He compressed his lips, nodding. “Nothing’s changed. He’s your friend as well as your boss.” She nodded, still not breathing, and hit “accept.”
“Deming here.” She sucked in more air and held it, squeezing her eyes shut.
“We need you here,” Benton said. “Now. There’s been movement on the case. Are you with Charlie?”
Her heart skipped a beat as she stared at Charlie. His hand stopped scooping coffee into the filter as she slowly inhaled, doing her best to sound normal. “Yeah. I’m with Charlie.”
“Don’t tell him anything, just… Bring him here, Deming. Bring him to the incident room.” Benton hung up. Cynthia’s hand trembled so much, it was hard to turn her phone off.
“What did he say?” Charlie gripped her upper arms, studying her features.
“He said don’t tell Charlie.” She dropped her forehead to his chest. “I’m scared. What are we going to do?”
Chapter Ten
Charlie had a hard time stopping Cynthia from throwing on clothes and rushing to the precinct, but he calmed her enough to convince her to shower and eat first. It gave him time to think, clear his head. What evidence could prompt such a request from Benton? Was he asking a newlywed agent, a friend, to deliver her husband to an interrogation? Not necessarily, unless the evidence was so clear they were convinced of his guilt. But then, wouldn’t they fear for Cynthia’s life and break down the door to save her? It seemed more likely they wanted to see what Charlie would do. Run? He didn’t know. Interpreting this sort of machination wasn’t his strong suit, but he didn’t want to ask Cynthia, either, because…well, she was upset.
He told himself not to worry. He wasn’t guilty of anything, and as BPD’s chief forensic pathologist, he knew, sooner or later, evidence would clear him. Truth didn’t have a timeline, and it could be unkind, but the evidence was out there, waiting to be found. He thought it might be a good time to remind Special Agent Benton of that.
A half hour later, they’d eaten, showered, dressed, and were ready to leave. Charlie stopped Cynthia before she could open the front door, wanting one last moment before they allowed the world to intrude into what had been his version of heaven. He took her hand, earning a worried smile from her. She was doing a good job of pretending she wasn’t upset, fidgeting with her pocketbook strap, but he knew the signs. Her hands trembled, and she was having a hard time holding his gaze.
“We’ll get through this,” he said, “and it won’t even be the hardest thing we’ve ever done.” She nodded, only stopping when he dropped a kiss on her lips. She was being so brave. “When this is over, you and me, we’re going to have a long conversation about you and me.” He lifted his brows, waiting for pushback, or agreement. She gave him neither, refusing the bait to think beyond the coming meeting.
She scowled. “You don’t get to take the fall for this. I won’t allow it, Charlie. You understand me? Be careful about what you say to Benton. I don’t know what they think they have, but it’s incriminating, or he wouldn’t have tipped me off.” She dropped her bag and grabbed his shirt with both fists. “Promise me you won’t do anything stupid, or I swear I’ll do something stupid, too, and we’ll both regret it. I’ll make sure of it.”
He covered her hands until she loosened her grip, then he brought them to his mouth, kissing them, lingering on the knuckle above his MIT ring, her “wedding” ring. It reminded him to do something about replacing it. “We’re investigators,” he said. “Experts in all the many ways a crime is committed, and I promise you, these killers are fucking with the wrong people. We’re going to nail them for these murders and make them pay for what they’ve done.”
“I hope you’re right.” She slipped from his grasp and bent, retrieving her pink pocketbook, to sling it over her elbow. “But until then, worry is going to eat me alive. I have no idea how you’re so calm.” He opened the front door, waiting for her to step through first.
“We both know if I’d planned this crime, I wouldn’t have gotten caught. Benton has to know that, too.” She nodded, frowning, hurrying off the porch to the sidewalk.
“Good point,” she said. He clicked the key fob, unlocking the car, and then opened the passenger side door and waited for her to sit. She tucked her bag at her feet as he leaned, one hand on the roof, the other on the open door.
