“Can I ask you a question?” Lyons said.
“Sure.”
“How did it feel to take Elroy Jordan down? I mean, even after that fuckup of an ME had declared him dead in Pensacola, you still found him.”
Heather kept her gaze on the road, guiding the Trans Am into the fast lane to pass a semi hauling Budweiser, but her fingers tightened around the steering wheel. “Just dumb luck,” she said.
“Just dumb luck?” Lyons laughed. “Hey, no need for false modesty. Claim your glory. I sure as hell would. You tracked that bastard down and put him where he belonged—in the ground.”
The Bureau had named her Jordan’s killer and a hero even though they’d known the truth, a truth never spoken aloud by anyone, a truth both she and the powers that be had wanted buried, but for very different reasons.
She to keep breathing and to protect Dante.
They to cover their collective asses.
And the ME in Pensacola that Lyons had so casually mentioned? The one who’d been ordered to falsify the autopsy report? A suicide. Slashed her wrists in the tub. Ended up on one of her own autopsy tables.
A very convenient suicide.
It’d chilled Heather to the marrow to realize how far the collective ass-covering would go, but it hadn’t surprised her, not after New Orleans. But worst of all was her own silence, a silence that—no matter how necessary—made her feel like an accomplice.
“Yeah, well, I wish Jordan could’ve faced the relatives of his victims in a court, instead,” she finally replied. “It felt like he got off too easy.”
“They often do.”
“They do,” she agreed. “But I still hope to change that with every arrest I make.”
“Amen, sister.” Lyons paused, then said, “I heard you took a bullet too. How are you feeling? You look good for a woman who nearly died three weeks ago.”
“I’ll answer your question,” Heather said, keeping her voice light, relaxed, “if you answer one for me.”
“Shoot.”
“I saw you putting something in your pocket when I walked out of the woods. Are you recording this conversation?”
“Something in my pocket? I’m not sure….” Lyons suddenly laughed. “My sister. I called my sister to see if she needed me to pick anything up for her on the way home.”
Heather looked at him. Amusement glimmered in his eyes and his level gaze met hers. Her gut instinct said: He’s telling the truth. Some of the tension drained from her muscles and she eased her grip on the steering wheel.
“So is this FBI-trained suspicion or just natural paranoia?”
Heather chuckled. “FBI trained,” she admitted. “But I don’t know how to turn it off anymore.”
“Another amen, sister. So, my question…?”
“My injury wasn’t as bad as you might’ve heard—” A cell phone’s abrupt beedle-beedle interrupted her.
“Is that you or me?” Lyons asked, reaching into his hoodie pocket.
“Shit, it’s me,” Heather muttered, fumbling one-handed behind the seat for her purse. She’d programmed a businesslike ring for the Bureau on her cell; a Leigh Stanz neo-grunge song—“Don’t Need Light”—announced her non-work-related calls.
Given that she wasn’t on active duty yet, a call from work couldn’t be good news.
“Keep your eyes on the road and your hands on the wheel,” Lyons said, twisting around in his seat. “I’ll get it.”
“Thanks,” Heather said, doing as he’d advised. A second later, Lyons pressed her phone against her ear.
“Go,” he whispered.
“Wallace,” she said into the phone.
The conversation was short and most definitely not sweet. When it ended, she reached up and took the cell phone from Lyons, folded it shut, and dropped it into her jacket pocket.
“Trouble?” Lyons asked.
An update on your medical status has been requested. Be here at eighteen hundred hours. Be prepared for the possibility of additional debriefing.
Additional debriefing, sir?
Just a possibility. Eighteen hundred hours, Wallace.
“No,” she lied, flashing Lyons a quick smile. “A mix-up, most likely.”
“I hear that. The Red-Tape Bureaucracy Boys singing their latest, ‘It Needs to Be Filled Out in Triplicate.’”
Despite the hard knot in her belly, Heather laughed. “Exactly.”
