Текст книги "Convicted"
Автор книги: Aleatha Romig
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Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 35 страниц)
Harry bit his tongue. Working undercover had a way of removing the bureau formalities from an agent’s vocabulary. Harry had enough problems with his future in the service of the FBI; he didn’t need to add insubordination to the list. Sitting taller, Harry said, “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. I’ll do whatever the bureau wants me to do.”
“The bureau wants you to travel to Italy. We have two possible sightings of Ms. Nichols—one in Venice—the other in Rome. We have pictures of the woman suspected of being Ms. Nichols. You’ll see she’s always in disguise.” SAC Williams pointed toward a large screen on the wall of his office. Still pictures projected. Some were grainy, as if taken from a distance and enlarged. Others were much more clear and detailed. Harry studied the woman in each photograph. The last time he’d seen Claire, in person, was in June. That was four months ago. The woman in question could be pregnant, or just heavy. Her hair color and length varied from photo to photo, yet there was something about her—in a few of the photos—when she smiled—Harry’s chest tightened.
“Sir, I believe that is Ms. Nichols.”
“This man has been seen with her on numerous occasions. Can you identify him?”
Repeated pictures projected, again with varied quality. “Most of these pictures don’t show his face. It’s like he knows to keep it away from cameras.” The man’s hair color varied, and he often wore a hat. “I’m sure it isn’t Anthony Rawlings, sir”—Harry studied the pictures closer—“He’s familiar. Are they believed to be together?” The way he emphasized the last word made his meaning clear.
SAC Williams’ eyes narrowed. “It appears so. Ms. Nichols told the Iowa City prosecutor that she left the home of Mr. Rawlings of her own free will, and that she feared for the safety of her and her unborn child. She emphasized that the threat wasn’t from Mr. Rawlings. Although you are aware, their relationship has had its perilous moments.”
“Yes, sir. Ms. Nichols told me about that herself.”
“She also informed Evergreen that she believed Mr. Rawlings is still in danger.”
Harry shifted his footing ever so slightly.
“I’ll ask this one more time, can you reenter this case with a sense of impartiality? Our assignment is multifaceted. Agent Nichols was one of us. Though not publicly disclosed—his death is still an open case. The ME found traces of a rare toxin in his blood, actaea pachypoda, more commonly referred to as doll’s eyes. This plant toxin has a sedative effect on the cardiac muscle tissue and can cause cardiac arrest. That same toxin has been identified in very few other deaths. A reoccurring denominator seems to be Mr. Rawlings or should I say Rawls. After years of nothing, it was Ms. Nichols’s research and persistence that pulled these cases together. Upon further investigation, actaea pachypoda was also found in Mr. Rawlings’ blood when he was poisoned in 2012. Interestingly, it was the first time it has been identified in a nonlethal dose.”
Harry wanted to say, “That’s too bad”—however, he wisely chose to remain silent.
SAC Williams continued, “Honestly, it doesn’t come up in a normal toxicology screen and could easily be missed. Not all cases lead to Mr. Rawlings directly. Since other drugs indicating poisoning were found in Mr. Rawlings’ 2012 toxicology report, this toxin wasn’t initially discovered. Thankfully, in criminal cases such as Mr. Rawlings’ attempted murder, trace evidence is retained. When his blood was retested, the toxin was discovered. If it were left up to those idiots in Iowa, it would’ve never been found. We have no way of knowing how many other cases have been missed.”
“May I see the other names and case files which have been identified?”
“Yes, agent, you’ll be leaving today for Venice. A debriefing file will accompany you on that trip. Familiarize yourself with it.”
“If I locate Ms. Nichols, am I to maintain the ex-boyfriend from SiJo persona?”
“For the time being, yes. She trusted you. That’s your role again, to regain her trust. As I said, this case is multifaceted. Ms. Nichols believes a significant threat exists—a threat which was severe enough to cause her to leave the country. Although she remains unaware, Ms. Nichols is our informant. We need her safe. Mr. Rawlings is an influential man with many connections. For the time being, it’s in the best interest of many people for him to remain hidden and safe. With the political and financial climate as it is, the collapse of Rawlings Industries could have global financial repercussions. That’s not something the prominent U.S. government officials want to see at this time. After his location is confirmed, it’s been determined to allow him to stay hidden. Actually, that was the bureau’s plan. I can’t say I agree with the Boston office’s tactics. I think they should’ve been straight with him all along, but it wasn’t my call. Now, we have to clean up their mess.”
