“Because the South San Francisco PD has spent the last several hours collecting evidence on a murder victim’s place of business, and they apparently found a number of machines to which they ran the serial numbers, which led to our office. They also found most of the hard drives to the machines still intact.”
Sydney leaned back in her chair, not sure where Carillo was heading with this. “What do you mean most of the hard drives?”
“Because the one that’s missing? It was from the machine in this office. This floor. The one you and I made a certain copy on. And in case you’re forgetting exactly what that copy is of, maybe a certain trip you took to Mexico to investigate your father’s murder might help to refresh your memory.”
A sick feeling started in the pit of her stomach. “Someone was killed?”
“Yeah. Shot in the head. Point-blank.”
“Oh my God . . .”
She closed her eyes and leaned back in her chair. Shot . . .
Because of her.
She’d been the one to track down Robert Orozco, all because she’d wanted answers about who had killed her father. She’d used every FBI resource at her disposal to find Orozco, who’d apparently spent the last two decades in hiding for some crime that he and her father had committed. Orozco had been certain that once he turned over the list of numbers to her, he and his family would be safe . . .
It simply never occurred to her that someone completely uninvolved with the case could be targeted.
“How do you think they found him?”
“The copy machine guy? You know how Doc warned us not to run the numbers on the computer?” he said, referring to his current partner, and the only other person who was aware of how she’d acquired that list of numbers. “He thinks the kid did just that. Ran them on his computer.”
She thought about that trip to Mexico. Someone had tried to kill her, and she’d had no doubt it was a government agent. She’d barely escaped . . . “You think the government did this, too? Murdered this kid because he found the numbers?”
“Can’t say. But if there were any doubts that someone’s watching our every electronic move, this should erase them.”
“What about Orozco? Someone needs to warn him.”
“Not to worry. I’ll call Agent Venegas as soon as I get off the phone with you. I just figured you should know.”
“Thanks.”
“I’ll get back to you once I find out more. I’m on my way to South San Francisco now.”
She hung up, stared at her phone while the news sank in. And then she unlocked her desk drawer, saw the envelope with her name on the front. Carillo had figured her office in Quantico was probably the most secure location for what it contained, Orozco’s list of numbers, and she picked it up, weighed it in her hands. Hard to believe something so seemingly insignificant—just a page filled with indecipherable numbers—could be the means to such a deadly end. Then again, maybe not. Hard to overlook that she’d almost been killed retrieving the envelope from Orozco in Mexico.
Had someone murdered this kid for the same reason, because they thought he had the numbers? She’d turned over the original list to the U.S. government. And until now, this copy she held was, she thought, unknown by all except her and Carillo.
Footsteps echoed down the corridor toward her office, and she shoved the envelope in the drawer, closed and locked it. This was not the place to be waving around something that she was not supposed to have in her possession. Her boss, Terrance Harcourt, stopped in her doorway, carrying a manila folder. The gray-haired man eyed the keys in her hand. “On your way out?”
“I just got back, actually. Qualifications.”
“How’d the new gun work out?”
“Fine after a few adjustments.”
“I hate new guns.” He took a step in, held out the manila folder. “Letter of commendation for your work on the terrorist explosion,” he said, handing it to her, then turning on his heel.
“Thanks. I appreciate it,” she replied, even though he was halfway down the hall. Harcourt wasn’t the social type. Just as well, since she had a few things on her mind at the moment. She flipped open the folder. Her name was typed at the top of the letter, and it was signed by Brad Pearson, the director of the Foreign Counterintelligence unit. Pearson was someone who probably knew what those numbers in her desk meant—never mind he was one of the last people she’d want to show them to. A bit hard having to explain why it was that she and Carillo had a copy, when they’d been ordered by Pearson to turn them over to the government agents to begin with.
She let the folder drop shut, not caring about any letter of commendation. She’d brought those numbers into this country, having no idea what they belonged to, except that Orozco told her they were important and the government wanted them back. If this young man was killed because someone thought those numbers were in his possession, then she damned well wanted to know what they were for and who was looking for them.
Her father had been murdered because of his connection to Orozco and this list of numbers. And even though at the time of her own investigation into his death, she’d felt certain that she knew all the facts surrounding the case, her ex-boyfriend, Special Agent Scott Ryan, had recently mentioned that what she’d discovered, her father’s and Orozco’s involvement, was only the tip of the iceberg. Apparently Scotty had some old files on the case that she had not yet seen.
To her, her father’s case was closed and she had no interest in reliving the nightmare of his murder.
With the news about the recent killing in South San Francisco, perhaps she needed to reassess her conclusion. Not about who killed her father—that she knew—but about the circumstances that led up to his death.
Clearly it was time to pay Scotty a visit and see if he had something of value, or if he was using this so-called mystery file as a way to maintain a connection with her, now that she was dating someone else. Hoping for the former, not the latter, she grabbed her keys and headed out the door.
