“All right, Agent Lucano—” Henderson nodded to him—”tell me what happened that led up to the shooting incident.”
Incident? An agent was dead! That was no incident. It was a senseless tragedy.
Tony walked Henderson through the anonymous phone call and checking up on Bill Winston, aka Elvis. Henderson stared at a spot in the corner of the ceiling. Tony’s skin warmed. Look at me, you—
The OPR agent fixed Tony with an unreadable gaze. “So after you did due diligence on verifying Bill Winston’s identity, you went to Gordon Trucking to see him in person.”
“The next logical step.”
“But you already suspected that his real name might not be Bill Winston.”
“Correct. We hoped a little fishing expedition might get us more to go on about his identity and, more importantly, point us to the next guy up on the food chain.”
Henderson pursed his lips. “Give me the sequence of events after you and your squad members arrived at Gordon Trucking and confronted the trucker.”
Every muscle rigid, Tony laid out the bare facts—Winston standing with his manifest, the three agents getting out of the SUV, Polanski heading toward the rear of the trailer, the trucker going for his gun, the shouts, the shots.
“Stop there.” Henderson held up a finger. “You yelled for Erickson to get down as soon as you saw Winston reach into his jacket? And he didn’t respond to the command?”
Tony rubbed his palms down his pants. “He might not have heard me. Sometimes when the fight-or-flight instinct kicks in, auditory input doesn’t register from a source other than the danger point.”
“I’m aware of that, but—”
“Evidently, Ben’s reaction to danger was fight. He went for his gun. If he’d been a bit faster, he’d be alive. If he’d ducked like I told him, I’d be the one cooling on a slab.”
The OPR agent blinked. That place in the corner of the ceiling again claimed his attention. “Why did you say that?”
“Winston was more than handy with a gun. I wouldn’t have beaten him to the draw. As it was, the trucker missed plugging me in the head by a literal hair after he shot Ben. Without those extra seconds to get my weapon free … ” Tony shrugged. “There’s no doubt in my mind that Agent Erickson saved my life at the cost of his own.”
Henderson nodded. “That’s good information, Lucano. I’ll keep that in mind when I write the report.”
“Thank you.” Who would’ve thought he’d feel grateful to an OPR guy?
Henderson pulled a sheet from the file. “It’s not surprising that you found Bill Winston a bigger challenge than you expected.” He laid the paper in front of Tony.
“An outdated Most Wanted sheet? This top-ten perp is dead.”
“He is now.”
A shaft of ice speared up Tony’s spine. “I shot a dead man? A felon with a rap sheet a mile and a half long?”
“Bernard Walker faked his death.” Henderson nodded. “Not hard to do with an accident at sea. But apparently he couldn’t bear to leave behind his devotion to Elvis and his penchant for aliases with the initials B. W”
“B. W?” The letters pulsed in Tony’s head.
The OPR agent picked up the sheet. “Brian Wilkins, Bob Warren, Bruce Webber, the list goes on until we get to the one that’s not on here—Bill Winston.”
Tony leaped up. “It’s my fault. I didn’t listen.”
Henderson rose. “What are you talking about?”
Tony leaned on his knuckles toward the OPR agent. “On the way over to Gordon Trucking, Ben remarked that the initials B.W. bothered him. I passed the observation off. He was going to look into it after we had our chat with Winston.”
“Are you saying you were negligent?”
“I should have put the brakes on and checked out the hunch. But I didn’t, and now my agent’s dead. It’s my fault.”
From the expression on Henderson’s face, he was looking at a dead career, too. Big deal! He didn’t deserve the badge in his pocket. Might as well leave it on the table and walk.
Ten
Sit down, Lucano.”
In this context, the OPR agent was the boss. Tony sat, palms flat on the table.
Henderson put the flier back into the folder. “Had you known Bill Winston’s true identity, what would you have done differently?”
“A ton more backup, flak jackets, and bust out of the vehicle with our guns drawn.”
Henderson nodded, gaze shuttered. “Did you have time to stop and run Erickson’s mental blip through the computer before Winston took off in his truck?”
