"Well, it wasn't me." She licked her lips, realizing the truth behind the questions. "You don't think it was an accident, do you? Because FBI agents don't just drive their cars off mountain roads."
"We're not discounting any possibility, Sophie," Peter said. "Figuring out what happened to your father is our top priority."
"We will get answers," Karen promised, determination in her eyes. "Your father was loved and respected by many people in the New York field office and all over the country. We will do right by him."
"I hope so." At the mention of her father's extended network of friends, she realized that she needed to start making calls, think about planning a funeral, talk to her father's estate attorney, go to his house and get the big notebook from the drawer in his desk that he'd told her had all the information she would need if anything ever happened to him.
She'd never wanted to look at that book or open that drawer, even though he'd reminded her every time he'd updated it. After her mother had died, he'd realized how difficult it was to find passwords, and he'd vowed he'd never leave her with messy problems to clean up. She'd told him she didn't want to think about him being gone. They had years—decades—to get organized.
Another tear slipped out of her eye, and she brushed it away with her fingers. There would be time for crying later. "I need to start making calls."
"I'm happy to help with arrangements, Sophie," Peter said, pain in his gaze now that they'd gotten past the questions. "There's no need to rush into anything. You can take your time."
"I can't even begin to think of everything I need to do," she murmured. "All the people I need to tell."
"I can take care of the Yale group," he offered. "Harrison Delano, Michael Brennan, Senator Raleigh, Diane Lewis and anyone else I can think of. I need to interview each of them anyway to find out when they last spoke to your father."
"That would be good."
"And, of course, everyone at the Bureau—in the New York field office—and around the world will be notified," Karen put in. "Your father mentored a great many agents when he was an instructor at Quantico." She paused. "I've had the opportunity to experience his generosity and brilliance firsthand. Alan made me the agent that I am, so I can assure you that we will find out what happened to him. We will do him proud."
"Thank you. I appreciate that."
"Why don't we take you home now?" Peter suggested. "We can continue this conversation at your apartment. As much as I wish we could just discuss funeral plans, we have quite a few more questions to ask you, and I think doing that at your place would be the best idea. You'll be more comfortable there."
She doubted she'd be comfortable anywhere, and the last thing she wanted to do right now was answer questions. "I need a little time," she said, their expectant gazes and determination to jump right into crime solving a bit overwhelming. "Thank you for the offer of a ride, but I only live a few blocks away, and I could use some air."
"We'll walk with you then," Karen said.
She frowned. "I—I don't want to be rude, but I really need some time to myself."
"You're right. Look, why don't you go home and regroup?" Peter suggested. "We'll meet you at your place in two hours—say around six thirty? We'll bring Indian food. As I recall, it's your favorite."
"I'm not hungry." She couldn't imagine eating ever again.
"I'll still bring something," he said. "It's important that we talk sooner rather than later, Sophie. We don't want to let the trail go cold."
"But I don't know anything about my dad's activities."
"You might know more than you realize."
"All right," she said, getting to her feet. She didn't want to argue; she just wanted to be alone.
"Good. And please don't speak to any reporters before we speak again," he added.
His statement made her realize that her father's death was going to be publicized. She would need to make her calls fast. She grabbed her bag and led the way out of her classroom.
They parted company at the stairwell, and she went up to her third-floor office alone.
She sat down at her desk and stared at the framed photo taken of her and her father at her college graduation. He'd gotten her a lei from Hawaii, and the beautiful pink flowers added color to her white gown. Hawaii had been one of their favorite vacation spots. Her parents had gone there on their honeymoon, and every year after that, they'd made a trip to the islands. They'd even thrown her mother's ashes in the sea off Oahu in a beautiful twilight ceremony. It was what her mom had wanted.
Where would her dad want to be buried? She had no idea. She would have to go to his house and check the book—the damned book.
How could she do this again? She was twenty-eight years old and she was going to have to bury a second parent. It wasn't fair.
She breathed through the pain, knowing she was barely holding it together, but she had to think about what to do next. First, she had to get up. She had to go home, make calls, tell people what had happened. The only relative she had left was her Aunt Valerie, her mother's sister, who lived in Australia with her husband and children. She hadn't seen them since her mom had died twelve years ago. But before that, her aunt had been a mother to her while her mom was sick. She definitely needed to call her aunt.
She reached into her bag and pulled out her phone. She kept it on silent during the day, and she'd had back-to-back classes since noon, so she hadn't checked it in hours.
Now, she saw four voicemails from the same number—it wasn't a number she recognized.
Telemarketers didn't usually call that many times or leave messages.
Her dad's voice came across the speaker, stabbing her in the heart.
For a moment, she thought that Peter and Karen were wrong, that her dad was alive, that there was some mistake, but as she listened to the messages, she heard emotions in her father's voice she'd never heard before. He sounded frantic, worried, terrified, and his words were rambling and not making sense.
The first message ended abruptly, and as she moved through the rest of the voicemails, her bewilderment grew. Her dad was talking in riddles. Setting up clues to hunt for, offering apologies, telling her to be careful, not to trust anyone, but never saying exactly what was going on, why he was calling, where he was, what he was doing.
