by Joel Shulkin
“Yes, right before Gomes killed her.”
“But her body was never found.”
Cristina’s breath hitched. Santos was right. They thought she was crazy. Or a threat.
“Gomes must have hidden it—done something with it. I saw her dying.”
Vasquez cocked her head. “Maybe you killed her.”
Cristina’s cheeks grew cold. “I never killed anyone.”
“Not that you remember.”
They locked gazes. Cristina’s pulse raced.
She knows what we did, the voice whispered. Even if you don’t.
Cristina erected a mental wall to block out the voice. “Do I need a lawyer?”
“Let me just be sure I have this right,” Vasquez said. “You’re certain Federico Gomes killed Ms. Peterman.”
Cristina jutted her chin. “Positive.”
“Where is he now?”
“I have no idea. But you should find him. He’s more dangerous than Santos.”
“Is that right?” Vasquez opened a folder, withdrew a photo, and positioned it on the table in front of Cristina. “Look familiar?”
Despite the grim pallor, the frozen mask of shock and fear, and the gaping wound in his forehead, Cristina recognized Gomes. At the sight of the grim photo, her stomach twisted. “Oh my God. What happened to him?”
“That’s what we want to know. He was shot at close range, head-on, indicating he likely knew the killer.” Vasquez circled like a vulture. “Any idea who it might have been?”
Cristina’s throat tightened. “You don’t think I killed him?”
A thin smile appeared on the agent’s face. “If I were a psychologist, I might call your question ‘identifying with the crime.’ Something you want to confess?”
Images tossed and crashed in Cristina’s mind: Gomes, the car crash, the shadow man from her nightmares. She shut her eyes and chased them away. “I’d like to talk to a lawyer.”
“Of course, but I have one more question.”
Cristina squeezed her fingers together. She could do this. Today was hard. Hell, it couldn’t get worse. But she could handle it. “What is it?”
Vasquez leaned over, laid her palms on the table, and looked Cristina in the eye. “If Gomes killed Stacey Peterman, how did she board a plane back to Utah that afternoon?”
“Stacey Peterman’s alive?” Detective Wilson tore away from the one-way mirror to face Agent Forrester. Detective Hawkins stood next to him, looking confused. There hadn’t been much time to fill him in after he arrived with Cristina in tow. “How long have you known this?”
“Long enough.” Forrester trained his gaze on the women in the interrogation room as he sipped his coffee. “We already tasked the Salt Lake City office with tracking her down.”
“And when were you planning to include us?”
“When you start acting like team players.” Forrester didn’t flinch. “You know, filling in little details like your partner was already tailing Dr. Silva when you called him.”
Heat prickled at the back of Wilson’s neck. “Okay, I should’ve told you but—”
“Yes, you should have.” Forrester turned, eyes blazing. “Because of you, we lost Martins.”
“How is that my fault?”
“If I had known Dr. Silva was on the move, I would’ve called in SWAT right away. I would’ve told Hawkins to keep his distance until we had the trap set.” He wagged his finger in Wilson’s face. “But that’s because I’m trying to catch the bad guys, not sleep with them.”
The heat burst into wildfire, rushing through Wilson’s cheeks. “You son of a—”
“Gary.” Hawkins grabbed Wilson’s arm. “I need to talk to you outside.”
Wilson was startled. He glanced between Hawkins and Forrester before allowing his shoulders to relax. “Yeah, I need some air.”
Once in the hallway, Hawkins said, “Spill it.”
“What?”
“Whatever’s going on between you and Forrester. Why did you lie to him about where I was?”
“I don’t know. He stormed in here like Napoleon and took over everything.”
“So what? Martins was always their collar. We should’ve been cooperating right from the start.”
Wilson bit back a sharp retort. As usual, his partner knew him too well. “I know, but there’s something I didn’t tell you about that Boston City Council case.”
“What happened?”
