by Mary Stone
“All right, Eric.” Noah retrieved his phone and raised the device for Eric to see. “I’m giving you one chance to tell me what in the actual fuck is going on right now, okay? And if you lie to me again, like you’ve been doing all damn week, I’ll have the city cops drag you out of here in cuffs. You understand?”
As Eric dropped back down to sit, he managed a weak nod.
“Good. Talk.” Noah didn’t let his intent stare falter.
Eric’s gray eyes flitted over to Miguel. “Could we, I mean…could you give us a minute, Agent Vasquez?”
Before Miguel could confirm his willingness to comply with the request, Noah waved a dismissive hand. “No, Vasquez. You can stay. This isn’t personal between me and you, Eric. I don’t know what in the hell made you ever think it was. This isn’t between you and your son. This is between you and the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Whatever you want to tell me, you can tell the bureau. You got me, Pops?”
Shadows shifted along his throat as he swallowed. Finally, Eric Dalton nodded. “Okay. Yeah. It’s Natalie, your…your sister. She was kidnapped a week ago. That’s…that’s how long they gave me. And t-they killed Jon. Jon’s dead. Oh my god, Jon’s been dead for days.” Pinching the bridge of his nose, Eric covered his eyes with one hand as he slowly shook his head.
“What the fuck.” Miguel’s voice was quiet, and Noah doubted Eric could hear the remark.
Noah clenched and unclenched one hand. “Why didn’t you tell us?”
A portion of the bluster returned to Eric’s eyes as he looked back up to Noah. “Because they’d already killed Jon, and they said they’d kill Natalie if I told you. If I told the FBI. I was supposed to tell you, not the entire damn bureau!”
Narrowing his eyes, Noah crossed both arms over his chest.
He knew it. Lucy knew it. His mom knew it.
Even when his daughter’s—the daughter he actually gave a shit about—life was on the line, he couldn’t help but step on her to get where he thought he needed to be. He thought it was some kind of God-given right, thought that he had earned his status because he’d struggled during the first portion of his life. He thought that gave him a free pass to manipulate and use those he was supposed to protect.
The sting of bile crept up the back of Noah’s throat, but he ignored the unpleasant sensation.
“Why didn’t you want to tell the bureau?” He let a tinge of condescension find its way into his tone. “What, exactly, led you to believe that I would help you?”
“Because she’s your sister!” Eric’s voice was just below an outright shout.
Noah feigned surprise. “Really? You thought I’d do the Russian mob’s dirty work just because I happen to share half my DNA with your daughter? Is that what you’re telling me? You wanted me to facilitate the execution of a federal witness in a high-value RICO case because, well…what? Because you thought that I had some hidden soft spot for your kids?”
Eric shook his head, but Noah cut him off before he could speak.
“No, don’t bother with an excuse, okay? You wanted to turn me into a disposable asset for the Russian mob so they’d let your daughter go. What do you think would’ve happened after I gave them that witness, anyway? You think they’d just shake my hand and be on their merry way? Because, wow, if that’s how your mind works, you really are naïve.”
“I don’t, that’s not—”
He raised a hand. “Save it. I know you’re not stupid. I know you knew damn good and well what you were going to sign me up for. How long do you think it would’ve been before they started to go after the people I cared about?”
“That’s not—”
“No!” Noah barked, the word sounding like a whip. “Eric, this is done. I’m sick of you, I’m sick of your bullshit façade of nobility, I’m sick of all of it. Agent Vasquez, could you do me a favor and escort Mr. Dalton to the field office?”
He could tell that Miguel’s befuddlement hadn’t lessened, but the man nodded. “Yeah. We’ll get an official statement out of him and send it up to Baltimore.”
Noah’s face was a deadly mask of anger as he looked upon the man half responsible for giving him life. “I suggest you cooperate with them. You tell them everything you know so they can make the best possible effort to save your daughter’s life.”
