Stolen (Lucy Kincaid Novels)

by Allison Brennan

  He opened the door. There was a slim metal walkway that hugged the wall. A blue security light shined over the door. The subway track was practically in front of him. How much time between trains? Five minutes? Seven? He couldn’t waste any time.

  He looked right and left. The train had been moving south, by the sound, which meant it was coming from Grand Central. To the right was the station.

  He walked as fast as he could toward the platform. The lights became brighter as he rounded a curve.

  He had to find a place to change out of his filthy clothes and contact Noah. He needed to warn Colton. Screw the warning, he needed Colton to tell him to his face that he had nothing to do with Hunter’s murder.

  A train sounded at the far end of the tunnel. Sean didn’t know how much time he had, but he ran. There was a metal door at the end; he prayed it wasn’t locked. It looked like it was to keep people on the platform from accessing the walk.

  The door was locked, but it was a simple industrial lock. Sean picked it quickly as the train sped toward the station. It wouldn’t hit him—he could push his body against the wall—but the driver would certainly see Sean, call security, and the cops would be waiting for him.

  The lock sprang open as the train’s headlights reflected off the wall across from him.

  He stepped onto the platform. A couple looked at him oddly, but he kept going, ready with an excuse if anyone questioned him.

  No one did.

  As he strode up the staircase, he pulled on a baseball cap and adjusted the brim low, to make identifying him on security cameras difficult. He exited on East 33rd Street and kept moving. He entered a bar three blocks from the subway and slipped into the bathroom. He changed quickly, putting his filthy clothes in the garbage, burying them at the bottom. He washed his face and hands with water as hot as he could get it.

  Sean took a deep breath and left the sanctuary of the john. He scouted the bar, which seemed quiet for a weekday evening. He sat in a poorly lit corner where he had a good view of the room and entrance while having the added benefit of being close to the emergency exit. While waiting for the cocktail waitress to bring him his beer, he studied the mirror behind the bar, coolly assessing the patrons and staff to make sure no one was giving him unwanted attention. So far, so good.

  After the waitress deposited his beer, he pulled out his cell phone. Three missed calls, all from Noah. He returned the call. Noah answered on the first ring.

  “What the hell’s going on, Sean? I got your message fifteen minutes ago, but you weren’t answering your phone.”

  “When I got to Hunter’s, his front door was open and he was dead. Bullet to the head, laptop gone. I heard someone in the living room and didn’t know if it was his killer. I bolted down the back staircase. Deanna Brighton was there—”

  Noah cut him off. “You ran from a federal agent?”

  “Noah, she shot at me. I was running, didn’t have a gun out, and she would have hit me in the back.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “That she shot at my back? Hell yes, I’m sure. Twice in the stairwell—the bullets will be in the walls—one on the fourth floor, outside Hunter’s apartment, and the second somewhere between there and the basement. I locked the door, went out through an old tunnel—the basement had been used during prohibition. Took me a while, but I exited the maze. Then—”

  “Meet me and we’ll go in.”

  “No.”

  “Sean, this isn’t a fucking game.”

  “She called me by name.”

  “Did she identify herself?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you ran. I don’t believe this!”

  “Dammit, Noah, she shot at me! Not just in the stairwell, but she followed me underground without backup and she completely lost it. She fired her gun twice more, probably at the rats she was screaming at, and when her partner demanded an update she told him I shot at her! I swear to God, Noah, I did not fire my gun tonight.”

  “I believe you, Sean, but you still need to come in.”

  Why didn’t Noah understand? “Hunter is dead. We talked this morning, remember? I don’t know what I said that had him snooping, but he sounded scared when he called me. And now he’s dead and his computer is gone. I don’t know if Brighton followed me there or was staking out Hunter’s apartment or what, but I’m not going back to my apartment, and I’m not going into the FBI office. You have to trust me on this, Noah.”

  “It must have been a misunderstanding.”

  “You weren’t there,” Sean said, drawing out the words. “She is a fucking lunatic. She was ranting about how much she hates me, how I ruined her life. No way am I getting anywhere near that psycho bitch.”