She had five hours to drive back to Seattle and, although that should be enough time even after dropping Lyons off at the Portland field office parking lot, she’d have to cancel her surprise visit to see Annie at the treatment center. She’d also be cutting it too close to swing by her house once she hit Seattle to change from jeans into office appropriate slacks and blouse.
Maybe that wouldn’t matter. Be prepared for the possibility of additional debriefing.
The knot in her belly kinked tighter. Maybe they’d found out about her and Dante. If so, that’d give them enough reason to fire her, the hero they’d created. And a chance to transform her into another tragic figure like the ME in Pensacola, a suicide in her tub. Or maybe the victim of an auto accident or a burglary gone wrong.
Heather inhaled deeply, drawing in a breath of Drakkar Noir. Get a grip, Wallace. If the powers that be wanted her dead, they wouldn’t wait to fire her first. She’d already be on an autopsy table.
Maybe her father was behind this sudden medical status update. Maybe he’d caught wind of her cold case investigation. “Can I ask a favor?” she said.
“Shoot.”
“My father is James Wallace—”
“James William Wallace? The fearless leader of our West Coast lab?”
“The same.”
Lyons whistled.
“If he should contact you about what I’m doing—about this case, I’d appreciate it if you’d keep him in the dark.”
Heather looked at Lyons and something lit in his ocean-green eyes, a connection, an understanding. He nodded. “Can do. I’ll keep your old man in the dark.”
“Thanks,” she breathed, relieved he didn’t ask why. “I appreciate it.”
“Not a problem.”
For the last twenty years, James William Wallace had kept Heather in the dark. About how her mother had died, about how she’d lived; about Annie’s illness. She’d had to dig for every little bit of truth, sift it from lies and willful denial. She intended to return the favor. In spades.
5 THE HAND THAT FEEDS
Seattle, WA—FBI Field Office
March 22
HEATHER KNEW HER LIFE depended on how she answered the question just posed to her by ADIC Monica Rutgers. If she said yes, she’d be little more than a marionette for the Bureau to stage and pose—albeit a well-paid, breathing marionette. If she said no, they’d find a way to strip the truth from her mind, and then, in one way or another, she’d die.
“I’m honestly stunned,” Heather said, managing to curve her lips into a smile. “And honored. But a decision this important deserves careful consideration.”
“Of course,” Rutgers replied from the large-screen monitor nestled into the west wall. Graying curls framed a stoic face weathered by decades of subterfuge. “How about Monday? That gives you four days to mull it over.”
“Monday would be fine, ma’am,” Heather said.
She sat in one of two plush chairs positioned in front of what used to be Stearns’s oak desk and his office. His energy still seemed to permeate the room, steady as granite. And, at times, she thought she caught glimpses of him from the corners of her eyes—behind the desk, standing at the rain-ribboned window looking down into the street. Imagined she smelled coffee and Tums.
“We believe you’ve more than proven your merit and mettle,” Alberto Rodriguez said from behind Stearns’s desk.
“Thank you, sir.” Heather said. She glanced at the interim SAC and flashed him what she hoped was a winning smile. “Still, it’s a big decision…”
“You’ll make a fine SAC.” The
shitty sound system rendered Rutgers’s voice as thin and flat as her face. “I believe this is a move Craig Stearns would’ve approved.”
Heather doubted that, considering the truth Stearns had learned in New Orleans.
You’ve been marked for termination. Me too.
How high up does this go?
I think it’s best to behave as though it goes to the top.
“I appreciate your confidence, ma’am,” Heather murmured, throat tight.
Rutgers folded her hands on the polished surface of her desk, an ill-fitting smile glued to her lips. She studied Heather from the D.C. side of the webcam. Heather forced herself to relax into the chair.
“The latest report from your doctor states that you’re fit for duty,” Rodriguez said.
Heather swiveled her chair slightly so she could see both him and the monitor.
He tapped a finger against a folder in front of him on the desk, his angular, clean-shaven face thoughtful. “Though, frankly, he’s amazed by your recovery. It’s nothing short of a miracle.”
