by Amy Waeschle
“Welcome back, Dr. Kincaid,” she said stiffly, indicating the seat in front of her.
Cassidy slid into the chair. Bruce took the chair to her right, halfway between her and Special Agent Harris. Special Agent Santiago was not there. Cassidy was relieved—one less person who could call her bluff.
“Thank you for being so forthcoming, Dr. Kincaid.” Special Agent Harris paused, sliding her glasses off her face. “I’m curious, though, what brought on this change of heart?”
“What do you mean?” Cassidy asked while her heart pounded painfully behind her ribs.
“You were very reluctant to share your information about Izzy before.”
“I know. I’m sorry. She’s just been through a lot.”
Special Agent Harris sat back, tapping the arm of her glasses against her chin. “Go ahead.”
Cassidy drew a full breath into her lungs, or tried to. “She’s in Sweden.”
Special Agent Harris frowned. “According to Immigration, she hasn’t left the country.”
Heat flashed into Cassidy’s face. Of course, they would have already checked Izzy’s passport in their search. “Then she must have left under a different name, or something.” It sounded so lame, even she could hear the ridiculousness of it.
“I suppose it’s possible.” Special Agent Harris frowned, her blue eyes lasered on Cassidy. “Why Sweden?”
She’s humoring me, Cassidy realized. “Her mom’s getting medical treatment. She has some kind of terminal illness. Izzy took her there.”
Special Agent Harris immediately started jotting down notes on a pad of paper.
“You’re sure about this?” she asked, looking up with a piercing gaze. “This will take some work to verify.”
“Yes,” Cassidy said, feeling the lie coat her insides like poison.
“How did you know Izzy’s location?”
Cassidy’s mind went blank. “She…called me. She felt bad for the way she left.”
“Even though you essentially ruined her plans.”
Cassidy forced a nod. Cassidy remembered the way Izzy had refused to leave that warehouse, despite the horrific plans Saxon had for her. And after she and Izzy were safe in the back of Quinn’s car, how Izzy had turned her back on her. Cassidy understood Izzy’s plight, but she would never have left her to Saxon.
Even though she now had a target on her back.
“It was an apology, of sorts,” Special Agent Harris said.
“Yeah.”
Special Agent Harris held Cassidy’s gaze, and she felt the full power of the woman’s scrutiny—like being hit by a supernova. Cassidy resisted the urge to squint.
Finally, Special Agent Harris returned her attention to her notepad and fired off a bunch of questions—Izzy’s mother’s name, her illness, physical description, the city in which they were located—but Cassidy could only shake her head in reply.
“Sorry.”
“When did she call you?”
“About one o’clock.”
Special Agent Harris nodded, making a note. She then turned to Bruce. “We need to contact Interpol, Immigration, and who’s our contact for foreign security services?”
“I can work the Immigration angle. I have connections at ICE,” Bruce replied.
The two agents began hashing out their plan.
“Can I use the restroom?” Cassidy asked, rising from her chair.
Special Agent Harris barely looked at her.
Cassidy slipped from her chair, careful that her stiff movements didn’t knock it over. Once in the hallway, she forced a steadying breath into her lungs. Looking left and right and using all her senses, she tried to gauge where the other agents in the building were located.
To her right, towards the back of the building, the doors to the rooms were shut, with no light shining from under the doors. She set off toward the conference room, passing the bathroom.
Shuttered blinds covered the windows of the conference room and no light shone through them. At the end of the hall twenty feet away was the office and the security guard. From this angle, she could just see the back of his head and the bank of monitors. Thankfully none of the cameras were pointing at her.
The sound of her breaths echoing against the walls were so loud, she expected the security guard to hear her. She leaned closer to the door, listening for sounds. A burst of fear erupted inside her as she reached for the doorknob.
It opened with a click.
She glanced down the hallway in both directions, expecting Bruce or Special Agent Harris to burst out of the meeting room, or the guard to bolt out of his chair, but all was silent.
