Forger of Light

by Nupur Tustin

  “Nope.” He dug his fist into his jacket pocket and walked toward the South Garden. He needed air. “Her friend. Bev.”

  “Bev?” Ella’s voice rose.

  He registered the barely suppressed excitement in her tone but didn’t understand the reason for it.

  In the pause that followed, he heard the rustling of papers.

  “Did you say Bev?”

  “Yes, why?”

  “Bev Standish—that’s one of the names on the DMV list. There’s a Pete Standish on Reynolds’ client list. Assuming they’re married—”

  “Pete’s our killer,” Blake’s hopes soared. “He’s Fussy Phil.”

  This wasn’t such a bust after all. Even if Pete hadn’t pulled the trigger on his wife, they could get him for Reynolds’ murder. And hopefully also tie him to Hugh Norton and the General.

  “Want me to send some agents over? With an arrest warrant?”

  “Yes, but let me first verify that last name. I’ll call back to confirm. When I do, call Soldi and have him join our guys as well.”

  Julia walked Celine out of the Dunkin Donuts.

  “What’s on your mind?”

  Celine turned to her, troubled. “Someone must have known we’d be here, Julia. Someone must’ve guessed. I’m trying to figure out who it could be.”

  “I agree,” Julia nodded. “This smells like an inside job.”

  Blake was coming their way. He’d been on his phone; he jammed the device into his holster.

  “She in there?” he asked tersely. “I need to talk with her.”

  “Before you do,” Julia said, “who else at the FBI knew about this meeting? Did you tell anyone at Cambridge PD or Boston PD?”

  “Walsh and Soldi both knew it was today. Nothing more. Why?”

  “This killing took some planning, Blake. Knowledge of the security systems, cleaning staff, work routines.”

  “And no one we’ve spoken to, Jonah included,” Celine said, “knew just where we were meeting. So our killer must’ve known Sofia and Bev well enough to realize they’d pick the Pru.”

  “He did,” Blake told them. “Pete Standish. If I’m correct he’s Bev’s husband and Fussy Phil. And you’ve got to admit he has one helluva motive.”

  “But how could he possibly have known they’d be here today?”

  “Someone had to supply him with that information,” Julia said. “Walsh or Soldi? I think we can rule out Jonah. As well as Ella.”

  “Walsh.” The color had drained from Blake’s face. “Who else could it be? He must’ve been on the horn with Norton the minute I left his office. And Norton called Pete.”

  He drove his fist into the wall. “Goddammit! I shouldn’t have agreed to tell Walsh anything. Anything at all.”

  “Doesn’t help to beat yourself over it,” Celine said quietly. She knew exactly how he felt, though. “I’m guessing you didn’t have much choice.”

  She peeked in through the glass door. Sofia sat in her chair, chin down, shoulders hunched and heaving.

  “You should probably ask her your questions while you still can. She’s going into shock.”

  “You’re right,” Blake said.

  He strode into the tiny coffee shop. Celine and Julia followed him in.

  “Sofia?” He deliberately kept his voice gentle, tamped down the fury and the sheer helplessness that threatened to overwhelm him.

  She looked up, face stained with tears, mascara running down her cheeks.

  “Sofia,” he said her name again. “I need to ask you about your friend. Was her last name Standish? Is she married to a Peter Standish?”

  “Yes.” She frowned. “Why do you ask? You think he killed her, don’t you?”

  He did, but he wasn’t going to admit it—not without concrete proof. And certainly not to a civilian.

  “We need to let him know what’s happened,” he deflected her question. “Is there anyone else we should inform? Any other family?’

  Sofia shook her head. “No, she was an orphan—just like me. That’s why we got along so well.”

  He wondered why she’d called herself an orphan. Her mother had passed on, but her father was still alive. Wasn’t he? Had she rejected her father? Was she adopted? Daughter of a single mom?

  The questions swarmed into his mind. He pushed them aside. Now was not the time.