“I was lucky, that’s all,” Heather said. “If the bullet had been a centimeter to the left…” She shrugged. “I wouldn’t be here. No miracle, just luck and prompt medical attention.”
“We still have a few questions—” He looked up when the door opened, then snicked shut again. He nodded his head in acknowledgment.
Just as Heather glanced over her shoulder to see who’d joined the meeting, she caught a whiff of Brut aftershave.
I knew it.
He looked older than she remembered—thinner, hair streaked gray and white, more lines etched into his face.
“I apologize for being late, ma’am,” SA James William Wallace said, nodding at the monitor. He stood just inside the door, his rain-spattered, tan trenchcoat draped over his left arm. “The traffic was bad.”
“No apology necessary,” Rutgers said. “You came up from Portland on very short notice.”
“If I may ask, ma’am—why was my father asked to attend?” Heather straightened in her chair. “We’ve never worked together. He couldn’t possibly assess—”
“He’s here as an advocate for you,” Rutgers said, leaning forward against her desk. “We don’t want any misunderstandings. And you need to know what’s at risk.”
A chill iced Heather’s spine. “At risk, ma’am?”
James Wallace folded his trench over the back of the remaining chair and sat down beside Heather. With a wink and a smile, he swiveled his chair around to face the com-con monitor and Rutgers.
“She’s ready to get back into the saddle,” her father said.
“My father does not speak for me. Just so we’re clear,” Heather said.
“Relax,” James Wallace murmured. “I’m on your side.”
Heather refused to look at him. “Ma’am, you mentioned a risk?”
“That’s correct. A few other things for you to consider while you contemplate your decision.”
Rodriguez flipped open the file, thumbed through the pages. Special Agent Bennington mentioned during his debrief in D.C. that he believed Dr. Moore had intended to use you as ‘psycho bait,’ but he wasn’t sure if you were meant to lure Jordan or Prejean.” He looked up at Heather. “Any thoughts as to why in either case?”
Heather forced her hands to remain open and relaxed in her lap. She frowned, then shook her head. “I really think Bennington would know more about Dr. Moore’s motives than I would.”
“And you maintain that when Dr. Moore shot you,” Rutgers said, “she was aiming at Jordan? Are you certain she hadn’t intended to kill you along with Jordan?”
On the monitor, a man—most likely an assistant—stepped into camera view, a finger to the Bluetooth curving against his ear. He paused to speak into Rutgers’s ear, then walked out of viewing range again. The ADIC’s expression became grim.
“I’m not certain of anything, ma’am. Between the drugs and the bullet in my chest at the time, very little is clear,” Heather said, keeping her voice level. “Again, as to Dr. Moore’s intentions, Bennington would know more than I do.”
“It could’ve been friendly fire, just like Heather said in her statement,” James Wallace put in. Fabric whispered as he crossed his legs. “Like it was with Craig Stearns when a bullet from Heather’s gun ended up in his shoulder during a fire-fight.”
Heather finally looked at her father. Even though her pulse pounded hard and fierce through her veins, ice frosted her from the inside out. “That’s all in my original statement,” she said, jaw tight. Her father met her gaze, his own composed. “And it has nothing to do with what happened at the center.”
“Just pointing out how easy it is and how often it happens,” he said.
“Regrettably, yes,” Rutgers said. “But I keep coming back to one question….”
Heather shifted her gaze back to the monitor. The knot in her belly tightened. “Yes, ma’am?”
“If Moore had intended to shoot you, why? Was she hoping to trigger Prejean?”
Heather’s pulse spiked. “I don’t understand,” she said, her mouth suddenly dry. “Trigger Prejean?”
“Bad Seed,” Rodriguez said. “Does that ring any bells, Wallace?”
Heather looked at him. His deep-set eyes zeroed in on her. She shook her head. “Bad Seed? No, should it? Again, if this is something Moore had been working on, maybe you should be asking Bennington and not me.”
“Unfortunately, we no longer have that option,” the ADIC murmured. “Special Agent Bennington is dead.”
Heather held herself very still. She stared at Rutgers’s pixilated image. “Dead?”