The last message cut off in mid-word. She heard a horrible crash and then nothing.
Her stomach turned over.
Had she just heard the moment when her father had driven through the guardrail?
Had he died because he wasn't paying attention to the road, because he was talking on the phone?
Or had he died because whatever danger he was running from had caught up to him?
She called the number back, but there was no connection, no service, nothing.
As she stared at the number, she wondered why her dad had called her from a phone other than the one he normally used. Not that it was that unusual for him to have more than one phone. He'd always had a separate phone for his work as an FBI agent and one for personal use. But he hadn't used either of those, and she wondered why.
He was obviously in trouble. He'd talked about trust and making bad choices. What were those choices? What had he done? And why hadn't he called someone for help—someone like Peter or Karen? Surely, he trusted Peter. They'd been friends forever.
But he hadn't called Peter; he'd called her. He'd told her what he needed her to do, and she would do it.
Jerking to her feet, she threw her phone into her bag and left the office.
She walked as quickly as she could to the edge of campus, then joined the streams of people on the crowded streets of New York. Everything felt surreal. Life was going on normally for everyone else, but not for her.
Sweat beaded her brow as the summer heat beat down on her head, but she couldn't let the weather slow her down. She suddenly felt as if time was not on her side. Peter and Karen were coming by her apartment at six thirty.
She needed to be gone by then. Sh
e'd change her clothes, pack a quick bag, and get in her car.
But those plans came to a crashing halt when she turned the corner and saw two men get out of a dark SUV and head into her building. They wore slacks and button-down shirts, and while they didn't look dangerous, there was something about them that made her pause.
Through the windows in her building stairwell, she could see the men going up to the upper floors. Her gut told her they were on their way to her apartment.
Her dad's words rang through her head: Don't trust anyone, especially not anyone from the police department or the FBI. Get rid of your phone as soon as you finish listening to these messages, so they can't track you.
She took her phone out of her bag and stared at it for an indecisive minute. He'd told her to throw it away, but if she did that, she'd never hear his voice again.
She couldn't do it—not yet.
She'd hold on to it for a while longer.
But she would do what else he'd asked. Turning on her heels, she walked in the other direction. She had to find a place to hide, to listen to the messages again, and figure out what to do next.
As she tried to blend into the crowd, she felt more alone than she ever had before. Was there anyone who could help her?
She had friends, but how could she bring them into this situation? How could she put them in danger? Especially when she didn't know what the danger was exactly.
She had to follow her dad's instructions, as cryptic as they were. He'd made it clear she was in danger, and since he was dead, she had to believe him. She had to find a way to save herself.
She pulled out her phone again and let the voicemails play through her ear as she walked away from her life.
Two
Special Agent Damon Wolfe hated summer, especially the kind of hot, sticky, New York City heat that made him sweat at six o'clock at night. In his life, everything bad that had ever happened had occurred during some kind of intense heat wave. Coincidence, maybe, but that possibility didn't make the season any more appealing, and it was only June.
He should have thought about the humid summer heat when he'd agreed to come to New York and work for his mentor, Alan Parker, who ran the organized crime division out of the FBI's New York field office. But when Alan had called with a job offer three weeks ago, he'd had no choice but to say yes. Alan had been his instructor at the FBI Academy in Quantico, and he'd mentored him after graduation as well. He had always wanted to work for the best, and Alan was the best.
But since Damon had arrived in town a week ago, he'd been finishing reports on a case he'd been working for the past two years, so he hadn't seen much of Alan yet. Alan had also been in and out of the building and had told him he would speak to him soon about his new assignment. He was hoping that assignment would involve Wyatt Tanner, the friend and agent who had him now headed to a park by the East River instead of to a bar for a cold beer.
Wyatt had sent him a cryptic SOS in a private chat room they'd set up for emergencies four years ago while they were at the academy. Six people knew about the chat room, but he'd been the only one to respond. He had no idea if the others were still watching the forum, since it was rare that anyone used it these days, but he still made it a point to check in every day.
Wyatt was working undercover with a crime organization, and any contact outside his handler—which was Alan Parker—could jeopardize his cover. Which meant Wyatt was in trouble.
As Damon neared the park, his gaze swept the surrounding area. There was a basketball court with two hoops and groups of teenagers making use of both. A nearby playground area was filled with families. Everything looked very normal, innocent—a relaxing summer evening in a tiny space of green, in a city filled with high-energy people, endless concrete, frustrating traffic jams, and very tall buildings.
A furtive movement in a cluster of trees by the river caught his eye. It was Wyatt—or at least a shadowy version of him.
Wyatt hadn't just lost a few pounds; he'd dropped at least twenty, his ripped, faded jeans hanging low on his hips. His brown hair was longer than Damon had ever seen it. Wyatt also had a full beard going, and as Damon drew closer he saw an abundance of tattoos on Wyatt's arms and a multitude of bruises on his face, as well as a nasty gash on his forehead. His left eye was almost swollen shut.
"What the hell happened to you?" he asked.
"Got jumped," Wyatt replied.
