by Blake Dixon
“No. I’ll let you know when I figure out the rest of what I want.”
“Fine.” Ray pushed the chair back, stood and gestured at the envelope. “There’s a check for ten grand in there, and an access card for the Norfolk field office,” he said. “The local agents have already been instructed to cooperate with you.”
“Asshole.”
“Nice to see you again, Wyland.” With a bare nod, Ray grabbed his briefcase, turned and headed for the door. “Keep me posted. You have my number, even if you haven’t used it in three years.”
“Ray … do you even know what today is?”
The deputy director paused with a hand on the knob. “Yeah, I do,” he said without turning. “And I’m still sorry as hell about Sarah. You know I did everything I could.”
“Well, you shouldn’t have done everything. Because it was way too much.”
Ray looked over his shoulder with cold eyes. “It had to be done,” he said. “You have no idea what went down that night. If you did, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
Jude’s lip curled. “Is that a threat?”
“No. It’s a reminder that you gave up your credentials.” Ray shook his head and opened the office door. “I’ll see myself out,” he said.
Jude watched him leave and swallowed a surge of bitter memories. He didn’t have time to think about what happened to his partner right now.
He had a job to do.
Chapter Four
Dale and Clover were less than thrilled when Jude told them he wouldn’t be back for the rest of the day. But if he was going to take this job, he couldn’t put things off. Every minute counted in a kidnapping case — and the girl had already been missing for three days.
Already the time frame they started recommending the parents pick out a coffin to bury. One that would never hold a body.
His first stop was the D.A.’s office in the Virginia Beach public defender building. A quick glance through the thick envelope Ray had given him showed transcripts of every interview with the key people involved, along with other documents and photos, but he hadn’t read them too closely. He’d start his own investigation from scratch. New questions, new information to combine with the existing stuff. A fresh perspective.
However, he’d read and memorized the dossier on Noakes. Personal connections, judges he knew, cases he was working, non-work habits and haunts. Enough information to get him inside and help him ask the right questions.
He made the thirty-minute drive in twenty, pushing his nondescript Camry past eighty on the back roads just for the hell of it, and parked in the visitor’s lot. The building was a huge modern construction, brick and glass, set in a quiet non-tourist section of Virginia Beach and surrounded by elaborate homes and country clubs.
Justice was expensive around here.
The armed guard at the front entrance gave him a nod of vague recognition as he loaded his keys, phone and wallet into the tray and passed through the metal detector. Jude had been here a few times before, talking to one overworked, underpaid public defender or another in the course of private investigations, but he’d never met Noakes in person. The district attorney seemed like a typical up-and-coming politician — on the high side of thirty, ambitious but friendly, always ready with a handshake and a smile for the news cameras.
Jude hated politicians. But he was prepared to put that aside and handle Noakes as a grieving father who wanted his daughter back. That, he could understand.
Not that his own parents ever had much of an opportunity to grieve Amy’s loss.
Showing up unannounced wasn’t the best way to speak with the D.A., since he’d likely have to get through a barrage of receptionists and assistants who’d want to know why he was there and whether he had an appointment. But since the details of the kidnapping weren’t known, it would be best if he kept his involvement with the case out of public knowledge. Didn’t want to risk tipping off the kidnappers. So he’d fake his way inside.
He already had a plan for that. The trick was to act like he had a specific purpose and knew exactly what he was doing here, throw in a few names from the dossier to make it convincing. He headed down the main corridor toward the elevators, slowing a beat as he passed the directory sign to locate the district attorney’s office on the third floor. Off the elevator, right, then left and to the end of the hall.
At the third floor, he went straight to the office suite and opened the frosted glass door with Noakes’ name and title stenciled on the window. Inside was a large room lined with stately bookshelves and thick law books, oak conference table to the left, two clerks’ desks to the right and one larger desk at the back.
Beyond that, a closed door guarded by a man in a suit who stood at parade rest, a clearly visible handgun at his waist — and another concealed in a shoulder holster, judging by the slight bulge. Private security. Interesting.