“Three days into the investigation, forensics identified the weapon that killed the councilor as a .40-caliber Glock 22.” He checked for a reaction before adding, “Used to be FBI standard issue.”
“Glocks are pretty common.”
“True, but I got one of my hunches. It took a while, but I found an email in the councilor’s account from a blocked sender. It seems the councilor had embezzled almost a hundred and twenty million dollars from public funds. The email demanded a quarter of that in exchange for diverting a federal investigation. The councilor countered by threatening to expose the blackmailer—a day before he died.”
“What’s this got to do with Forrester?”
“Back when I brought the emails to his attention, he got a weird look on his face, told me he’d handle it. Next thing I knew, the case got declared a suicide and the feds cleared out. A week later, my indiscretion leaked out and I got shipped here.”
Hawkins scratched his forehead. “You think Forrester’s crooked?”
“I can’t prove it, but he’s definitely unstable. When he was ordering you to try a PIT on the bus, he looked like his mind had snapped. I know he wants revenge against this dude Quinn, but he seems equally obsessed with Dr. Silva.”
“And you’re not?”
“It’s not like that,” Wilson said. “I can’t explain it, but I think she is a victim. She’s caught up in something big. I have no idea why, but I believe her amnesia story. If that happened to me, you bet your ass I’d do whatever it took to find answers.”
Hawkins stared up at the ceiling. “You’re going to get us fired or killed before I can retire, aren’t you?”
“Sorry,” Wilson said. “I can’t let this go. I promise I’ll be more cooperative, but until I know what’s going on, you’re the only one I fully trust.”
After a tense moment, Hawkins glanced over Wilson’s shoulder. “Looks like Vasquez is taking a break. Dial back your feelings until we know Forrester’s angle, okay?”
Wilson nodded. They returned to the observation room, where Vasquez was updating Forrester. Through the one-way mirror, Wilson saw Cristina bury her face in her hands.
“I don’t think she’s acting,” Vasquez said. “She was clearly hiding something about Martins—or Santos, whatever—but her emotions appeared genuine about everything else. She looked shocked to discover that Gomes was dead and Stacey Peterman was alive.”
“Work with crazy people long enough,” Forrester said as he studied Cristina’s face through the mirror, “and you learn how to react to anything. She’s our connection to Quinn.”
“Whom she knows nothing about,” Vasquez said.
“But she knows about Martins and Gomes. That’s enough reason to keep at her.”
“Detectives.” Sergeant Davis stuck his head through the doorway. “There’s a call for either one of you.”
“You take it, Rick,” Wilson said. After Hawkins stepped outside, Wilson said, “Look, either Cristina Silva is a young Meryl Streep and she’ll keep playing dumb through another ten hours of interrogation, or she really doesn’t remember anything that will help us. Now that we know Martins’s alias, we should lock down the city and start a manhunt.”
“Worms wait until they think the eagle has gone before resurfacing,” Forrester said with a dour expression. “We’ll catch Martins. But that’s not your real concern, is it? You think we should turn Dr. Sil
va loose.”
“Not loose,” Wilson said, “but we’re wasting time holding her here. We know Martins wants her help. We can use her to draw him out.”
Forrester exchanged glances with Vasquez. She shrugged.
He glared at Wilson. “How do we know she’s not dangerous? I’m still not convinced she didn’t kill Gomes.”
“I don’t—” Wilson stopped when he felt Hawkins tap his shoulder with info from the call. As his partner whispered in his ear, Wilson’s feet felt lighter. Timing was everything. He said to Forrester, “I can convince you Silva didn’t kill Gomes.”
“How?”
“Detective Hawkins just spoke to the medical examiner. Gomes’s time of death was around ten thirty this morning.” Wilson suppressed a smirk. “Three hours after Hawkins saw Dr. Silva arrive at her office.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
“Not that I don’t appreciate the courtesy,” Cristina dug her fingers into the leather seat as her heart raced, “but you didn’t have to drive me home.”
