by Dee Davis
He ripped the top copy off, holding it out to her. “Everything’s in order, Agent Cavanaugh. He’s all yours.”
She frowned at the officer, trying to make sense of his words, and then reason hit her square in the face. John was being transferred to federal authority, and the sergeant obviously thought she was here to collect him. She hadn’t signed a visitor’s log at all. She’d signed the transfer papers. Providence, or temptation? She wasn’t going to think about it. At least not now.
“Thanks. We’ll take good care of him.” She smiled and took the sheet. “Oh, and Sergeant, could you see that this envelope gets to Detective D’Angelo? Just some information I promised I’d bring him.” She laid the envelope on the counter. Hopefully D’Angelo would take it for what it was—a little bit of an explanation for what she was about to do.
A burly man in overalls pushed his way past her, already grilling the sergeant as to the whereabouts of someone. She turned to John, and with a nod at the officer, took his arm. “Let’s go.”
“What the hell is going on?” The words came out on a hiss, something less than a whisper even, but he still managed to convey his anger.
Keeping a hand firmly on his elbow, she started forward, heading for the front door. “You’re being transferred, Mr. Brighton.” She pitched her voice louder than necessary, using a flat tone she hoped conveyed routine disinterest.
“Transferred where?” He jerked his arm away, his dark eyes sparking with anger.
“Federal prison. You’ll stay there until your trial.” She glared at him, trying to telegraph her thoughts, and not getting anywhere. So much for cosmic connection between lovers.
“You need help, Agent Cavanaugh?” The officer had obviously overheard their conversation, his steely-eyed gaze locked on John, a hand resting casually on his holster.
She smiled at him. “Thank you, but I’m fine.”
He frowned down at her, his eyes assessing. “You certain a little thing like you can handle him?”
Gritting her teeth, she upped the wattage of her smile to beauty-queen level. “I’m positive.” Returning her hand to John’s elbow, she reached behind her, drawing her service revolver. “But if I have any problems, I’m sure that this will give me the advantage I need.”
He looked from the gun to John and then back again, his skepticism still apparent. Stupid Neanderthal.
“I’ll be fine. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to get him out of here.” Before Jerome or Roswell showed up to collect him.
The man shrugged and started back for his desk, and she sighed with relief. One man under control. Now if she could just do something about the other one.
She glanced up at John, propelling him forward. His jaw was locked, a muscle in his cheek ticking in anger. Not exactly a warm welcome. But then it wasn’t every day he was accused of murder and then sprung from jail by his undercover FBI girlfriend. All in all, it would probably make even the most flexible of men a little testy.
And John wasn’t exactly known for being flexible.
Chapter 23
“This is insane. You know that, right?” John was pacing around the motel room, his gait slow, but nevertheless agitated.
“I know that if we don’t find a way to get to the bottom of what’s happening, you’re going to wind up on death row.” Katie yanked the phone cord out of the socket, replacing it with the modem line. “You need access to your computer, it’s as simple as that.”
“Surely there is some legal way we could have accomplished that.” He stopped pacing to glare at her.
“We tried that, remember? But I couldn’t get in.”
“So you could have asked me for more instructions. Or asked Danny to help you. I don’t think it warranted a jailbreak.”
She stopped messing with the computer, turning to face him, meeting his glare with one of her own. “It wasn’t a jailbreak. You’re still in custody—technically. We’re just having a bit of a detour, that’s all.”
“Somehow I don’t think Roswell is going to see it that way.”
“Maybe not. But if we can prove you’re innocent, it’ll be worth the heat.”
“I’m assuming you don’t mean that literally.” He grimaced as he turned the nonfunctioning air conditioner all the way to high, the tepid blast of air only making the room seem hotter.
“Come on, it’s not that bad.” As if to refute her statement, sounds from the highway filtered through a gap under the front door, the roar of a passing semi making the walls rattle. “Look, I know it’s not the Four Seasons, but it’s good cover. I figure there’s no way Roswell’s going to look for us this close to the police station.” She turned back to the computer. “So how do I make this thing connect?”
“I’m still not convinced I wouldn’t be better off just turning myself in.”
His tone was stubborn, and she fought to keep from exploding, only half succeeding. “You really don’t get this, do you? Roswell doesn’t give a damn about you, John. For all he cares, you can spend the rest of your life on death row. You’re a means to an end. Nothing more. He believes you can roll on Taegu. It’s as simple as that.”
“But I don’t know anything. Surely that has to count for something.” He sounded so certain, so positive that right would triumph. She wished there were some way to make it true.
But there wasn’t.
“It means absolutely nothing. If Roswell’s gamble doesn’t pay off, you’ll simply be a casualty of the system, and Roswell will move on to the next option.”
John stood by the window, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “So it’s a lose/lose situation.”
“It doesn’t have to be. That’s why we’re here. To change the odds. If we work together, maybe we can find a way to prove your innocence.”
“Together.” He said the word like a curse, the doubt in his eyes cutting through her like a knife.
“Unfortunately, I’m all you’ve got.”