Jude headed for the large back desk and the startled woman behind it who looked up at his approach. At the same time, the security man glanced imperceptibly at him and lowered his arms for easier access to his weapon. Duly noted, he thought. As he walked the room, he glanced at open files on the desks and tables, looking for active names he could work with. Irving, Knowles, Felix — Brazner. That one rang a bell. Cole Brazner, a high-profile embezzlement case that Noakes was currently involved in prosecuting.
“Hey there,” he said to the woman at the desk, whose surprise was currently morphing into a stern you-don’t-belong-here look. “Need to see Gary. Is he in?”
Using the D.A.’s first name instead of his title had the desired effect, and a few soft, questioning edges crept into the receptionist’s look of refusal. Unfortunately, he also had the private guard’s full attention now. “Mr. Noakes doesn’t have any appointments until noon,” the woman said. “Is he expecting you?”
“He’s not, but it’ll only take a minute.” Jude tried for a reassuring smile. “Judge Ealey asked me to stop by and get those files on the Brazner case, since I was headed over to the courthouse anyway. He wanted to save paying a courier.”
The woman blinked and glanced at the guard, who hadn’t relaxed a fraction. “Just a moment,” she said as she picked up the desk phone and punched a button. After a pause, she said, “Mr. Noakes, there’s someone here to pick up files for Judge Ealey. The Brazner case.” Another pause, and she looked at him. “Your name?”
“Charles Robertson,” he lied smoothly. “We met at the country club last week.”
The receptionist repeated the information into the phone, and Jude watched the guard from the corner of his eye while he waited. It was a calculated risk. He already knew that a few days before the little girl had been taken, Noakes had spent a long Saturday on the greens at the club with Judge Marshall Ealey and a handful of his cronies — and had to be driven home by the end of the day. Hopefully, Noakes had been too gentleman-style wasted to remember every name in the group.
Finally, the woman said, “All right. I’ll send him in.” She hung up the phone and waved at the guard. “Mr. Noakes says it’s fine, Mr. Arnell,” she called.
The guard looked unhappy, but he moved aside.
“Thank you. I won’t be long,” Jude said as he walked over and opened the door. He stepped into the smaller office, waited until the man behind the desk noticed him, and then closed the door behind him. “Mr. Noakes,” he said quietly. “I’m here about your daughter.”
Chapter Five
Gary Noakes did not look good. The polished confidence he’d always shown on the news was all but eroded, leaving a withered man in a rumpled suit who could really use a shave. The strained smile he’d displayed when Jude first walked in evaporated when he mentioned his daughter, and a flash of anger lit his eyes and tightened his mouth. “Who are you?” he rasped, reaching toward his desk. “What the hell—”
“Relax. I’ve been hired to help you.” Without being invited, Jude dragged the other chair in the room closer to the desk and sat down. “Ray Rubin sent me.”
&n
bsp; A slow blink. “That guy from the CIA?”
“Yeah, him. I’m a private investigator.”
Noakes narrowed his eyes. The hand that was probably reaching for a panic button hadn’t lowered yet. “Then why the story about the judge and the Brazner case?” he said. “If that’s true, you could’ve just told my receptionist who you are. Charles.”
Okay. This guy was distraught, but still observant. That could be a good sign … maybe his little girl had a chance. “I don’t want to advertise that I’m working on the case,” Jude said. “The less whoever took your daughter knows about this, the better.”
“I guess that’s smart,” Noakes muttered, letting his arm drop a bit. “Still, I’ll need you to show me some ID.”
He nodded. “Fair enough,” he said, pulling the wallet from his pocket. The identification card that proved him a registered P.I. was behind his license. He eased it out and tossed it on the desk.
Noakes leaned over and stared at the card. “Don’t you have a badge or something … uh, Mr. Wyland?” he said, reading off the ID.
