by Nora Roberts
“I have an account set up. Once he’s transferred the funds, I’ll distribute it to a charity for children of fallen police officers.”
“That’s commendable, and I don’t like denying kids, but …”
“You have another recipient in mind?”
“Keegan. Can you transfer Cosgrove’s payment to Keegan’s account?”
“Oh.” Her face lit up as a woman’s might when given rubies. “Oh, that’s brilliant.”
“I have my moments.”
“More than moments. It implicates both of them. It gives the FBI cause to bring them both in for questioning.”
“Honey, it fucks them both inside out.”
“Yes. It really does. And yes, I can do it. It’ll take me a few minutes.”
“Take your time. Bert and I will go for a little walk while you work.”
He snagged a couple more slices of pepperoni on the way out—one for him, one for the dog. A nice evening for a stroll around, he thought, with time to check out the progress of the garden, think about what he might do around the place on his next day off.
“This is our place,” he said to the dog. “She was meant to come here, and I was meant to find her here. I know what she’d say to that.” He laid a hand on Bert’s head, rubbed lightly. “But she’s wrong.”
When Bert leaned against his leg, as he often did with Abigail, Brooks smiled. “Yeah, we know what we know, don’t we?”
As they circled around, he saw Abigail come to the door, smile.
“It’s done. Dinner’s ready.”
Look at her, he thought, standing there with a gun on her hip, a smile on her face and pasta on the table.
Oh, yeah, he knew what he knew.
“Come on, Bert. Let’s go eat.”
BROOKS SPENT A CHUNK of his morning—too big a chunk, in his opinion—meeting with the prosecutor on the Blake cases.
“The kid’s crying for a deal.” Big John Simpson, slick as they came and with one eye on a political future, made himself at home in Brooks’s office. Maybe a little too much at home.
“And you’re giving him one?”
“Save the taxpayers’ money. Let him plead guilty to assaulting an officer, resisting, the trespass. Got him locked on the vandalism at the hotel, the assaults there. All we give him is a buy on the deadly weapon. We’d never make attempted murder stick. He gets five to seven inside, with mandatory counseling.”
“And serves two and a half, maybe three.”
Big John crossed his ankles above his mirror-shined shoes. “If he behaves himself, and meets the requirements. Can you live with that?”
“Does it matter?”
Big John lifted a shoulder, sipped at his coffee. “I’m asking.”
No, they’d never make the attempted murder stick, Brooks admitted. A couple years inside would do one of two things, he calculated. It would either make Justin Blake into a halfway decent human being, or it would finish his ruination.
Either way, Bickford would be free of him for a couple years.
“I can live with it. What about his old man?”
“Big-city lawyers doing their big-city shuffle, but the fact is, we’ve got a lock there. We got the phone records proving he called Tybal Crew. Got three separate witnesses saw Crew’s truck outside the house on the day in question. Got the cash money turned in, and Blake’s fingerprints are on a number of the bills.”
He paused a moment, recrossed his ankles. “He’s claiming he hired Ty to do some work around the place, paid him in advance ’cause Ty needed the money.”
“Kosseh sher.”
“Say what?”
“Bullshit in Farsi.”
“Don’t that beat all?” Big John let out a chuckle. “Yeah, it’s bullshit in any language. We can bring in a couple dozen witnesses who’d swear Blake never pays in advance, never pays cash, always gets a signed receipt. True enough Ty was pretty damn impaired by the end of it, but he hasn’t changed his story by an inch. So.”
He shrugged, drank more coffee. “If Lincoln Blake wants to push it to trial, it won’t hurt my feelings. Make a nice splash. He’s charged with solicitation of murder for hire of a police officer. They’re going to want to deal before it’s done. Any way it’s sliced, he’ll do time.”
“I can live with that, too.”
“Good enough.” He unfolded his six-foot-six-inch frame. “I’ll make the deal with the boy’s lawyer. You did good, clean work with both these arrests.”
“Good, clean work’s the way it’s supposed to be.”
“Supposed to and is aren’t always the same. I’ll be in touch.”
No, they weren’t always the same, Brooks thought. But he’d like to get back to that good, clean work. Just that. He wanted the rest over and done, however intriguing parts of it were.
The everyday, Abigail called it. It surprised him how much he’d learned to value the everyday.
He stepped out of his office. There was Alma at dispatch, a pencil behind her ear, a pink tumbler of sweet tea at her elbow. Ash at his desk, brows knitted as he pecked away at the keyboard, Boyd’s voice over the radio reporting a minor traffic accident off Rabbit Run at Mill’s Head.