“Nonsense.” Detective Wilson changed lanes. “I doubt very much that you want to take the bus.”
Cristina snapped her eyes shut and forced her breathing rate to slow. “I think I’ll take the T from now on.”
“Am I driving too fast?”
“No, I’m not good around cars. Ever since . . . the crash.”
“Oh, yeah. PTSD, right?”
She opened her eyes and focused on him. It helped a little. “Technically, no, since I don’t have flashbacks. But close enough.”
“But you remember what happened that day?”
Her head throbbed. Any more questions and it would probably explode. “Can we not talk about it, please?”
Wilson returned his attention to the road. “Sure.”
Cristina felt a pang of regret. He was the only one that day who had shown her the slightest compassion. Taking out her frustration on him wouldn’t solve anything. “I’m sorry. I’m tired.”
“You had a long day.”
“The longest.” Funny. His nose didn’t look so crooked anymore. “I want to thank you.”
“I told you, it’s not a big deal.”
“No, I mean, yes, thank you for the ride, but I mean thank you for taking my side.”
“I don’t take sides,” Wilson said. “I look for the truth. And I think you’re telling the truth about your memory being stolen.”
“What changed your mind?”
“Too many pieces that don’t fit. The Golem. Quinn. Deleted files.” He shook his head. “At this point, I wouldn’t be shocked if you told me aliens and Bigfoot are involved.”
Cristina couldn’t help smiling. “Aliens would be less confusing. To be honest, I’m not sure what to believe anymore.”
After a pause, Wilson said, “You know, my mom went insane. Killed herself and my dad.”
“Oh my God. I’m so sorry.”
“I was a teenager. There were signs that I missed at the time. Everyone did.” He swallowed hard. “It’s why I became a cop. If someone had listened the first or second or third time she had called for help, things might’ve been different.”
A moment of silence stretched between them. Cristina understood what he meant, but she couldn’t stop thinking about Jerry and Carl. What signs had she missed?
“Listen,” Wilson said, “I may be able to help, but I need you to come clean about a few things.”
An uncomfortable chill spread over her face. “Like what?”
“For starters, what does Martins want from you?”
She hesitated. Could she trust him? Besides Andrea, he was the only one who seemed willing to listen. “He says he needs my help saving his daughter.”
“His daughter?”
“He says that she’s being held prisoner by Zero Dark. That’s how they forced him to do all those horrible things, like burn down our house.”
“And cut your brake lines?”
Cristina bristled as she remembered Wilson accusing her of being involved. Softly, she said, “He said that wasn’t him.”
Wilson steered onto Elm Street and then glanced at her again. “I don’t think it was.”
“You don’t?”
“The car shop’s owner said he checked the car after Martins finished and it was fine.” Wilson hesitated. “He also said that you are not Cristina Silva.”
The air thinned. Cristina rolled down the window and took a deep breath. The cold night air stung her cheeks and forehead. Setting her jaw, she closed the window and turned to him. “So, it’s true. Quinn changed my identity, and probably had the Silvas killed.”
“So it seems,” Wilson said. He pulled up to the curb in front of Cristina’s apartment and shut off the engine. “If this guy is as dangerous as Forrester claims, maybe you should enter witness protection.”
“I’m not a very good witness when I don’t remember anything.” She studied her hands. Whose hands were they? Whose faces had they touched? “And, besides, I need to fly to Washington tomorrow.”
“Washington? You can’t leave town while being investigated.”
“But I have to. I’m a principal investigator in a drug trial and there have been some—” She stopped herself. How much should she disclose? If Wilson knew Zero Dark controlled ReMind, he’d be obliged to tell the feds. They’d confiscate her pills, ban her from traveling, and she’d lose any chance she had of finding a way to hold onto her sanity. She cleared her throat. “Complications. It’s only an hour-and-a-half flight. I’ll help them get things back on track and be back before anyone misses me.”