“What if the evidence points back to Mr. Rawlings?”
“If it does, we bring him in.”
Externally, Harry maintained his neutral expression; internally he smiled from ear to ear. Bring him in—yes, Harry liked the way that sounded. He wanted to be the person placing Rawlings’ wrists in cuffs—and he didn’t mean the thousand dollar, diamond studded kind. Harry’s need for retaliation wasn’t solely based on what he did to Claire, although admittedly it was a predominating factor. No, Harry’s incentive stemmed from the implication of so many other criminal activities. Rawlings hadn’t only taken Claire’s life, but he’d also, potentially—theoretically, hurt countless others—taking and destroying lives at will. Yes, Harry wanted to see Anthony Rawlings behind bars more than he wanted anything else. Maybe, just maybe, when Rawlings’ crimes were brought to light Claire would see the truth. Oh, there was no doubt that when Claire learned that Harry’s presence in Palo Alto was not coincidental—that he also lied to her, she’d be upset, but lying for good was much better than killing, beating, raping...it twisted Harry’s stomach to think how long the list of Rawlings’ sins could possibly be.
Snapping back to reality, the photo of the man on the wall screen registered, and Harry said, “Phillip Roach.”
“Excuse me?” SAC Williams asked.
“The man in those photos with Claire Nichols, his name is Phillip Roach. He’s a private investigator. I ran preliminary background checks on him. He has a military background and on multiple occasions he’s fallen off the grid. He did work for Rawlings. I don’t know why he’d be with Ms. Nichols now.”
“Well then, that’s on your list of things to learn.”
“Sir, why am I suddenly in Europe?”
SAC Williams smiled. “Welcome back, Agent.”
Doubt separates people. It is a poison that disintegrates friendships and breaks up pleasant relations. It is a thorn that irritates and hurts; it is a sword that kills .
—Buddha
Brent tipped the Styrofoam cup upward attempting to garnish the last drops of caffeine, praying for a jumpstart to his exhausted body and mind. He’d been sitting and watching the feed from the hotel’s surveillance cameras for hours. Agent Jackson remained with him, but the second agent occasionally changed. The one who accompanied Jackson to the hotel was back; however, he’d left for a while and been replaced with another man, wearing the same customary black suit.
Regardless of who was within their room, they sat and watched the same loop over and over. It consisted of a hallway view of Tony and the two agents leaving the suite—the three men alone in the elevator—their walk through the lobby—and all of them entering a waiting black SUV. Brent wondered if Agent Jackson expected something to change, some new information. He wasn’t seeing it; at this point, he was pretty sure he’d see the same video in his dreams—if he ever had a full night’s sleep.
Without a doubt, Tony walked away willingly. There seemed to be little communication occurring between Tony and the agents; however, without audio, that couldn’t be confirmed. Watching his friend disappear from the camera’s view, Brent wondered, was Tony being taken by the person Claire feared? The FBI insinuated otherwise. Without coming out and saying it, Brent sensed that they thought Tony’s departure—like Claire’s—was of his own free will. Regardless of the reason, Brent saw no advantage to watching the same footage a thousand times. Shouldn’t they be tracking down the SUV or something? Suddenly, Agent Jackson’s voice refocused Brent’s thoughts. “There it is! That’s what I’ve been trying to see. I knew something seemed odd.” The other agent hit pause and backed up the video; soon they were all watching the footage again.
Finally, Brent asked the question he could no longer contain, “What do you see? All I see is the man on the left sending a text.”
Agent number two replied. Brent gave up trying to learn all the different names of the different agents. Most of them looked alike. That’s what made last night’s charade so believable. He didn’t really look at the men. He momentarily thought of the movie Men in Black; they had it right by naming their agents with letters. J and K were much easier to remember.
Number Two replied, “Look at that phone. What’s the time on the feed?”
Jackson read the bottom of the screen, “01:36:58”
Suddenly, Number Two was typing feverishly on a nearby keyboard.
“Is someone going to tell me what you’re thinking? Will this help find Tony?”
Exasperation showed in Jackson’s expression; he exhaled and said, “See his phone. That isn’t an FBI issued phone. It isn’t even a smart phone.”
Immediately, Brent recognized what Jackson was seeing. Looking at the phone in the agent’s hand upon the stilled image, he saw the same kind of phone Courtney used to use to communicate with Claire. Brent nodded, “Yes! It’s one of those throw away phones. Why would an agent have one of those? Or why would he use it?”
