The people weren’t saying much, either—at first. Just whispers carried on a breeze, marked with curiosity and suspicion. “I think someone was shot.” “I think there was a sniper.” As time passed, the speakers became self-assured, talking in the definitives, establishing themselves an authority, trying to magnify their own importance. As if they had something meaningful to offer the world with their juicy tidbits of knowledge.
The sniper picked up the spoon again and stirred the coffee. The stainless steel struck against the ceramic mug—clink, clink, clink—and some coffee sloshed over the rim.
The female television newscaster went on about the shooting, but the people in the coffee shop paid her no attention. They were too absorbed in their own trivialities and selfish ambitions.
While the sniper couldn’t hear what was being said on TV, the ticker tape at the bottom read AN ACT OF TERRORISM?
Of course they’d leap there!
That’s how the media always liked to portray unexplained acts of violence. Blame it on a foreign enemy or one who infiltrated themselves onto native soil. Don’t understand something, and it must be an evil entity at work. It was sickening, as was the human condition.
So many of them paranoid, scampering, trying to carve out a life of meaning but failing desperately to reach the mark. The solution was to stop searching for purpose when none existed. The sniper was all too familiar with the unfairness of the world. Enough to know that no matter who was to blame, it didn’t erase the consequences. They rippled out, like water from a stone tossed into water. Spreading…spreading. Some waves caused destruction; others were hardly felt.
The sniper had turned her life around by harnessing the darkness, befriending it, welcoming the churning waves and riding them. She took charge of her own existence, paved her own way. Any lesser person would have been destroyed, broken, a word she couldn’t stand. It was a sweeping label that excused responsibility, though in that context it held some appeal.
She stirred her coffee a few more times, then let the spoon clang to the tabletop again. This time, only one woman looked at her, bearing a scowl and arched brows. Unmoved, she took a slow draw on the coffee, and when she lowered the cup, her eyes landed on the TV screen and the ticker tape.
THE FBI TO INVESTIGATE THE SHOOTING IN ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA
The sniper let go of her cup. It hit the edge of the table and smashed to the floor.
Everyone was staring—the sniper could feel it—but her eyes were on the television. Sweat was gathering at the base of her back and neck. If she had any hope of finishing her mission, it was time to move.
-
Nine
Kelly debated sharing her thoughts about Arlene Reid with Jack. Speaking her mind so far in this case hadn’t netted her any favors. She snuck in glances at his profile while he drove them to the Arlington commonwealth’s attorney’s office.
“Do I have something on my face?” Jack took a quick drag on a cigarette and turned slowly to face her.
She shook her head. “Sorry if I’ve been staring.”
“A penny for your thoughts?”
He’d asked for them, but was she ready to part with them? She feared being shut down, accused of jumping to conclusions. How was she supposed to work like that? She cleared her throat. “Gramps used to smoke…until I made him quit.”
“You made that old goat quit?” Jack took another inhale. “That’s impressive.”
“I can be persuasive.”
“Good skill for an agent to have.” He flicked some ash out the window.
“I like to think so.” She briefly looked out her window, catching her reflection. “Actually, Jack, I was thinking something else.”
“Figured you probably were.”
“Mrs. Reid’s hiding something. I think she knows what her husband’s connection was to Wilson Place.”
“I do, too.”
She was ready to defend herself and snapped her mouth shut.
“We’ll find out—if not from her, then someone else,” Jack said. “Unfortunately, we can’t force people to talk. Good news is things have a way of coming out.” He pulled into the lot for the commonwealth attorney’s office, and both of them got out. He extinguished his cigarette on the pavement with a twist of his shoe.
“You can let me handle this in there,” Jack told her. “Sometimes these types aren’t too open to talking.”
“‘These types’ being lawyers?”
