Perilous Trust

by Barbara Freethy

  Karen stepped back, giving the room to Peter Hunt.

  "Our top priority, and the directive from Director Holmes, is finding Alan's daughter," Peter said, drawing Damon's attention to the large wall monitor where Sophie's image appeared.

  His gut clenched at the sight of her. She'd lived in his head for the past four years, but he'd always tried to blur her features. Now she was staring right at him with her gold-flecked brown eyes, framed by long, black lashes. Her blonde hair fell in thick waves around her shoulders. Her skin was perfect with just a touch of pink on her cheekbones. She had three freckles above her right eyebrow that weren't really noticeable in the photo, but he knew they were there. He also knew there were more on her shoulders and her breasts...

  He shook that image out of his head as Peter continued his recap of the night's events.

  "Sophie walked out of her office building at NYU shortly before five, as evidenced by the campus security cameras," Peter said. "We're tapping into other cameras along her route home, but don't have that information yet. We're also getting a trace on her phone. We're hopeful that she went to a friend's house and that she wasn't at home when her apartment was broken into, but we need to find her to confirm that. You all know that Alan's daughter was the light of his life. Let's do our best work in not only locating Sophie but also in finding out who killed Alan. Everything else on your list that doesn't require immediate attention takes a backseat."

  As Peter ended the meeting, the agents got up to go back to their cubicles and offices. A few of the women were crying. Others fell into conversation with each other as they mourned Alan's unexpected death.

  Damon felt very much alone as he left the conference room. He probably knew Alan as well as anyone in the building, but he'd only been in the office a week, and in this group, he was very much an outsider.

  "Damon."

  He stopped and turned as Peter came toward him.

  "Let's talk in my office," Peter said.

  "Sure." He didn't know Peter at all. He had had only one brief conversation with him when Alan had introduced him on his first day of work.

  As he followed Peter into his office, Peter motioned for him to close the door behind him.

  He did so, then took a chair in front of Peter's desk, noting the pale, tense expression on his face, and sudden drop in energy from what he'd displayed to the group a few moments earlier.

  "What can I do for you?" he asked.

  "I know Alan asked you to come to New York to work on his team, but Karen said you haven't been assigned to a case yet, which seemed odd to me."

  "I've been finishing up some loose ends on a previous case."

  "With MDT," Peter said with a nod. "I followed that. You did good work, Damon."

  "Thank you. I have to admit I had some civilian help."

  "The Monroe family—yes, they turned out to be quite helpful."

  "They did," he agreed.

  "I'm curious as to why you left DC?"

  And he was curious as to why Peter had so many personal questions, but he kept that to himself. "I've always wanted to work for Alan. He's the best—was the best," he amended, feeling another rush of anger and disbelief that Alan's life had been taken. He was going to find out why and do his best to put whoever was responsible behind bars.

  "Alan was one of the best agents I've ever worked with," Peter said. "He actually got me into the FBI."

  "I didn't realize that."

  "Yes. We went to Yale together. I was the cyber nerd of our group. After college, I got involved in computer security systems, and about ten years later, Alan recruited me to work for the Bureau. He changed my life." Peter paused. "He had that impact on a lot of people."

  "He was very charismatic," Damon agreed.

  "And he could assess talent better than anyone. He knew how to get the best from his people. That's why he did so well at Quantico. He could spot the future heroes from day one."

  Damon listened to Peter ramble and had a feeling that they were moving closer to some point, but it was taking a hell of a long time to get there. When Peter finally paused, he said, "What do you really want to ask me?"

  Peter straightened, as if realizing he'd gotten lost in his memories. "Alan respected you, Damon. I believe he called you to New York for a specific reason, a problem that he wasn't willing to share with anyone else. And I think that problem got him killed."

  Peter's gaze met his, a challenge in his eyes, a dare to refute his words.

  "Alan told me that he wanted to talk about my next assignment this week, but we never got a chance to do that. If he had a secret, he didn't share it with me."

  "That's a shame. I was hoping you could be more helpful."

  "I would like to be helpful, but I think Karen Leigh would know everything that Peter was involved in."

  "They were very close, but she told me that he's been acting oddly the past few weeks. He's been secretive, sometimes unreachable. She thought something was going on in his personal life. Now, she's wondering if it was work related."

  "I wish I could say I knew."

  "So do I," Peter said with a sigh. "We need to find Sophie. I can't bring Alan back, but I can sure as hell try to save his daughter. I assume since you were good friends with Alan that you know Sophie?"

  "I met her once years ago."

  "You don't know who she might have sought out or where she might have gone if she wanted to get away from everything?"

  "Given your history with her dad, I would have thought she'd run to you."

  "Yes, I would have thought so, too," Peter said heavily. "Which leads me to believe she didn't go willingly."

  His stomach turned at the thought of Sophie being someone's captive. "I hope that's not the case."

  "Me, too. Thanks. You can go."

  As he headed for the door, Alan's phone buzzed.

  "Senator," Peter said. "I know. I can't believe it. A tragic loss."

