As they were getting ready to leave, Allison noticed a folder sitting on a table near the front entrance. It was where Marty would often leave one of his quirky notes when he left for work at some God-awful hour, always guaranteed to make her laugh. But there was nothing funny about what was written on a sticky note attached to it—a number for the FBI tip line. Why would Marty be calling the FBI?
Allison did a quick search through the folder, and at first glance it looked business related—which meant Tully related. She shrugged, and decided to take it with her—maybe she’d make a trip downtown at lunch and drop it off to him. What a great wife! And get the scoop on the FBI number. What a sneaky wife!
The Dunning School was within walking distance, and what a pleasant walk it was; the morning giving off the first hints of spring. The school was a little Upper East Sidey pretentious, but the kids loved it, and with Marty’s business taking off this year, they could actually afford it again. All hail General Washington Carpet Cleaning, the father of their bank account!
She walked them right to the door, and as always, they were met by the no-nonsense security guards who would usher her children inside. The ritual always made Allison feel safe about dropping her kids here for the day. She wished Gracie luck with her science project presentation, and she nodded back her thanks for the support—her first-born was too cool for a hug from Mom. Chase ran by, barely scraping her cheek with the kiss.
Allison would hail a cab to the office, but her first priority was coffee. And she found her favorite street vendor, Merton, who sold only straight black coffee that would straighten your posture. Not the cappuccino double latte nonsense that the Upper East Side mothers tried to impress each other with.
She reached the curb, and was about to flag a cab, when two men in dark suits approached her. One was Spanish looking, the other pasty white.
“Are you Allison Cooper?” the Spanish one asked.
“Actually I’m late for work.”
“I’m FBI Agent Nunez, and this is Agent Lillibridge,” he pointed to his buddy, who faked a smile back at her. “Could we speak to you for a moment?”
They both shoved badges in her direction. She looked them over meticulously, as if she knew what she was looking for.
“And what would you like to speak to me about?”
“Your husband … Marty Cooper.”
Her stomach dropped. “Is he okay?”
Agent Nunez flashed a comforting smile. “Oh, he’s fine … sorry if I alarmed you. We had a meeting with him this morning, and he has some information for us. He said he might have left it in a folder at your apartment.”
“Why would my husband be meeting with the FBI?”
“We are not at liberty to go into detail, other than to say we’re investigating one of his clients, and he has been very cooperative.” He held out a cell phone. “You can call him to confirm if you’d like.”
She remembered the sticky note about the FBI tip line, which was attached to the folder containing information on Tully … their meal ticket. She knew he was too good to be true. What business grows like that without doing something illegal?
She composed herself. It was probably nothing. And even if it was, all she could do was cooperate and hope for the best.
“That won’t be necessary. And it’s your lucky day, because I have it right here.” She searched through her bag, but found nothing. That’s weird—she swore she stuffed it in her bag at the school, because she didn’t really want the security guards to see a folder that read FBI Tip Line.
“Well, I thought I did,” she said, coming up empty. But now she began to second-guess herself—did she actually bring it with her? Had she set it down momentarily when she helped Gracie with her backpack?
“I’m sorry—I must have left it behind in my rush.”
“Then perhaps we can stop by and get it. It shouldn’t take long, and we can vouch for you at your place of business,” Nunez said.
As if Dennis wasn’t paranoid enough. She could picture her face when she showed up late with a couple of federal agents on her arm.
“If I said no, you guys could go in and get it anyway, right?”
The agents looked confused. “Yes, we could get a warrant, but we’re hoping not to have to go that route.”
“What I’m saying, is I’m late for work, and you need this folder, which I can’t stop you from getting. So why don’t you just go there and get it without me?”
They looked surprised, and caught off guard. “I guess we could, but would need written permission,” the Spanish one said.
“I’ll do you one better,” she said and called ahead to their doorman, Booker, who would arrange for the building security to supervise their visit. They would know more about what they could legally touch or not touch, anyway. A deal had been struck. Just doing her civic duty … and expediting their journey to the unemployment line.
She wanted to discuss her FBI encounter with Marty, but she wasn’t able to reach him all morning. She did remember him telling her that he had a meeting with a prospective client today—one they might really need if Tully ended up sharing a cell with Madoff.
Just before noon, she got her first Tully call of the day. She did her best acting, not wanting to sound like anything was amiss.
The only thing unusual from their conversation was that Tully voiced frustration about not being able to get hold of Marty all morning. That must be some important meeting not to return the Tully calls, she thought.
Just before she left for lunch, she got a call from Booker. He informed her that the FBI was unable to find what they were looking for at their apartment, and they tore the place up pretty good in the search. Booker also had the impression that they were headed to her office to discuss things. Great … that’s the last thing she needed. She grabbed her coat—time to get out of Dodge before the cavalry arrived. But before she could escape, her phone buzzed. “Allison—you got a call on line three … says it’s urgent.”