With her breath frozen in her throat, she stepped into the room. In this moment, everything changed.
Enough light peeked through the blinds covering the row of high windows opposite the door to show her that Pete’s notebook was no longer on the table. Though Cassidy had expected this, her stomach lurched with the increased difficulty she now faced.
In her dealings with the FBI, she had learned that agents were meticulous record-keepers. Everything was documented, categorized, and kept in detailed order. This was certainly standard procedure and critical for the prosecution phase of the investigation. So where would they keep Pete’s notebook?
She remembered the plastic evidence bag that held Dutch’s gun. A row of file cabinets lined the back wall. There was also a locked cabinet to her left, against the back wall. To her right, the photographs of suspects along with notes scribbled underneath were organized in a web on a giant white board. She recognized Saxon’s picture and Bo’s, but the rest were strangers. No Preston Ford or Officer Nash or his security team.
Anxiety fizzled through her as she stepped to the file cabinets. She pulled the pair of nail clippers from her bag and unfolded the filing tool from the end, then inserted it curved tip down. Applying the steps from her YouTube tutorial, she had the lock open in a matter of seconds. Slowly, she slid open the drawer and peered inside, finding a box. She opened the lid to see the shape of Dutch’s gun. After sliding the drawer closed with care, she moved on.
The next drawer refused to open, however. She tried repeating the steps from the beginning, but the mechanism felt jammed. She opened the next two without finding the notebook. Inside the remaining six drawers were manila files containing papers that in the near-dark, were a blur. She remembered Preston Ford’s demand for more information. She wondered if she should copy some of these files, but knew she didn’t have time. A glance at the clock told her she had already been gone too long.
Cursing, she hurried to the long filing cabinet to her left. This lock was more substantial and took her longer to work, but finally, in one last desperate jerk upward, it clicked open. Inside, a dozen rifles and shotguns were lined up along the bottom. Boxes of ammunition and a Pelican box were stacked on the shelves above. Unable to hold back her gasp, Cassidy stared. For what would the agents possibly need so much firepower? Did they think the building would come under attack?
Making sure to close the metal doors quietly, she spun to face the room, realizing the only place left to look was the file cabinet with the resistant lock. It was in there, or they kept evidence in some other location, possibly downtown. Or would Bruce have it in his possession? She imagined him illuminated under a single lamp poring over Pete’s notes, a beer at his side.
The point is you have an in, Dr. Kincaid. It would be a shame not to put it to use.
She faced off against the stubborn lock, her fingers shaking. Any minute they would come looking for her, and if they found her in here, Quinn was dead.
She inserted the file all the way in, then jiggled it up and down, feeling the pins move inside the lock. She tried twisting to the right, but it stuck. She tried again, using more force to move the pins. Finally, she felt something give. The lock turned and the locking mechanism clicked.
Inside was the notebook.
An achy flutter turned her stomach upside down. Quickly, she removed the blue book, spinning to the table w
here she slid it from its plastic sleeve. She flipped through the worn pages, wondering where Preston Ford’s precious secret lay, then tucked it in her bag.
Her breath rattled inside her chest. This moment changed everything. How long until they discovered the notebook’s absence? And by the time they did, what would be the status of the investigation? Would Preston Ford have used his influence and the clues inside this book to destroy the case?
A searing ache tightened inside her when she thought of Bruce. He would never forgive her for this.
Suddenly, she heard a door closing from somewhere. She shut the drawer then hurried to the door.
They were coming for her.
With her pulse hot and firm in her ears, she peered into the hallway. But she didn’t see Bruce or Special Agent Harris striding toward her. Instead, the security guard shuffled towards the bathroom. Cassidy breathed a sigh of relief, but it was short lived because a door opened—the meeting room, its tall square of light shining into the dark hallway, and she heard voices. Panic dumped into her bloodstream as she slipped from the door and closed it behind her.
Then she heard Bruce’s voice. “Cassidy?”