  Chapter Seventy-Seven

  Celine had noticed the tall man hovering by the door of Dunkin Donuts, his eyes on Sofia as she spoke with Blake. He wore a well-tailored black suit. A tiny rectangular gold pin with his name inscribed on it was attached to his lapel.

  He waited until Blake had left before approaching the small table at which they sat.

  “Rick Santana, ma’am,” he said, extending his arm out to Sofia. “Head of Tevah Security.”

  Sofia took his hand limply. Her expression mirrored Celine’s surprise. Had Blake summoned Santana? Or had one of the guards sent for him? Whoever had informed him of the incident at the Pru, it hadn’t taken Santana very long to get here.

  “I don’t have the words to express how sorry I am. We at Tevah take security very seriously. And the kind of breach we’ve had today is simply unpardonable.”

  “It was,” Julia informed him bluntly. “You’ll want to talk to the guy who just left”—Julia pointed at the door—“Special Agent Blake Markham. He’ll probably have questions for you.”

  Santana turned toward her and politely inclined his head. “Yes, of course, ma’am. But first, I’d like to express my condolences to Ms. Wozniak.” He turned back to Sofia. “I realize, ma’am, there’s nothing I can say that will alleviate your grief. But please know we’ll do everything we can to get to the bottom of this.”

  Julia snorted, an expression of derision that Santana much to his credit ignored. He didn’t look the type to be easily fazed.

  “And when you’re ready to leave, there’s a car for you.”

  “She’ll need Special Agent Markham’s permission before she can leave,” Julia put in brusquely.

  “We all will, actually,” Celine added to soften the remark. Julia wasn’t accustomed to being ignored. And Santana—intent on directing the full force of his PR efforts at Sofia—had done just that.

  “I understand.” Santana inclined his head again, then returned his gaze to Sofia. “The car—”

  “What car?” Sofia seemed to have found her voice at last.

  Santana smiled. “Your father thought you might need one, given what’s happened.”

  “But how does he know?” The words gushed out of Celine’s mouth before she could phrase them more gracefully. She exchanged an anxious glance with Julia. She’d gotten the impression Sofia’s father was a well-connected individual.

  He had to be to move in the same circles as Hugh Norton. That a man like Norton would think twice about hurting Sofia only bolstered Celine’s perception. Even so, Wozniak’s knowledge of the murder was inexplicable.

  Blake had to be doing what he’d call a “really piss-poor” job of containment if news of the incident had already spilled out.

  “Tevah Security must’ve alerted him,” Sofia said wearily. “Dad owns the building.”

  The news sent an icy tingle of worry through Celine’s veins. Hugh Norton had somehow managed to obtain what should’ve been confidential information about the Pru’s security detail and its cleaning crew’s schedule. That much had been obvious to both Julia and herself.

  But had the question of how just been answered?

  Could Sofia’s father have been the unwitting source of Norton’s information?

  “How does he know where you are?” Julia asked unceremoniously, oblivious, Celine noted, to the implications of her question. Sofia had told her father about the meeting, but not much more. How could he have known, unless—?

  Sofia didn’t seem to have noticed the imputation in Julia’s question.

  “Most of the guards know who I am.” She gave them a wan smile. “I’ll bet Dad gets a call anytime I�
�m here.”

  She seemed to notice Santana was still holding her outstretched palm.

  Her glance brought a tinge of color to Santana’s brown cheeks. He quickly withdrew his hand from Sofia’s limp grasp.

  “The car is downstairs,” he repeated. “Please take it. It’ll be safer than a cab. The driver has instructions to take you anywhere you want.” He glanced at Celine and Julia. “Your friends, too, if they need a ride.”

  “I think I’d like to leave,” Sofia said as Santana left the coffee shop. “If it’s okay with Agent Markham, that’s to say.”

  “I’m sure it will be.” Julia got to her feet and hauled her black tote off the table. “I’ll see where he is and let him know we’re leaving.” She looked at Celine. “Coming?”

  “Stay here,” Julia instructed Sofia as Celine stood up. “You might want to accompany us back to our hotel. I have a feeling this is over, but you can never be too careful.”