As Miguel led Eric through the foyer and out into the night, Noah wasn’t sure what had just snapped in the back of his mind.
Eric was right—Natalie was his sister.
Maybe he should have been more distraught at the thought that she might get hurt. If he was honest, he wanted to be more distraught. He felt like he should be distraught. He should be anxious, something.
Instead, he felt no more anxiety than he did when he worked a case for a perfect stranger.
His half-sister was a civilian who needed the bureau’s help.
She’d never been anything less, and to Noah, she’d never be anything more.
But dammit…he had vowed to serve and damn protect.
Pulling his phone from his pocket, he waited for Max Osbourne to pick up the line. He had a request to make, and if SAC Osbourne didn’t approve him heading straight back to Baltimore to work the case, he’d take a couple days off and pay for the trip himself.
He was going to Baltimore if he had to steal a bicycle and peddle the entire way there.
34
Special Agent Bobby Weyrick had been rambling on about the Hansford and Falkner cases for only fifteen minutes, but Bobby felt like he’d been posted up at the whiteboard for closer to an hour. He’d been sure to avoid any pertinent information, but he doubted he could keep Detective Johansson’s attention for much longer before the man decided he was a bumbling idiot.
Winter better be right about this, Bobby thought to himself.
Her logic made sense, but he wondered if the chance they’d decided to take was worth it. Because no matter how hard he tried, Bobby couldn’t recall Sergei Kolesov mentioning a gray coat.
If it hadn’t been for the unabashed certainty in her eyes, Bobby would have given voice to his suspicions, to the blatant uncertainty.
But as he’d rambled on for the past fifteen minutes, he second-guessed his own skepticism. Despite the number of times Bobby had repeated the same line of reasoning or piece of evidence, Detective Johansson’s intent stare remained fixed on him.
There were only two reasons a city cop would be so interested in a shitty rundown of a federal case. Either they had a personal stake in the outcome, or they were only pretending to be interested so they could get on the FBI’s good side.
From what little he’d seen of Detective Johansson, Bobby doubted the man was here to brownnose the Feds. He’d worked for the Boston PD for sixteen years, and he’d worked with plenty of federal agents in his tenure. So, by that logic—which was arguably a stronger line of reasoning than Agent Black’s justification—Detective Johansson had a personal stake in the Drew Hansford or Falkner cases.
As he glanced back to the chicken scratches on the whiteboard, Bobby prepared to launch into another round of pointless musing. He’d been told by friends and family members that he was the most charismatic person they knew, but until now, he’d thought they were all full of shit.
Apparently, they were right.
Before Bobby could open his mouth to blather on about some nonsensical theory he had scraped off the top of his head, Detective Johansson rose to stand. For a split-second, Bobby’s mouth felt like it was stuffed with cotton. He racked his brain for something that would keep the detective interested as his heart rate climbed.
No, Bobby couldn’t let the detective leave. Not yet. Not when he’d become convinced that Agent Black’s farfetched theory wasn’t wishful thinking.
But what could they do? If the man grabbed all his belongings and slunk out the briefing room door, what could they do? They couldn’t demand that he hand over his coat—they had no probable cause. Just because he believed Agent Black’s theory didn’t mean he cou
ld convince another agent, much less a judge.
If he left now, they were screwed.
The dirty cop would be back on the streets. He’d be on his way to the airport to fly to Timbuktu or Papua New Guinea.
Sergei didn’t even know who Natalie Falkner was, and Alek had already made it clear he intended to remain silent.
Mr. Bad Lieutenant was their only viable lead to find Eric Dalton’s daughter and her husband.
Grating his teeth, Bobby watched in slow motion as Detective Johansson shrugged out of his light coat.
Holy shit.
He wasn’t about to leave. He’d finally taken off the godforsaken coat. The coat that Agent Black was convinced held the same trace evidence they’d found in the Falkner house. The same evidence they’d found on a fellow agent’s corpse.
