The Enforcer

by Anna Perrin

  Maybe he’d call Pete to brainstorm—

  Except his buddy wasn’t available to take his call. Ever.

  Dammit, Pete. Why did you have to get yourself killed?

  He sucked in a breath, braced himself for the onslaught of familiar questions. Why hadn’t Pete waited for him to return from training in Quantico so they could go together? Or secured other backup? Why had a guy, whose Bureau nickname was the Bloodhound, failed to smell a setup at the Enbridge warehouse? Why had he—

  Stop it.

  He couldn’t change what had happened. He couldn’t turn back time and reorder events the way he wanted to. He had to stop wishing, stop wondering, stop feeling.

  Numb was the only way he could hold it together until Pete’s killer received justice—a life sentence to rot in prison. And that sweet retribution would lessen his bitter loss.

  Chapter Six

  An hour later, Claire left her room and ventured into the kitchen. At first, she thought Brent was working on his laptop, but then she realized the screensaver was on, and he was staring into space.

  Was he thinking about Forrester, mulling over leads to pursue? Or was he preoccupied with memories of the friend who had used the first aid kit that lay open on the table? She guessed it was Sanderson on his mind, and her heart went out to him. Brent gave the impression of being so strong it was easy to forget he’d sustained a terrible loss only two weeks ago. Did he have any family or friends he felt close enough to talk to? She suspected he hadn’t opened up to anyone. He struck her as a loner, a man who would bury his pain, figuring it would cease to exist if he ignored it.

  If only that were true.

  In her experience, negative feelings that weren’t acknowledged could turn corrosive, toxic. Her father’s guilt had ripped him apart, destroyed his life. And she hadn’t realized until it was too late that his failure to communicate had intensified his suffering.

  Brent had saved her life. The least she could do was to offer him a sympathetic ear.

  “How long had you known Sanderson?” she asked softly.

  His eyes snapped into focus. “Why do you ask?”

  “I want to get to know you better.”

  His lips thinned. “I remember saying we could discuss favorite foods and movies. I don’t remember any mention of dead friends.”

  He was trying to shock her into silence, but there was too much at stake for her to give up. “I think the people we spend time with tell more about us than what we eat or watch.”

  He shrugged.

  “Sometimes it helps to share your feelings—”

  “—and sometimes it doesn’t.”

  “How do you know? Have you tried to talk to anyone about them?”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  Damn, he was stubborn. He was also hurting. If she could only find the right words.

  “On second thought,” he said, “I guess that is your business. Pushing people to unload their personal baggage. Manipulating them into—”

  “Insulting me won’t take away your pain,” she observed.

  “The only pain here is the one you’ve become.” He stood and moved away from the table.

  “I don’t mean to upset you. I just want to—”

  “You just want to add me to the list of people you’ve psychoanalyzed.” His lips twisted into a sneer. “Give it up, Claire. I won’t ever bare my soul to you.”

  He went to the sink, splashed water over his face. Then he braced his hands on the counter and stared out the window.

  Disappointed that he’d shut her down, she switched to a neutral topic. “Gene mentioned Forrester might have had inside help to get out of Ridsdale. Has the staff there been questioned?”

  He nodded. “Gene sent agents to the hospital to interview every employee. Nobody admitted to knowing anything.”

  No surprise there. “When did the interviews take place?”

  “The night of his escape.”

  “At that point, Harris was alive.”

  “So?”

  “You could use his murder as a reason to speak to them.”

  “But you don’t believe Forrester killed him.”

  “It doesn’t matter what I believe. It’s what the person who helped him believes. Believing you’re an accomplice to a murder would shake up most people.”

  Brent folded his arms over his chest, reluctant to admit that she had made a valid point. He would conduct the second round of interviews at Ridsdale himself. This time it made sense to take Claire with him. She was familiar with the facility and its operations, knew the rules and protocol. And although he didn’t believe her professional training gave her any special insight, two sets of eyes and ears were better than one.

  “We’ll go tomorrow.”

  As she nodded her agreement, her blond curls fell over her shoulder. He fought a sudden urge to tangle his fingers in her hair. It would be soft, just like her lips. If he tugged her closer and nuzzled the corner of her mouth, maybe he could change her mind about kissing him again.

  He tensed, his fingers itching to move.

  But she would hardly welcome his touch after the way he had snapped at her. He hadn’t intended to be mean. He just couldn’t keep his emotions locked down if he talked about Pete.

  He relaxed his fingers.

  The trip to Ridsdale was important. Not only because it might result in a lead to Forrester, but because the less time he spent alone with Claire, the better.

  THE STAFF MEMBERS at Ridsdale Psychiatric Hospital weren’t happy about being interviewed again. They’d already told the FBI what they knew about the evening that Forrester had escaped. Being questioned again and by another agent suggested that one or more employees was suspected of lying—or at least withholding information. So Claire wasn’t at all surprised by the interviewees’ range of reactions—defensiveness, belligerence, confusion and resignation. Unfortunately, those differing attitudes made it tricky to spot deceit.