Their gazes met and held, communicating on a level far beyond words. There was a connection between them that even her betrayal hadn’t broken. If only he’d trust it—believe in it.
“You’re asking for a lot, Katie.” He turned away from her, staring out the window.
She sank down onto the bed, anger giving way to despair. “Look, I didn’t plan this. The opportunity just presented itself, and I think we’re being fools if we don’t make use of it. It’s like a chess game. Up until now, Jason, or whoever is behind this, has had all the advantages. Every time we moved forward, he was ready with a countermove. It’s almost as if it’s all been choreographed. Prearranged. But this move is unexpected. So maybe it’s the break we need.” Her eyes met his, willing him to understand.
He held her gaze for moment, and then with a sigh he walked over to the computer. “There’s a code box in the right-hand pocket of the case.”
She reached into the computer case, her hand closing around the little phoenix. She’d forgotten putting him there for safekeeping. “I brought you something.”
He swiveled to look at her, curiosity mixing with impatience.
She held the little bird out to him, a mute offering.
“You took it from my office?” He reached out for it, his thumb stroking the clay feathers lovingly. It might not be much to look at, but it was a powerful reflection of John’s courage and fortitude.
“It was when Danny caught me on the computer. I said you’d asked for it.”
He carefully put the statue on the table by the laptop, the little bird acting sentry. She swallowed back tears, and reached back into the computer case, pulling out a rectangular box about the size of a pack of gum. “This it?”
“Yeah.” He glanced up from the computer, then went back to typing, the telltale hissing from the speaker indicating the connection was going through. “I need the displayed number.”
“Ninety-six . . . sixteen . . . fifteen.” She read the numbers again to be sure she’d called them out right. “This is some kind of security code?”
“Right.” He sat back for a moment, waiting, then resumed typing. “It changes every few minutes or so.”
“How come I didn’t have to use it?” She stared at the screen over his shoulder, praying that the code was still good.
“Because you weren’t accessing via a modem.” The computer beeped and a new screen appeared, this one asking for a user ID and password. “Okay, Danny, let’s see how thorough you’ve been.”
She frowned. “Danny did something to the computer?”
“Yeah, he’s changing the passwords, limiting access until we get some sort of resolution to my predicament.”
“So you’re not going to be able to get in?”
He smiled up at her, the first one she’d seen since she’d liberated him from the police station. “It’s my system. I can get in. It’s just a matter of how hard it’s going to be.” He typed in a name and then a password, the password showing up as stars. The computer beeped angrily and a message box indicated the password had been refused. He entered another password and ID, and again the computer refused access.
“That’s what happened to me.”
He nodded, already typing something new. The computer beeped its disapproval again, but this time before the message window could appear, he typed another string of commands. With a whir, the computer sighed, the screen signaling his entry into the system.
“Will anyone know you’re in there?”
“It’s possible, if they’re looking for me, but the odds are against it. It’s already past five, most everyone is gone, and as you said, no one is expecting to find me on-line. So I think we’re okay.”
“So what are we looking for?” She watched over his shoulder as he manipulated the keyboard, tapping out commands.
“An audit trail of sorts. We’re trying to find out what Flo was doing just before she died. There’s a possibility that whatever she found was on the computer, and so if I can re-create what she was accessing, then maybe I can figure out why someone would want her dead.”
The screen displayed a table, the columns alternating in blue and green. The headings indicating the same kind of log as the one she’d accessed earlier on Frank’s computer. “Is this Jason’s machine?”
He nodded, his eyes narrowed as he studied the displayed information. “And from the looks of it, Jason’s the only one who has been using it. Maybe you were mistaken about seeing her in there.”
“It’s possible, I suppose. I had a lot on my mind.” He looked up at her, their gazes locking, their eyes saying things that neither of them were ready to put into words. She broke contact first, moving to sit on the bed. “It’s also possible that someone cleaned up the log, right?”
“More than possible. I’d say likely, considering they found and erased Flo’s message. I guess I just hoped that with Danny pulling the passwords, there wouldn’t have been time to access the logs. This is what happens when you employ a bunch of hackers.”
“Is Jason as good at hacking as you are?”
“No.” He tapped out more commands, the computer buzzing with activity. “His forte is strictly PR, but he obviously knows his way around the system well enough to divert funds. So I wouldn’t put it past him to be capable of cleaning up his mess.”
“There’s still got to be some part of this we’re missing.” She lay back on the bed with a sigh. “If we assume that Jason paid the thirty-five thousand to Miller— which seems like a fairly solid assumption based on what we know—we’re left with the same problem we had when we thought it was you.”
He stopped typing and turned to face her, his eyes narrowed in concentration.
“Why would Jason have paid Miller all that money and then turned around and killed him? It just doesn’t track.”
“There could be a million reasons. Maybe Miller was supposed to do something specific with the money and instead blew it on drugs. Or maybe he was blackmailing Jason and got greedy and wanted more.”
“Yeah, but under any of those scenarios, you’d think Jason would have cleaned out the records. And he didn’t. The embezzlement activity was hidden, I’ll grant you that, but if you’d killed someone over it, wouldn’t you want all evidence gone?” She frowned.