Bobby shot Winter a vehement glance. It was now or never. He needed to get Detective Johansson away from that damn coat.
Where in the hell were they supposed to go? Should he ask for a tour of the precinct?
The evidence room.
Not a tour, but close.
Painting an enlightened expression on his face, Bobby turned back to Detectives Johansson and Vinson. “I just thought of something.” He hoped he didn’t sound too close to a game show announcer.
Vinson arched an eyebrow. “What’s that?”
Bobby glanced to Winter, and she nodded. He didn’t know what in the hell the gesture meant, but he assumed she’d given him the green light to work his magic. “We’ve got the names of a couple suspects. Do y’all suppose I could take a trip down to the evidence storage with you? Maybe there’s something from one of these guys down there.”
A glint of something akin to nervousness flickered in Detective Johansson’s eyes, but he nodded. “Yeah, that’s a good idea.”
With a shrug, Bobby looked over to Winter. “Shouldn’t take too long. You good to hold down the fort, Agent Black?”
Her smile was sudden and bright. “Of course. Good luck. Hope you guys find something.”
The ease with which she spoke was more than enough to drive away any of Bobby’s remaining doubts.
They were about to find something.
As soon as she had been satisfied that Bobby and the two detectives were gone, Winter had wasted no time using the evidence tape to collect the fibers and dust particles from Detective Johansson’s coat. She’d just been glad the man hadn’t taken it with him.
Soon after, she and Bobby made their hasty goodbyes, then contacted Marie Judd to ask her to assign an agent to track Detective Johansson’s movements. They needed to keep an eye on the good detective until they had a chance to obtain a search warrant.
The tape was taken directly to Naomi Clanahan, and she confirmed that the metallic particles on Detective Johansson’s coat were microscopically similar to those found on Drew Hansford’s clothes.
Detective Tony Johansson was the third person present at Agent Hansford’s murder.
SAC Judd had contacted a friend of hers—a Baltimore county judge—and presented the evidence to obtain a search warrant for Johansson’s residence.
Winter glanced down to the digital clock in the center console and then over to where Bobby Weyrick sat in the driver’s seat. At just past six, they’d arrived with an entire crew of FBI employees. There were crime scene techs, special agents, tactical responders, and then there was Bobby and Winter. Baltimore may not have been their city, but this was their case as much as it was theirs.
As Bobby snapped out of whatever haze had enveloped him, he shifted his attention to Winter. “I don’t know how you did that, but whatever in the hell it was, good work.”
Swallowing in an effort to return some of the moisture to her mouth, she nodded. “Thanks. Like I said, just connected a few dots. Seemed like it fit with everything we were looking for. One of those hunches, you know? The ones you can’t ignore.”
He offered her a slight smile, but he was reminded of all the times Agent Sun Ming had spoken about Winter and her spooky “hunches” while they’d laid in bed after a satisfying bout of sex. Hunches. Nosebleeds. Blackouts. Yes, there was something going on with the young agent, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to know what it was.
He smiled at Winter. “Yeah, I know the type. All right, come on, it looks like they’re getting ready to breach the door.”
With another nod, Winter shoved open her door and stepped into the early evening. The temperature, though still relatively mild, was much cooler than the balmy fall air to which she’d grown accustomed. Zipping up the front of her navy blue jacket—the jacket with block lettering on the back that read FEDERAL AGENT, that never seemed to keep her warm when she was cold but always made her sweat during the summer—Winter followed Bobby up to the two-story house.
The black clad man at the head of the procession beat his fist against the beige door. “Open up, Mr. Johansson! This is the Federal Bureau of Investigation. We have a warrant to search the premises.”
Winter and Bobby exchanged nervous glances.
According to the agent that Marie Judd had assigned to Tony Johansson, the man hadn’t left since he arrived home an hour earlier.
In tandem, she and Bobby retrieved their respective service weapons.