Sydney drove straight to FBI headquarters in Washington, D.C., where her ex-boyfriend Scotty worked. It was the perfect locale for him, since it kept him close to the movers and shakers. When they’d first started dating, Sydney had admired his determination to promote himself to get ahead, and had even harbored similar aspirations. Now, however, she preferred her basement office at the academy in Quantico, where she taught forensic art to law enforcement officials—when she wasn’t working actual cases. Far removed from the political scene, it offered solitude, something she found herself seeking more often of late. Being involved in several high-profile cases that had nearly cost her and her family their lives will do that to an agent.
And yet, here she was, about to involve herself in yet another one?
Not another one. A continuation of one, she amended. She thought of her young sister, her mother and stepfather . . . If it meant keeping them safe, she told herself, she’d go to the ends of the world. She paused, reaffirming in her mind that she was doing the right thing, then knocked on Scotty’s door.
He was typing a report when she entered.
“Sorry to disturb you.”
“You’re not,” he said, his focus on the computer screen. “Just finishing a few last details. What’d you want to talk about?”
“I came to see the file you promised.” He continued typing, and she had a feeling he was only half listening. She closed the door behind her. “The W2 files,” she said, referring to the law firm being investigated in secret by the Department of Justice, Wingman and Wingman—aka Wingman Squared or W2.
Scotty’s fingers stilled on the keyboard at the name and he looked up at her.
He was listening now. “Why?”
“You told me there were things about my father’s death I didn’t know, and that Wingman Squared was somehow involved.”
“Jesus.” He got up, opened his
door, looked out, then closed it again. “Look, Syd,” he said, keeping his voice low. “The only reason I told you about the Wingman Squared files was because I thought it might shed some light on the questions you had about that law firm and the link to your father’s case. I didn’t intend for you to actually start investigating it yourself.”
Scotty’s sudden reluctance to turn over the promised files confirmed in her mind that he’d only been using them as a way to maintain his connection to her. He, apparently, had known about them from the beginning, when she’d first started looking into her father’s murder. And yet the moment she started dating another government agent, Zachary Griffin, Scotty suddenly decided to reveal their existence? “You only dangled that case in front of me because I was about to walk off with another man. And now that he and I are a couple—”
“News flash, Sydney. I’ve moved on. Or did you forget about Amanda? In fact, she and I are going away next weekend. Together. Overnight.”
“Why promise the files, then change your mind?”
“Because I’ve had time to think about it.”
“What’s there to think about?”
“You might not like what you find.”
“Because it involves my father? Could it be any worse than what I’ve already discovered about him?”
“That all depends on your perspective.”
He was talking in circles, and she wasn’t sure why. “How about you let me see it so that I can decide for myself?”
Scotty stared at her for what seemed several seconds, then moved to his desk, pulled a handful of pens from an FBI Academy mug, and dug out a USB flash drive from the bottom. He returned the pens, then held the drive out to her. When she took it, he closed his fingers tight around hers. “Do not,” he said, keeping his voice low, but firm, “let anyone know I gave this to you.”
“I won’t.”
“And for God’s sake, Syd, don’t open it on any work computers, or anything connected to the Internet.”
“I get it.”
“I don’t think you do.” There was a knock at the door, and Scotty gave her a pointed look, then sat on the edge of his desk, as though they’d been shooting the breeze, not having some conversation that could get either one of them in trouble. “Come in.”
Brad Pearson, the director of the Foreign Counterintelligence squad, opened the door. Tall, thin, with military-short graying hair, he pinned his gaze right on Sydney as though he’d come here looking for her, and she gripped the flash drive tight, keeping it out of sight. “Isn’t Quantico a bit farther south?” he asked.
“I knew I took the wrong exit,” she said. “Freeway signs. So confusing.”
“GPS. So convenient.” He eyed Scotty, saying, “You have that report for me?”
“Just finishing it up,” Scotty said, and she relaxed once she realized she wasn’t the focus of Pearson’s attention.
“Get it to me before lunch. I’d like to read it over before my meeting this afternoon.” He started out, then stopped, turned back to Scotty. “Almost forgot. The class I need you to take over for me? It’s next weekend. I had the date wrong.”
“Next weekend? I—”
“If you’re free that is.”
“No, it’s fine.”
“I’ll let them know you’ll be there.”
Scotty nodded in return. Pearson barely glanced at her on his way out. The moment he closed the door behind him, Scotty turned the force of his stare on her, clearly unhappy about her presence, especially with Pearson so nearby. At least that’s what she thought, until he said, “I don’t suppose you’d like to take your new boyfriend to a bed-and-breakfast next weekend? It’s not like I can use it now, so it’s just going to go to waste.”
So he really had been planning a getaway with Amanda. She, for one, was glad. “Why not tell Pearson you have plans?”
“Amanda won’t mind. She’s sort of a homebody,” he said, then picked up an envelope from his desk, handing it to her. “Take it.”
She opened it, saw the certificate for two nights at a secluded bed-and-breakfast just across the Potomac in McLean, Virginia. “Pretty nice place . . .” Certainly one she could never afford.
