“He’s a good guy,” Carter said.
“Yes, he is,” Lucy agreed.
Her fellow new agents gathered around the driving instructor, Agent Chris Robinson, and listened to his instructions. The course seemed easy enough. They’d be practicing defensive driving, driving through obstacles, and accident avoidance. No high-speed chases or high-end tactical.
Driving would take all morning, but Robinson had it down to a well-oiled system. Two separate tracks were set up to expedite the lesson.
She looked at the others waiting for their turns behind the wheel. Could one of them have killed Tony? Attempted to kill Hans? Lucy had already ruled out a small group of agents who’d been in the lounge watching a movie until 1:30. Gordon, the gun expert, had been there as well, and she’d learned through him that the group of five had walked back to the dorm together. It would have been extremely unlikely for any of them to have rushed off to the construction site and attacked Hans. Oz was part of the group, and Lucy was relieved. One more of her inner circle cleared.
A van drove up to the edge of the driving track and two people got out. One of them was Rich Laughlin. He looked right at Lucy. She didn’t turn away. She’d been upset Saturday after he told her about the hiring panel; now she was simply angry.
He may have planned to try to upset her, but she wouldn’t allow herself to be intimidated.
When it was Lucy’s turn behind the wheel, she felt Laughlin’s eyes on her. She had a hard time controlling her physical tension—her hands clenched the wheel and her jaw tightened.
Robinson said, “Relax, Kincaid.”
“You should know that I was in a serious accident as a young child. I’ve been a nervous driver most of my life.”
He smiled. “No pressure. All I want you to do right now is get to know your vehicle. Drive around the track twice, keeping your speed at a steady thirty miles an hour. Then we’ll run through the drill. The obstacle course is simple; it’s all about control.”
“Okay.”
“You keep looking at your classmates.”
She hadn’t been; she’d been glancing over to find out where Laughlin was. She didn’t say anything.
“Don’t worry about them—it’s just you, me, and the vehicle. Good. Keep going, one more lap.”
By the time she was done with the second lap she wasn’t focused on Laughlin. She listened to everything Robinson told her to do—speed up, stop, avoid, do a one-eighty—and by the time her session was done she felt good about it.
“Not bad for a nervous driver,” he told her. “You did very well on the obstacle course; you have a good eye. You’re still hesitant to speed up quickly, and you need more confidence with higher speeds, but we have time to work on that. Would you object to two extra sessions over the next two weekends?”
“I’d like that.”
“You won’t be the only one. There’s a half dozen of your class I’ll be working with.”
“Great.” She let out a long breath and got out of the car smiling.
“Not bad, Kincaid,” Carter said as he took her place in the driver’s seat.
They had an hour break for lunch after the driving lessons, and Lucy needed to meet with Noah about the personnel files. She grabbed a sandwich to go and went into the main building.
“Looks like you need to go back to driver’s education,” a voice behind her said.
She turned and saw Laughlin.
She glared at him but didn’t say anything. An anger she was unfamiliar with bubbled up, and she worked on containing it.
He stepped close to her, his body only inches away, and said in a low voice, “You may have cut corners to get here, but there’s no way I’ll let you graduate if you don’t perform.”
She clenched her jaw. He was deliberately goading her, just like he’d been silently doing since she’d arrived on campus.
“I don’t know what your problem is with me, Agent Laughlin. I don’t think it’s fair that you’re basing your opinion of me on your problems with my sister-in-law.”
“And what exactly did Kate tell you?”
“Nothing. I can read between the lines.”
He smiled, and that irritated Lucy more. “You think you know everything, don’t you?”
She stared at him. “I know a lot more than you think.”
“Watch yourself, Kincaid.”
It was a threat, over and above what would be called for in this situation, and Lucy’s stomach clenched as she realized maybe she didn’t know what was happening, maybe there was something bigger going on.
Laughlin turned to go and thought he had the upper hand. Lucy said, “There’s a time and place for everything, Agent Laughlin. I will figure out exactly why you hate me.”
Lucy thought he was going to continue walking away, but he stopped and faced her again. “Do you want to know why you shouldn’t be here?” He stepped closer. “Because people like you, people who cut corners, who become martyrs, who think they are somehow owed something, get killed or get their partner killed. Don’t ever forget it. You’re the weak link.”
He walked quickly away and Lucy stared after him. She should be upset, but she was more confused than angry.
Laughlin was projecting. She hadn’t seen it before because she’d been certain he and Kate had an unpleasant past. And that may have contributed to it, but the reason why Laughlin had it out for Kate, and for her, was because he had lost someone he cared about—and blamed them.
This definitely wasn’t about her or Kate, not exclusively. Sean hadn’t found out everything she needed to know.
It was time to call in a favor.
* * *
Lucy tracked Noah down in Tony’s office, shutting the door behind her.
“I set up my laptop in the corner for you to access the personnel records,” Noah said without looking up. He had his own stack of paperwork.
She sat down and looked at the list of names in the folder. The new agents who were cleared were crossed off. She crossed off Oz, Gordon, and the other three guys who’d been watching movies until late Saturday.