Face grim, Rutgers nodded. “Heart attack nearly two weeks ago.”
Heather judged that Bennington had been in his early thirties and fit. A coronary would be unusual, but not impossible. All the same, she had the chilling feeling that Bennington had been helped into a convenient death, just like Anzalone, the ME in Pensacola.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” she managed to say, the knot of dread in her belly pulling tighter. “I can’t answer your questions, ma’am. You’re asking me things I don’t know.”
Rutgers studied her for a long moment, then nodded. “Fair enough. While you’re mulling over our offer, please keep in mind that refusal or a resignation could result in certain information being leaked to the press.”
“Ma’am?” From the corner of her eye, Heather caught a glimpse of movement and another whiff of Brut as her father straightened in his chair.
“Mental illness has claimed two members of your family so far, your mother and sister, I believe.” The ADIC’s voice was level, conversational.
“That’s false, ma’am,” James Wallace interrupted. “My wife was an alcoholic—”
“Bipolar,” Heather said. “Mom was bipolar. Annie, too.”
Rutgers’s gaze bricked over, hard and cold, and she shifted it to James Wallace. “I won’t brook any more interruptions from either of you.” She returned her attention to Heather.
“I’m listening, ma’am,” Heather said.
“It’ll be made clear that you are the third member of the family to become ill,” Rutgers said. “We’ll express our regret at seeing one of our finest tragically brought low by ill health. We’ll also let it be known that we wouldn’t hold you responsible for any delusional comments you might make. And we’ll promise to provide all the medical and psychological help needed for you to regain your health.”
James Wallace’s chair creaked as he leaned forward, elbow to knee, hand to chin. “So you’d shred Heather’s credibility and sabotage my career as well.”
“Your daughter would be doing that,” Rutgers said. “Not us. It’s up to her.”
Heather locked gazes with the ADIC. “Will that be all, ma’am?”
“Gentlemen?” Rutgers murmured. “Anything else?” Her face was impassive, but Heather detected tension in her body language, in the tight set of her shoulders.
“No, ma’am,” Rodrigue
z replied.
James Wallace shook his head.
“Then we’re finished. Until Monday, Wallace. Consider carefully.” Rutgers tapped a button on her desk. The monitor went dark.
Rising to her feet, Heather glanced at Rodriguez. “Sir,” she murmured. Without even a glance at her father, she strode from the office.
HEATHER CROSSED THE PARKING garage in quick strides. Fury burned a hole in her gut. It’d stopped raining outside, but the air was cool and humid and smelled of rubber, old oil, and car exhaust. She unlocked the Trans Am with her smart key and reached for the door handle.
“Heather!” Her name boomeranged against the concrete.
She whirled around to face her father, her purse bumping against her hip. “What the hell do you want?”
“I believe the traditional greeting is hello,” James Wallace said, voice neutral. He stood a yard away, his hands shoved into the pockets of his tan trench. His glasses reflected light from the buzzing overheads. “I came here to vouch for you. We’re still blood, whether you like it or not. And my word carries weight.”
“I’ve never wanted or needed your weight.”
“I know,” James Wallace said. A smile touched his lips. “I’ve always liked that about you.”
“Don’t you know they just used you?”
“I do…now.” He sighed. “I was trying to protect you.”
“You never have before. Why start now?”
James Wallace slipped off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Are you sure of that?” He suddenly looked weary and worn, in need of a shave; a worried father. He slid his glasses back on without once looking at her with uncovered eyes. “I want us to be a family again, Heather. All of us.”
“Really? I don’t remember you visiting me in the hospital or even calling,” she said, voice low. Tension pulled the muscles in her shoulders taut.
“I couldn’t bear the thought of seeing you injured and in pain. Not you, Pumpkin. I hope the media left you alone.”
Genuine concern? Interrogation technique? It bothered Heather that she didn’t know. “Why do you care if the media left me alone or not?”
He pulled his hands from the trench’s pockets and folded his arms over his chest. “Experience. I remember how insane it was when your mother died.”