“Exactly—why indeed? While we may not be able to answer why with 100% certainty, but I can, with 100% certainty, say he isn’t texting the bureau.”
“Here it is!”
Brent and Jackson turned toward Number Two, who exclaimed, “At exactly 01:36:59 the nearest tower received and forwarded a text message!” He continued to type, then he added, “It originated from a disposable phone, purchased at a convenience store on the east side of Boston, from the coordinates of the hotel.”
“And it went to..?” Jackson asked.
Number Two exhaled. “Another disposable phone, purchased at the same store, same time, with cash.”
“Can you see the text receiver’s location?”
“Give me a minute.”
Brent sat back and lifted his cup again, trying to locate any remnants of coffee lingering in the depths of Styrofoam. He marveled at the FBI’s resources. Their impressive and intrusive technology gave him confidence they’d soon learn more about these fake agents. That both soothed and worried Brent. Despite the fact, he repeatedly told the story of the late night visit, each time emphasizing Tony’s surprise and agitation, they actually alluded to the possibility Tony arranged for the fake visit and his own disappearance.
As the two agents talked, Number Two typed and typed, and Brent’s thoughts went back to last night in the suite. He recalled Tony’s declaration, saying that he didn’t believe the FBI and feared Claire had been coerced to leave the country. Brent wanted to believe his friend. He wanted to believe that the Tony of 2010 was gone; nevertheless, the fact he once existed, lingered in Brent’s thoughts.
He knew Claire’s theory on why Tony chose her all those years ago—a lifelong vendetta having to do with their grandfathers. Regardless of the reason, in 2010 Tony risked everything—money, appearance, everything, to kidnap and have Claire Nichols. To the outsider, it didn’t make sense. Anthony Rawlings was incredibly wealthy and not bad looking. No one would believe he’d jeopardize all he’d worked to accomplish, to kidnap a woman from Atlanta, Georgia. As Brent’s thoughts came together, he felt the rush of understanding. Suddenly, the picture made sense. It was like watching cards fall just right to close an inside straight. If Tony had been willing to bet everything to take Claire—then surely he’d be willing to gamble it all—again, if he believed she needed rescued.
Closing his eyes and rubbing his temples, Brent allowed his thoughts to volley. One minute, he worried someone dangerous had taken Tony—the someone Claire told the FBI about. The next minute, he believed Tony arranged the escape, in an effort to find Claire on his own. If that were the case, his friend and his boss—Anthony Rawlings—was now a fugitive. If that were the case, Brent couldn’t have been prouder!
With the sleep deprived pounding behind Brent’s closed eyes, he made a decision. He wouldn’t quit, and he hadn’t been fired; however, without a doubt—he wasn’t getting paid enough to put up with this shit! He deserved a raise, and if Tony weren’t around, then damn, that was something Brent could facilitate on his own! This shit deserved more money!
Catherine answered the door to the estate, knowing who’d be on the other side. Large iron gates greatly reduced the odds of surprise visitors. When Marcus Evergreen checked in, security informed him that Mr. Rawlings wasn’t home. He asked to come up to the estate anyway. Without Anton home, Catherine reasoned, she was the one to handle whatever the prosecutor wanted to discuss.
“Hello, Mr. Evergreen, please come in.”
“Ms. London, I wanted to come out here personally. I hope you don’t mind the intrusion?”
Leading him into the sitting room, Catherine answered, “I don’t mind; however, I’m not sure what you want. Mr. Rawlings is still out of town. I haven’t heard from him since he left Friday.”
“Yes, that’s what I’m here to discuss.”
They sat, facing one another as Catherine replied, “Mr. Evergreen, perhaps you should talk to Mr. Rawlings’ assistant, Patricia. She’s usually much more abreast of his schedule than I. I’m sure if he’s supposed to meet with you, he will. There’s no reason he wouldn’t.” Catherine’s words flowed faster as she spoke.
“Mr. Rawlings has no family, does he?”
“No, sir. Why are you asking?”
“You’ve worked for him for a long time, isn’t that true?”
“Yes, I’ve known Mr. Rawlings for a long time. I’m sorry, but I don’t understand where you’re going with this.”
“Ms. London, I received a call from the Boston bureau of the FBI yesterday. They instructed me to not release any information until everything was confirmed. This morning, they called and informed me that the news media would soon be reporting the incident.”
