by Michele Hauf
Bay nodded and pointed his cell phone toward the prisoner. “Go ahead.”
Jason turned to the prisoner, who sat on the bed in the cell, head bowed. “You used a tranquilizer dart,” he said. The prisoner lifted his head. The man understood him. He had to if he had made his way around the United States to Minnesota from wherever the hell he’d come from. “You didn’t want the woman dead?”
The suspect tilted his head subtly, then bowed it again.
“Who do you work for? The Minnesota mafia?”
The prisoner smirked but neither shook his head nor nodded in confirmation.
Then Jason tried a hunch. “Interpol?”
The slightest tensing of the man’s jaw told Jason so much. He’d hit on something. He exchanged a raised eyebrow with the BCA agent, who nodded.
Was this hit man really on the same team as Yvette? Jason had to search the Interpol database. With the fingerprints he’d taken upon booking him, he could do that search. But if he was from Interpol, and the previous hit man had not been—what was going on?
Alex wandered down the stairs, and Jason asked, “Did Marjorie run the fingerprints?”
“She’s still trying to upload the scan. Sorry, Cash. Won’t be much longer.”
The station still used the old card-and-ink method of fingerprinting. Which meant they had to upload a scanned image of the fingerprints to run them through the database. What he wouldn’t give for the fancy digital scanners all the well-budgeted stations used nowadays.
“I’ll check with Interpol,” Bay said. “It may cut our time and we won’t have to deal with this insolent.”
“Good plan,” Jason said.
“I get my phone call,” the man said from behind the cell bars.
Jason turned at the perfect use of English. The bastard.
“That you do.” He took the receiver off the landline attached to the cinder-block wall and handed it through the bars, letting the cord dangle from a horizontal bar. “Alex will assist you with dialing. Good luck getting through though.”
He hesitated before walking up the stairs behind Bay. The last time he’d left Alex alone with the prisoner, the man had escaped. Only to be found dead hours later. Jason considered it for a moment. This time the suspect could have his food stuffed through the bars, if it came to that.
He also knew that phone hadn’t received any reception since he’d been working here. Maybe a broken wire. Maybe even a frayed cable on the outside phone lines. Too bad it wasn’t in the city budget for repairs.
He took the stairs two at a time, following Bay, and stepped out into the frigid air with a brute shout as the brisk chill instantly permeated his flannel shirt. He’d left his coat in the office.
“I’ll be right in,” Bay said, walking toward his car. “I need to make a few calls.”
“You can use my office phone,” Jason called, but the man was already rushing toward his vehicle.
Running around to the back door, Jason entered the building, stomping his boots free of snow on the mat.
Marjorie greeted him with a smile.
“You get the fingerprints scanned?”
“Running them right now. The Wi-Fi has been wonky since the storm. But I crossed my fingers and promised my firstborn if it would hold out. The connection is running slower than the old dial-up, but we should have results soon.”
Jason swung around Marjorie’s desk and eyed the spinning colored ball on the computer screen that indicated it was doing its work. Slowly.
“Miss LaSalle is in your office. I fixed her up with coffee and last year’s local calendar. I keep a few copies in my lower drawer. For emergencies.”
She ended with a “toodle-loo!” leaving Jason shaking his head. How had Marjorie known Yvette was interested in the calendar?
He knocked his fist against the thin wall as he opened the door to his office. They really needed to insulate these inner walls.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Well, hell. Not like he wasn’t proud of the July centerfold that featured him washing the station patrol car shirtless. Heh.
Yvette was seated behind his desk, sipping coffee and grinning widely. Wow. Her eyes actually glinted. Just like Elaine had said his eyes had a glint. Huh. Guess it was possible. And never before had he seen such a bright yet devious smile.
“Hey, I gotta give back to the community somehow, right?” Jason hooked a thigh up on the corner of the desk and leaned over to spy the source of her amusement.
“Marjorie said this was the office copy.” She tapped the July spread. “But she already texted me the link to the online version. You definitely go above and beyond with community service.”
“I do like to serve the greater good.”
“Greater good, indeed.” She winked and then covered an even wider smile behind another sip of coffee. “You interrogate the guy who shot at me?”
“He’s not overly talkative. Cross your fingers the Wi-Fi stays connected so we get a fingerprint match soon.”
Yvette crossed her fingers, then pointed to the plastic evidence bag at the corner of the desk. “It’s the dart that I plucked out of a snowbank. No fingerprint contamination. Promise.”
Jason took the item and studied it. “I’ve seen these in syringe form,” he commented. “Used when security professionals are holding down an aggravated target. Firing one out of a gun at a human seems so...”
“Sporting? Like a hunter after his prey?”
“I was going to go with creepy.”
He turned the bag to study the dart tip. The only way the shooter could have guaranteed a good placement was to get close to Yvette. Ten to twenty feet maximum. He’d seen the target acquisition red light on Yvette, and yet, he hadn’t seen anyone in the area so close. He’d had to have been at least half a block away. Likely, he’d intended to tranq Yvette, toss her over a shoulder—and then what? Take her to crime scene two to finish the job?
