After we were done, Candice called Brice, who came down to the shop to take a look. “I’ll get this posted on the five and six o’clock news.”
“What’re you going to say?” Candice asked, then clarified by adding, “I mean we want to be sensitive to her family, Brice. They may not know she’s been killed, and seeing her face in a sketch on the news about a bombing is a seriously shitty way to find out.”
“They may not know she’s a terrorist either, babe, but we have nothing else to go on right now. Maybe it won’t be her family who sees the sketch. Maybe it’ll be a neighbor or friend and they’ll call us with the girl’s name.”
My chin lifted at the mention of the word “terrorist.” “You really think she’s a terrorist?”
Brice studied the sketch and sighed heavily. “I don’t know what else to think, Cooper. We have two dead girls, roughly the same age and race, who walked into two places of business and blew themselves and innocent bystanders up. If it’s not a terrorist cell orchestrating these hits, who the hell is it?”
Neither Candice nor I could answer him, so Brice headed off to talk with the school of reporters waiting for some kind of a statement from the Feds.
Once he’d left, I turned to Candice and said, “I need an address.”
“Whose?”
“Rita Watson’s.”
“The beauty shop owner?”
I nodded.
“Why?”
“I made her a promise to find her son and make sure he’s okay.”
Candice looked at me with surprise. “When?”
“Today, while I was trying to convince her to cross over.”
“You talked to her ghost?”
“In a manner of speaking, no pun intended. Anyway, can you get me the address?”
Candice blinked a couple of times, like she was really trying to figure out how I managed to have a conversation with a dead person in plain view of her without ever opening my mouth. “Uh…yeah, but, Abs, are you sure you want to try to talk to her kid today?”
That took me back a bit. “Do you think he’s already been told about his mom’s death?” I asked.
“I’m sure an officer was sent to Rita’s house to inform the family that the beauty shop had exploded, and that his mother was presently unaccounted for. They’d also likely ask for her toothbrush.”
“Her toothbrush?” I asked, then realized why they’d need it. “Oh, yeah, DNA.”
What bothered me was the feeling that Rita and her son had no other close family nearby. I felt strongly it was just the two of them in the world, which is what made her passing so tragic. Her young son would be left to fend for himself, and if he wasn’t yet out of high school, he could end up in foster care or, even worse, out on the streets. “I don’t think I want to wait,” I said after considering it. “Her poor kid is probably going to be holding out hope that his mom didn’t die in the blast, and waiting for DNA to come back could take weeks.”
“You want me to come along?”
I nearly said yes, but then I thought about how the errand would take me away from keeping an eye on my fiancé. “No, thanks, honey. I’m gonna try to get Dutch to go with me.”
“You’re really worried about him, aren’t you?” Candice said. She knew me pretty good.
“I am,” I admitted. “It’s nothing I can put my finger on, but there’s this terrible feeling I have that something bad is going to happen to him.”
“How bad?”
I had to swallow hard before answering. “The worst.”
Candice’s eyes swiveled to the window, and I knew she was searching the crowd for my sweetheart. “He’s there,” I said, pointing to Dutch, who was talking on his cell and pacing next to his car.
After watching him for a few seconds, Candice said, “Maybe we should all go to Rita’s house.”
I offered her a half smile. “I’m sure Dutch is gonna love being babysat by the two of us.”
Candice shrugged. “I can get Brice to go too. We can explain it by suggesting we get something to eat on the way back.”
“That could work,” I told her.
As it happened, it couldn’t work. Brice was ordered back to the office along with Gaston, and Dutch would have been ordered there too if I hadn’t suggested to the director that I needed him to accompany me to the Watsons’. “You think there’s something there?” Gaston asked me in a way that suggested he was ready to launch an army of FBI boys to her house to search it for clues if I thought it necessary.
“No, sir,” I said quickly. “I just want to make sure her son is okay.” Gaston hesitated and I knew he was wondering why I needed Dutch along, so I added, “But you never know, there may be something there that gives me more to go on, and if Agent Rivers is along, I’ll be able to focus fully.”