“And don’t think your decision to ignore my comment about talking later went unnoticed. I noticed,” he said.
“Sounds like a threat.” She buckled in, avoiding his gaze. He grimaced, closing the door, not knowing if he should drop the subject, or push his advantage. After all, they’d just had a morning of mind-bendingly amazing sex. Surely, if ever she’d be inclined to commit to a lifetime as his wife, this morning would be the best time to ask. Before he was arrested.
He walked around the car, worrying the problem. Being arrested certainly wasn’t a good selling point. It could explain Cynthia’s hesitancy. What had she said? Sounds like a threat. Hard to argue, so he didn’t, but rather slid behind the wheel, disgruntled. Now was one of those all too frequent times when he wished he knew what was going on in her head.
“We both know you run rings around me when it comes to things like this.” He buckled in and started the car.
“This?” He caught her smiling, and then caught her suppressing it when he’d caught her.
“Yeah.” He used his hand to wave between the two of them. “This.” He grimaced, even as he realized a grimace probably wasn’t his optimal expression if his objective was to butter up his wife. “And don’t think I’ll forget your merciless exploitation of that strength when the dust clears. Next time we have sex, maybe I’ll only give you three orgasms, rather than four.”
“You mean five, if you count the one you slept through last night.”
Her words hit him like a pie to the face. But in a good way. He found himself smiling. “I stand corrected.” Hands on the wheel.
She pressed her lips together, as if forcing herself not to say more, and then looked out the window. “I’m sick to my stomach.”
He froze. “Because we had sex?”
She physically startled, her expression one of surprise. “Huh?” So, no. Not because they’d had sex. He gave up. If she wanted him to know what was on her mind, she’d tell him, just like always. He’d have to be patient, as always, and hope for the best. “Because of the meeting, the questions they’ll ask, what evidence they’ve dug up. I feel as if I’m leading a sheep to slaughter.”
He stopped himself from rolling his eyes by concentrating on driving, pulling into street traffic. “I’m no sheep.”
“No. You’re right. What if they use that against you? Maybe you should act less fierce. You can’t be less muscular overnight, or less smart. They’d never believe it, but—”
Her words were a balm to his soul. “You forgot to mention sexy.”
“No, I didn’t.” She folded her arms over her chest. “It was a deliberate oversight. If you were any more conceited, your head would explode.”
Conceited? “Have you met me?” When all she did was narrow her eyes and then turn her head away, Charlie laughed and focused on his driving. “Maybe I should head for the airport, grab a flight to Costa Rica, and sit on the beach drinking frosty beverages while Benton finds the real unsubs. Would that make you happy?”
“Not Costa Rica.” She sighed, running her manicured fingers through her hair. “Thirty-two countries don’t have extradition treaties with the United States. Pick one of those.”
He glanced at her. “Costa Rica isn’t one of them?”
“No. We’d have to go farther afield. Choose a country, preferably, where I won’t be penalized for being a woman.”
We. She’d said we. His chest tightened with emotion, and it took a moment to hide it, because Cynthia couldn’t have been clearer. She’d run with Charlie. No questions. Wasn’t that the answer he was looki
ng for? “We’re staying. We’ll fight this and win.” He had plans for them, and they didn’t include prison, or being a fugitive.
She nodded. “Like always.”
Fifteen minutes later, parked at the precinct house, they stepped out of the car. Cynthia appeared somber. They both shouldered their fears silently as they made their way inside. It was morning, so the place was hopping as they checked in at security, hustled to the elevators, and then stepped off on the homicide department floor. A multitude of desks were manned by distracted detectives clicking on keyboards, interviewing people. No one paid them the least attention, and that was a good thing, because Cynthia’s hands were shaking. She looked guilty. As they hustled down the hall, Charlie couldn’t help worrying she might make a scene if things went south in his meeting with Benton. It would do neither of them good if she was fired, or even suspended. Cynthia represented a wild card layered on top of his other concerns.
By the time they reached the incident room at the far end of the department, Charlie had come to terms with the uncertainty. Nothing he could do about it. Cynthia was her own woman.