“P.I.s aren’t allowed to carry badges,” he said. “You’re a lawyer. You should know that.”
“You’re right. I do know — I just wanted to make sure you did.” For the first time Noakes displayed a genuine, if tired smile as he pushed the card toward him with a finger. “I’m sorry about that,” he said. “It’s just this whole thing has been…” He made an empty gesture in the air.
“I understand.” Jude tucked the card back, replaced his wallet and took his phone out. “Do you mind if I record this conversation?”
Another blink. “What conversation?”
“I’d like to ask you some questions about what happened, what you know,” he said. “That’s why I’m here.”
“You mean now?” Noakes scrubbed a hand down his face. “Look, I’ve been through this with the cops, the feds, and about a hundred allegedly concerned colleagues, not to mention family and friends,” he said. “I really don’t want to talk about it again. I’m sure your CIA friend has notes or something.”
Jude didn’t smile. “Ray Rubin is not my friend.”
“Then why the hell did he send you?”
Noakes’ voice rose with the demand — and in response, the door opened and the armed guard stuck his head through. “You all right, Mr. Noakes?” he said with his eyes on Jude. “I think you’ve had your minute now, buddy,” he added.
Jude tensed, his hand moving toward the Beretta concealed under his jacket in case this guy was as high-strung as he looked. But Noakes waved him off with a weary gesture. “We’re fine, Lucas,” he said. “Thank you.”
“Yeah. Just let me know if you’re not so fine.”
“I will.”
The door closed, and Noakes let out a sigh. “I wanted to drop out of the race,” he said, looking at the ceiling. “Just do what they said with that first message, so I could get my little girl back. But then Rubin showed up and told me I couldn’t. Said they’d kill her, even if I did what they wanted. Whoever the hell they are.” The man’s breath hitched, and he closed his eyes briefly. “Now I’m stuck with the CIA calling the shots. And they haven’t found a damned thing so far, not a single lead or a shred of evidence. I can’t stand this shit.”
Jude waited until the man got hold of himself and met his eyes again. Then he said, “That’s why they hired me. I will find your daughter, Mr. Noakes. Do you believe that?”
The D.A. stared at him with red-rimmed eyes. Finally he took a breath and let it out in a whistling rush. “Yes, I think I do,” he said. “Thank you, Mr. Wyland.”
“Call me Jude.” He swiped to the apps on his phone and tapped to open the voice recorder. “Now. Do you mind if I record this conversation?”
“That’s fine.”
“All right,” he said, and hit the record button. “Let’s start at the beginning.”
Chapter Six
An hour later, Jude slid into a booth at the back of a darkened restaurant with his laptop and the case information. There weren’t a lot of diners inside the Luna Café, since most of them were seated on the outside deck enjoying yet another gorgeous Virginia day. Too many people for him out there, and too many security and traffic cameras.
He’d actually planned to hit a drive-thru and go to his place for a little more research before he interviewed Mrs. Noakes at her home, but the plan changed when he realized he’d picked up a tail. Someone had followed him from the public defender building. They were good. Subtle, casually careful. He almost hadn’t picked up on it — probably wouldn’t have, except he’d glimpsed the dark sedan with tinted windows when he pulled out of the parking lot and thought of Ray, decided it would be just like the son of a bitch to tail him.
Turned out the vehicle wasn’t government issue, but it was definitely following him.
He could’ve shaken the tail on the back roads, but he needed to know who it was. So he’d stopped here instead. He would grab a quick bite, run the checks he’d planned on, and figure out how to deal with the sedan when he left. He’d noted where they parked across the street when he came inside.
The waitress had come and gone, taking his order for a cheeseburger, fries, and a cold beer to make up for the ones he’d missed drinking on his boat. He powered the laptop on and started with a simple Google search for the newest name he’d gathered so far: Lucas Arnell, the over-anxious private security guard.