Gaston nodded and called to Dutch, who came over to us (a bit stiffly, I thought). After giving Dutch his orders, Gaston left us. I watched him walk away and had second thoughts about what I’d asked him to order Dutch to do. My fiancé wasn’t exactly giving off the warm fuzzies. “How long are you gonna stay mad at me?” I asked.
“A while.”
“Should I mark my calendar for a specific date? Cuz our wedding’s right around the corner and I’d hate to walk down the aisle and say ‘I do’ to a guy who’s seriously pissed at me.”
Dutch glared at me.
“Nice. That face will look great in the wedding photos.”
“Now is not the time to poke the tiger, Edgar,” Dutch warned.
“Oh, should I also mark my calendar with a good time to poke the tiger, then?” For effect, I pulled out my cell phone and opened up the calendar app with a wee bit of bravado.
“What the hell’s wrong with you?” he growled, taking me firmly by the elbow as he moved toward his car.
“Hey, hey, hey!” I protested, nearly tripping over my feet as he hauled me along. “Crippled person here, big guy!”
Dutch immediately let go. “Sorry,” he said, but his tone suggested he wasn’t so much. He then stopped and put his hands on his hips, turning to glare at me again. “Why?” he demanded. “Why did you put yourself in the middle of this when you know your crew told you it was dangerous?”
I searched for the right words to say. Words that would tell him how worried I was about his safety, how terrible that feeling of dread was, and how terrified I was about losing him. But all I came up with was, “Because.” (Woman of passionate, eloquent speeches, I am not.)
Dutch stood there staring at me and waited me out.
“I’m worried about you,” I finally managed.
“I told you I’d be careful. I told you I would call. I even promised to try to call you every hour, and I’m wearing my vest.”
“I don’t know that all of that is enough, Dutch,” I said, reaching for his hand, but he pulled it out of my reach with a shake of his head.
“It’s almost five,” he growled. “And here I am remarkably unscathed.”
“I didn’t say I knew when something bad might happen to you!” I could feel my own anger starting to flare.
Dutch glared at me some more and I glared back. “Abby,” he said, “if someone wants to take a shot at me, there isn’t anything you can do to stop it.”
The anger brewing in the middle of my chest evaporated and a terrible fear took its place. “You don’t know that!”
“I do know that. I’ve been to sniper school, remember? I know how these hit men think. He’ll pick a spot somewhere high, somewhere out of sight, and you won’t know he’s there until after I’ve been hit.”
I physically flinched. The idea was too abhorrent. I closed my eyes against the image of Dutch lying dead in the street, and my heart wanted to break right then and there. “Please don’t say stuff like that.”
I felt his strong hands on my shoulders and a moment later he was holding me close. “Edgar,” he said softly. “If someone really wants me dead, then I don’t know what you can do to stop it. By being here you p
ut yourself in danger. Don’t you get it? What if you’re nearby when he takes his shot? What if he misses me and you get in the way?” And then I heard Dutch’s voice crack. “What if he gets you instead?”
I wrapped my arms around him and squeezed hard. I wanted him to stop talking and just hold me.
“This case sucks, dollface, and I want no part of it either, but it’s my job, and right now I don’t have a choice. But you do. You can walk away and I can be careful, and maybe at the end of the day, the good guys will come out okay.”
I wiped at my eyes, which were misting again. “No,” I said.
“What?” He hadn’t heard me.
I backed up a little from him. “No. If you’re here, I’m here. I can’t sit at home or in my office and wonder about what could happen to you, Dutch. I’ll go insane. And you don’t know that I won’t be able to stop someone from taking a shot at you. I have pretty good radar, and right now it’s feeling the ether everywhere around you. The second I feel a shift, I’m going to warn you, and maybe that’ll be the key to saving your life.”
“As long as you’re nearby, I’m gonna worry about both of us,” Dutch said, still fighting me. “That’s gonna get mighty distracting, Abby, and Gaston needs me fully focused.”