“I won it in a drawing.”
She handed it back. “Let me think about it? Griffin never knows his schedule from one day to the next anyway.”
“You start looking into those files,” he said, placing the envelope on his desk, “you’re going to need it way more than me.” Scotty had warned her back when he’d originally divulged his knowledge of this W2 file, that if Pearson so much as found out that she was looking into the case, he’d transfer her in a heartbeat to some godforsaken outpost where she wouldn’t see the light of day.
Her cell phone vibrated in her pocket, and she pulled it out, looked at the caller ID. Speak of the devil. Zachary Griffin, the covert government agent she was currently dating.
“Gotta go,” she said, even though she wasn’t about to answer Griffin’s call. Not here. She had too much to think about, and he had an uncanny knack for knowing when she was getting into something she shouldn’t.
If Scotty thought Pearson would have objections about her seeing that file, it was nothing to what Griffin would do should he find out. Griffin’s boss had also warned her off of looking into the W2 case, as had Griffin—and this presented a whole new set of problems. Pearson had a direct pipeline to Griffin’s boss, who had a direct pipeline to Griffin.
The things she didn’t think about when she decided to start dating the guy.
She walked out, tucking the flash drive into her pocket.
Time to find out what everyone was keeping so hush-hush.
5
San Mateo, California
Tex had no doubts about his ability to get in and out of Carillo’s condominium without being discovered. He’d called to say he might be in the area and would there be a good time to stop by—which was how he found out Carillo would be gone for a couple of hours. So why then was he hesitating? Guilt over past activities that were best left buried? Or Fitzpatrick’s reaction should she learn his part in it?
He always knew there’d be trouble, once Griffin started dating her. Especially with their mutual background, of which only half the party knew about. The Griffin half. Not exactly an auspicious beginning.
Still, guilt came with the territory, so it wasn’t that. Not entirely. Reality was that working with Carillo on the last two cases had complicated things, because they’d become friends.
Like it or not, Tex would have to deal with the fallout. He was doing the right thing by taking this on himself, even when Griffin had offered. He’d almost convinced himself until he saw that he wasn’t the only one interested in Carillo’s residence, a corner unit of a Mediterranean-style complex with tiled roof and sand-colored stucco siding.
A man was walking along the far side of the building, his attention fixed on Carillo’s unit.
The wind gusted hard enough to shake Tex’s car, spattering large raindrops across his windshield, obscuring his vision. Whoever said it never rained in California was an idiot. As was the agent who neglected to pack rain gear. Then again, he hadn’t arrived in California expecting to be here when the rain started.
He was supposed to be home by now, not breaking into a friend’s house.
Or watching someone else try to.
He got out, walked toward the complex. A newspaper in plastic wrap sat on the sidewalk in front of the courtyard entrance, and he picked it up before walking toward the arched entryway as though he lived there. From his peripheral vision, he saw the man glance over at him, then continue toward Carillo’s enclosed patio. There was no gate to the patio, the front doors to all the condos happened to be inside the courtyard, therefore no reason for someone to be loitering in the area outside. Tex tossed the paper onto the closest front porch, stepped back out, k
nowing without a doubt the only place the man could have been heading for was over the six-foot stucco wall surrounding Carillo’s patio.
Unless of course he’d misread the entire scenario, and it was just some poor schmuck out for a walk in the beginning of a rainstorm.
Fat drops slapped at Tex’s face as he walked to the corner, looked down the street. Not a soul in sight, which meant the suspect had to have gone over the wall. The perfect place to break in without being seen—since Tex had intended on using the same point of entry.
Nothing like being last to the party.
Tex reentered the condominium courtyard standing to one side of the stuccoed arched entry, out of the rain, hoping to approach Carillo’s unit without being seen. The security lights cast long shadows across the terra-cotta pavers, the perfect concealment as long as he stayed to the dark side of the columns.
How could he even tell Carillo that someone was breaking in without implicating ATLAS? Carillo wasn’t expecting him to be there for several hours.
He thought about going in after the guy. Except if someone was breaking in for the same reason as Tex, it was bound to turn deadly and Carillo would definitely notice if Tex killed the suspect in his condo.
Keep it simple, he decided, adjusting the Bluetooth in his ear. Call the police and let them do the work. Then, when the police were on their way, Tex would simply wait for the suspect to emerge and follow him. He took out his phone, and punched in 911. When the dispatcher answered, he said, “Someone’s breaking into an FBI agent’s apartment. He climbed in through the back patio and is inside now.”
“The address?” she asked. He gave it, and she followed with “Any weapons seen?”
“Unknown.”
“Your name, sir?”
“Anonymous. I need to contact the FBI agent. I’ll have him call you.” He pressed the button on the Bluetooth to disconnect, not having time to deal with the cumbersome details the local police needed, and then he called Carillo. “It’s Tex.”
“How’s it going?”
“It’s been better,” he said, eyeing Carillo’s unit. “I decided to swing by your place since I got done early, just to see if you’d left yet.”
The Kill Order Page 4