  As Damon closed the door to Peter's office, he wondered which senator had called to offer condolences. He didn't envy Peter having to tell Alan's friends he was dead.

  He'd seen a lot of people die—both as a soldier and as an FBI agent—and notifying family and friends was never easy.

  He walked back down the hall and took the elevator to his floor. When he got to the cubicle he had yet to feel at home in, he was faced with another surprise—this time a happier one.

  The pretty brunette with the light-blue eyes made him feel like he finally had a friend in the building.

  "Bree," he said. "I'm glad to see you."

  She gave him a hug. "I can't believe Alan is dead. I heard the news when I got off the plane. I thought it had to be a mistake."

  "I wish it was." He sat down at his desk as she took the adjacent chair.

  "From the number of people in the building at this time of night, I'm assuming it's not an accident," she said.

  "No, and worse, Alan's daughter is missing. No one is sure if she ran or if someone got to her."

  Bree's gaze clouded with concern. "That's disturbing."

  "Her apartment was trashed, searched thoroughly, sofa cushions ripped apart, drawers broken."

  "They think she has something."

  "Or knows something, but I can't see Alan reading her in on anything to do with his work. He kept her away from his job. He told me once he didn't want her to be part of this world."

  "Whoever searched her apartment may not know that. Are there any leads?"

  "Not that anyone has shared with me, but I don't know too many people here. Maybe you can get a little more insight."

  Bree had been in the New York field office for three months, and while she didn't work in Alan's division and was often out of the building tracking down kidnappers and missing children, she still had more contacts than he did. And he could trust Bree. She was another person from their academy group that Alan had recruited to come to New York. Now that Alan was dead, he couldn't help wondering if there had been some reason Alan had wanted so
many of them in New York.

  "I'll certainly try to get some information." Bree cast a quick look over her shoulder to make sure no one was in earshot. "We need to talk some baseball."

  "Let's take a walk outside."

  They didn't speak again until they were out on the sidewalk, a few hundred yards away from the federal building.

  "Did you speak to Wyatt?" Bree asked.

  "Yes, I met him at a park by the East River earlier tonight. He looked like shit, Bree. He said someone tried to kill him, and it appeared that that person had beaten the crap out of him. He was also hyper and paranoid, giving me short, one-word responses. I thought he could have been on something or else he hasn't slept in a week."

  Her brows furrowed together in concern. "That doesn't sound like Wyatt."

  "He was like a stranger, Bree. He told me Alan set him up."

  "That's crazy. Alan would never do that."

  "That's what I said. Wyatt wasn't convinced. He told me Alan set the meet with him, but he didn't show up, and Wyatt was ambushed. If it wasn't Alan who set him up, then it might have been someone else at the Bureau, because they were operating under strict protocols."

  Her gaze grew troubled. "Alan would never sell out an agent under his command."

  "Well, the bottom line is Wyatt is compromised and in danger. I tried to get him to go home with me, but he flipped out when a car pulled up by the park. It was nobody—just a bunch of teenagers—but he obviously didn't feel like he could wait around to see who was in the car. I need to know what case Wyatt is working on."

  "You don't know?" she asked in surprise. "He didn't tell you?"

  "No, he didn't get a chance or he thought I already knew."

  "But you're on the same team."

  "Alan hasn't read me in on any of the current operations yet. Now that he's dead, I'm wondering if Wyatt's attack and his accident are tied together."

  "You need to talk to Karen Leigh."

  "I know, but can I trust her? What do you think? Do you know her?"

  Bree hesitated. "Not well enough to say."

  "What does your gut tell you?"

  "I'm not sure," she said slowly. "She's smart, ambitious, driven, very dedicated, works long hours. She and Alan seemed extremely close, very much in sync. I did have a moment when I wondered if they had a more personal relationship, because I saw them together having a late dinner one night, but that could have just been a working dinner."

  "Interesting."

  "What are we going to do about Wyatt? I saw your message about Alan to him, but he didn't respond—nor did anyone else."

  "I think Parisa and Diego may be out of the country. They may not have access to the forum. This is on us, Bree."

  "Hopefully, Wyatt gets back in touch and sets up another meet."

  She pushed a strand of hair off her cheek, and he saw the dark shadows under her eyes. "You look tired."

  "I haven't slept much this week, but it was worth it. I got to reunite a mother and daughter. It doesn't happen that often, so I don’t care how exhausted I am."

  He smiled, knowing how important it was to her to bring families back together. "Congratulations."

  "Thanks."

  "Should we go back to the office?"

  Guilt flashed through her eyes. "I feel bad, Damon, but I really need to sleep for a few hours so I can get my brain working again."

  "No need to feel bad. There are a lot of people working on Alan's case."

  "I'll dive in tomorrow morning. But if you need something before then…"

  "I'll be in touch."

  "I'm glad you're in New York, Damon. Even though we won't be working directly together—it will be nice to have you in the office."

  "To be honest, I don’t know what I'm going to be doing now that Alan is dead, but one step at a time. We've got to get Wyatt out of trouble."

  "We will," she promised, as she turned and walked away.

  And Sophie, too, he silently muttered, as he headed back to the office.