I hesitated for just a moment before I said, “Gaston needs me focused more than he does you, sweetie.”
Dutch’s eyes narrowed. I’d dealt him a low blow to be sure, but it was the only way I could get him to listen. “Mean,” he said.
I reached for his hand again, and this time he didn’t pull it away. “It wasn’t intended to be, cowboy. But it is the truth. I’m not going anywhere. I’m on this case as long as you are. Period.”
Dutch looked like he was about to say something more, but we were interrupted by a man dressed in one of those dark blue Windbreakers who sort of pushed his way into our conversation by yelling, “Rivers, what’s this about another eyewitness to the bomber?”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Dutch countered, clearly annoyed by the intrusion. (And maybe me…)
The man pointed behind him to a row of reporters speaking into their microphones for the cameras while Brice stood to one side with his arms crossed. “Harrison just gave a sketch of the suspect to the press!” the man nearly shouted. I noticed a vein throbbing at his temple and thought maybe he should take a chill pill before his head exploded.
“So?” Dutch replied, with obvious disdain. I didn’t know who this guy was, but it was pretty obvious he didn’t play for Gaston’s team.
“So?” the guy snapped (and yes, this time he actually shouted). “So why is this the first I’m hearing about it?”
Dutch crossed his arms too, his face turning to granite. “Don’t know, Willis. Maybe you should take it up with the director.”
“If I could find Gaston, I’d take it up with him,” Willis growled. That vein in his temple bulged as it continued to throb, and my radar kicked in.
“Do you have a history of high blood pressure in your family?” I suddenly asked. I hadn’t meant to—it’s just my radar zeroed in on him and it sort of fell out of my mouth.
He swiveled large, surprised eyes at me. “What?”
“High blood pressure,” I repeated calmly. “It runs in your family, right? On your dad’s side more so than your mom’s, but there’s also heart disease on both sides of your family and you’ve already been told you’ve got an issue, haven’t you, Mr. Willis?”
“Agent Willis,” he corrected, his wide eyes narrowing as he turned back to Dutch, pointed at me, and snapped, “What the hell is she talking about?”
Dutch’s face remained hard and stoic, but I could tell Willis had just pissed him off royally. “Seems to me she’s talking about your ticker, Agent Willis. Might want to pay attention to her and get it checked out.”
Willis’s jaw dropped and he looked dumbly from Dutch back to me.
“You also carry all of your stress in your chest,” I told him. “That’s not a good place for it. Especially when you have a family history of high blood pressure and heart disease. Of course, it wouldn’t be nearly as concerning if you didn’t eat so much crap. You’ve been ignoring your doctor’s advice on that front. I think you might be addicted to salt, and it’s the worst thing for you. I’d lay off the potato chips, French fries, and deli ham if I were you, sir.”
Agent Willis continued to stare at me openmouthed, but he added blinking to the expression.
“Also, that promotion you want isn’t going to happen. You’ll need to brace yourself for the news that it’s going to someone younger and slightly less experienced. It’s why I really think you should try to take care of yourself. It’s gonna hit you hard.”
With that, Agent Willis’s head moved slowly to the left and I saw him eye a guy also in a dark blue Windbreaker—at least ten years younger than Willis—who was busy talking to several other agents on Dutch’s team.
“Yep,” I said. “He’s the guy getting promoted. If it’s any consolation, he won’t like the job as much as he was hoping to.”
Willis’s attention snapped back to me and there was real anger in his eyes now.
“But that could be because he’ll be your supervisor, and I doubt you’ll make it easy on him.” (Sometimes I have a hard time quitting while I’m ahead.)
“Who are you?!” he demanded.
I showed him my badge. “Abby Cooper. FBI civilian consultant.”
Willis blinked again and then something seemed to register. “Hold on,” he said, “are you that fortune-teller we heard the bureau hired?”
“I’m the professional intuitive they hired, yes,” I said, feeling a little flinty about being called a “fortune-teller.”
