by Irene Hannon
That’s what he’d told Bryan.
And John.
All at once he was propelled back four years to his last phone conversation with his older brother. Two days before Christmas.
The day before John had walked out into his garage, turned on the car, and waited for the deadly fumes to end the grief that had plagued him after he’d lost his wife to cancer the prior summer.
Dale had tried to stand by him through his anguish, had pushed him to talk to the Lord, but John had sought “professional” help instead of seeking it from God—just as Bryan had.
And like Bryan, he’d been misled. As Dale had reminded both of them on numerous occasions, the Lord said, “Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.”
Come to me. Not some shrink.
But John had gone to the wrong place for help. Dale had tried to protect his son from falling into that same trap, but Bryan hadn’t listened. Instead, he’d talked to this woman. On the radio, no less. And he’d ended up dead too.
He couldn’t bring Bryan or John back. But he could at least eliminate the woman who’d caused his son’s death.
And God would be pleased.
The door to the reception area opened again, and Emily crossed the room to hand him an appointment card. He pocketed that too.
“We’re all set for Monday. But feel free to call me sooner if you’d like to talk.”
“I will.”
The door that led from her office to the hall had a peephole in it, as had the one from the hall to the reception room, he noted, waiting while she checked the corridor. She was being careful.
That meant he would have to be too.
“Sorry about the cloak and dagger stuff.” She twisted the lock and opened the door. “I had a little problem recently and I’m being cautious. Take care, Mr. Smith.”
Stepping outside, he waited as the door closed behind him.
Then he headed toward the exit.
Once out of sight of her peephole, he withdrew the two cards from his pocket. Tearing up the one with the appointment on it, he discarded it in a trash can near the door. The other one he fingered thoughtfully.
A plan was forming in his mind. Through his conversation with Emily Lawson, the Lord had reminded him he wasn’t avenging just one death. His brother, too, had died as a result of a shrink. Not the one who had ruined Dale’s life. But they were all alike. Equally dangerous—and liable.
He’d also been reminded that John and Bryan hadn’t died instantly. They’d had time to think about their life coming to an end, John as he drifted into unconsciousness, Bryan as he’d gasped his final, choking breaths. That’s why his first plan had failed, Dale concluded. Emily Lawson needed to die more slowly.
And she needed to know her death was a punishment for the wrongs she and others like her had done.
Tucking the magazine more securely under his arm, Dale looked at the card Emily had given him as she’d told him to call her. Any time.
That one he kept.
“Mark, Steve wanted me to check with you about . . .”
As the woman’s words trailed off, Mark slipped his Glock into his holster and turned to find Allison Schwartz, one of the professional support people in the St. Louis office, staring at the copy of the shooter’s note on his desk.
“Allison? What is it?” He and Coop had been preparing to spend their Wednesday afternoon following up on the names they’d been assigned to investigate from what had become known as the Eight List. But her expression stopped him cold.
“It’s nothing, I’m sure.” She shook her head, but her attention remained riveted on the piece of paper on his desk. “It’s just that . . . the handwriting on that note reminds me of my brother-in-law’s.”
“Take a closer look.” He picked up the sheet of paper and passed it to her.
Frowning, she studied the script. “See how the t’s are crossed with a slanted line? That’s what caught my attention. My brother-in-law does that.”
It was probably nothing, Mark told himself. An odd coincidence. But he could remember several cases from his investigative days when such a coincidence had provided the key to solving a crime.
“This is from the shooter, isn’t it?” Allison gave him a concerned look.
The existence of the note was common knowledge in the office, but few had seen it.
“Yes.”
“In that case, it can’t have anything to do with my brother-in-law. He’s a straight arrow. A hardworking, churchgoing family man.”
“Quantico believes the note was forged, Allison. If you think the resemblance to your brother-in-law’s writing is that strong, we need to talk to him. What’s his name, and how can we reach him?” He pulled a small notebook out of his pocket.
“Mike Evans. He’s a residential builder. Evans Construction.
They handle a lot of higher-end housing developments. I’ll call my sister and get his cell number.”
“Thanks.”
As she exited, Mark motioned to Coop, who was chatting with an agent on the far side of the bull pen, an open room that was honeycombed with cubes. When Coop walked over, Mark filled him in. As he finished, his desk phone rang and he scribbled down the number Allison recited.
“Let’s stop in and see Steve before we leave,” Mark said.
Five minutes later, Steve had Paul Sheehan in Quantico on the speaker phone.
“We need to get some original handwriting samples,” Paul said. “As we speak I’m emailing Steve some suggested text to have him write. And have him use two different pens. I’ll need the originals to do a thorough analysis, but if you fax me a copy of the samples you get I can give you a preliminary opinion on whether I think it’s a match.”
“We’ll do that right away, Paul. Thanks.” Steve ended the call, checked his email, and printed out the text Paul had sent. “Do you two want to track this guy down or focus on the Eight List?”
“Both. It shouldn’t take long to deal with Mr. Evans. We’ll courier the samples back here from his office.”