“You got it.” He smiled, and she nodded. Jack wouldn’t be the first person who wasn’t a fan of lawyers. Considering an incompetent one had played a role in her mother’s murder conviction when it should have been self-defense, as a whole, lawyers weren’t Kelly’s favorite people, either. Her friend Brianna, who was a defense attorney, was the exception.
At the front desk, Jack announced them as FBI with urgent business for the commonwealth attorney. The young woman told them Margaret Holmes would be with them shortly. It was less than five minutes later that another woman, introduced as Danielle by the receptionist, asked that they follow her. She led them down various hallways to an office with its door open and rapped her knuckles on the doorframe.
“Yes?” A woman’s voice—presumably Margaret Holmes—responded. Just the articulation of that one word attested to her authority.
Danielle stepped into the opening. “FBI Agents Harper and Marsh to speak with you, ma’am.”
“Send them in.”
Danielle moved to the side to allow Jack and Kelly room to enter the office. A woman in her fifties with short, dark hair was perched behind an oak desk, her eyes intelligent and curious, small wrinkles outlining them and marking her brow. Margaret was a handsome woman, and probably not much got past her attention. She stood and extended a hand toward Jack.
“I’m FBI Supervisory Special Agent in Charge Jack Harper, and this is Agent Kelly Marsh.”
“Margaret Holmes.” She gave a perfunctory glance at Jack, but there was a spark in her eyes when she met Kelly’s gaze. Kelly picked up on the unspoken message that the attorney liked seeing another woman in a position of power.
“You both may take a seat.” She gestured toward two chairs that faced her desk before sitting in her own again.
“We appreciate you seeing us on such short notice, but as you are likely aware, there’s been an incident in Clarendon,” Jack said.
“Yes, I’m aware, and I’m not surprised to see you here. I thoroughly expected to be seeing someone from the FBI’s office. The mayor’s looking at me for answers. Do you have any that I can pass along? Are we looking at an act of terrorism?”
“There’s nothing yet to indicate that.” Jack took a pause, and Kelly wondered if he’d picked up on the same thing she had: Margaret didn’t know that Reid had been killed. “Are you aware, ma’am, that the victim was Darrell Reid?”
“Dar… Reid?” the attorney stammered. Her previous composure was gone, and she sank back in her chair, folding in on herself.
“We’re sorry to be the ones breaking this to you,” Kelly said kindly. “It must come as quite a shock.”
Margaret ran a hand over her mouth. “Yes, you could say that.” She cleared her throat, blinked her eyes, and leaned forward, a show of resuming a stance of control and confidence—except that her energy betrayed her vulnerability. “What happened?”
“Mr. Reid was leaving Wilson Place this morning at six AM when he was shot,” Jack laid out candidly. “We’d like to get some information from you about Reid—”
“You believe his murder might somehow be connected to one of his cases.”
“We do,” Jack admitted.
“Anything’s possible, I suppose.”
“Would you know why Reid may have been at Wilson Place this morning and last night?”
“Last night? The way you say it makes it sound like he stayed over.”
“He may have.”
“Well, if he did, I can’t imagine him being there for official business.”
“Is there someone who could provide more insight into Mr. Reid’s schedule?” Jack asked.
“Reid’s aide, Brad McCarthy, manages his calendar. If anyone could shed some light here, it would be him.” Margaret picked up her phone and requested that Reid’s aide be sent to her office forthwith.
“While we’re waiting, tell us what you do know,” Jack encouraged.
“I know that this is hitting me right out of left field. I’m well aware this job pits us against some pretty violent criminals. You just expect there to be a barrier between us and the madness.” She glanced at Jack. “As crazy as that might sound.”
Jack didn’t say anything, and Kelly thought the attorney’s ideal sounded naive. But she gave her a pass, given the circumstances.
Margaret continued. “I know Darrell was currently working on a few large cases—one quite high profile compared to the rest.”
“Tell us about that one,” Jack said.
Margaret clasped her hands over her lap. “The son of a local businessman drove drunk and killed a family of three.”