  Brent had started the second round of interviews with the employees identified by the original investigators as top suspects. Five had been flagged either because of their conduct during the initial questioning or the results of the subsequent background check.

  He turned to Maria Gomez, a petite thirty-two-year-old nurse and mother of two young children, who was the last of the staff to be questioned.

  “You have previously discussed the escape of a Ridsdale patient, Andy Forrester, with one of my colleagues.”

  “That’s right.”

  Claire watched the woman’s fingers twist together in her lap.

  “I’m here today to ask if you’ve remembered anything else that might be pertinent to our investigation.”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “At the time Forrester was admitted, he hadn’t committed any crimes. The person who helped him escape might not have believed he was dangerous.”

  The nurse’s fingers twisted faster.

  “He can be persuasive,” Brent said. “It’s possible he convinced someone that a mistake had been made, that he shouldn’t have been confined.”

  Claire liked Brent’s strategy. He was providing the woman with justification for her actions—if she was, in fact, involved.

  “It doesn’t matter what you told the other agent,” he prodded. “All that matters is what you tell me now.”

  “You think I was lying when I talked to that other guy?”

  Claire noted the tension in her shoulders, the pallor of her skin. Were they signs of indignation or guilt?

  “I think that you may have been worried about the consequences,” he allowed. “And no one could have guessed that, once out, Forrester would kill one FBI agent and injure another.”

  Maria’s gaze dropped to her lap, where her white knuckles stood out against her peach uniform. “Is that really true?”

  He nodded. “He tried to kill Dr. Lamont and me, too. Whoever helped him get out of here could be charged as an accessory to those crimes unless he or she coope
rates with the investigation.”

  She remained silent.

  “If you have any idea where he is, you need to tell me. Before he hurts anybody else.”

  “I have nothing to say.”

  Brent’s gaze grew steely. “It’s just a matter of time until Forrester’s caught. When he is, the identity of his accomplice will come to light.”

  Maria raised her chin. “I have to go now. My kids are waiting for me at the sitter’s.”

  After the nurse left, Brent asked Claire, “What do you think? Did Forrester have inside help?”

  “I can’t imagine how he escaped otherwise. The security procedures are excellent.”

  But helping Forrester leave Ridsdale was a far cry from arson or murder. She didn’t see any of the five she’d met today participating in that. Certainly not Maria Gomez. But something about the petite nurse had Claire’s internal radar pinging. “I think Maria Gomez was involved.”

  Brent frowned. “My prime suspect is Wayne Bonsall.”

  “Why?”

  Brent pointed to files he’d collected from the Bureau office. “The background info shows his charge cards are maxed out. Given his orderly’s wages, it’ll take him years to pay them off.”

  “You think Forrester bribed him?”

  “Yeah, I do.”

  Bonsall’s resentment over being paid less than the nurses had been evident early in the interview. So why was her intuition still pointing her in the nurse’s direction?

  “What happens next?” she asked.

  “I’m going to recommend surveillance.”

  “For whom?”

  “Wayne Bonsall…and Maria Gomez.”

  She could have sworn her heart skipped a beat. Damn, there was something about the man that got her worked up.

  She shifted her gaze away from the sensual curve of his lips to the moss-green wall behind him. But her eyes rebelled, sliding back to study the man across from her, drawn to him by an invisible force that was stronger than her ability to resist it.

  Sprawled in a chair, his body appeared lax, almost lazy, but she knew only too well the steely strength of the muscles that lay beneath his cotton shirt. She’d felt the power of those muscles when he’d lifted her through Forrester’s office window. It wasn’t just his physique she found tantalizing. Her mouth tingled with the memory of his kiss. Just the right amount of pressure, just the right amount of tongue. In fact, everything about it had been perfect. She wanted to clear the table of those files, push him down on top of it and have her way with him.

  She clasped her damp hands together, told herself that her fantasy was wildly inappropriate. This was a hospital, for crying out loud.

  Besides, did she really want to set herself up for heartache by becoming involved with a man who was emotionally distant and dismissive of her profession? Far better to disappoint her raging hormones now than have to live with hurtful memories later.

  So she didn’t jump Brent but waited patiently while he loaded files into a black case. Clearly, she was the only one whose thoughts had strayed to sex. His focus was on arranging surveillance and locating Forrester.

  Or so she thought, until he asked, “How come you work mostly with federal agents?”

  It was a question she’d been asked before, so she had a pat answer ready. “My dad worked for the Bureau, so I’m familiar with the pressures of the job and its impact on families.”

  His response was immediate and unequivocal. “Agents shouldn’t have families.”

  “Why not?”

  “The job requires one hundred percent commitment.”

  Did he really believe he had to sacrifice a personal life for the sake of his career? “Lots of agents have families.”

  “And lots of them end up as single parents and rarely see their kids.”

  “That doesn’t have to happen.”

  “You can’t tell me that divorces aren’t more common for us.”

  She hesitated, loath to concede the point but knowing she had to. “It’s true that certain professions—”

  “—law enforcement, the military—” he supplied helpfully.