Twenty-Five
Cassidy met Bruce halfway. Had he seen her come out of the conference room? Would he know right away something was wrong by the terrified look on her face?
“You okay?” he asked, his gaze darting from the bathroom door to where she had come from, as if trying to piece together her actions.
“Yeah, I…just stepped out for some air.” She had never been a good liar, even as a kid. Quinn was the charismatic storyteller and had been able to get away with much, much more because of it.
Bruce frowned, and it was like she could see his mind working. Why would she go out the front door instead of the side one that was closer to the meeting room and offered more privacy? One question to the security guard would reveal her lie. A search of her bag would reveal her deception.
Cassidy waited, her face frozen. The security guard exited the bathroom and shuffled by them.
“Huh, well, we’ve got another long night ahead of us,” Bruce said with a sigh. “Want me to take you home?”
“No, I can call a ride.”
“You sure?” he asked, peering at her.
“Yeah, you’re needed here.”
He nodded. “Is Quinn going to be at Drift tonight?”
Her face erupted with a prickly, painful heat. “No,” she managed to say. “He has the night off.”
Bruce smiled softly. “Good. You two can hang out. It’s been a crazy few days.”
Cassidy forced herself to smile. Would she ever get another chance to hang out with her brother the way Bruce was suggesting?
“Okay, well, I’ll call you tomorrow,” he said, then pulled her to him.
Alarmed, Cassidy tried to make her wooden limbs soften. She inhaled his clean laundry scent, but it did nothing to soothe her. Her bag had swung forward to tap against his side. She imagined him pulling out the notebook, his hurt expression transforming to disbelief, then anger.
“Okay,” she said, then stepped back, forcing her legs to move steadily while her brain demanded she run.
At the door to the security guard’s office, she looked back, but Bruce was halfway down the hall. Inside the office, she signed out in the ledger, then nodded at the officer glancing over from his computer.
Outside, the air tasted of wet grass—a sprinkler was spraying the section of lawn at the edge of the parking lot—and hot concrete. Her empty stomach roiled, and she realized she hadn’t eaten anything since her attempt at breakfast. But the discomfort faded to the background; her mind was working the next phase of her plan.
The wait for her ride felt interminable. Any minute, Bruce was going to come running from the building, shouting at her. Maybe even with his gun drawn. He would pluck the notebook from her bag and put her in cuffs, the look on his face at once furious and wounded.
Cassidy forced her mind to refocus. I can’t think about that.
By the time her ride glided to a stop at the curb, tears were blurring her eyes. Inside the safety of the car, she covered her face with her hands, unable to stop her sobs. Silently, the driver pulled onto the street.
Each mile seemed to make the pain in her chest harder to bear. Over and over she told herself that she had no choice.
She heard Preston Ford’s scolding in her mind. You’ve brought that on yourself, you know.
Before leaving Quinn’s apartment for the task force headquarters, she had made a plan. She definitely didn’t trust Preston Ford. There was nothing stopping him from taking the notebook without releasing Quinn. He could also decide to eliminate her altogether. She had imagined him leading her to Quinn’s location only to kill them both.
Her first option: find Quinn herself, before eight o’clock. The second: meet Preston Ford by his deadline but hide the notebook and only reveal its location when assured Quinn was safe. The third: give Preston Ford a fake notebook. She had already discarded this idea because it would take too long to copy Pete’s scrawled notes and masking her own handwriting would be nearly impossible. If she was in Seattle, she could have easily swapped one of Pete’s other notebooks for the one she took.
As she stepped from the car in front of Quinn’s apartment, she focused in on the first option: find him before eight o’clock. If that didn’t work, she would proceed to the second option, though where she would hide the notebook she didn’t know.
Her first order of business was to call her cell phone company. She and Quinn still shared a calling plan. At the time she set up her first account, it had made sense because she was moving out to go to UC Berkley, and Quinn was still only seventeen and couldn’t have a plan of his own. Since then it had just been easier to keep the same account.