He opened the door for her, saw her take a bracing breath before she entered, and then followed her inside the large room. Desks were to the left of the door, and Special Agent Jack Benton stood in front of them by a six-foot-tall murder board. Six vic pictures were taped on the white surface, above erasable-marker handwritten notes. To the left of the board was a table with a coffee machine, paper cups, stirrers, sugar, and a doughnut box. It was the doughnuts that caught Charlie’s attention. He headed straight for the box and chose glazed from the selection.
Special Agent Vincent Modena was hunkered down at his assigned desk off to Charlie’s left, near the door. One look noted Modena only had eyes for Cynthia. It stilled his hand, freezing the doughnut inches from his lips. Then Charlie saw that Modena seemed sympathetic, and relief had Charlie eating that doughnut in three bites. It was delicious.
Cynthia pegged it right. Fingers were decidedly pointed at Charlie. He wondered what planted evidence was found.
Special Agent Gilroy stood to Charlie’s left, in the back, rubbing his big hand over his shorn blond hair. He didn’t look happy. BPD’s IT tech, Vivian O’Grady, stood at Gilroy’s side. Mid-thirties, brown hair, tweed suit, she was flushed and clutching her pearls. Rumor had it O’Grady and Gilroy were dating, and Charlie had noticed they’d seemed happy lately.
Vivian didn’t seem happy now. Her gaze shifted to settle on Charlie, and she glared at him. It told him two things: the evidence was damning, and whatever personal currency he’d accrued by working with the team had been spent. Benton turned his attention away from the murder board, his eyes zeroing in on Charlie leaning against the coffee table.
“You want to do it here?” Charlie said, licking the sugar off his fingers. “Or in an interrogation room?” Benton’s eyes narrowed. Cynthia tossed her bag onto the nearest desk, scowling.
“Shut up, Charlie,” she said, just as Benton said, “Interrogation room 1.”
Cynthia gasped. “Benton!” Charlie shook his head once, willing her to be silent. “Fine!” she said. Then she turned toward Benton. “I trust you, Benton, but I trust my husband, too. Remember that when you question him.”
Benton exchanged glances with his team, then gathered folders from his desk. “Deming, you know you can no longer have anything to do with this case.”
“No,” Cynthia said, visibly shaking, eyes narrowing. “I don’t know that. Why don’t you tell me why?”
Benton glanced at Modena. “Keep her out of the room.”
Then he tilted his head toward the door and Charlie followed. To interrogation room 1. Benton flipped on a switch, and a red light in the ceiling camera turned on. It told Charlie this interview wasn’t casual, it was official, would be recorded, monitored, and logged into evidence. Charlie sat in the perp chair, the one facing the camera, and told himself to be calm, because… Well, fuck, he was innocent.
Benton sat, eyes on an open manila file filled with the pictures Kevin took of the crime scene yesterday. “Doesn’t look good, Charlie.”
“Can we dispel with the games?” Charlie said. Not knowing what they had was making it difficult to digest the doughnut.
Benton tapped the photos with his index finger. “You think six executions of WITSEC witnesses is a game? I thought the killing would stop when we put Dante Coppola behind bars. The syndicate is dead, its operations halted, but now this. Believe me, Charlie. I’m not playing.”
“Yes, you are,” Charlie said. “It’s textbook for an interrogator to use photos of gory vics for shock value. I autopsied them, so unless you have pics of the Loch Ness Monster in that folder, you’re not shocking me. Why am I here?”
Benton nudged a copy of a bank statement from the file. Its letterhead was unfamiliar to Charlie. “Where were you the night before last?” he said. “I’m going to need a detailed accounting for every hour, into the morning.”
Charlie glanced up from the paper, curious. “The vics were shot around ten PM. You know I was leaving to drive to Cynthia’s house around 10:15 PM, because I called you as I was leaving. Hell, I called everyone I could think of to find Cynthia when her phone went dead. Use the GPS card on my phone to track where I was that night.”