“Good enough.” Steve pulled the text from Paul off his printer and handed it over. “I’ll have copies faxed to Quantico and overnight the originals. You’ll hear from me as soon as he gives us a preliminary read. And I’ll get some intelligence analysts working on Evans.”
As Mark and Coop headed to the car, Coop looked at his partner. “You realize this is a long shot.”
“Yeah.” Mark pulled out his BlackBerry to call Evans and set up a meeting. “But stranger things have happened. Keep your fingers crossed.”
Mike Evans met them in the construction trailer at Windsor Hills, his latest West County development project. Midforties, with salt-and-pepper hair and a face tanned from long hours in the sun, he was dressed in khaki slacks and a blue dress shirt that was rolled to the elbows. A hard hat sat on the corner of his cluttered desk in the cramped office.
“Sorry for the heat, gentlemen.” He shook their hands as they introduced themselves and motioned them to seats across from his desk. “These trailers aren’t equipped with the best air conditioners, and they sure can’t keep up with this sweltering weather.”
“No problem, Mr. Evans.” Not quite true, but Mark resisted the urge to loosen his tie. After years on the HRT, neither he nor Coop were used to wearing suits. And the humid heat of St. Louis wasn’t conducive to the FBI dress code for agents. But they’d manage.
“How can I help you today? It isn’t often I get a visit from the FBI.”
The man appeared more curious than nervous, Mark assessed. If he had anything to hide, he was doing a masterful job masking it.
“We received a note about a week ago that appears to be forged. Allison Swartz was in my office today and saw it. She remarked that it looked a lot like your handwriting. We’d like to get an original sample of your writing to send to our experts in Quantico.”
“I’m more than happy to cooperate, gentlemen. But even if my handwriting was forged, I do
ubt that will help you much. A lot of people have memos and notes from me.”
“We understand that, but we’re trying to follow up on every lead,” Coop said.
“Of course. What specifically do you need from me?”
“Several handwriting samples.” Coop handed over the text Paul had suggested. “If you could write those paragraphs on different sheets of paper, switching pens each time, we’d appreciate it.”
“No problem.” The man took the proffered document, extracted a pen from the chaos on his desk, and began to write.
Ten minutes later, he gathered up the samples, tapped them into a neat pile, and handed them over with an apologetic grin.
“I’m afraid my penmanship deteriorated as I went along. Sister
Mary Elizabeth, who taught me cursive, would have a fit. But I hope this gives you what you need.”
Taking the stack of paper, Mark scanned the top sheet, angling it to allow Coop to do the same. The writing looked like a match to him, and a quick glance confirmed his partner felt the same way.
“This will work,” Mark assured the contractor.
“Can you tell us where you were on the morning of Saturday, August 3, about eight o’clock?” Coop asked the question as Mark slid the handwriting samples into a folder.
Pulling out his PalmPilot, the builder scanned back to the date in question. “On a plane returning from Chicago. I was at a conference the prior Thursday and Friday.” He gave them the flight number without prompting, as well as the location of the conference.
“Thank you.” Mark jotted down the information. “Proceeding on the assumption the handwriting sample is a match to the forgery, we’d like you to put together a list of everyone employed here in the past six months—tagging anyone who was fired or may have been disgruntled—along with a list of subcontractors you’ve used during the same period. We’ll also need the names of anyone who has access to this office, plus anyone you can think of in the St. Louis area who might have a sample of your handwriting.”
“The employee and contractor rosters I can have to you within an hour or two. I’ll jot down the names of anyone else I can think of who might have a document with my handwriting on it, but that will be an extensive list and will take longer to put together.”
“We’ll start with whatever we have. If you could fax the information to Steve Preston at our office as soon as possible, we’d appreciate it.” Mark wrote the number on a slip of paper and handed it to the builder. He looked at Coop, and the other agent gave a slight nod. “That’s all we need for now, Mr. Evans.”
They rose and shook his hand. “Thanks for your help. We may be back in touch.”
Once settled in their car, Coop glanced at Mark as he turned the key in the ignition. “Looks like a match to me.”
“Me too. And considering our shooter had fresh concrete on his boots, the link to Mike Evans fits. But given the size of this operation and the number of contacts the man has, I don’t know how much that will help us.”
“Look at it this way. Everything we learn gets us one step closer to finding this guy. We can always hope a name Evans supplies matches one on our Eight List.”
“That would be too easy.” Mark stared out the window as the late August sun beat down on the parched landscape. Despite the new leads, that’s how this case felt to him. Parched. They needed a big break, a connection among the loose threads they’d assembled that would tie them together. And they needed it soon.
Because in his gut, Mark felt certain about two things.
First, the note he’d received hadn’t been a hoax or an idle threat.
Second, they were running out of time.
18
At seven o’clock that night, Mark’s BlackBerry began to vibrate. Pulling it off his belt, he pressed it to his ear. “Sanders.”
“Mark, it’s Steve. I heard from Paul Sheehan. He won’t commit to a match without seeing the hard copy, but he’s 95 percent certain Evans’s writing was forged for your note.”