"Are you all right?" He was disturbed by the bright lights in Wyatt's eyes, the jerky way his gaze darted in every direction, as he nervously rocked back and forth on his heels.
"Anyone follow you?" Wyatt demanded.
"No. What's going on? Are you made?"
"Not sure. Probably. Yes."
Wyatt's clipped responses deepened his worry.
"Are you on something?"
"No. Don't think so. Not sure. Haven't slept in two days." Wyatt took his hands out of his pockets and slapped his cheeks, as if to keep himself awake.
"You need to go to a hospital, Wyatt. You're messed up."
"Not safe. Someone tried to kill me, Damon."
"Who?"
"Don't know. Couldn't see. Too dark. Barely got away."
"Did you contact Alan?"
"I was supposed to meet Alan where it happened. I think he set me up."
"No way," he said emphatically, shocked by Wyatt's unexpected words.
"Then why hasn't he answered my messages? I've been trying to talk to him for two days. I get nothing back."
Frowning, he couldn't answer that question. "He hasn't been in the office much this week. In fact, I've barely seen him since he asked me to join his team."
"He told me he was bringing you in a few weeks ago. I thought it was a good thing. He's off his game. I've been feeling it for months." Wyatt paused, his lips tightening. "Or maybe he's not off his game. Maybe he knows exactly what he's doing."
He had no idea what Wyatt was talking about, but it was clear he needed help. "Look, I don't know what's going on, but you need medical attention. You're in bad shape."
"You think I don't know that?" Wyatt asked angrily. "But if I come out of the shadows, I'm dead."
"Then we'll keep you in the shadows. There has to be a doctor in the city the Bureau uses. There was one in DC."
"Can't trust anyone at the Bureau. Someone is a traitor. Maybe Alan. Maybe someone else."
"Well, you can trust me." As he finished speaking, his phone buzzed.
At the sound, Wyatt jumped like he'd been shot, backing up a few feet, his dark eyes blazing with fear and fury. "Did you tell someone you were coming to meet me?"
"No, I didn't. This is from Bree." He turned his phone around so Wyatt could see the message. "She's getting back into town tomorrow. She just finished up a case in Michigan and wants to have lunch and catch up. I haven't seen her since I moved here."
For a brief moment, Wyatt's expression softened and his gaze cleared, as if he were remembering the days when he and Bree and Wyatt had first become friends. They'd met at Quantico on the first day of training, eager to become agents, to make their mark on the world. Hard to believe that was four years ago. So much had happened since then.
His explanation seemed to ease the stress in Wyatt's eyes, but then a car came speeding around the corner.
Wyatt grabbed Damon's arm and pulled him into the thicket of trees as the black SUV stopped in the street next to the basketball court, its engine idling.
"What did you do?" Wyatt demanded, fear as well as anger in his eyes now. "What the hell did you do, Damon?"
"Nothing. I didn't do anything. I have no idea who is in that car."
"You're lying."
He was further shocked to feel the hard nuzzle of a gun against his side, and with Wyatt in the condition he was in, he wasn't at all sure Wyatt wouldn't shoot him. "I'm not lying, Wyatt. I didn't tell anyone you contacted me. I'm on your side."
"Or pretending to be. Just like Alan."
"Alan would never give you up, Wyatt. He wou
ldn't do that."
"I'm no longer surprised by what people will do, given enough motivation," Wyatt said cynically.
"You're exhausted. You're not thinking straight. You need to sleep and eat. Come to my apartment. Once you're rested, we can talk. We'll figure things out."
Wyatt looked like he was considering the offer, then he stiffened as the doors on the double-parked vehicle suddenly opened. As a jean-clad leg came out of the car, Wyatt said, "Gotta go," and took off through the trees.
Damon was torn between going after him and seeing who was in the vehicle.
A second later, three male teenagers, one with a basketball in his hands, exited the SUV. They headed straight for the court. They weren't trouble, and if Wyatt had been operating on normal brain cells, he would have seen that.
He moved toward the river in the direction that Wyatt had gone, but his friend had vanished. He spent ten more minutes looking for him, then gave up. Wyatt was better than anyone at disappearing.
As he thought about their disjointed conversation, he couldn't believe Alan had set Wyatt up. But if Wyatt's cover was blown—and judging by his appearance, someone had tried to kill him—then Wyatt was clearly in danger. And he wasn't going to keep himself alive as jumpy and paranoid as he now was. Wyatt had always been sharply intuitive and a chameleon, easily able to blend into any group, which made him perfect for undercover work, but that guy didn’t exist anymore.
He debated what to do. Pulling out his phone, he punched in Alan's personal number. He wouldn't tell him he'd met up with Wyatt yet, but he'd feel him out, see what Alan had to say.
Unfortunately, Alan's phone went to voicemail.
He debated for another second, then tried his work number. To his surprise, it wasn't Alan who picked up the call; it was a woman.
"Agent Leigh," she said crisply. "Who's calling?"
He was surprised to hear her voice. Karen was the assistant special agent in charge of the organized crime division, but she didn't answer Alan's phone.
Perilous Trust Page 2