  “You’d better have a damn good reason for interrupting my golf game, Markham,” Walsh’s voice boomed into Blake’s ear.

  After calling Ella to confirm the victim was Bev Standish, Blake had decided to call the SAC. On his personal cell phone.

  “Thought you’d want an update on the operation,” Blake said.

  He didn’t bother to apologize for calling on a weekend. Walsh had insisted on being kept in the loop every step of the way. So, informed he would be.

  “Ah, yes, the meeting. How did it go?”

  “It never happened. The woman’s dead. Murdered.”

  “What?” Walsh barked. “How did—?”

  “That’s what I’d like to know, sir.” He spoke quietly, struggling to keep his emotions under control. “No one knew about this meeting—other than Julia, Celine, Sofia, her friend, and myself.”

  “And me,” Walsh reminded him helpfully.

  “Exactly.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean, Agent?”

  “That you have blood on your hands, sir. You called Hugh Norton after I left your office, didn’t you? You told him about the meeting.” Despite his best efforts, Blake’s voice was getting strident. “That’s the only way Norton could’ve known where Sofia and her friend would be.”

  There was no response. If it hadn’t been for Walsh’s stertorous breathing, Blake would've figured they’d been disconnected.

  Then the SAC exploded.

  “This is preposterous! You’re forgetting I had no idea where this would play out. I still don’t. And as for the individual you’re accusing—”

  “You’re with him, right?”

  Walsh was instantly muzzled, subsiding into stupefied silence, his heavy breathing the only sign he was still on the line.

  Yup, he’d hit the mark. But Blake felt about as pleased as a woman whose suspicions about a cheating partner have been confirmed.

  The SAC hadn’t even bothered to deny the accusation.

  “You’re out of line, Markham,” Walsh finally said, but his voice lacked conviction.

  “Tell Norton, he may have won this round. But this isn’t over. I’ll get him. Sooner or later, I’ll get him.”

  “You can’t go on some half-assed vendetta, Blake.” Walsh sounded like a hostage negotiator trying to reason with a madman. His tone infuriated Blake. “You need proof, solid evidence, something more than just your rage to drive you.”

  Blake ground his teeth. That the SAC was half-right—he had nothing solid to go upon—only whipped his fury into a boiling rage. He erupted as suddenly and violently as a volcano.

  “The man who killed Beverly Standish,” he snarled. “That’s our victim, by the way, a young woman cut off in her prime. Her killer is the same bozo who killed Tony Reynolds. And get this, he’s also your pal Norton’s accountant.” He’d gotten that little tidbit out of Sofia.

  He took a deep breath and drove on.

  “Still think we won’t be able to find the proof we need?” Taunting Walsh eased the hot turbulence seething within him. “And when Norton goes down, you think he won’t drag you into the mud with him?”

  “For the last time, Agent, I had nothing to do with this.” Blake had the impression Walsh had drawn himself to his full height—the man was six feet, four inches tall. “I understand you’re distraught. You need someone to blame. But I’m damned if I’m going to be made into your scapegoat. Get your facts straight. And clean up this mess. Your mess.”

  The phone clicked in Blake’s ear. Your mess?

  Yes, it was his mess. The realization deflated him, driving the last reserve of anger away.

  But as his fury ebbed away, spent now, a single clarifying thought emerged.

  Walsh had been genuinely surprised at the news of Bev Standish’s murder. Was that because he hadn’t informed Norton of their plans?

  Or because he had, but hadn’t realized how far Norton would go to protect himself?

  Chapter Seventy-Eight

  “Everything all right?”

  Hugh Norton looked over at Walsh, an expression of mild concern on his handsome features. He was tall—almost as tall as Walsh himself, but built more powerfully than the lean Special Agent-in-Charge of the Boston FBI.

  “Yes.” Walsh was curt. He slipped his phone back into the case attached to his belt.

  He hadn’t taken Blake’s accusations seriously. But now—now he was beginning to wonder.