Tragic to be sure, but Kelly wasn’t sure if such a case on its own would be considered “high profile,” so it would have to be the players involved. “What is the man’s company?”
“The man is William Pratchett, and he founded and runs Pratchett Group.” She paused as if expecting Kelly or Jack to reply. She clarified, “Pratchett Group owns hundreds of newspapers and numerous television networks. The man is like a god in some circles. Most people have heard of him.”
“It seems you found two who haven’t,” Jack said drily. “Tell us more about the case as it involves Reid.”
“Well, Darrell was gunning for the heaviest sentence available by law. If he got his way, Darrell would rewrite the law on the sentencing for drinking and driving causing death.”
Kelly glanced at Jack but kept her mouth shut. Maybe Pratchett didn’t take too kindly to his son being used as an example and had decided to shut Reid down.
Margaret went on. “There’s a real hype in the media about the case. Of course, any papers owned by Pratchett Group approach the story from taking mercy on William’s son. The ones outside of his control are making it their full-time endeavor to do what they can to taint the public against William and his son. I’m sure Pratchett Group stock has been affected.”
Another motive for William Pratchett.
“And what’s the son’s name?” Kelly figured it was always best to work with names.
“Adrian.” Margaret’s eyes went contemplative. “Do you think Darrell’s death had something to do with that case?”
“Nothing’s off the table yet,” Jack said. “We’ll need all the pertinents on that case.”
There was a knock on the door, and Kelly and Jack turned. A man in his early twenties stood there. Dark hair, fair complexion, and lean frame.
“Brad, these two are from the FBI.” She looked at Jack, then Kelly. “This is Brad McCarthy, Mr. Reid’s aide.”
Brad’s gaze went over them, and he awkwardly tucked his hands into his pockets.
“Here, you can have my seat.” Kelly stood and gestured for Brad to take her chair.
“I’m good to stand,” Brad said, “but thank you.”
“When you find out why they’re here, you might change your mind,” Margaret cautioned.
Brad looked leerily at Kelly and dropped into the chair she’d vacated. “Thanks.”
“No problem.”
Margaret made the formal introductions, then said, “Mr. Reid was shot and killed this morning outside of Wilson Place in Clarendon.”
Brad’s mouth gaped open, and his eyes glazed over, his mind processing what he’d just been told. “He was…” That was all he got out.
“Mr. Reid was murdered.” Kelly put it as delicately as she could. The attorney hadn’t exactly delivered the news with much tact. “We’re trying to figure out why he was at Wilson Place, and Ms. Holmes told us you might be able to help us since you kept Mr. Reid’s calendar.”
“I can certainly look…” Brad pulled a tablet out of an inside jacket pocket. “What time…did it…” He pulled nervously at his collar.
“Six o’clock this morning, but it’s believed he might have spent the night there.”
Something flicked across Brad’s eyes before he put his gaze on the tablet. “One moment, if I may?” His fingers moved across the screen as fast as a skilled pianist’s played over keys.
“You certainly know how to get around that thing.” Kelly had said it to offer a moment of levity, but Jack gave her a cold look.
Brad’s movements slowed a bit. “Ah, he was supposed to have a meeting this morning, but there’s nothing in the calendar about an overnight.” Brad paled and glanced at Margaret.
“What is it, Brad? It might help us find our killer.” Kelly hoped to appeal to his humanity and that it would surpass any concerns he might have about damaging Reid’s character.
Brad waved a hand in the air. “Oh, it’s probably nothing. He was to meet with a defendant and his attorney.”
“At Wilson Place? Overnight?” Jack blurted out the questions with skepticism in every word. “Did Mr. Reid make a habit of sleeping over with defense attorneys and their clients?”
“Heavens, no!” Brad exclaimed.
Jack angled his head just slightly, and Brad’s shoulders sagged.