Wilson’s eyes danced, scanning her face. “Sounds like an important drug.”
“It is.”
He held her gaze for another moment. “All right. I’ll cover for you.”
Relief washed over her. “Thank you.”
“You’ll have to sneak out between patrols. Aim for the half hour mark.”
“I’ll be careful.” An idea struck her. Cristina dug through her purse and pulled out a black cell phone, which she offered to him. “Santos gave this to me. The number’s no good anymore, but maybe you can use it to find him.”
Wilson tucked it into his pocket. “Thanks. I’m sure it’s hard for you to trust anyone right now.”
“It is. But trust goes both ways.” She tried to find a better way to express her gratitude but couldn’t. She reached for the door handle.
Wilson’s hand grazed her shoulder. Cristina turned back. Found him leaning close, gazing into her eyes. Her heart raced. His head drifted closer. She imagined him grabbing her by the neck and kissing her. Excitement tingled her shoulders. Her lips parted in expectation.
Don’t be an idiot. You don’t deserve love. You don’t even exist.
The voice surged through Cristina’s mind, powerful enough to slam her against the seat. Fear and doubt flooded her body. Blinking, she tried to force it away.
“What’s wrong?” His brow wrinkled. “Are you okay?”
“I’m sorry, I just—” Cristina closed her eyes and took deep breaths. Her nerves settled. She prayed that when she opened her eyes again, it would be one minute earlier, and Wilson would be by her side, waiting to embrace her. She opened her eyes.
He continued to stare at her like flowers had sprung from her forehead.
Cristina forced a smile. “Like you said, it’s been a long day. Thanks again for the ride.”
“Yeah.” Wilson nodded at the floor several times before looking up and making eye contact. The corner of his mouth pulled upward. “No problem.”
After stepping outside, a terrible thought entered Cristina’s mind: one that had popped up repeatedly but now seemed terrifyingly more likely.
She stuck her head inside and asked, “What if when I find out who I am . . .” She touched her forehead and laughed bitterly. S
he’d worked so hard to rediscover Cristina Silva. Time wasted on the wrong person. “What if I’m a bad guy?”
Wilson studied her, as if he’d had the same thought. Then he chuckled. “I’ve dealt with a lot of bad guys. Whoever you are, you’re not one of them.”
A warm blanket wrapped around her. She smiled. “Good night, Detective.”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
“Tell me again why we had to sneak out at five thirty for an eight a.m. flight?” Andrea shook her head as she stuffed her bag under the seat of the Airbus A320. “Or do you have a thing for twenty-four-hour Dunkin’ Donuts?”
“I told you.” Cristina tightened her seatbelt. “Wilson said I needed to leave early to give him time—”
“Time to stop dreaming about you, I bet.”
Cristina’s cheeks flushed.
Andrea laughed. “Oh, don’t get embarrassed. If that man offered me a ride home, I’d forget everything else, including waking you up to travel with me.”
Cristina cringed as she recalled Wilson’s hurt look after she pulled away from him. If only she could tell him what she was experiencing. She squeezed Andrea’s hand. “No, you wouldn’t. You’re always there for me. And you didn’t have to come. Gomes is dead.”
“But Santos is still out there. As long as he’s free, I’ve got your back.”
Cristina stuck the patient files she was bringing to ReMind into the seat pocket. “I’m not worried about him.”
“You should be, after everything that’s happened.” Andrea stared at her. “You don’t seem worried. Why do you look so calm?”
Cristina hesitated. Despite everything, Wilson’s confirmation that she wasn’t completely crazy had given her some relief. But how could she share that with her best friend? “I’m eager to get the Recognate study back on track. I left Grizabella enough food for tonight, but I want to return to Boston as soon as possible.”
“Not me. I could use a break from the Arctic.” Andrea searched overhead. “Where’s the call button so I can order us some drinks?”