Tony shook his head.
“Verbally, please.”
“No, but that doesn’t mean we couldn’t have pulled him off the road later or taken him at a truck stop along his route.”
“Possible scenarios, but not without increased risk. More civilians around.” The OPR agent leaned forward. “How often would you say agents walk into situations where not all factors are known?”
“Most of the time, but we do what we can to minimize surprises.”
Henderson tapped the folder. “If you had run a search on the computer for B. W, what do you think you would have found?”
Tony shrugged. “Maybe nothing. Maybe a hit on a dead man. Or just a long list of crooks with the initials B. W”
“I see, and that information would have told you what about Bill Winston?”
Tony lifted his hands. “Enough. I get the point.” So how come he didn’t feel any better?
The OPR agent smiled and managed to look halfway human. “Your willingness to take responsibility is admirable, but a bit exaggerated. I’ll let the psychiatrist make that call.” He stood and tucked the folder under his arm. “I think we’re done.”
Tony rose. “Do I get my gun back and a copy of what’s in the file?”
“Tomorrow—after you’re cleared by the shrink. For now, Cooke wants you out of here.”
Tony walked to the door. “About the time I think I could like you, you irritate me worse than a bad shave.”
He chuckled. “Just doing my job, Lucano.”
Tony drove to his condo on autopilot. Why did a good man die today, Lord? I know You’re not going to answer me. You never answer that kind of question, but it’s burning in me.
It’s not your business.
Tony gulped. Did he just hear that? His throat tightened. What had he read to Max’s son last weekend from C. S. Lewis’s Narnia series?—I tell no one any story but his own.
Okay, Lord. I don’t like it, but I’ll give that one a rest. But just so You know—I’m still steamed about it.
The guard at the booth of his gated community waved him through. So he lost a good agent and killed a man in a split second on a sunny afternoon. At least his badge got him a cheap rate in an exclusive community. Hurray for the perks!
Tony slid the Chrysler 300 into his attached garage and let himself in the side door. Air-conditioned silence greeted him as he slipped off his shoes. Home sweet home. He left the lights off and opened the curtains on his picture window. The deepening twilight cloaked his living room in shadows. He went into the kitchen and got a glass of water. Then he plopped into his old recliner, put up his feet, laid the chair back, and stared out the window.
He should call Desi. But he didn’t move.
She should try calling Tony again. Desi sat in the car in front of Brent and Karen’s house. She should have gone back to Jo’s like she told the guy at the FBI office.
She couldn’t do it. Couldn’t face Jo and try to sort out what she should and shouldn’t tell this worried mother about what she’d discovered today. She couldn’t blurt out her deduction about the Anasazi artifacts. That was for people like the FBI—people who’d seen things and could cope. The news about Pete Cheama was a footnote in comparison. Jo would hear it on the news soon enough, and Agent Ortiz could reach Desi on her cell phone no matter where she was.
So she’d driven around Albuquerque until she decided to find the
home where Karen was last seen. Desi studied the little gold house. A cracker box in a neighborhood of cracker boxes on the fringe of the city. But then a graduate student with a part-time job, a wife, and a new baby couldn’t afford much. A strike against Brent as far as motive for stealing valuable artifacts. He should be off work by now. Not that she could unload her horrors on him either, but she had questions he might be able to answer.
Desi shut off the car and shifted her feet. Something crackled on the floorboard. The message from Ortiz. She bent toward it. “Ow!” She pressed the heel of her hand to her cheek where she’d rammed it against the steering wheel. Nice bruise tomorrow.
She set the crinkled note in the driver’s seat and got out. The flowers in the bed of hardy perennials under the front window were drooping and bedraggled. No doubt Brent didn’t think to water them. She climbed a cracked front stoop and knocked on the door.
A minute later, the young man pulled the door open. Despite the tired slope to his shoulders, his eyes brightened when he saw her. “Hey, come in!” He pushed the door wide.
Desi stepped into a narrow hallway scented with Oriental takeout. “You look pretty wiped. Rough day at work?”