  Four

  Wyatt Tanner moved through the crowded streets of New York like a wary cat, keeping in the shadows, choosing alleys whenever possible, staying away from the lights. He probably should have taken Damon up on his earlier offer of help. He'd always trusted Damon, but then he'd always trusted Alan, too, and now…now he didn't know what to think.

  He didn't want to believe that the man who had had his life in his hands the past ten months had sold him out, but he couldn't come up with a better answer no matter how hard he tried. And if it wasn't Alan, it was someone else at the Bureau, someone who knew where he was, what he was doing, and that boiled down to a very small group of people.

  Alan had brought him into the New York field office ten months ago for the express purpose of planting him with the Venturi family, an Italian Mafia family that had been decimated in the eighties, only to spring back into business after 9/11 when the government's interest turned to Islamic terrorist groups. The Venturis had also resurged because the old man Giancarlo Venturi had died in prison a year ago, and his two sons had decided to bring back the family business.

  Lorenzo and Stefan Venturi had been laundering money for quite some time, but they'd moved beyond cleaning dirty money through real-estate development, wholesale diamonds and gambling to dealing drugs that were fueling the opioid crisis in the Northeast.

  He'd found his way into the organization through his construction skills, the same skills he'd learned from his very respectable, very upstanding contractor father. He was sure his dad had never imagined he'd use what he'd been taught on numerous job sites to infiltrate a crime family, but that's exactly what had happened.

  He'd gone slow at first, getting close to one of the construction supervisors, who'd taken him to a poker game, where he'd used his card counting skills and reckless gambling attitude to get invited to the high roller's game. Eventually, and as planned, he'd found himself in debt to the youngest Venturi brother—Lorenzo.

  With a desperate need to pay off debts to the family, he was able to pick up side jobs, starting with small things like making cash deposits at different banks into different accounts, and then when he'd proved himself trustworthy, he'd been brought into other deals, delivering drugs, weapons, and diamonds.

  He'd been building a damn good case against the Venturis until something had changed a few weeks earlier.

  There was a new player in the game. The Venturi brothers were having secret meetings and rumors of joining forces with a larger syndicate had rumbled around the organization.

  Alan had set up a meet with him two days ago, saying he had important information to discuss, which had been unusual, because in the past Alan had always let him initiate contact. Alan hadn't shown up at that meeting, and he'd come close to losing his life, so it sure as hell felt like a set-up.

  He'd thought for a while that the Venturis had someone inside at the FBI. It was difficult to believe that Alan might have been that mole, but he looked damned guilty at the moment.

  He had to figure out a way to keep himself alive and get to the truth. He shouldn't have panicked at the park, but he'd had the sudden thought that if Alan was a mole and he'd personally picked Damon to work for him, then maybe Damon was dirty, too. But that was wrong. Damon was a good guy. He knew that. He just wasn't thinking straight. He was exhausted, running on fumes, and every bone in his body hurt. His head was throbbing, his vision was blurry, and he was almost out of cash and options.

  He hated to ask for help, but Damon was his best bet. Hopefully, he'd be willing to talk to him again. He just needed to get on the Internet, which was what was driving him toward an Internet café shortly before midnight. The café was occupied by a clerk and one older teenage boy.

  He used the last few dollars he had to buy ten minutes on a computer and then logged in to the baseball forum. His nerves jangled as he opened the private chat room and saw a message from Damon.

  The breath left his lungs as he read Damon's post. Coach is dead. Fe
rnandez in trouble. Need the starters back on the field. Who's available?

  The coach was Alan. He was Fernandez, and Damon was calling anyone else who could make themselves available to help. But no one else had answered yet.

  He sat back in his chair and stared at the screen.

  Alan was dead?

  Maybe he wasn't dirty after all.

  Or Alan had failed at doing what he was supposed to do—which was to take him out. Not that it was Alan who had attacked him, but he could have easily hired the muscle.

  But that didn't matter anymore. Alan was dead and it couldn't be an accident. So, who had killed him? Someone from the FBI? Someone from the Venturi family? The new player in town?

  He tapped his fingers lightly on the keyboard, thinking that Damon might be in as much trouble as he was, because he was Alan's latest recruit.

  He typed in a note for Damon, who'd chosen the All-Star catcher Gary Carter as his moniker on the site…

  Carter never should have signed with a new coach. Might want to go back to the minors. Better players there. Let's meet for batting practice at the cages tomorrow night at nine. Need some tips on my swing.

  Damon would know he was referring to the 8th Street arcade where they'd had a few meets in the past. It was a good, crowded location, with a lot of people around.

  He hit Send, hoping he wasn't making a mistake.

  Even if Damon could be trusted, if he talked to the wrong person at the FBI about any of this, he could be risking both their lives…

  * * *

  Damon didn't sleep all night, tossing and turning in his ridiculously hot apartment that was barely livable with all the windows open and two fans blowing. He was supposed to have air conditioning, but it wasn't working. He'd grabbed the apartment fast because it was close to his new job, but he was definitely going to have to rethink his living situation.