Willis started to laugh, and it wasn’t a nice laugh, and it certainly wasn’t kind. “Rivers, are you puttin’ me on?” he finally asked.
Dutch responded by offering me his hand. “Come on, Ms. Cooper. We have an interview to get to.”
I gave Willis what I hoped was my best “You’re a real dickhead” expression and took hold of my fiancé’s hand. “Good luck with that ticker,” I told him, in my best “eff you” voice. The humor left him pretty quick.
When we were out of hearing range, I asked, “Who was that asshole?”
“That’s another quarter,” Dutch said, reminding me that the swear jar on our kitchen counter was due a few coins (or $678.75 to be exact…).
“Yeah, yeah. But who was he?”
“Homeland Security,” Dutch told me. “They’ve been trying to weasel in on our case for the past couple weeks, and after today we’ll be lucky to hold on to it.”
“Who decides if it stays with you guys or gets moved over to them?”
“It has to be worked out at the top, between the secretary of Homeland Security and the FBI director.”
“Gaston?”
“No, the national director. The problem is that it’s not clear who the case should belong to, so we’ve been asked to join forces and work the case as a team.”
I looked back at Willis, his hands on his hips while he glared at our departing forms. “It’s going well, this working together, right?”
Dutch actually laughed. “Peachy. Harrison is close to breaking that little guy’s neck.” Dutch motioned to the younger man I’d pegged for the promotion.
I read the younger guy’s energy. “He’s hungry and scared he’ll blow this opportunity. That’s gonna make him a major pain in your—”
“Careful,” Dutch warned again.
I scowled at him. The swear police never cut me any slack. (So I made sure to cut myself some extra when I could get away with it.) “The point is that I’m sensing he’s going to be a thorn in your side.”
At that moment the man in question looked up, and like a hawk seeing two juicy mice, he started off in our direction. Dutch wrapped an arm around my waist and we shuffled to his car as quickly as we could, but the Homeland Security agent was closing in fast.
“Where ya goin?
???” I heard Candice ask, and I turned my head sharply. She’d come out of nowhere.
“We’re headed to Rita’s house,” I told her, continuing my speedy shuffle.
Candice quickened her pace to come up on my side. “Who’re we avoiding?”
“That guy,” I said with a nod toward the agent.
Candice brought her arm up and pressed a button on her key fob. Two cars away, her Porsche beeped. “My car’s closer,” she said.
Dutch and I didn’t argue. We simply leaned to the left and made a beeline to her car. She had us in and the engine turned over before the agent really registered what was happening. As Candice pulled out from the curb, I saw him stop and put his hands on his hips. I couldn’t help it; I waved at him. Probably not a smart move, but it was deeply satisfying.
We drove in silence while the navigation system gave Candice turn-by-turn directions from the address that Dutch had given her. I had to give my BFF props for driving like a reasonable person, something I suspected she was doing only because there was actually someone in the car who could arrest her for reckless driving.
We arrived at Rita Watson’s house, which was already surrounded by police and a small mob of onlookers. “What’s going on?” I asked as we pulled over to the curb down the street.
Dutch glowered in his seat. “This isn’t us,” he said. “It’s gotta be HS.”
“But Rita didn’t have anything to do with the bombs!” I exclaimed. I could just imagine her poor son, having to endure this invasion of privacy after hearing about his mother’s death. It was awful.
Dutch opened his car door. “It’s part of their protocol, Abs. They’ll vet anyone connected to the explosion in case there’s a possible connection.”
“We have to find Rita’s son,” I said as he helped me from the backseat. I was a little desperate to find the young man and make sure he was okay.
Dutch and Candice took up either side of me as we moved forward toward the small but charming home in an older neighborhood that’d probably seen better days. Nearby a dog barked incessantly, and several neighbors stood on their porches or front steps talking to one another or gabbing away on their phones. Most of the onlookers wore eager expressions, almost as if they were gleeful at the chance to witness such fallout from tragic circumstances.