  It was Norton who’d recommended the intern whose shenanigans had resulted in disastrous consequences four months ago. Walsh had blamed Blake at the time. Going into a potentially dangerous situation without backup, using a civilian as bait, these were the kind of half-cocked, thoughtless actions you’d expect from a younger, less experienced agent.

  Markham should’ve known better.

  But it was Mary’s spying, Walsh had to concede, that had allowed things to come to a head.

  And Mary had been Norton’s—? Plant?

  Norton had apologized profusely when he’d been told. But the damage had already been done.

  Worse still, Walsh had lost his agent’s trust. He could command Blake back into line. But he was aware he’d never regain his trust. That was lost forever.

  “Sure everything’s fine?” Norton asked again. “If there’s something bothering you, Walsh, you know I’m always game to listen.”

  His solicitousness seemed fake. Was he genuinely concerned? Or just trying to probe for information?

  Walsh didn’t make friends easily. And after his wife had died five years ago, he’d been desperate for companionship. Norton’s easygoing manner and his outgoing personality had reminded Walsh of his Trudy. She’d been such a vivacious woman, someone who could draw you out of your shell.

  Walsh had allowed himself to confide in Hugh Norton the way he’d confided in Trudy—talking about cases, using Norton as a sounding board.

  Now, as he bent over his driver and concentrated on his shot, Walsh wondered if Norton had been taking advantage of him all the while.

  “I’m fine,” he said, blasting fiercely at the ball. It soared up a short distance, then trickled lamely away. “Just fine.”

  He lifted his club and took the three steps to where the ball lay.

  If Norton was involved in this fiasco, he could get his news from elsewhere. Walsh was damned if he was going to get played into revealing any further details of the case. He’d already warned Norton about Blake’s suspicions. That was as far as he was willing to go.

  But there was one thing Walsh didn’t understand.

  If Norton had a hand in this murder, where—and how—had he obtained his information? Despite what Blake thought, Walsh hadn’t revealed any of the details Blake had shared—other than the mere fact of his agent’s unreasonable suspicions and their source—to Norton.

  And he didn’t think Blake had either. His agent wasn’t devious enough to betray the operation and then turn around and accuse a superior.

  There had to be another source. But who?

  Blake was just getting off the
phone when Celine and Julia caught up with him in the South Garden.

  “I don’t think it was Walsh,” he announced when they were within earshot.

  “What?” Celine asked, breaking the promise she’d made to herself to remain as unobtrusive as possible in Blake’s presence and let Julia take the lead. Four months ago when she’d gotten Grayson’s killed, she’d been kidnapped as well.

  This time she hadn’t suffered any consequences. That made it easy for Blake to lay the blame at her door. Not that she faulted him. She ought to have seen this coming and been able to prevent it.

  You’re not God, Celine, Sister Mary Catherine admonished her. You can only see what is given to you to see.

  Tell him that, Celine thought.

  But Blake’s anger must have dissipated. He answered her question readily enough.

  “I don’t think Walsh divulged the details of your meeting to Norton,” he explained. “I just spoke with him.” He sighed. “He’s playing golf with Norton; he may have been indiscreet a time or two. But that’s the extent of it, I think.”

  He gave them a tired smile. “So it’s back to square one as far as that’s concerned.”

  “If it wasn’t Walsh, it would have to be Soldi,” Julia said briskly.

  “Or Campari,” Celine added, “assuming Soldi told her. And he may well have done.”

  “Although I’m still inclined to think,” Julia went on, “that Norton somehow squeezed the details out of Walsh. If I’m right, he also managed to pry information about the Pru’s security from Sofia’s dad.”

  She recounted their conversation with Sofia.

  “Seems plausible.” Blake nodded. “We still need to prove it, though.”

  “Any word on Standish?” Julia asked. “He’s your best bet. He doesn’t seem exactly the type to take a hit for the team.”

  That brought another smile to Blake’s lips. “Nope, that he doesn’t. But no, I haven’t heard from Ridgeway yet. If Standish isn’t in the cab we’re chasing, he’ll be at home or at work. Our boys and some of Soldi’s men are headed there.”