“Where your phone was, you mean. You’re a forensic expert, Charlie. If anyone knows how to finesse the system, you do, and it’s not an alibi if you were alone.”
“So why would I be that sloppy?” Charlie saw the flaw in Benton’s logic immediately. “You’re suggesting I advertised that I was alone and drove through Boston with a phone that could track my whereabouts because I’m attempting to avert suspicion? Is that also why I called the people most likely to investigate the mass murder?” He shook his head. “You’re describing someone who wants to be caught.”
Benton’s lids lowered as he studied Charlie’s features, and his body language. “Most serial killers want to be caught.”
Charlie decided not to take offense, since Benton’s words sounded like rote. The team leader was only doing his job. “I drove straight to Cynthia’s apartment, where I stayed until morning, and then I drove her to the ER, and then to the crime scene.”
“Where you proposed,” Benton prompted, “in a spectacular fashion.” When Charlie simply lifted his brows and didn’t add to his comments, Benton grimaced. “My assumption is Cynthia can corroborate your alibi.”
What alibi? Then Charlie realized that Benton assumed Cynthia had been at her apartment when Charlie arrived that night. She hadn’t been. She’d been gone all night and Charlie had been alone, waiting and worrying at her apartment. Not that he’d tell Benton that. Compromising Cynthia helped no one.
Charlie was careful to keep his thoughts hidden, because Benton was staring, the camera was recording, and whoever was watching through the monitor was taking notes. Lying to a FBI agent was a felony, so Charlie had to answer carefully.
“Isn’t that a question for Cynthia?” he said.
“I’m asking you.”
“You’re playing games,” Charlie said, “and you’re fishing for information. Tell me why I’m here.”
“When was the last time you saw these vics?” Benton indicated the photos.
They were autopsy photographs. Benton knew exactly when he’d last seen those men. “You mean alive?”
“Yes, Charlie. When they were alive.” Benton’s lips tightened.
“Never.” Charlie watched Benton lean back in his chair, his blue eyes fixed on Charlie’s face, as if weighing his answer for veracity. “I’ve seen pictures of them, because I had to study the case for the trial, but until I arrived at the scene, I’d never been in their presence.” Charlie picked up the copy of the bank statement and read the letterhead. Stone Industries, LLC. “What is this?”
Benton lifted his brows. “That’s exactly what I said when
I found it slipped under my apartment door this morning. Whoever delivered it knows where I live, and what case I’m on, and had access to confidential information on a foreign bank account.”
“Foreign?” Charlie was completely lost, and it must have shown on his face, because Benton seemed uncertain for the first time since Charlie sat his ass in the hot seat.
“The company is based in the Cayman Islands,” Benton said. “I had our forensic accountants do their magic, and it didn’t take long to discover Stone Industries is a Coppola syndicate money-laundering shell company.”
Now, isn’t that interesting, Charlie thought, scanning the document. His attention was immediately subverted by the interrogation room door slamming open and hitting the wall. Cynthia barged in, face flaming red, her eyes flashing with anger.
“This is the Coppola case then. What the hell is going on?” She glared at Benton. “If you don’t tell me right now, I’ll lawyer Charlie up so fast your head will spin!”
Benton’s shoulder’s sagged, and he sighed, glaring at the camera affixed to the ceiling. “Modena. You had one job.”
“Don’t try to put me off,” Cynthia said. “I’m serious, Benton.” Her fists rested on her hips. Charlie thought her magnificent, and couldn’t stop smiling. “This isn’t funny, Charlie! Benton! Talk to me!”
“Look at this.” Benton handed her the bank statement. Charlie stood, looking over her shoulder. Halfway down the page, there was a withdrawal transaction highlighted with yellow. “An even million,” the team leader said. “Look at the date.” Two days ago, the day before the murders. Charlie shook his head, still flummoxed. He exchanged looks with Cynthia and discovered she didn’t seem to have a clue either.
Deadly Past Page 15