  Sean glanced around, lowered his voice. “Noah, we’re so close; I’m not going to sit in an FBI interrogation room for the next two days while Jonathan Paxton gets away with yet another crime. We found his connection to PBM, now we need to find out what’s so important he’s willing to risk his career to steal it.”

  “This has become too dangerous. You’re wanted by the FBI—”

  “You have to find a way to fix it. I’m going to disappear for the next forty-eight hours.”

  “Sean, don’t—”

  “I have to. I’m going through with this. Colton will expect me to, even with Hunter gone.” He paused. “I have Hunter’s phone.”

  “You took evidence from a crime scene?”

  “I think I can crack his code and get a history of what he was doing on his computer before he died. I might even be able to find out where his computer is.”

  “Let me think—” Noah sounded as frustrated as Sean felt.

  “I’ll call you only on the cell phone I gave you, every couple hours.”

  “I have to talk to Rick.”

  “I know you don’t owe me any favors, and this is a biggie—”

  “Sean—if Rick says you need to come in, you need to come in.”

  “All right.” But Sean wasn’t certain that he would. Not until he had answers. “Thank you, Noah.”

  “Be careful, Rogan. I’ll see what I can find out.”

  Sean hung up and drained his beer. It wasn’t even ten at night. He really did need to disappear, but he had one person he wanted to see first.

  He wasn’t confident he’d get out of this alive, and no way was he dying without explaining everything to Lucy.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Noah called Rick Stockton while on the way to Hunter Nash’s apartment.

  “You need to rein Sean in,” Noah told Rick after he repeated what Sean had told him.

  “Do you think he’s lying about Brighton firing at him?”

  “Hell if I know.” Noah rubbed his eyes and considered the scenario. “I don’t want to believe that a federal agent would shoot at an unarmed suspect, or lie about an exchange of fire, but I think Sean was telling the truth. I called a friend in the New York office, and there’s already an APB being prepared to send to the tri-state area. He’ll be hunted down as armed and dangerous. He’s still running.”

  “I’ll fix it,” Rick said.

  “And Brighton?”

  “Until we know more about the mole, it’s too dangerous to expose Sean’s undercover role until he’s back under our protection. Use your best judgment in how to handle Agent Brighton. Use me if you have to. I’ll talk to the New York director and have them pull the APB, then call her supervisor and read him in if I think it’s necessary. Keep me in the loop every step of the way.”

  “Yes, sir,” Noah said. “I’d like to brief Agent Madeaux—I need someone I trust in the New York office.”

  “Bring her in, but tread carefully—if the mole thinks we’re on to him, he’ll change his routine.”

  “Maybe that will give us a clue as to who he is.”

  “Maybe we already know—I’m digging around to see if there’s any connection between Brighton and Paxton.”

  Sean had thought there might be after he was followed, until he re
alized she was the one who put him in jail twelve years ago. But that didn’t mean it still wasn’t true. If she was as volatile as Sean thought, Paxton might have been able to recruit her.

  “Let me know what you learn at the crime scene.” Rick hung up. That was when Noah realized that Rick hadn’t said he’d call Sean in. Did Rick actually think that Sean on the run was better than Sean under his thumb?

  At least Noah had permission to read in Suzanne Madeaux; he’d already asked her to meet him at the crime scene.

  Two police cars and the coroner’s van blocked the street outside Nash’s apartment. Noah didn’t immediately see Brighton or anyone who looked like a federal agent. But it was dark, after ten at night, and spectators had lined up across the street.

  Noah introduced himself to one of the cops and showed his badge. “Who’s in charge?”

  “Detective Tucker. He’s in the basement with one of your people.”

  “Thanks.” Noah showed his badge to the officer manning the basement door and went down the stairs.

  A woman wearing dirty beige slacks and a filthy white blouse was standing next to a plainclothes cop, but she was talking on the phone. Both had their badges clipped to their belts and looked over at Noah when he came down.

  Brighton was saying, “He’s a pilot, so make sure you contact all small, private airports as well. He has the means to leave the country; I want to make sure he doesn’t.”