“I suppose so. I mean, now that you say that, it was almost too easy to find, wasn’t it?”
“Right. As if someone wanted you to find it. We were just too surprised to see it at the time.”
“Okay.” He ran his good hand through his hair. “So how does that translate to what we know?”
“I’m not sure. But it seems like everything centers around Derek Miller. Maybe we’ve been looking into the wrong files. Have you looked at Miller’s computer?”
“No. It wasn’t in his office, I just assumed it was at home. He used a laptop, that way he could have everything with him all the time. He had docking stations at home and at work. I meant to follow up on it, I just didn’t.” His eyes telegraphed his regret.
“Hey,” she sat up, intent on reassuring him, “it’s not like you haven’t had a few things on your mind.”
“Thanks for that. I feel like I’m always a beat behind. Like you said about the chess game. I’ve been playing defense rather than offense.”
She stood up, walking over to him, looking down at the computer. “So what do you say we start fighting back. Can you access Miller’s computer if it’s at home?”
John was already working away at his computer, entering another ID and password. “No. The only way that would work is if it happened to be logged on to the network.”
“So we pray you were mistaken and it’s at the office.”
He frowned as a message box beeped onto the screen. “It’s not there.”
“Damn. Do you remember seeing it earlier?”
He shook his head. “Not the actual machine, no. You’re thinking someone could have taken it.”
“Anything is possible. If we had the time, I could have D’Angelo check the police inventory.”
“But considering the situation,” he’d already turned off the computer and was packing it into its case, “we don’t. Besides, we’re being proactive not reactive, remember?”
She allowed herself the smallest of smiles. “So we’re going on a road trip?” She was already reaching for the car keys, adrenaline pumping.
“Yeah. And hope to hell that Derek Miller’s computer is still in his house.”
“So why do you think she gave you the information?” Tony propped his feet up on his desk, his jacket slung across the back of his chair, his shirtsleeves rolled up, the ever-present hamburger in hand.
“I haven’t a clue. But they’re copies, so my guess is that she took the originals to Roswell.” Eric stared down at neatly written columns, his mind churning with possibilities. “And from what I’ve seen, I’d say he told her to forget about it. The guy’s got a one-track mind.”
“A good one, Eric. I mean, you saw the evidence, he’s got Brighton. So either this Pollock fellow is an accessory of some kind, or not related at all. Wouldn’t be the first time that working on one case inadvertently led to another.”
“Maybe.” He picked up the papers, thumbing through them. “But I had our Ms. Cavanaugh checked out. And according to the boys in Boston, she’s really good. An almost perfect record.”
“Almost?” Tony raised an eyebrow, obviously intrigued.
“There was an incident about three months ago. Evidently she blew her cover going after a murderer. Almost lost her life in the process. Pissed off her superiors, but the guy I talked to was pretty damned impressed. Bottom line is, push come to shove, Cavanaugh is well respected. And according to my source, usually dead-on. So if she thinks there’s something here, then maybe there is.”
“If it’s so goddamned important, why didn’t she hang around to tell you in person?”
Eric shrugged. “Maybe she had another assignment. For all we know, she could be on her way back to Boston. Wouldn’t surprise me at all. There was certainly no love lost be
tween her and Roswell.”
“You’re not exactly a fan of the man yourself.”
“No, I’m not. Which makes me wonder what I’m missing in all this.”
Tony’s face split into a smile. “And you’re thinking maybe we can do a little snooping around?”
“Couldn’t hurt.”
“But the Brighton case is officially FBI now, and as far as they’re concerned they’ve got their man.”
“This is totally different, Tony.” He shot his partner a crooked smile. “You said it yourself, one case leading to another. And I’d hate to think that an embezzler was allowed a walk just because his boss has been indicted for murder.”
Tony leaned forward, hamburger forgotten. “So where do we start?”
“You start by telling me where Jonathan Brighton is.” Roswell strode into the office, his voice harsh, his face ruddy with anger.
“He’s with you.” D’Angelo purposefully worked at keeping his face neutral, his gut reacting with a powerful lurch. “Desk sergeant said one of your boys picked him up this afternoon.”
“Well, since I’m the ‘boy,’ I’d have to say he was mistaken.” Roswell’s fist was clenched so tightly, his fingers were white. “Who signed him out?”
Eric exchanged a glance with Tony, and quietly slid the copied notebook under another file. “I have the record here somewhere. Hang on a minute.” He moved slowly, purposefully keeping Roswell waiting, already fairly certain he knew the answer.
He pulled a sheet of paper from a file on the desk, but before he could look at it, Roswell grabbed it, the old guy’s jaw working in fury as he read the signature. “Cavanaugh.” The name might as well have been an expletive. Hell, in Roswell’s mind, it probably was an expletive. “Why the fuck would you have let her take the prisoner?”
“Because she’s an FBI agent?” Tony’s lower lip was quivering, as he tried to control his laughter.
“She’s not the agent of record, Detective. She’s . . . she’s UC, for God’s sake, and she’s not even from Texas.” Which in Roswell’s book was obviously right up there with heaven.