Noah said, “Sounds like you’ve been busy.”
“Hit a lot of birds with one stone,” she replied. She pulled up “Reva Penrose” and started reading. She was looking primarily for inconsistencies—things in her official record that didn’t match what she’d said. Background checks were extensive but not perfect. The further back, the easier to hide potential problems.
She stopped for a minute and looked over at Noah. “Do you know Agent Laughlin well?”
“I don’t know him at all, other than he’s one of your field counselors. I met him briefly this morning at a staff meeting.”
“I need to find out if he lost a partner on the job.”
Now Noah looked up. “Why?”
“Something he said to me today.”
“You have to give me something more.”
“He has a problem with me, because Hans pulled strings. He’s the one who told me about it. And he doesn’t like Kate. I thought he had an issue because he knew Kate’s former fiancé, who was killed in the line of duty. Some people blamed Kate and her partner for the ambush. But I think he’s projecting his own pain and guilt, blaming us for whatever his partner did.”
Noah leaned back in his chair. “If I find out, how are you going to use it?”
“I don’t know. But his attitude is only going to get worse until he confronts why he has this animosity.”
“What did he do to you?”
She looked back at Reva’s file. “Nothing.”
“Lucy.”
Noah didn’t have to ask. But Lucy didn’t want to complain, especially now that she was beginning to understand the source of Laughlin’s struggle.
“He’s been watching me closely—closer than my peers. I think because I’m managing under the scrutiny, he’s challenging me. That’s why he told me that Hans got me in, for example.”
“But that’s not the only thing he’s said.”<
br />
She shook her head. “It’s not important what; it’s important why.”
“I’ll find out.” He went back to his files. “Chief O’Neal hasn’t been able to clear Laughlin. He has insomnia and walks around campus at all hours of the night. He used his card key to access the dorms at three oh five Sunday morning. But this isn’t unusual for him.”
“Motive?” Lucy pondered the situation. “I don’t see Laughlin as sabotaging the scaffolding and then when Hans is down hitting him over the head with a rock.”
“Until we know for certain, be careful with him.”
Noah’s phone rang. “It’s Suzanne,” he told Lucy. “Suzanne, I have you on speaker. Lucy’s here.”
“Hey, Luce, I gotta make this quick. I know what Agent Presidio did with the notebook he took from Weber’s place. He mailed it from the airport to the analyst who is transcribing all of Weber’s shorthand. With a note.”
“Read it,” Lucy said.
“‘Ms. North’—that’s the analyst,” Suzanne explained. “‘Please transcribe this notebook as soon as possible. Weber wrote about another missing girl, but I don’t understand her shorthand. Call me when you get this.’”
“That’s it?” Lucy asked.
“That’s it. North is working on it right now. I’ll e-mail you the file when she’s done.”
“Would Weber’s assistant know about that case?” Noah asked.
“I’ll ask. But why would Presidio care about a completely different case?”
“Maybe he saw a connection. Or,” Lucy said, “he was in Newark at the time. He said something was lurking on the edge of his memory.”
“I hate when that happens,” Suzanne said. “Noah, did you get my report on Theissen’s case being reopened as a homicide investigation?”
“I did. Thanks for copying me into it.”
“It’s part of the bigger picture here. I just wish I could see it, because nothing makes sense.”
Lucy glanced at her watch. “Noah, if you don’t leave now, you’re going to be late for your first class.”
He sighed. “This is the part I’m not looking forward to at all.” He said to Suzanne, “I have to go. Keep me in the loop.” He hung up and his phone immediately vibrated. With an odd expression, he answered, “Hello, Rogan.”
Sean was calling Noah? Had he found Peter McMahon?
Noah did a lot of listening, then said, “Call me if you learn anything.” He hung up. “Sean has a lead on Peter McMahon in Syracuse. He’s already there.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Syracuse, New York
“Thank you for agreeing to meet with me.”
Syracuse police detective Charlie Mead had agreed to meet Sean at a Starbucks near the police station. Mead looked younger than Sean thought he’d be considering his distinguished record. He’d been a rookie six years ago when Peter Gray filed a police report for vandalism. Now, Mead was a detective on the sex crimes squad, two years younger than Sean but with a seasoned air that made Sean think more of Noah Armstrong.
“It’s not everyone who’s willing to fly a couple hours for a copy of a police report.”
“Faster than mail, and no one would fax it to me. Apparently, you are the gatekeeper of all things about Peter Gray.” He handed Mead his business card.
The cop looked at it critically, then put it on the table in front of him. He sipped his coffee. “Why is Peter Gray’s file so important to you?”
Sean had a suspicion that Mead knew exactly why it was important, but decided being as honest as he could be would yield him the answers he needed. Mead was a cop, through and through, one of the guys who had an internal lie detector and uncanny instincts.
“Mr. Gray seems to have disappeared off the planet. I need to find him.”
“Why?”
“You know that Peter Gray was born Peter McMahon, correct? That his sister was killed when they were kids?”
Mead nodded once.