“No worse than usual. Riding a hotel check-in desk can get interesting sometimes. People, you know.”
“I do know.”
“I’m just bummed.” He shrugged. “Not even Adam to come home to.”
“Then I guess I don’t need to ask if you have a few minutes to talk to me.”
“I can do better than talk. I’ve got plenty of takeout for two.” He headed up the hallway.
Desi followed. “I’m not hungry, but … ” Her mouth watered at the scent of Chinese. Well, maybe she was a little hungry. She couldn’t help anyone by starving herself.
Brent got out another plate and fork and set it on the laminate-topped table in the sliver of a kitchen. Desi took a seat and looked around. “Did you decorate in here or did Karen?”
“Karen did this herself.”
The mature Karen had cheerful taste, not like the bizarre decor in her childhood bedroom. Sheer yellow curtains hung at the small window that looked into the backyard. A bright floral border trimmed the top edges of walls sponge-painted a delicate blue.
“A lot of hope went into this room.”
“Yeah.” Brent sat down across from her and stared at his half-eaten food. “Can’t figure out where it all went.”
“It’s not gone, Brent. You’ve got to hang on to it for her.” What was she doing giving this young man a pep talk when she had such hideous suspicions about—?
Stop it! She wasn’t going to let her overactive brain cells go there. Not here, not now. Karen was okay. She had to be.
“Aren’t you going to eat?” Brent waved his fork at her.
She stuffed a bite of sweet-and-sour pork into her mouth. “This is good.” After a second helping, she pushed her plate away. “Tell me about the taped interviews you were doing the day before the robbery”
“You know about that?” He shrugged. “The cops made a big deal, but I gave them the tape, and whatever they were looking for they didn’t find. Something about ‘not the right code words.’ I didn’t understand, but I didn’t ask since they were willing to let the subject drop.”
Relief loosened Desi’s muscles. “I’m glad you’re in the clear on that. So what about your church? What are they doing to support you through this time?”
Brent scrunched up his nose. “I think we got to be a bit much for them. Too needy. They threw us a shower for the baby, brought food when Karen was on bed rest before Adam was born. And afterward, too. But then this depression thing hit her. It was like they didn’t know how to deal with it. One little ray of sunshine used to come over and tell Karen she needed to repent for her negative feelings—that she was dishonoring God.”
“Oh, dear.”
“You said it.” Brent went to the sink with their dishes. “Karen didn’t tell me about the problem until after she stopped opening the door for anyone from Central Christian and started opening it for that bunch her mom sent over from Inner Witness.”
“No wonder Jo has hard feelings toward your church. They dropped the ball big-time and left Karen vulnerable to a cult. Not that Jo sees her group that way”
“She doesn’t, but I sure can’t use mine as an example of a better alternative.” He ran water in the sink.
Desi stepped up beside him. “There are great fellowships out there, dripping with compassion. You just need to find the right one for your family.”
“I know that, but Karen was too young in the Lord to see it.” Brent scrubbed at a plate like he wanted to wear through the ceramic.
Desi tugged a dish towel from a hook. “Are you looking for a new church?”
Brent stopped scrubbing. “That hasn’t been high on my priority list right now.”
“Maybe it should be. When she comes home, you’re all going to need lots of loving arms around you.” She took the dish from Brent, rinsed it, and wiped it dry.
Brent looked at her with a wry curl to his mouth. “I’m barred from the museum. Church hunting would give me something to do in my free time.”
Desi looked at her watch. After 6 p.m. No contact from Agent Ortiz. No call from Tony. It’d be after eight in Boston. Tony, you’re all right, aren’t you? Tiny moth wings fluttered in her stomach. “I should get going. Jo probably fixed supper for me, and I’m already full.”
“Jo won’t care. If you leave right now, you’ll make her place about the time Reverend Romlin comes on television. She won’t give you a second glance.”
“All the more reason to move along. I want to hear this fellow’s spiel.”
Brent followed Desi toward the door. “Hey, you haven’t told me if you found out anything interesting in Santa Fe.”