Catherine’s anxiety grew with each passing second. She didn’t know what was about to be said, and the uncertainty made her inhale deeply. “Mr. Evergreen, what are you trying to say?”
“Mr. Rawlings chartered a private plane during the early hours of the morning, Sunday. That plane made an emergency landing in the Appalachian Mountains.” He quickly added, “It didn’t crash—it landed, and no one has been found.”
Unexpectedly, tears formed in Catherine’s gray eyes. Stoically, she pushed forward. “Why? How? That doesn’t make sense. He has his own plane and access to many more. Why would he charter a plane?”
“All I know is that the FBI had reason to believe Mr. Rawlings’ life was in danger.”
Catherine’s hand quickly moved to her throat. “In danger? By whom?”
“They haven’t revealed that information to me. They said they’re not making any declarations. Your employer is neither considered dead nor missing. They hope to locate him. Ms. London, if you hear from him, I’m imploring you, please contact my office immediately.”
Catherine nodded. “Yes, Mr. Evergreen, of course. So, they think he’s alive?”
“The FBI isn’t being very forthcoming. I’m sure this’ll result in all kinds of speculations.” The prosecutor stood. “I need to get back to the office. I wanted to do something and informing you seemed like the best option. I realize he was your employer; however, after so many years of devoted service, I felt you deserved to hear the information first hand.”
“Mr. Evergreen—the FBI? Does this also involve Ms. Nichols?”
“I wish I could tell you more. I wish I knew more. As of now, both Ms. Nichols and Mr. Rawlings are both officially—considered missing.”
Keeping her eyes downcast, Catherine led her visitor back toward the door. “Thank you, Mr. Evergreen. I appreciate the personal message. I’ll contact your office if I hear anything.”
“One more thing, Mr. Rawlings’ driver, Eric Hensley?”
“Yes, that’s his name.”
“Is he here?”
“Yes,” Catherine replied. “He left with Mr. Rawlings Friday evening, but returned on Saturday alone. We haven’t spoken; I’m not sure why he came home alone.”
“You haven’t spoken?”
“Mr. Evergreen, this is a large home and estate. We all have our duties and when we have the chance for some uninterrupted time, we take it.”
Marcus nodded.
It was true the prosecutor made a decent salary, but the way of life in the world of the extremely wealthy was a mystery to those who didn’t live it. Catherine believed her answer made sense, and Mr. Evergreen had no reason to doubt her.
He added, “Thank you, Ms. London. I, too, will let you know of any new developments which I am privy to share. Would you like me to be the one to inform Mr. Hensley?”
“If you feel the need to speak to him personally—by all means.”
“No, if you want to break the news to him, I won’t intrude. Once again, I’m sorry to be the one to inform you of this disturbing news.”
“Thank you, for taking the time.” Catherine closed the door and leaned against it. Taking in the grand stairs and large glistening foyer, a smile crept upon her face. She’d give this some time. Although, she wasn’t sure what that amount of time should be; nevertheless, when that acceptable mourning time was over, she’d meet with Mr. Simmons or Mr. Miller. Catherine remembered the legal documents she’d signed years ago naming her the executor of Anton’s estate. They would have been null-and-void if Anton had family—a wife or children, but he didn’t. He was divorced, and Claire was also missing, as was the child she claimed was his. That all worked together to make those documents now valid.
Catherine’s smile grew as she made her way to his office. It was so nice of Marcus Evergreen to come all the way out to the estate to speak with her personally. She couldn’t have planned this better herself!
The café was outside. After almost two weeks in Venice, Claire couldn’t stand to be held up inside their hotel suite another minute. Yes, the Hotel Danieli was stunning; nevertheless, Claire had experience at being held prisoner in beautiful places, and she needed air. If that meant more of the disguises, she’d do it. Sipping her warm tea, Claire leafed through the pictures one more time. The blue water and white sand reminded her of her honeymoon. The private island was amazing, but could it be home? She knew she needed to make a decision. Phil had been patient, but this was taking too long; even the two of them, being out in public made him uneasy. Claire knew he wanted an answer.
“I’m not sure. I mean it reminds me of Fiji, but what about my baby? Is there medical care”—she added with emphasis—“real medical care nearby?”
“Yes, we discussed this. There’s a town a mere boat ride away. In that town there’s a UK educated doctor. If more extensive medical care is necessary, the town has an air field. You can afford the necessary flight. In less than two hours you can be at a state of the art facility with specialists.”