As he stepped to the side of the door, the tactical response agent looked to the pair of similarly dressed men that held a cylindrical battering ram.
In the midst of the quiet neighborhood, the blow to the door sounded out like a gunshot. Automatic rifles leading the way, another pair of agents hurried into the house, followed by the two who’d held the battering ram, and then their apparent leader.
Had they all just run into a trap? Or would they find Tony Johansson dead by his own hand?
As Winter and Bobby stood on the covered porch beside a couple crime scene techs, they remained silent. Winter’s heart hammered a rapid cadence in her chest as she pictured a litany of worst-case scenarios. Seconds turned to minutes, and the minutes felt like hours.
Though faint, the occasional shout of “clear!” filtered down to them as the tactical team swept the area. If it hadn’t been for the reassurance of the team calling out to one another, she would have been tempted to barge into the house herself to back them up.
Contrary to what was often displayed on television or in popular media, unless they had experience working together, field agents rarely joined the tactical team in the initial sweep of a place. Even in Richmond, she was inclined to let the men and women of the specialized FBI response team do their job. If she tried to help them, chances were good she’d only get in their way.
The creak of the wooden floor drew her attention back to the open door and the space beyond.
Scratching the side of his scruffy face, the tactical team’s apparent leader shook his head as he approached. “It’s all clear, Agents. No sign of Johansson anywhere. He must’ve gotten away.”
At Winter’s side, Bobby groaned. “Dammit,” he spat.
Winter raised a hand to cut off whatever complaint the man was about to make. “Hold on. He left the precinct an hour ago, and we know for sure he came back here. We don’t know when he disappeared after that, but either way we’re looking at a window of under an hour, not a week. He can’t have gotten far.”
Bobby leveled an appreciative index finger at her. “That’s true. We need to put out an all-points bulletin for Tony Johansson.”
With a staticky hiss, the tactical agent rattled off Johansson’s information to the radio attached to his Kevlar vest.
Bobby’s amber eyes flicked over to Winter. “Where do you think he went?”
Airport.
The thought was sudden and unbidden, like an object that had materialized out of thin air. “He might’ve gone to the airport,” she said, ignoring Bobby when he gave her a questioning look. “Or the bus station,” she added lamely.
Nodding, Bobby started for the short set of steps to the sidewalk. “You’re right. Well, even if you’re not, there aren’t a lot
of other places we can check, are there?”
Winter jogged down the steps. “No, not really. I think we’d have a hell of a time checking the interstate routes out of the city. We’ll leave that to the Baltimore PD.”
With a grin, Bobby pulled open the driver’s side door. “Let’s go see if we can’t interrupt Mr. Johansson’s flight plan.”
For Natalie and Jon Falkner’s sakes, they’d better do just that.
35
Even though I’d spotted the federal agent the bureau sent to tail me more than an hour and a half ago, I was still sure I’d beaten them to the so-called punch. With a fake passport and a ticket to Panama, all I had to do was make it past the security checkpoint. They might have put an alert out for Tony Johansson, but they hadn’t notified the authorities to look for Brendan Sellers.
And right now, I was Brendan Jonathan Sellers.
In the short span of time, it was unlikely that my likeness would have been filtered all the way to the TSA. To be sure, the TSA was thorough, but being thorough still took time. And time was one luxury I made sure the FBI didn’t have.
My bag had been packed and ready well before I returned home from the bizarre meeting with Detective Vinson and the two Feds. While some of the agents’ behavior struck me as odd, they would have arrested me right then and there if they had anything solid. When I walked out the front doors of the precinct, I was sure I was about to be in the clear.
Glancing up from my passport—from Brendan’s passport—to the line of travelers waiting to make their way past the x-ray scans, I swallowed an irritable sigh.
The pace of the people in front of me was agonizingly casual. Each time someone was asked to remove the items from their pockets, to keep their boarding pass and their identification in hand, I had to bite back a string of four-letter words.