Cassidy peeked into Quinn’s fridge while waiting for a representative to pick up. A half a loaf of bread, two apples, a collection of beers, a packet of pre-sliced cheese, and various condiments stared back at her.
The line chirped with a woman’s voice.
Cassidy tucked the phone into the crook of her shoulder while removing the bread and cheese. Trying not to sound impatient, she explained what she wanted while setting a frying pan on the stove and turning on the burner.
“Have you tried ‘Find My Phone’?” the operator asked.
Cassidy rolled her eyes. “Yes, but the phone must be turned off.” She quickly slapped together a cheese and bread sandwich, buttered both sides, and added it to the pan.
“I can give you the last phone number he called,” she said in a hopeful voice.
Cassidy had already looked this up. It was available online. But Quinn’s last dialed number she didn’t recognize, and matched several others she found in his record, most of them in the late evening—so, likely his girlfriend. Cassidy would only call her if necessary. The last thing she needed was the woman to panic or call the police. And because the call was made the night before Quinn was taken, it was extremely unlikely that she would have anything useful to add.
“Yes, I have that,” she explained. “I just need to know his last tower location and the radius.”
“That’s protected information,” the operator said. “I’m sorry.”
“Okay,” Cassidy said, her panic rising. “But here’s the deal. He’s my brother. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t life or death.” In the back of her nostrils, she smelled something burning.
The woman paused. “We normally need a police subpoena to share this information.”
“If I had time to get one, I would.” Cassidy gripped the phone. “He’s counting on me,” she said, breaking down as the image of Quinn bound and gagged in the chair returned to her mind. “I won’t survive without him,” she said, her voice pleading. If she couldn’t narrow it down, she wouldn’t find him in time. Which meant going to Preston Ford’s mansion and risking his life. And mine. “You have to help me.”
The woman inhaled a tight breath. “All right,�
�� she said, tapping a set of keys. “I’ll text it to you.”
“Thank you,” Cassidy gasped, shutting her eyes tight.
“Good luck,” the operator said before the line clicked off.
Her screen lit up with an incoming text—a bunch of meaningless words and symbols followed by a set of numbers.
The rush of relief flooding through her made the room spin. She gripped the counter for support. It was then that she noticed the smoke.
Quickly, she flipped the stove’s dial off and turned on the overhead fan. With a set of tongs, she plucked the blackened sandwich from the pan and dropped it in the sink. Then, no longer hungry, she grabbed her phone and hurried to where her laptop waited on the other side of the breakfast bar.
Her work as a geologist made using Google Earth easy. After entering the coordinates, she drew the tower’s radius by hand. Then she took a screen shot of the results and used the map feature to identify the streets, buildings, landmarks. The tower was located on the top of Russian Hill and the radius extended east to Chinatown, south to the FBI’s main building downtown, west to Pacific Heights, and north to the marina district.
She sat back, eliminating the places Quinn wasn’t: his apartment, the federal building. What was inside this cone that could function as a prison cell? Thinking hard, she came up with several necessities: the location needed easy access and privacy. Did Preston Ford own any buildings within the search area?
She also realized that this radius only told her the last known location of Quinn’s phone, not Quinn. They could have shut off his phone at any point, then continued moving.
Quinn could be anywhere by now.
Cassidy pushed off her seat and shook out her trembling fingers. I’m never going to find him, she thought as the walls pressed on her.
Forcing herself back into the chair, she decided to at least search for properties or businesses owned by Preston Ford in her search area. This took her some time as Mr. Ford was involved in everything from fashion to youth soccer to real estate.
Tracking down the addresses of his various ventures was no easy task, but by the end, she had two within her radius: a casting agency near Chinatown, and a business park on Geary. As a jolt of adrenaline hit her bloodstream, she remembered the clinics, and quickly dug up the addresses. Inside her circle were two: one just east of the federal building downtown and the other on the edge of the Marina District to the north.