It didn’t take long to piece the man together. Arnell worked for Vault Securities, a well regarded and expensive private firm that employed mostly ex-military personnel as guards to protect the rich, the famous, and highly public figures. Nothing much to red-flag about Arnell himself — he’d done two tours in the Army, got an honorable discharge and started with Vault about a year ago. After six years in Afghanistan, a little jumpiness could be forgiven.
But the company did ring a few alarms. The search results included a brief mention of an FBI investigation a few years back, alleging that Vault had been involved in some dark side business. Blackmailed CEOs, mass security breaches and cybercrimes, possibly assassinations. Stuff that was more mercenary than military. But no indictments had been filed, no arrests made, and all charges dropped.
Didn’t mean a damned thing, except that maybe they were innocent — or maybe there just wasn’t enough evidence. Jude made a mental note to research Vault further, and to ask Ray if he’d hired the company to protect Noakes.
Meanwhile, the waitress had returned with his order. He gave a glance and a dutiful smile as she set the plate and the beer bottle on the table. “Thanks,” he muttered.
“No problem, sir. Can I get you anything else?”
“I’m good.”
He turned back to the laptop, but soon realized the waitress wasn’t leaving. With a flash of annoyance, he looked up at her.
She was terrified.
Instantly wary, he started to lean aside, to look past her at the rest of the place. Someone had scared the hell out of this girl — and he was betting on whoever was driving the sedan that followed him. But she stopped him with a gasp, a quick sidestep and a tiny shake of her head. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered in trembling tones. “He has a gun. He said to make sure you didn’t look, or he’ll k-kill me.”
“All right,” he said evenly despite the rage already kindling in him. With a glance at her nametag, he added, “Don’t worry, Emma. You’re going to be fine.”
Her breath hitched, and a tear slipped down her cheek. “I’m supposed to write down a message and give it to you,” she said shakily, taking a pad and pencil from her apron pocket.
This bastard was smart. Forcing the waitress to write something meant there would be nothing to trace back to him. “That’s fine,” he said. Still calm. Not moving, not giving this guy an excuse to hurt her. “Go ahead, Emma.”
Her hand shook as the pencil scrawled unevenly across the paper. She wrote for what seemed like a long time, but when she tore off the top sheet with a sob and handed
it to him, there were only four words on it:
STAY AWAY FROM NOAKES
Jude resisted the urge to immediately crumple the paper and go after whoever this was. “Okay,” he said, reaching slowly for his concealed gun. “You can tell him I got the message. All right? Tell him I understand, and I will.”
Like hell he would. But he wasn’t about to risk the life of an innocent civilian.
She nodded, sniffed once and turned around. Then she froze in place. “He’s gone,” she said under her breath. A step forward, and she scanned the dining area slowly. “He was right there.” A shrill note entered her voice as she turned back to Jude’s table. “Right at the bar! I swear to God, he had—”
There was a glass-rattling slam as the front door, which had been propped open with a heavy sign, thudded shut. Outside beyond the glass, a figure in dark clothes took off running toward the street. In the direction the sedan was parked.
“Shit!” Not caring how anyone reacted at the moment, Jude slammed the laptop shut, bolted from booth and ran across the restaurant pulling his gun. The waitress shrieked when he reached the door and held up the Beretta to yank the door with his free hand. “Just call 9-1-1,” he shouted on the way out.
Outside, blinding sun and people standing around, gawking at the assailant. A few murmurs when Jude barreled after him. An outright scream as someone noticed the gun.
Target in the middle of the busy road. Tires squealing, horns blaring.
With a snarled curse, he skirted a young couple standing in the middle of the sidewalk entrance, trying to film the whole thing with a phone. The maneuver put a slack-jawed older woman right in his path. “Move!” he shouted as he sidestepped, then spotted a clearer path to the road. Across the dining tables arranged on the side veranda.
He jumped onto the nearest one, ignoring startled shouts and breaking glass. Three clean leaps brought him to a railing, then a short vault to the sidewalk. The assailant had reached the sedan, opened the driver’s side door, his back turned.