“I’ll send this to Duluth for forensics to test it. See what this dart contains.”
“Jason, I’m so sorry,” she rushed out. An exhale preceded a watery look up at him. “I was bored. I’d finished the list. I figured if I stayed right by the station, it would be fine to snap a few shots. I’ve been so foolish since arriving here. You can see why I would have never made a good field agent.”
“Don’t give yourself such a hard time. Nobody’s hurt. That’s what matters.”
He noticed Yvette’s subtle shiver. Her discomfort gave him the shivers, too.
“They didn’t want me dead. At least, not right away,” she said. Her voice trembled. “They want what’s in my brain first.”
He set the dart on the desk and stood, hooking his thumbs at his belt loops as he scanned out the window behind her. He didn’t want her to see his concern, but they both knew how desperate this situation had become.
“The perp is behind bars,” he offered.
Yvette sighed. “That’s what you said the last time.”
That statement cut at his pride. He’d screwed up with Herve Charley. No matter that it hadn’t been him watching the prisoner at the time of his escape. Jason took responsibility around here. He had to.
Marjorie beeped the intercom.
“Cash, we got a hit on the fingerprints. And the CIA is on the line for you and Bay.”
Really? What the hell was the CIA doing nosing in on the scene? Bay had contacted the FBI. They should have matters pertaining to Charley in hand.
“Thanks.” He glanced to the desk phone. He’d prefer to take the call in private and not with an Interpol agent in the room. “Be right there.”
Yvette stood, but he shook his head, gesturing she sit back down. “You stay in here.”
The last thing he needed right now was the CIA sticking their noses in his business. They’d controlled him up until they’d dumped him here in F
rost Falls. What next?
“Fine.” She sat. “But you know how thin these walls are.”
He winced as he opened the door and stepped out into reception. Wasn’t much he was going to keep private, and especially not with a conference call.
“The CIA?” He looked to Bay, who was nursing a cup of coffee in a paper cup advertising The Moose logo. “Thought you were connecting us with Interpol?”
“I was, but I got a ping from the CIA looking to conference with us. And...here they are.” He nodded to Marjorie, who pushed a button on her phone.
“Jason Cash,” the man on the line said. “Marcus Fronde, counterintelligence director for the CIA.”
Jason knew the man. Not personally, but more than a few times his name had appeared on a dossier for an overseas job. Counterintelligence? They got involved when a foreign entity was in the mix. They must have gotten wind of Bay’s call to Interpol. But from the FBI?
There were too many fingers in the soup for Jason’s comfort. And the last agency he wanted to deal with was the CIA.
“You’ve been busy up there in your frozen little town,” Fronde said.
“Yes, sir. That’s what they sent me here to do. Keep the peace and enforce the law.” He glanced to Bay. Surely he’d been briefed regarding Jason’s history. He didn’t react, merely crossed his arms high over his chest.
“Not working so well, eh?” Fronde said. “You’ve got a homicide and a dead shooter with known connections to mafia activity in your area.”
Jason swallowed and turned his back to Marjorie, who respectfully penciled something on the calendar splayed open on the desk before her. “Keeping an eye on me?” he asked.
“Always. You’ve got Agent Bay there?”
“Yes, sir,” Bay replied. “We’re coordinating with Interpol. Or attempting to. The target in this case is one of their agents.”
“You realize when an investigation goes international, the CIA wants in?”
Yes, he did. And no, he did not want a CIA agent charging in and taking over his investigation. He didn’t mind sharing with the BCA. Bay was nothing but a handy reference should he need his assistance.
But to step aside and allow a CIA agent to do the job he was supposed to do?
On the other hand, they could probably twist the information he needed out of Interpol merely by cachet alone.
“I’ve got things under control. And with my experience,” Jason said, “I know what to do. Though if you can hook me up with a liaison to Interpol, I’d be appreciative.”
“Forget the liaison. I’ll be sending out an agent. Should arrive this evening. Tomorrow morning at the latest. They’ll relieve you of the case.”
Jason opened his mouth to protest, but the call clicked off.
He thrust a fist before him in frustration. The urge to swear, and loudly, was only tamped down by pressing his lips together and compressing his jaw.
“I get your anger,” Bay said. “I’ve read your bio.”
Great. Just freakin’ great.
“I can handle this,” Jason said.
“Another set of eyes and ears isn’t going to obstruct the investigation,” Bay said calmly. “As you said, they will have more leverage with Interpol. Can’t understand why they’re giving us the cold shoulder, especially when one of their agents is involved.”
“Yeah? Maybe two of their agents are in the thick of this.”
“What are you thinking, Cash?”
“Her boss, Jacques Patron. He could be pulling strings on his end, covering things up.”
“So he’s moved to the top of your suspects list? We don’t have confirmation that he’s dead or alive.”
“Right. And that feels twenty kinds of wrong to me. Admit it, that’s suspicious.”
“It is. So why not welcome the CIA to assist? Come on, Cash, it’s all water under the bridge now. Doesn’t matter who works the case so long as we get a good outcome.”