  “—have higher rates of divorce than the general population,” she persevered. “But that doesn’t mean people in those careers should avoid getting married or forming close attachments. In fact, the opposite is true. The extraordinary demands of the job mean they need more, not less, support.” Although she spoke in general terms, her thoughts centered on one man. Her father. He had had the support of a loving family but had still come to feel adrift, disassociated, alone. Her desire to be a psychologist had sprung from wanting to understand how depression had taken hold and dragged him into a downward spiral of despair.

  Brent leaned back in his chair. “I’m not the only agent who thinks a family is a bad idea.”

  She forced her thoughts from the past to the present. “You’re obviously not talking about Gene. He’s been married for a long time and has three kids. So I’m guessing it was your friend, Pete Sanderson, who shared your view.”

  Brent frowned. “As a matter of fact, he did. Although he didn’t start off that way. He married his college sweetheart the year after he joined the Bureau.”

  “And divorced a short time later, right?” Such an experience would explain his negative view.

  “He told me the breakup of his marriage hurt him a hundred times more than any injury he got in the field.”

  “So you’ve decided not to risk it.”

  His eyes narrowed. “I only take calculated risks. There’s no way to figure out the chances of a marriage lasting.”

  True. Marriage wasn’t a logical decision reached by the brain. It was a leap of faith taken by the heart in love. She hoped to take that leap herself someday. “Did you always think this way?”

  “I was engaged once,” he admitted. “After I was accepted at the Bureau, I left for my sixteen weeks of training at the Academy. When I came home, I found Sylvia, my fiancée, pregnant with another guy’s baby.”

  He was talking dispassionately, but Claire suspected that betrayal was the reason he had no interest in a close relationship. Her heart went out to him for the hurt he’d suffered and evidently not recovered from. “I’m sorry, Brent.”

  “It’s ancient history,” he said, with a shrug.

  Their conversation had been enlightening—and disappointing. For an agent as driven as Brent, his job would come first and last. A woman would never mean more to him than a temporary diversion.

  No matter how insistently her hormones clamored, she mustn’t indulge them.

  Chapter Seven

  Brent rubbed the back of his neck in frustration. Two days had passed since the trip to Ridsdale, and neither suspect under surveillance had made contact with Forrester. When Brent’s cell phone rang, he answered it immediately, hoping for a break in the investigation.

  “We found the dealer who sold the Trans Am to Forrester,” Gene said. “His name is Fergus Lyons, and he remembers our suspect paid eighty thousand cash for the car. And get this. Forrester asked him to keep his eyes open for a sixty-five Cobra Roadster in mint condition.”

  “Where the hell is he getting the cash?” Brent asked.

  “No leads on that yet.”

  “Any luck finding the Trans Am?”

  “Langdon is contacting local garages in case it’s being repaired.”

  “If nothing turns up there, tell him to widen the search to storage units.”

  “Anything else?”

  “I found a sales slip for the laptop Forrester bought in the spring, but I didn’t see it at his house.” He glanced out the window at the lake shimmering in sunlight.

  “It wasn’t among his belongings when he was admitted to Ridsdale.”

  “Great. So now we’re looking for his car and his laptop.”

  “I’ll be in touch,” Gene said.

  Brent closed his phone, his gaze still on the view outside. A boat bearing two men with fishing poles chugged past the dock.

>   That should be Pete and me.

  The thought hit hard—a sucker punch to the gut. Sanderson was dead while his killer roamed free. The wrongness of the situation seared like acid. He needed to know what was being done to catch Sanderson’s killer. And Ian Alston, an investigator with the team, owed him a favor.

  A PHONE CALL, a quick trip to Cincinnati and Brent had a flash drive containing all the pertinent info on the investigation. As he waited for his laptop to boot up, Pete’s image came to mind. The blue eyes that had danced when he hooked a big one. The wide mouth that had belted out country tunes off-key. The strong arms that had carried him to safety after he’d been stabbed…Oh, God.

  He sucked in a breath, waited for the pain to dull. Then he plugged in the flash drive, opened the first file and began reading.

  He already knew the basics. Sanderson’s body had been discovered at 11:30 p.m. at the Enbridge warehouse located at 15 Duke Street. Cause of death: the second of two bullets he’d taken in the chest.

  A review of Sanderson’s PDA indicated a meeting at 9:00 p.m. with one of his snitches, Marty Adey, who claimed he hadn’t set foot in the warehouse. He’d received one thousand dollars to act as a go-between for a third party. His alibi for the time period was solid; he had been picked up for DUI at eight and spent the night in jail. Adey had spent half of the money he’d been paid, but the remaining bills had been confiscated as evidence and dusted for fingerprints. None matched the Bureau’s database of felons.

  The next file was a photo of Sanderson’s naked body lying on a metal table, awaiting autopsy. He refused to let himself look away, refused to spare himself the hurt of seeing his friend that way. Because he knew Sanderson had endured an agony a thousand times worse when those bullets had drilled into his chest.

  A horrified gasp had him pivoting around in his chair.

  “That’s your friend, Pete Sanderson, isn’t it?” Claire asked from the doorway.