Pacing Jamie flashed Not Jamie a dumbfounded look. “That’s what you’re worried about? Me talking to him. We’re in so much trouble.” A note of panic rose in his voice.
Not Jamie laughed lightly. “What? For snatching up some weak slob? Nah.”
Clive wished he could be offended at being called a weak slob, but the truth was, he was soft and out of shape.
He hadn’t always been this way. When he first met Liv, they’d used the cabin as home base for skiing in the winter and mountain biking and kayaking in the summer. He’d been fit, active—the opposite of a weak slob. But, they—no, he—grew complacent, lazy.
Stop thinking about her.
He worked his throat and swallowed, tasting the tang of blood.
Jamie circled the room again and stopped near the other man. “What do you think they want him for anyway?” His voice was low, but his whisper carried across the small space to Clive.
“How should I know? Maybe he owes them money.”
“You don’t think they’ll … kill him?”
Not Jamie shrugged, seemingly unconcerned at the prospect of Clive’s potential murder.
The big guy at least seemed upset about it. He shook his head, wild-eyed. “Uh-uh. No. I want no part of that.”
Clive was developing a bizarre fondness for Jamie.
“Take it easy. They probably aren’t going to kill him. If they were, they wouldn’t have said to make sure we didn’t hurt him grabbing him up. You know?”
“I guess. But uh, we did hurt him. Look at him.”
Another shrug from Not Jamie. “He’s still breathing, isn’t he?”
“He’s in pretty bad shape, Donny.”
Donny? So Not Jamie had a name, after all.
“Why don’t you run over to the Hi-Life and pick up some beers? See if Miles’ll put in an order for some wings and fries, too.”
It was clear to Clive, even through his excruciating pain and overwhelming fear, that Donny was trying to calm Jamie down and distract him from Clive’s condition. It seemed to have the opposite effect.
The big guy shook his head and flapped his hands. “No, no I can’t. I worked over at the railroad for a while, remember? Someone might recognize me. I can’t go … I can’t show my face. Not around here.”
Donny sighed heavily. “Who knew you were such a frickin’ pansy? Fine, I’ll go. I gotta report in anyway.” He pushed himself off the wall and headed toward the splintered door.
Before he threw back the lock, he turned and gave Clive a look that clearly communicated don’t try anything.
Like what? Clive thought to himself.
Donny shifted his attention to Jamie. “Don’t do anything. Just stand there and watch this guy. Think you can handle that?”
He wrenched open the door and stomped out without waiting for an answer.
Several long seconds ticked by in silence. Well, near-silence. Clive could hear his heart thudding in his chest. He sniffled thickly, and the force broke open his scabbed-over nose. Fresh blood and mucus ran down his face over the duct tape that covered his mouth.
He shifted his gaze to Jamie, who eyed him with a slack-jawed and disgusted expression. “Dude, you’re a mess.”
Clive was momentarily grateful for the gag because he wouldn’t have been able to stop himself from responding snidely. After all, they both knew who was responsible for his condition. The same thought must’ve crossed Jamie’s mind. His eyes fell and a shadow of guilt and fear washed across his face.
“Al Sharqi’s gonna be so mad that we hurt you,” he muttered to himself. He yanked open the flimsy kitchen cabinets, one by one.
Clive watched as Jamie pawed around in a drawer near the door until he came up with a fistful of crumpled unbleached napkins that appeared to have come from a fast-food restaurant. He approached Clive warily, as if Clive could possibly do anything to him.
He leaned in and dabbed at Clive’s busted face with a clumsy gesture. Pain shot through Clive from his jaw to his brain every time Jamie patted his face. Clive stiffened and steeled himself against the pain. As a distraction from the agony, he focused on the fact that at least Jamie was seeing him as a human being. That was good. No, that was great, worth the excruciating pain.
“I guess that’s the best I can do, man.” Jamie stepped back and examined his handiwork.
Clive tried to relax his face and soften his eyes, hoping he was communicating gratitude. Jamie didn’t seem to notice; he was scanning the room looking for a trashcan. Finding none, he balled up the bloodied napkins and tossed them to the ground.
His stomach turned, but not from the sight of his blood and snot.
He had bigger problems. If what Jamie had just said was true—that Zayed Al Sharqi had ordered his abduction and had given instructions not to hurt him—it was because he had something specific, and horrifying, in mind for Clive.
6
Pittsburgh, PA
Friday evening
* * *
Leo eyed Sasha carefully. She’d been unusually quiet and distracted during dinner and had let the kids talk her into skipping their bath in favor of watching a movie in the playroom. He was the family softie, not her.
She slowly turned the crank on the stovetop popcorn maker. Java wound himself around her ankle, but she didn’t seem to notice.
“Do you want me to melt some butter?”
She didn’t respond.
He crossed the room and placed a hand on her shoulder. “Earth to Sasha.”
She jerked her head up. “I’m sorry, did you say something?”
He searched her bright green eyes, but she gave no hint of what she was thinking. “I asked if I should melt butter for the popcorn. Are you okay?”
