents on the island. They just arrested his father.”
30
Throw Him a Bone
Detective Whittaker looked at the monitor showing Massey’s Internet feed. Skylar Briggs was still tied to the chair in a location he guessed was within a few miles of where he stood. Her chin rested on her chest, and he could see her muscles tensing and twitching as twinges of pain coursed through her body. The counter in the lower corner of the screen read 3.4 million. Whittaker couldn’t process the number. It was more than the whole population of some countries. His little island in the Caribbean was currently the centre of the world’s focus. For all the wrong reasons.
He’d given Donovan Briggs enough time to stew in the van with Kowalczyk’s prickly assistance, so he turned away from the monitor. Beth stopped him before he reached the van, putting her mobile away in her pocket.
“I just spoke with Tampa,” she told him. “They’re looking for Grayson Briggs. Seems he’s the prime suspect in Myra Shah’s murder. They have him on CCTV entering the building earlier this afternoon.”
Deadly Sommer: Nora Sommer Caribbean Suspense - Book One Page 17