She groaned—it had to be either Tully or the FBI. But she was pleasantly surprised to find that it was Gracie. At least until she realized that Gracie had never called her from school before … and urgent?
“Is something wrong, honey?”
“No—I had to say it was urgent for them to let me call you. They have a strict policy about personal calls here unless you’re sick.”
“Did you just want to talk to your Mommy before your big presentation?” she tried to keep it light.
“I already finished … totally killed it,” which Allison had learned is a good thing. “I’m calling because I must have accidentally taken Dad’s work folder when I grabbed my backpack this morning. I thought he might need it for his meeting today … I tried to get him, but got no answer.”
She had momentarily held Gracie’s backpack before she entered the school, so she could straighten her uniform. Allison must have placed the folder in there, instead of her own bag.
“Thank you so much for calling, Gracie. It is important. I’m just about to head out for lunch—I’ll drop by the school and pick it up.”
“Sounds good … I’ll leave it in the office for you.”
“No,” Allison said with a little too much intensity. “You hold onto it, and I’ll have them call you down to the office when I get there.”
She was almost out the door when her phone buzzed again. “Allison—there’s two FBI agents here to see you in the conference room.”
Crap! She was so close.
But when she entered the conference room, it wasn’t Nunez and the pasty guy. It was Agent Hawkins, whom she recalled seeing on TV from the Huddled Masses investigation. She also remembered that Gwen wasn’t a fan.
His partner was a black woman who introduced herself as Clarisse Johnson. Allison was struck by the seriousness in her eyes.
“Where is Agent Nunez?”
The woman agent looked confused. “Who is Nunez?”
“The FBI agent who I talked to this morning. Isn’
t that what this is about … the missing folder?”
“No, this isn’t about a folder. It’s about your husband.”
Chapter 40
Rockfield, Connecticut
April 11
I don’t know what the official first day of spring is, but for me, it’s marked by that initial whiff of springy smell in the air. Today was that day.
I drove along Blueberry Bush Road with the top down on the Jeep. It was a beautiful morning … at least until I clicked on the radio. The story of the day was the retaliation against Huddled Masses by a group called Whiskey Tax. Americans had officially hit the panic button, and were now starting to take up arms against each other.
It had been over three weeks since the St. Patrick’s Day attack. I still had a constant dull headache, and bright lights gave me problems, but I was making steady improvement. It was also nice to get my driving privileges back, which happened last week.
I never returned to the hospital after my escape, but I did agree to see my local physician, Dr. MacDougal, and get a complete checkup from the neck up. This was strongly urged by Gwen, and I was doing all I could to remain on her good side. Sure, things had been good with us since my second injury-related return to Rockfield in less than a year. And really good the night of my return, when Gwen threw me a welcome home party that included just her, a white doctor’s coat, and a stethoscope around her neck. But I was well aware I had violated the three strikes rule—1) dinner with my ex, who insulted Gwen in the process 2) almost getting her gunned down on a New York street for my sins 3) the Jovana shoulder rub—and I knew the bill would arrive at some point.
I hadn’t seen or heard from Nurse Jovana since she left to “discourage” Lauren and Cliff from using any sensitive material on the air, after discovering their listening device in the bulletproof vest. She must have been convincing, since there hadn’t been a peep from either of them on the subject since. Part of me wanted to join her in helping to solve the case, but the CIA had plenty of resources to find the killers without incorporating a retired reporter nursing a head injury.
The only person I discussed the case with was Gwen. Although, I left out a few parts that Jovana had filled me in on, such as the connection between Huddled Masses and Al Muttahedah. I rationalized that it was classified information, and it was my duty as an American citizen not to discuss it. But the real reason was it was so insane that, combined with my recent head injury, revealing it might get me sent back to the hospital.
Gwen’s final analysis of the case came down on the side of pragmatism—that we should let the “proper” authorities take care of it. And by proper, she meant not me. She acted strangely detached from the whole thing, considering they tried to kill her. I tended to take these things more personally than my better half.
Not to be undone, I also showed off some pragmatic chops—contracting to have a top-of-the-line security system installed at the homes of my parents and Gwen’s father. If these guys were willing to come after us in the middle of New York City, I figured they’d have no qualms finishing the job in woodsy, remote Rockfield. So far so good, but things had almost been too quiet since my return.
But I was determined that none of this would spoil this splendid morning. I’d finished my interviews for my hard-hitting, investigative report that would appear in this Sunday’s Rockfield Gazette—about the preparations for the upcoming Easter egg hunt at Lefebvre Park—and my next stop was Dello’s outdoor grill on Main Street to grab a juicy cheeseburger and curly fries. Living the dream.
A beep from my phone interrupted my thoughts. I glanced at the phone and saw that it was a text from Gwen—Get back to the office ASAP!!
My mind filled with possibilities. Some good, like Murray had left for the day and she planned to show me all the news that wasn’t fit to print. But there was something about the urgency in the words, and the fact that Gwen Delaney never uses multiple exclamation points, which left me concerned. It goes against all the rules of grammar she holds dear.