She kept cranking the popcorn maker but shifted her weight and angled her body toward him. “Sorry. I’m just lost in thought. Let’s skip the butter. Finn still seems to think that curtains are an acceptable substitute for a napkin. And Fiona doesn’t even bother with the curtains—she’ll just wipe her hands on his shirt.”
They both laughed.
“Duly noted on the butter. But you’re a thousand miles away.” He removed two small bowls from the cabinet and placed them on the counter by her elbow.
The rhythmic popping of the kernels slowed, then stopped. She switched off the burner and removed the popcorn from the heat. Then she portioned it into the bowls and shook Parmesan cheese over the top.
“Actually, only two hundred miles away, give or take,” she said over her shoulder.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
Her shoulders sagged. “There’s not much to talk about. My client blew off a sentencing hearing today in federal court.”
“Ugh.”
“It gets worse. I was in front of Judge Cook.”
He winced. Although he wasn’t a lawyer, he knew Judge Cook’s reputation, and he also knew Sasha’s former firm had a history with the jurist. As far as he could tell, almost everyone involved in the legal system had a finely honed ability to hold a grudge.
“So, now what happens?”
“Well, today was ugly, but the AUSA threw me a lifeline. We convinced Judge Cook to give me the weekend to find my client. I got him a deal with no prison time, but if I don’t show up with him in court on Monday morning, he’s probably going to federal prison for a really long time. And I’m probably going to be censured.”
“That’s not fair. It’s not your fault if this guy skipped town.”
She laughed, but there was no humor in it. “Judge Cook won’t see it that way—or at least, he won’t care.”
That was the other thing about lawyers and judges. For people who were committed to notions of justice and fair play, they sure seemed to apply their rules even when doing so resulted in an injustice. But he knew better than to go there right now. Instead, he clicked his tongue and murmured sympathetically.
She went on, “But I don’t think he did skip town, at least not on purpose. He was supposed to be driving back from his cabin i
n West Virginia—”
“Two hundred miles away, I take it?”
“Right. But he never showed up and nobody’s heard from him. This isn’t like him. I’m irritated, of course, but I’m also worried something happened to him.”
He picked up the popcorn bowls from the counter. “Let me deliver these to the kids then we can talk through your next steps.”
“Actually, I already know what I have to do. I’m going to drive down there.”
“Now?” His eyes drifted to the clock on the microwave.
She shook her head. “No, not tonight. In the morning. Don’t worry, I’m going to leave before sunrise. I’ll be back in time for the kids’ soccer game.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“You’re using the term ‘game’ a little loosely, don’t you think? Last week Hunter spent the entire first half tending goal with his back to the playing field.”
“But nobody scored on him. Maybe there’s a method to his madness.”
He laughed. “Still, I think you can get a pass on a soccer game between four-year-olds.”
She didn’t join in his laughter. She set her mouth in a firm line. “I’ve got to go find Clive, but I am not missing that game. I’ll be there. You can count on it.”
“You do you.” Privately, he’d welcome an excuse to skip an Orange Squirts soccer match, but it took all kinds of parents to make the youth sports world go around.
She eyed him as if she could tell what he was thinking. He decided to change the subject. “I know you and Naya are pretty adept at finding people, but do you want a professional to give it a shot? I’d hate for you to take off on a wild goose chase if it turns out he’s been admitted to a hospital or he’s holed up in a hotel or something.”
Hope lit in her eyes. “You think you can work some magic?”
“I can try.”
She took the bowls from his hands. “In that case, I’ll deliver these. You fire up your secret agent gadgets or get in touch with Q or whatever you do.”
He interlaced his fingers and stretched his arms out in front of him. “In other words, log into the database. Got it. Also, it’s M. Keep your Bond characters straight.”
She rose up on her tiptoes and kissed the side of his mouth. “I’ll meet you in the office with a glass of Scotch.”
Sasha crossed the room and placed the glass of Scotch on the ceramic tile coaster the twins had painted for Connelly’s Father’s Day gift. If she squinted at it just right, it was pretty in a blurry, post-modern way.
She rested her chin on his head and draped her arms over his shoulders, placing her hands on his chest, near his heart. He quickly closed out of whatever top-secret database he was querying with a smooth, practiced motion.
“Thanks.” He gestured toward the drink. Then he eased his arm out from under her embrace to lift the glass and take a sip.
“So, I’m going to need some details.”
“Such as?”
“Well, a name would be a good place to start.”
“Oh, I guess it would. Scoot over.”
He shifted his weight and she wriggled onto the chair beside him.
“Comfortable now, counselor?”
She grinned. “Yep. Okay, his name is Clive Bloch.”
He stiffened. “You’re representing the man who tried to send two million dollars to a Yemeni terror organization?”
She turned sideways to face him. Her heart was racing, and her temper was rising. They tried mightily not to discuss the details of their jobs at home. She imagined most couples did. But most couples weren’t bound by federal laws related to security clearance and the professional rules of responsibility governing lawyers. They were. And they made a concerted effort to honor their obligations—even when doing so made their marriage a bit bumpy.