  She hung up and looked at Noah. “Special Agent Deanna Brighton from the FBI. This is a secure crime scene.”

  Noah identified himself. “Agent Brighton, I need a word with you.”

  Surprise and anger crossed her face; then she snapped, “I don’t have time.” She turned to Tucker. “This is a federal case; Rogan is a suspect in a federal crime. Understood?”

  A vein in Tucker’s jaw throbbed. He said, “Oh yeah, I hear you.”

  “Get your people to canvass the area and let me know immediately if Rogan has been spotted. He’s armed and dangerous.”

  “Agent Brighton,” Noah snapped, “this isn’t your case.” He glanced at Tucker. “Detective, our NYPD liaison agent is on her way. I would appreciate it if you can work with Agent Madeaux to coordinate jurisdictional issues and resources.”

  Brighton turned to Noah. “Sean Rogan is a thief and a killer. I’ve been building a case against him for years. This is my investigation.” She was dead serious. She either believed the lie or was doing this completely off book.

  “There’s no active federal or local investigation into Sean Rogan,” Noah said.

  “I’m not getting into this with you, Agent Armstrong. You’re out of your jurisdiction.”

  Tucker was watching the exchange with unrestrained amusement. Noah had to put a stop to it.

  “Brighton, outside, now.”

  “I’m leading the search. I’ve had Rogan’s longtime friend Colton Thayer under surveillance, and Rogan is now working with him again. I knew it was only a matter of time before he slipped up, only he did it in a big way. Murder.”

  She had to have been following Thayer to know Sean was working with him. What else did she know? But Noah couldn’t give an inch on this. Sean’s life was in danger if every law enforcement agency thought he was a killer who’d shot at a cop. Noah wanted to tell her that Rogan was working for the FBI but didn’t. If she was the mole, then Paxton would know what Sean was doing and Noah’s entire investigation would be a bust.

  Instead, he said, “Assistant Director Stockton is talking to your boss right now. You are free to call headquarters. But the APB on Rogan has already been canceled.”

  “You can’t do that! I walked into the apartment and Rogan is there with a gun in his hand and a dead body at his feet.”

  Noah prayed Sean hadn’t lied to him about the gun.

  “I identified myself,” she continued, stepping closer to Noah, “and he ran. I chased him into the tunnels. He shot at me.”

  If Noah hadn’t already talked to Sean, he might have believed her—she was a sworn FBI agent. And while not everyone in the Bureau was solid, Noah generally trusted them until they proved otherwise.

  But Deanna Brighton had already created a lot of problems, and while Sean was a lot of things, he wasn’t a liar.

  “I’ll get to the bottom of what happened,” Noah said, “but you’re relieved from this case.”

  “Like hell—”

  Suzanne walked down the stairs with another agent, a thirty-year-old tall, lanky male. “Noah, good to see you again. And Hayden Tucker, I heard you got your gold shield over the summer. Congratulations.”

  “Thanks much, Suz.”

  Brighton was staring at them like they were all crazy and she was the only sane person.

  Suzanne continued, “I hear we’re working on this together.” She glanced around the basement, which was crammed with computer equipment and books. “It’s crowded down here. Why don’t you and I walk through the crime scene and chat?”

  “You still mixing it up with DeLucca up in Queens?”

  Suzanne groaned. “DeLucca is off-limits.” She said to Noah, “Noah, meet Agent Steve Gannon, White-Collar. I’ll leave you to straighten out the deets, ’kay?” Her tone was light, but her eyes were serious. She was trying to tell Noah something, and he wasn’t certain he got it.

  “Deanna,” Gannon said, “I talked to Suzanne, and she said D.C. is lead on the case. I think we should take a step back and listen to Agent Armstrong—”

  “No! You don’t understand. He’s up to something big, and then he kills his partner.”

  She was talking to Gannon, not Noah. The dynamic was interesting, and she was borderline hysterical.

  Noah said, “Sean didn’t kill Hunter Nash.”

  She turned to Noah, her light eyes wild. “You don’t know that!”