As I sorted through possibilities, I heard the sirens behind me. The police? And my bubble was officially burst.
I pulled over, and watched Rich Tolland exit his vehicle and walk briskly toward me.
“No coffee this time?” I said when he reached the Jeep.
He pointed at the phone in my hand. “So you did get the message.”
I looked at the phone, and then up at Rich—his look was deathly serious. “Oh, come on, I wasn’t texting and driving. You know I’m the biggest proponent of tougher laws on it … and even did that public service announcement for you.”
He shook his head. “I didn’t pull you over for texting, JP. I wanted to know if you got the message from Gwen.”
“What’s going on, Rich?”
“You need to follow me.”
Chapter 41
Just like our high school football days, I followed the Toll Booth’s blocks until reaching the end zone. In this case it, was a weathered house on Main Street that the Rockfield Gazette shares with a local realtor. Rich dropped me off, and sped away without explanation.
Gwen met me at the front door with the grimmest of looks. “What’s going on?” I asked, the pit in my stomach growing by the second.
What she told me next made my head spin. “Her husband was murdered?”
“That’s what the FBI believes. They found him in the lake at Central Park this morning, made to look like a mugging gone badly. The building security camera captured him leaving after midnight, and getting into an unidentifiable vehicle.”
“Any idea why he was headed out at that hour?”
“He called an FBI tip line just before he did, and had an interesting theory about who was behind Huddled Masses. If he was right, it answers the ‘how.’”
The ‘how’ had been a roadblock we’d hit every time we’d discussed the case.
“She was met by two men claiming to be FBI, who said they’d met with Marty that morning, and they were investigating one of his clients. They told her that they were looking for a folder that Marty had left behind in their apartment. But according to the real FBI, Marty’s time of death occurred sometime before sunrise. They also found the phones in their apartment were bugged, which is why someone knew he called the tip line. And oh by the way, these fake FBI agents met the description of the men who attacked us in New York.”
“And Allison has this folder?”
“Yes, but she’s obviously a mess right now, so please don’t get all JP on her.”
When I stepped inside the office, Allison was sitting behind Gwen’s desk with Murray consoling her. My insides began to boil. It was one thing to drag me into this—I signed up for this life—but to go after Allison and her family, who were innocent bystanders, they had crossed the line.
“I’m sorry,” was all I could think to say, and she nodded her thanks, mechanically, as if in a daze. She appeared more numb than anything. The really bad emotions would attack her later. At least that was my experience from Noah’s murder.
Gwen led me behind the desk, rubbing her hand across Allison’s shoulder as she passed her by. A laptop computer had been set up, and I noticed two familiar faces on the screen.
“I called Byron and Carter—I thought they could help us sort this all out. And they agreed to Skype in,” Gwen said.
They were in Charleston, preparing for Byron’s induction into the Charleston Hall of Fame—a ceremony I was supposed to attend, before a blow to the head curbed my travel plans. I took note that Christina hadn’t joined them, predictably still holding a grudge from Syria.
With some encouragement from Gwen, Allison walked us through the events of the last couple of days. The painful path eventually led us to this morning, which included her rendezvous with agents Nunez and Lillibridge, better known as the “West Palm Pirates.” They were in hot pursuit of a folder, which Allison unknowingly handed off to her daughter. And because Gwen had passed along her distrust of Agent Hawkins, she chose not to inform him of
this. One person she loved had already died over the contents of that folder, and she was determined that there wouldn’t be another, so she followed her instincts.
When she informed Hawkins that she was going to pick up her children from school, he didn’t appear to be overly concerned about her safety. He’d already searched her apartment and interrogated her, so she was no longer of any use, or so he thought. Clarisse Johnson did offer to accompany her, but Allison declined, claiming she didn’t want the FBI presence to scare her children. But instead of returning to the apartment with the folder, she went to a nearby parking garage where Marty paid an absurd amount of money to house a car they barely used. She then drove directly to Rockfield.
I was reminded that whenever people get in trouble, their first instinct is to return home. And if I was those after them, Rockfield would be the first place that I’d search. This worried me.
“Where are your kids now?” I asked.
“At my house,” Gwen spoke for her. “Rich Tolland is on guard. He doesn’t know all the details, but is aware that Allison and the kids could be in danger. He promised not to include or inform anyone else without speaking to us first.”
So that’s why he was in such a hurry. It made me feel better that he was there, but I knew we’d need to get him help if he was to have any chance of warding off Huddled Masses.
Gwen handed me the folder, and I read through its contents. Allison mentioned that she’d only seen the innocuous top page in her morning hurry, and didn’t realize that Marty had written out his theory in the pages that followed. Not that she would have believed it. On the surface, it seemed like it was the work of a child’s imagination.
It centered on his client, General Washington Carpet Cleaning, and its owner, David Tully. When I finished reading, I looked up. “Yellow Pages? That’s the Good Book?”
Huddled Masses (JP Warner Book 2) Page 16