“Coop and I came to the same conclusion from eyeballing it.” Mark looked over at Coop as his partner parked the car in front of Emily’s condo and mouthed, “It matches.”
“We also did some checking on Evans. His alibi is solid and his record is spotless. The man’s a boy scout.”
“That’s what Allison said.”
“His employees all check out too. We ran them through the NCIC and looked for matches against the Eight List. Nothing.” “Any other leads from the Eight List investigation?”
“Lots of alibis that need to be checked. Nothing promising.” “Same on our end.” He and Coop had spent a frustrating day traversing the city’s South Side with nothing to show for their efforts.
“Evans also sent over a list of contractors he uses. I talked to Carl, and Oakdale is going to work on getting their employee rosters and running a preliminary check against the Eight List and NCIC. Let’s touch base in the morning.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
As Mark slid the device back into the holder on his belt, Coop opened the driver-side door. “Hang tight while I take a look around.”
“Trust me. I have the drill down by now.”
Three minutes later, Coop opened Mark’s door. “We’re clear.”
“You know, I’m getting kind of used to this service.”
“Enjoy it while it lasts, pal, because it’s never going to happen again. When do you want me back?” He scanned the area again as he walked with Mark to Emily’s door.
“Nine. I’d stay later, but Emily needs her sleep.”
Mark pressed the bell, and Emily answered a few seconds later.
“Hi.” She stepped aside. “Are you coming in, Coop?”
“No.” The two men answered in unison as Mark entered.
“You know you’re always welcome,” she told him with a grin.
“Good night, Coop.” Mark reached around Emily and closed the door in his friend’s face.
“That wasn’t very nice.”
“He’ll live. Besides, if he hangs around I can’t do this.” Stepping close, he claimed her lips in a kiss of welcome thorough enough to leave no doubt in her mind about how much he’d missed her. “Is my plan still working?” he murmured when at last he eased back.
“No comment.” But her breathless response gave him his answer.
Chuckling, he draped an arm around her shoulders and guided her toward the living room. “What’s on our agenda tonight?”
“How about a movie?”
“Sounds good.”
“Did you have dinner?”
“We stopped at a fast food place.”
“Not very healthy.”
“True. But as the name says, fast. We had a busy day.”
“Any news?”
“Some. If you can spare a soda, I’ll give you an update.”
“Go ahead and get comfortable. I’ll be back in a minute.”
When she returned, Mark had shed his jacket and tie and was rolling up the sleeves of his dress shirt.
“I hope you don’t mind. But in the HRT I rarely wear a suit, and the field office dress code is requiring some adjustment. The heat isn’t helping, either. It was ninety-five again today.”
“And no end in sight, according to the weather people.” She handed him a soda and watched as he consumed half of it in one long gulp.
“At least you look cool. And I mean that in every sense of the word.” He gave her white shorts and sleeveless red knit top an appreciative perusal. “Come sit next to me.”
She settled beside him, tucking her legs under her. “Tell me the news.”
“Someone in our office recognized the handwriting on the follow-up note the shooter sent.”
She angled toward him, her expression startled. “You’re kidding!” “No. We do get odd breaks like that once in a while. Our handwriting expert in Quantico will confirm the match tomorrow after he gets our original sample, but he’s 99 percent certain already from the fax we sent.” He
told her about their visit with Mike Evans, and the follow-up lists that was generating.
“Meaning more leads but no solution.” Frowning, Emily ran a finger around the rim of her soda can.
“Hey, don’t get discouraged.” Mark lifted her chin with a finger.
“The pieces are beginning to fall into place. And we’re working our way through the Eight List. We’re going to find a match somewhere, Emily. Trust me. Now tell me about your day.”
The parallel creases in her brow deepened. “Not so good.”
“Is your arm bothering you?” He leaned around her in concern to examine the healing wound.
“No. I was speaking in a professional sense. I had a new patient— an EAP referral. He lost his only son to suicide a couple of months ago, and his wife to a heart attack three weeks later.
Now he’s having problems on the job.”
Mark entwined his fingers with hers. “Wow. Those are tough breaks.”
“Very. And he’s not handling them well. Part of the problem is he’s keeping everything bottled up inside. I didn’t get very far with him, and I’m not optimistic about his next visit on Monday, either. But he needs help.”
“What was it you once told me about leading a horse to water?”
She conceded the point with a shrug. “I know. I just didn’t like the vibes I was getting. There has to be a way to reach him.”
“At least you got him to agree to come back.”
“He could always cancel.”
“Don’t look for trouble.”
“I don’t have to. It’s finding me all by itself.” Her shoulders drooped and she sighed.
The strain of the past three weeks was getting to her, Mark realized. There was a gauntness to her face that reflected both fatigue and weight loss. The strain around her mouth and eyes was also new since their first conversation in the park. And he’d added to it by putting pressure on her about their relationship.
Perhaps he should back off on that front until things settled down. She knew how he felt. Pushing would do nothing except increase her stress.