  Noah turned to Steve Gannon. “Agent Gannon, I suggest that you convince your partner to leave and go directly to your office.”

  “Deanna,” Gannon said, looking from Noah to his partner, “let’s go.”

  Deanna took a deep breath and forced herself to calm down. “No. Wait. You have to listen to me. Sean Rogan is dangerous. He shot at me. He killed his partner. Don’t you see?”

  Noah couldn’t tell her anything about the undercover investigation, not with her being such a loose cannon. He said, “I’m vouching for him. If you don’t report to headquarters straightaway, I’ll be taking your badge. Give your Glock to Gannon.”

  She looked like she wanted to continue to argue. Then she unholstered her weapon and handed it to Gannon. She walked toward the stairs.

  Gannon said, “Deanna’s smart. Real smart.” He was apologizing for her, Noah realized. “She’s been after Rogan for a long time, but when he turned up in New York she got kind of obsessed, certain he was into something big.”

  “How many gunshots did you hear?”

  “Two initially. Then, ten minutes later, two more.”

  “Watch her,” Noah said. He nodded toward her gun. “Check the magazine.”

  Gannon didn’t want to. “Why?”

  “Do it.”

  Gannon reluctantly popped the magazine. “Ten.”

  “Chamber?”

  “One.”

  “Sean didn’t shoot at her,” Noah said. “She lied.”

  Gannon didn’t seem surprised. “I walked through the crime scene. She said she saw Rogan standing over the victim’s body with a gun in his hand, except Rogan ran when she was still in the living room. There was no angle where she could have seen Rogan or the body, unless she stood directly in the doorway.”

  Noah realized the implications. “Sean wouldn’t have been able to run if she was in the doorway while he was still in the room.”

  It might have been a minor point—he had fled a room where a body had been discovered—but Brighton had already lied about having eyes on him with a gun over the body and about the gunshots.

  Noah said to Gannon, “Don’t let her out of your sight.”

 
; Gannon nodded soberly and left.

  Noah called Rick. He was on the phone, so Noah left a voice mail with the new information.

  He looked around the basement. This appeared to be a wasteland for old electronics, as if Nash couldn’t bear to part with any of his stuff. Ancient game systems, a computer with a floppy drive that Noah barely remembered, a dozen keyboards stacked on a shelf.

  A solid wood bookshelf had been moved and behind it was the passageway where Sean had escaped. A splintered door was open, leading to stairs. Noah found a light switch and turned it on. Only one faint bulb burned from the top. He carefully went up the stairs without touching anything. Four flights later and he was in Nash’s kitchen. The coroner’s team was taking out the body.

  Suzanne was talking with Tucker. She saw Noah and said, “No forced entry, single gunshot to the head, approximately two hours ago. Does that clear Sean?”

  “I don’t know, but he didn’t do it.”

  Tucker glanced at Suzanne and said, “I didn’t know the feds were hiring psychics now.”

  Suzanne laughed, but Noah didn’t see the humor in the situation. “Sean said he didn’t fire on Brighton; she said he shot at her and she returned fire. Her partner heard four shots total. There are four bullets missing from her Glock.”

  “He could have used a silencer,” Tucker suggested.

  Noah didn’t need the help. “You have to trust me on this. I’ll take full responsibility.”

  Noah realized that while he’d wanted to believe Sean, he hadn’t fully trusted him until he compared Gannon’s statement to Deanna Brighton’s Glock. He felt like a shit about it, too. Sean made it difficult to trust him, but at the same time, he’d been solid while working undercover.

  “Noah?” Suzanne said.

  “You’re in charge, along with Detective Tucker. Whatever you need to tell him is cleared, but need-to-know, okay?”

  “Well, this is interesting,” Tucker said.

  Noah ignored him. “I need everything. Bullets and casings. We’re bypassing the New York office—ship everything directly to the FBI lab at Quantico. Sean told me Brighton fired twice in the back stairwell and twice in the tunnels. I’ll find out if there are any distinguishing landmarks, but he got out at the subway at East Thirty-third, so I’m thinking that’s the outer search boundary.”