“Two federal agents and one detective, all involved in the investigation into his sister’s death, were killed within the last two months.” That was a stretch. There was no proof that any of them were murdered, but Sean would bet his last dollar he was right.
Mead didn’t respond, but his body tensed. He was definitely interested.
“Last week, Rosemary Weber, who wrote the book about the McMahon family, was stabbed to death in Queens. All her files related to her research into the Rachel McMahon murder and trial are missing.”
“Why is a private investigator contacting me and not the feds? Or NYPD?”
“RCK consults for the federal government on many cases. If you need confirmation that I’m assisting the FBI in this matter, I can give you the name and number of my contact.”
“You still haven’t told me why you want to find McMahon.”
“He’s either a killer or a potential victim. We won’t know which until we talk to him.”
Mead seemed to assess what Sean said. He’d made a bold statement, but it was the truth.
Mead reached to the seat next to him and picked up a thin folder. He tossed it in front of Sean.
Sean opened it. Inside was a typed report, signed by Mead. Detailed in the report was a disturbing list of vandalism and violence. McMahon had found a dead animal in his bed, notes threatening his life, and there had been at least one attempt to kill him—his brake lines had been cut. Had he not thought quickly and veered up a slope in the road, he would have been seriously injured or killed.
“Do you know who did this?”
Mead shook his head. “It was a difficult investigation. At first no one in my department believed him. They wrote up reports, but nothing came of it. They dismissed it as college pranks. He stopped coming in, but the stalking didn’t stop.”
“You believed him.”
“He came in one last time, when a butchered pig had been left in his bed and his girlfriend found it. He was nineteen. He was concerned about her safety, so I took him to her house. Except that she’d lied to him. Forensics showed that someone had scrubbed Peter’s apartment and removed all traces of the girl who called herself Cami Jones. He stayed with me for a while and changed colleges. When he graduated she came after him again, only this time I was there. She ran, and we agreed that the only way he would be safe was if he changed his name and became someone else.”
“Where is he?”
“I’m not telling you until I talk to Peter and check you out.”
“It’s critical, Detective.”
“You can keep that file. There’s a police sketch of the girl. She’d told Peter she was a year older than him, but I have my doubts. She could have been anywhere between twenty and thirty. I only saw her that one time, and it was briefly, but she had a distinctly different appearance from the last time he’d seen her—she may have had some work done. Nothing major, but enough that the sketch might be a bit off. When Peter knew her, she had long, dark blond hair. She had medium-length streaked hair when I saw her.
“I tried to run her, but there was no record. No record at all. No Cami Jones. She sat in on classes at SU, but was never registered. She used an elderly woman’s house for her drop spot, but told Peter her family issues were complicated. Turns out the woman didn’t know her. Peter, even after all he’s been through, was very trusting. He’d been on his own since he was sixteen.”
Sean looked at the drawing of a young, pretty girl. Not exceptional, but sweet. Girl next door.
He also knew that the FBI could get a warrant for Peter’s new identity and location, and he suspected Mead knew that as well, but Sean didn’t want to threaten the cop. He suspected he’d get the information faster if Mead volunteered it.
Mead leaned forward. “Peter is my brother now. I will do anything for him. He’s not a killer; I stake my life and reputation on that. Which means, if your theory is right, he’s in trouble only if his identity is exposed. I’m not putting him in the line of fire. Understand?”
Sean tapped his card. �
��See the small print? Rogan-Caruso-Kincaid Protective Services. If you tell me where he is, I can guarantee his safely.”
Mead didn’t look like he believed him. He said, “Turn the page.”
Sean went back to the file. The last page was a photocopy of a typed note. A threat.
I’LL FIND YOU AGAIN.
“Have you talked to Peter recently?”
Mead shook his head. “I don’t know exactly where Peter is. I don’t want to.”
“How do you contact him?”
“He has a P.O. box, and I’m not going to tell you where. Give me twenty-four hours.”
If he only needed a day, he had another way to get ahold of Peter.
“Why do you think he was targeted by this woman?” Sean looked at the sketch again.
“That’s the million-dollar question. He has no idea, but it started his freshman year of high school. I looked through every yearbook from his high school and there was no one named Cami Jones, Cami, or anyone who looked like her. I tracked down several of the blond, Caucasian girls and they didn’t even come close. After he ran away, the harassment stopped, until his third year at SU, after he met Cami.”
“He didn’t put two and two together?”
Mead shook his head. “The harassment didn’t start until nearly a year after he met her.”
Peter had been targeted since he was fourteen. Weber’s book came out when he was fourteen. That couldn’t be a coincidence.
“Did he show animosity toward Rosemary Weber?”
“The bitch who wrote that book about his family? He didn’t like her. He only mentioned her once; he wasn’t obsessed.”
“I need to talk to him. If all this is true, he may be in danger.”
“He is in danger; that’s why he has a new identity. Anonymity is the only thing that protects him. He’s not a fighter—he runs away. And maybe that’s what keeps him safe and sane.”
“Maybe, but he’s still in danger.”
Stalked Page 23