It hadn’t occurred to her until that moment that her husband might also be aware of the Recreation Group case, albeit from a very different angle. She wasn’t sure why she was so surprised. After all, he was a special agent working for the Department of Homeland Security in some ill-defined national security role that he wasn’t at liberty to talk about. He was stationed out of Pittsburgh. Recreation Group was a Pittsburgh-headquartered company. It made perfect sense that he’d know about the case.
“Connelly, are you working on this case? Just a yes or no answer; I’m not asking for any details.”
He twitched his mouth from side to side, considering his response. “Not anymore. I was.”
“I didn’t see your name on any of the documents the Department of Justice turned over in discovery. I would’ve noticed, believe me.”
He gave her a faint smile. “I’m sure you would’ve. But you can be sure I didn’t do anything that would make it into a discoverable report.”
“I don’t think you can help me with this, though. It’s a—”
“Conflict, right.”
“Right.”
They looked at each other for a long moment. Then he said, “The U.S. Attorney’s Office charged him under the Bank Secrecy Act and the Patriot Act with aiding and abetting bulk money smugglers to provide terrorist financing and with attempting to provide material support to terrorists.”
“That’s right.”
His eyebrow crawled toward his hairline. “And you got him a plea agreement with a binding recommendation of no prison time?”
She paused to craft a response that would preserve her client’s confidentiality. After a moment, she blew out a breath, ruffling the hair that fell in tendrils around her face.
“It’s not as impressive as it sounds. Even the DOJ seemed to recognize that they couldn’t show the requisite intent to commit any of the crimes. And, in reality, they probably have a better case against Recreation Group than Clive. But they committed to a course of action, so …”
“You really believe his claim that he was tricked?”
“Didn’t we just agree that we can’t talk about this?”
He exhaled. “Look, this is difficult terrain. But we’ve navigated choppier waters.”
“Nice mixed metaphor.”
“Thanks, professor. Seriously, though, wouldn’t you say that on this limited issue—finding Clive Bloch—your client’s interest and the government’s interest are aligned? We want him to show up for sentencing. You want him to show up for sentencing. Let’s work together to get him there.”
She pursed her lips and thought about it. After a moment, she smiled. “Way to spin an argument, but I think that’s actually true. You’d have made a halfway decent lawyer, Connelly.”
“Bite your tongue.”
She giggled at his mock offense, but it was true. He could be persuasive.
“So, without discussing the details of his case, can you run some searches and see if he turns up?”
“Sure. But I do have a question. I don’t think this crosses a line, and it’s mainly to satisfy my curiosity: Are you sure he didn’t skip town because he’s actually guilty?”
“Hypothetically, let’s say a person did commit crimes that could land him in prison for decades. And let’s say that person’s hypothetical lawyer got him a sweetheart deal from the government. What would be the advantage to going on the run? If he shows up for sentencing, he pays a twenty-five-thousand-dollar fine and the Department of Justice enters into a non-prosecution agreement with Recreation Group. If he doesn’t, he’s looking over his shoulder for the rest of his life while the FBI hunts him down and Recreation Group probably brings a civil case against him. Like, why would he choose that path?”
“Only twenty-five grand? He’s getting off pretty easy.”
“Well, the FBI did keep the two million. And Justice is getting a mark in the win column that I’m not at all sure they’d get if we went to trial. So … I’d say this is a more-than-fair compromise.”
“Spoken like a true defense attorney.”
She lowered her chin and gave him a look. He knew what it meant.
He put his arm around her and pulled her close
. “Moving on. Do you know what strikes me as weird?”
“No, what?”
“Whoever stuffed the money in those bears screwed up. If they hadn’t, they probably would have succeeded in smuggling that cash to Yemeni terrorists.”
Now this was interesting. She tilted her head. “How do you mean?”
“Cash is heavy. In general, cash smugglers deal with hundred-dollar bills. After all, they weigh the same as ones, right?”
“Sure.”
“But when Customs and Border Patrol started cutting open teddy bears, they found twenties inside.”
Since he already knew, there was no harm in confirming it. “Right, two hundred stuffed bears, each of which had five hundred twenty-dollar bills crammed inside.”
“Yeah, but if the smuggler had used hundreds, they could have shipped two million dollars at one-fifth the weight. I sincerely doubt the freight forwarders would have noticed.”
She blinked at him. “So, it was a rookie mistake?”
“Definitely, which kind of points to your guy. He seems pretty … hapless. And, honestly, large-denomination bills is Money Smuggling 101.”
“Clive may be hapless, but he really did seem to think he was donating bears to refugee kids under Recreation Group’s charitable giving program. Now, I’ll grant you that he should have vetted the charity better. And he admits as much in his plea statement.”
“Yeah. And whoever played him, played him well. They got Recreation Group to foot the shipping bill so their name was never on the manifest.”
“Exactly. Recreation Group trucked the bears to a warehouse on the South Side where a group of high school kids doing some volunteer project were supposed to tie ribbons with affirming messages around the bears’ necks. And then Recreation Group arranged for the freight forwarder to pick them, crate them, and ship them to the Middle East.”
“So at some point after the ribbons were affixed and before the freight forwarder showed up, somebody sliced open the bears, dug out the stuffing, shoved in the money, and sewed them back up.”
“It’s kind of genius. I mean, if it had worked.”
In Absentia Page 3