Claire looked down. Maybe she wasn’t ready to make this move. She hadn’t checked the American news feed in a few days, honestly, she hadn’t checked anything. As the adrenaline from her escape waned, the hidden fortune and impending move seemed burdensome. Claire was tired of making wrong decisions.
Phil leaned across the small table and covered her hand with his. The care and compassion she’d seen in his eyes was slowly turning to irritation. His voice was but a whisper in the din of conversation occurring on all sides of them. “Listen, it’s your choice and your money, but if you don’t make a decision soon, at the very least we need to leave Venice. I realize traveling is difficult for you; however, this is my job, to keep you safe—whether you accept it willingly or not.” His last phrase held a bit more determination than Claire appreciated.
With the hairs on the back of her neck springing to attention, Claire’s lingering sadness at what she’d lost gave way to her new independence. Sitting straight, she removed her hand from his and said, “You’re doing your job because I’m paying you—very well—I might add. It is my decision and I’m sick and tired of making the wrong ones.”
“Yes, you’re paying me and I’ve earned less for more. The fact remains, my job is to keep you safe”—his voice lowered again—“all the damn disguises in the world won’t keep you outside the radar on a public street in Venice. Despite the fact the FBI is probably looking for you, your ex-husband’s reward makes everyone a possible threat.”
As Claire moved to stand, so did Phil.
“Stop,” she declared.
He lifted a brow.
In a hushed but determined tone, she said, “I’m going for a walk. I don’t need a babysitter. I have my phone and I need to think. I’ll be back when I get back.” This time, she leaned toward him. “If you don’t respect my privacy, I’ll find another babysitter. I need a break.”
She saw the turmoil in his eyes. She wasn’t just a job to him, he genuinely cared about her. Claire knew that; nevertheless, she needed to think. Walking helped her do that. When he didn’t respond, Claire nodded and turned away. Though the sky was clear, the temperature was brisk, especially with the breeze blowing between the buildings. Claire reasoned it had to do with impending autumn and all the water.
With the tirade of thoughts swirling through Claire’s mind, the world around her was a blur. Unconsciously, her feet moved toward St. Mark’s Square, and her eyes watched the pigeons while directing her body to avoid other pedestrians. Though surrounded in all directions, none of the historical beauty registered. Her mind was busy searching for answers. She thought about Tony. They hadn’t seen one another for almost a month. Momentarily, memories of their last encounter filled her vision. She remembered him asking her again to go to Europe. The irony of the fact that she was now where he’d wanted her—wasn’t lost. If only she’d gone with him, perhaps she’d be enjoying the sightseeing, instead of hiding for her life. Berating herself, Claire recognized—another bad decision.
She didn’t want her move to be impulsive. Did she even want to move away—forever? Claire questioned: was Catherine truly that much of a threat? Then she remembered Tony’s parents and her parents. Could Catherine have been responsible for her parents’ accident as well? What about Simon? No—that didn’t make sense. Why would Catherine care about Simon Johnson? Claire knew in her heart, if Simon’s death wasn’t a real accident, the guilt belonged with Tony. If Tony was responsible for Simon, was he also responsible for her parents?
Her entire body ached with indecision. How could the woman she’d grown to love as a mother be responsible for so much? How could the man she loved also be guilty? Claire shuddered against the cool breeze as she remembered scenes she’d compartmentalized away. The images from 2010 streamed through her memories. They weren’t as vivid as they used to be—time does that. It takes away the color and dims the sound, yet as she wrapped her arms around herself and felt the tears fill her eyes, she knew, in early 2010, color hadn’t been necessary. The only thing that mattered was black.
This unwanted realization struck hard. No matter how much she wanted to love and trust Tony, that black veil of fear would always be nearby. She’d suppressed it and compartmentalized it away; however, its presence was what Catherine used to her advantage. Conceding to this revelation momentarily immobilized her. She sat upon a concrete bench facing the lagoon and watched the number of pigeons multiply at her feet. She didn’t see the other people, although they were all around. It wasn’t until she heard his voice that she even knew he was present.
Of course, she recognized it. Looking up, she saw his blue eyes penetrating her black veil. Her world was no longer concealed, yet it didn’t make sense. How could Harry be there in Venice? Why was he there? Was he really there? New questions flooded her already saturated mind.