Jason nodded. “Just hate to see Frost Falls lose this station. You know they’re going to shut us down come March, forward all calls to the county?”
“What?”
Jason tightened his jaw at Marjorie’s outburst. Shoot. He’d meant to tell her that at a better time.
“Sorry, Marjorie. I’ve known about it a few weeks. Was intending to tell you. I thought this case might give us some leeway. Maybe even impress all the right people.”
“Uff da.” The dispatcher sat back in her chair, shaking her head.
“It’s not so much the station you want to save,” Bay said, “as your reputation. Admit it, Cash. You were a damn good CIA agent. Your sniping skills were highly commended.”
“Can we have this conversation some other time?” Jason said with a glance toward Marjorie, who now looked at him like a deer in headlights. “The case is all we need to discuss.”
“Sure. But don’t get your hopes up about the station staying open.” Bay tossed his empty coffee cup in the garbage can beside the desk. “I’m going back down to see if the prisoner may have changed his mind about talking.
“I’ll be close.” Jason stepped away and into his office, closing the door behind him. Anything to get away from Marjorie’s sad stare. But the escape wasn’t exactly what he’d hoped for, because Yvette looked up from her place behind his desk.
“What did the CIA have to say?” she asked quietly.
“Uh, just keeping an eye on me.”
“They’re stepping in, aren’t they?”
She’d heard it all. Damn it.
Jason could but nod. He shouldn’t take this so hard, but—damn it, this had been his one chance to prove himself!
“Then we’d better hurry,” she said. “And figure this out before that happens.” She pulled a piece of paper out of her pocket and handed it to him. “The list.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Jason unfolded the notebook page, which still dangled ragged bits from where Yvette had torn it from the spiral binder. The writing was neat but tiny. She’d said she thought it was an invoice. Dates and locations didn’t necessarily imply invoice but could rather denote meetings or pickups or even exchange of goods. Something had occurred at the listed location on the corresponding date. Something associated with a dollar amount. The amounts were even, ranging from two thousand to eighteen thousand euros. Some amounts were listed with a dollar sign, which might indicate a difference in who was giving and who was receiving.
“Could be gunrunning,” he mused out loud. The Duluth harbor on Lake Superior was one of the largest US outlets for importers of illegal firearms.
“You think?” Yvette exhaled an exasperated sigh. “I hate firearms dealers. They are the nastiest of the nasty.”
“Indeed, they are. But it’s a guess. Someone was receiving money for...something. At these dates and locations. And some amounts are listed with a dollar sign so I have to figure it wasn’t just euros involved. Interesting.”
“Then why would I have received that email?”
Jason shrugged. “Someone letting the cat out of the bag? Trying to call attention to it without being the one to do so. Could be anything. Corporate shills. Assassins. A list of eliminated targets and payouts.”
“You really think it came from within?”
He wasn’t one hundred percent sure about that. Or anything, at this point. But his Spidey senses were tingling.
“Your boss,” Jason said. “Remind me how he acted when you’d told him you had this info stored in your head.”
She leaned her elbows onto the edge of the desk. “Jacques has always been a calm, cool man. Hard to get a read on him. His eyes are gray.”
“That have significance? Eye color?”
“Soulless,” she said. “And his hair is graying, so he was always sort of...not there. Easy to blend in. Which made him a great agent, I’m sure. But as a
fellow worker, I could never get a read on him.”
“And yet, I initially sensed you had a good rapport with him? That you liked him? You call him by his first name. That indicates something more than a mere business relationship.”
“I did. I do. Like I told you, I remember him from when I was a teenager. I’ve grown up trusting him. So, yes, our relationship is personal, but on a friendly level.” Yvette wrinkled up her face. “But after receiving that message, I’m not so sure what that relationship has become. Is he dead or alive? What’s going on, Jason?”
Jason took a moment to put himself in the head of a French Interpol director who knew a woman who carried a list in her head—a list he apparently had read quickly, then burned it. Those were not the actions of a man who had nothing to hide.
Had Patron removed Yvette from Lyon to then make her death look like an accident? Why send her all the way to Frost Falls? What was the mafia connection? Was there a connection? Could Herve Charley have been a random hire? No, he’d read about the French connection in the stats.
“No one knows where you are? No family? A girlfriend?”
She shook her head.
He snapped the paper with a forefinger. Had to be sensitive information. Was Jacques Patron protecting someone? Himself?
“Tell me more about Jacques Patron,” he said to Yvette.
A knock on the door preceded “Cash?”
It was Ryan Bay.
“Come in.”
Jason slid a thigh onto the desk corner and crossed his arms over his chest.
“Talked to Interpol again and sent them the prisoner’s fingerprints. They are cooperating with this information. Still couldn’t get any info on Patron. Said they’re looking into it.” Bay handed him a single printed paper. “You won’t believe who we’ve got below.”
Jason’s eyes dropped to the prisoner’s name: Rutger Lund. Thirty-seven years old. A field operative. For Interpol.
He glanced to Yvette. They’d sent one of her own to take her out? Yikes. How was he going to tell her that? Did he need to tell her that? Yes, he did.
“What’s up?” she asked.