He’d take this, Brooks realized. Yeah, he’d take just this. Every day.
Abigail walked in.
He knew her, so he saw the tension, though she kept her face impassive.
Alma spotted her. “Well, hey, there. I heard the news. I want to say best wishes to you, Abigail, as you’re family now. You’ve got yourself a good man there.”
“Thank you. Yes, I do. A very good man. Hello, Deputy Hyderman.”
“Aw, it’s Ash, ma’am. Nice to see you.”
“It’s Abigail. It’s Abigail now. I’m sorry to interrupt, but do you have a moment?” she asked Brooks.
“Or two. Come on in.”
He took her hand, kept it after he closed the door to his office. “What happened?”
“It’s good, what happened.” The good made her a little breathless. “Garrison contacted me. Her report was very brief, considering, but inclusive.”
“Abigail, spill it.”
“I’m—oh. Yes. They’ve picked up Cosgrove and Keegan. They’re interrogating, and that may take some time. She didn’t mention the blackmail, but I’ve followed some of the communications in-house, so to speak. Naturally, they believe Keegan blackmailed Cosgrove, and they’ll use that to pressure each of them. More. More important. They’ve arrested Korotkii and Ilya Volkov. They’ve arrested Korotkii for the murders of Julie and Alexi, and Ilya as accessory after the fact.”
“Sit down, honey.”
“I can’t. It’s happening. It’s actually happening. They’ve asked me to meet with the federal prosecutor and his team to prepare me for testifying.”
“When?”
“Right away. I have a plan.” She took both his hands now, held tight. “I need you to trust me.”
“Tell me.”
ON A BRIGHT JULY MORNING, one month and twelve years from the day she’d witnessed the murders, Elizabeth Fitch entered the courtroom. She wore a simple black suit and white shirt, and what appeared to be minimal makeup. A pair of pretty dangling earrings were her only jewelry.
She took the stand, swore to tell the truth. And looked directly into Ilya Volkov’s eyes.
How little he’d changed, really, she thought. A bit fuller in face and body, his hair more expertly styled. But still so handsome, so smooth.
And so cold under it all. She could see that now, what the young girl hadn’t. The ice under the polish.
He smiled at her, and the years dropped away.
He thought the smile intimidating, she decided. Instead, it made her remember, and helped her forgive herself for being so dazzled that night, for kissing a man complicit in the murder of her friend.
“Please state your name.”
“My name is Elizabeth Fitch.”
She told the story she’d recounted now almost too many times to bear. Sh
e skipped no detail and, as instructed, allowed her emotions to show.
“These events happened twelve years ago,” the federal prosecutor reminded her. “Why has it taken you so long to come forward?”
“I came forward that night. I spoke with Detectives Brenda Griffith and Sean Riley of the Chicago Police Department.”
They were in the courtroom, too. She looked at them, both of them, saw the faint nods of acknowledgment.
“I was taken to a safe house, then transferred into the protection of the U.S. Marshals Service and transferred to another location, where I remained under the protection of Marshals John Barrow, Theresa Norton, William Cosgrove and Lynda Peski for three months as there were delays in the trial. Until the evening of my seventeenth birthday.”
“What happened on that date?”
“Marshals Barrow and Norton were killed protecting me when Marshal Cosgrove, and a Marshal Keegan who had arranged to replace Marshal Peski, attempted to kill me.”
Hands tightly clenched in her lap, she sat through the objections, the jockeying.
“How do you know this?” the prosecutor demanded.
She talked, and continued to talk, of a pretty sweater and a pair of earrings, of a birthday cake. Of shouts and gunshots, of her last moments with John Barrow and his last words to her.
“He had a wife and two sons whom he loved very much. He was a good man, a kind one and a brave one. He gave his life to save mine. And when he knew he was dying, when he knew he couldn’t protect me, he told me to run, because two men he trusted, two men who’d taken the same oaths he had, betrayed their oath. He couldn’t know if there were others, or whom I could trust other than myself. He spent his last moments doing everything he could to keep me safe. So I ran.”
“And for twelve years you’ve lived under an assumed name and remained hidden from the authorities.”
“Yes, and from the Volkovs, and from those within the authorities who work with the Volkovs.”
“What changed, Ms. Fitch? Why are you testifying here and now?”