“And the meeting wasn’t to take place at Wilson Place. It was set for eight o’clock at the defense attorney’s office across town. That’s the opposite end of the city from where he was…shot.” Brad frowned. “I don’t have any idea why Mr. Reid would have been at Wilson Place.” He glanced again at Margaret.
If Kelly’s gut was telling her something was off with Reid’s character before, sirens were now sounding with flashing red lights. “Brad,” she started and waited for him to look at her, “did you manage any personal affairs of Mr. Reid’s? I ask because sometimes assistants are asked to cross a professional line. For example, pick up their boss’s dry cleaning or things like that.” If she wanted Brad to voice his suspicions about Reid, she needed to play it diplomatically—especially with Margaret listening intently, leaning forward, elbows perched on her desk.
Brad chewed on his bottom lip. “No dry cleaning.”
Kelly decided to tug a little harder on the string, curious what it might unravel. “But he did have you handle some personal errands?”
“Not really. Well, I guess he had me buy gifts for Mrs. Reid on his behalf. But in his defense, he had a full calendar.” He blushed.
It was time to pry open this can. “Is there something you think we should know?”
Brad swallowed roughly; his Adam’s apple bobbed, and his eyes darted about the room. “I’d say I don’t want to get Mr. Reid into any trouble, but I guess that doesn’t matter now.” He held eye contact with Margaret while he continued. “Mr. Reid would sometimes miss appointments, interviews with defendants, and so on.”
Margaret sat upright suddenly, posturing full authority. “Why is this the first time I’m hearing of this?”
Brad’s cheeks fired to crimson.
“Why was he missing appointments? Mr. McCarthy, I demand that you tell me right now.”
“I wish I could say with certainty.”
“Out with your suspicions. Now’s not the time to keep quiet.” Margaret’s tone had teeth.
Brad nodded. “Whenever I’d question him, he’d get defensive, tell me he didn’t answer to me. He’d even accuse me of not keeping his calendar properly. But I assure you, Ms. Holmes, that I took the utmost care with his schedule. Any appointments that I made for him or he told me about, I placed into his calendar immediately—day or night. Mr. Reid had a
ccess to his calendar on his phone, but sometimes I wondered if he even looked at it. He’d double-book himself, and I’d have to move previously existing appointments around to accommodate the new ones he made.”
Margaret was scowling. “The calendar was your responsibility, Mr. McCarthy, not Mr. Reid’s. But with that said, Mr. Reid had a responsibility toward this office and his commission to place importance on his schedule. Yet, I’m having a hard time accepting in all the time you worked together, you never found out where he’d been or why he’d miss appointments.”
“With respect, ma’am, as I said, Mr. Reid would tell me that it wasn’t my place to question him, and I didn’t want to pry into his life.”
“By not prying, you’ve placed the reputation of this office at risk. Did that ever occur to you?”
Brad’s shoulders lowered, along with his gaze that fell to the floor. “No…I…”
“You and I will discuss that matter later.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Brad waited it out for a few seconds, then added, “I would like to be excused.”
Margaret’s face etched into stone. “You are not excused. You gave us the impression you had suspicions about where Mr. Reid went or what he was up to. I’d like you to share those with us.” She splayed her hand across the room to indicate Jack and Kelly, then crossed her arms.
Brad seemed to shrink in his chair. “Oh…I’m not sure I should…if the reputation of this office is at stake.”
Margaret leveled a stare on the aide that could have frozen lava.
Brad drew a deep breath. “I’d like to start by saying I have no concrete proof, but—”
“Mr. Reid was cheating on his wife,” Margaret stamped out, seemingly with a lick of distaste for all men.
Brad’s eyes met hers. “I wondered that sometimes. Yes.”
“Just because of the missed meetings?” Kelly squeezed in before Margaret could sink her talons more deeply into the aide’s flesh.
Brad looked at her. “Sometimes women would call for Mr. Reid, but they wouldn’t leave their names or numbers. And before you ask, they always blocked their numbers.”
Past Deeds Page 5