She turned in the dinky foyer. “Enough to confirm that Inner Witness Ministries is about as genuine as a three-dollar bill. But we already knew that. I didn’t find out anything about Karen, if that’s what you mean.”
Desi waved and headed for her car. She was too good at giving out selective information. She ought to be ashamed of herself. But she wasn’t. Until the right people could investigate, Karen’s loved ones didn’t need a load of her unconfirmed suspicions—and that included Max.
What was with the FBI today that they couldn’t keep appointments or return phone calls? Didn’t they realize she was dancing on a bed of hot coals?
A knock on the front door brought Tony out of a fog where Elvis oldies kept playing through his mind. The knock came louder. Go away! Tony held his eyes closed and gripped the arms of his chair. Another chorus of “Blue Suede Shoes” had more appeal than talking to someone.
“Lucano! Open up in there!”
Tony’s eyes popped wide. No!
“It’s Steve, and I’m gonna bust down the door if you don’t open it.”
Tony slid out of his chair, growling under his breath. His gorilla of an ex-partner would carry out his threat. What was Steve Crane doing here? Crane wasn’t one for social calls, except when it came to Max’s two kids. And the guy was retired from the Bureau. No way he could’ve heard about what happened this afternoon. The administration would’ve kept the name of the dead agent out of the early news to give the family time to get acquainted with their loss.
Releasing the chain lock, Tony opened the door wide enough for his body to fill the gap. The smell of pepperoni greeted him from the box Crane held in one arm. The other arm shoved the door wide, and Steve was in his living room just like that.
Tony’s hands fisted. If he wasn’t so groggy … “Stevo, which of my nerves are you trying to get on, because you just tripped over my last one. Can’t you tell I was sleeping?”
“Yeah, right!” The lights snapped on. “That’s better.”
Tony rubbed his face. “I’m holding the door open. Why don’t you take a hint?”
Crane plunked the pizza box on the peninsula between the living room and kitchen.
“Is that any way to greet an old friend who cut short a hot date to come sit with a pal in his hour of need?”
The words were lighthearted, but something in the tone knocked Tony off balance. Was the guy serious? Some misguided altruistic impulse brought him here? Nah, not Stevo. Okay, he’d play along for a few minutes. Maybe he’d get rid of him faster. “You? On a hot date?”
“One hundred percent straight up, pard.” Crane opened the box and popped a stray piece of cheese into his mouth. “We were on dessert at a great Italian place—you should take Desi there sometime—and I get this phone call.” He started opening and closing cupboard doors. “Where do you keep the plates? I’m hungry.”
“I thought you already ate.”
Crane grinned as he pulled two plates out of a cupboard. “Quick, ain’t ya? You know me—I can always eat, and the smell of that pepperoni is driving me wild. I get the half with anchovies.” He dug into the box. “Don’t bother fighting me over it cuz the way you look right now, I’d wipe the floor with you.”
Tony snorted. “Don’t worry. I hate anchovies, and I’m not hungry.” He crossed his arms, and a rumble sounded. Tony looked down. Was that his stomach?
Crane let out his smoke-hoarsened laugh. “Here. Fill up the Grand Canyon before the neighborhood thinks we’re about to have a thunderstorm.” He held out a plate.
Tony stared at melted cheese, puffy crust, and pepperoni glistening with grease. “Fine! I’ll eat some.” He snatched the plate and returned to his recliner.
“You got a brewski in here?” Steve’s voice followed him.
“If you count root beer.”
“Ah, the hard stuff.” The refrigerator door suctioned open. “My favorite.” Crane came back into the living room.
Tony took the can his ex-partner handed him.
Crane settled on the sofa and pointed a half-eaten wedge at Tony. “Here’s the plan. We do ordinary stuff. Pig out, watch the Sox on TV—there should be about half a game left. Then you can unload whatever you got to say. Even take a swing at me if it makes you feel better.”
“Okay, so you heard about Ben,” Tony said with his mouth full. “How?”
Reluctant Runaway Page 13