“As long as I ran, the life both John and Terry died for was safe. But as long as I ran, there could be no justice for them, or for Julie Masters. And the life they saved could only be half a life. I want people to know what was done, and I want to make the life they saved worthwhile. I’m finished running.”
She didn’t waver through the cross. She’d assumed it would pain her to be called a liar, a coward, to have her veracity, her motives, her actions, twisted and warped.
But it didn’t. It only made her dig in deeper, speak more concisely. She kept her eyes level, her voice strong.
Testimony completed, she walked out under escort and into a conference room.
“You were perfect,” Garrison told her.
“I hope so.”
“You held tough, gave clear answers. The jury believed you. They saw you at sixteen, Liz, and at seventeen, just as they saw you now. You made them see you.”
“If they did, they’ll convict. I have to believe they will.”
“Believe me, you turned the key. Are you ready for the rest?”
“I hope I am.”
Garrison took her arm a moment, spoke quietly. “Be sure. We can get you out safe. We can protect you.”
“Thank you.” She held out a hand to Garrison. “For everything. I’m ready to go.”
Garrison nodded, turned away to signal the go. She put the flash drive Abigail had palmed to her in her pocket, wondered what she’d find on it.
They surrounded her, hustling her through the building, toward a rear entrance where a car waited. They’d taken every precaution. Only a select team of agents knew her route, the timing of her exit.
Her knees trembled a little, and a hand took her arm when she stumbled.
“Easy now, miss. We’ve got you.”
She turned her head. “Thank you. Agent Pickto, isn’t it?”
“That’s right.” He gave her arm a reassuring squeeze. “We’ll keep you safe.”
She stepped outside, flanked, moving quickly toward the waiting car.
Brooks, she thought.
The shot sounded like hammer on stone. Her body jerked, and blood bloomed on her white shirt. For an instant she watched the spread of it. Red over white, red over white.
She went down under Garrison’s shielding body, heard the shouts, the chaos, felt herself being lifted, pressure on her chest.
She thought again, Brooks, then let it all go.
Garrison sprawled over Abigail’s body in the backseat. “Go! Go! Go!” she shouted at the driver. “Get her out of here. I can’t get a pulse, can’t get a pulse. Come on, Liz. Jesus Christ!”
Brooks, she thought again. Brooks. Bert. Her pretty butterfly garden, her spot where the world opened to the hills.
Her life.
She closed her eyes and let it go.
Elizabeth Fitch was pronounced dead on arrival at three-sixteen p.m.
AT FIVE P.M. SHARP, Abigail Lowery boarded a private jet bound for Little Rock.
“God. God.” Brooks framed her face, kissed her. “There you are.”
“You keep saying that.”
Dropping his brow to hers, he held her so tightly that she couldn’t get her breath. “There you are,” he repeated. “I may say it for the rest of my life.”
“It was a good plan. I told you it was a good plan.”
“You weren’t the one pulling the trigger.”
“Who else would I trust to kill me—to kill Elizabeth?”
“Shooting a blank, and still my hand shook.”
“I barely felt the impact through the vest.”
And still the moment had shocked her. Red over white, she thought again. Even knowing the blood capsules had released on her command, that spreading stain had shocked.
“Garrison was very good, and the assistant director. He drove like a crazy person.” She laughed, a little giddily. “Having Pickto right there, on the scene, knowing he’ll report to the Volkovs Elizabeth is dead, there’s no reason to doubt it.”
“And since you picked up the chatter about the bounty on your head, someone will probably take credit for it. And even if no one does, it’s official. Elizabeth Fitch was shot and killed this afternoon after testifying in federal court.”
“The federal prosecutor was very kind to Elizabeth.” Now Elizabeth was gone, she thought. She’d let Elizabeth go. “I’m sorry he doesn’t know about me.”
“He’ll work harder for the convictions not knowing.”
“Besides you, only Captain Anson, Garrison and the assistant director, and the FBI doctor who pronounced Elizabeth dead know how it was done. It’s enough to trust. It’s more than I’ve trusted most of my life.”
Because he needed to touch her, keep touching her, he brought her hand to his lips. “Are you sorry she’s gone?”
“No. She did what she needed to do, and could leave content with that. Now I have one last thing to do for her.”
Abigail opened her laptop. “I passed Garrison a flash drive with copies of everything on the Volkovs. Their financials, their communications, addresses, names, operations. Now, for Elizabeth, for Julie, for Terry, for John, I’m going to take it all away from them.”
