Now, even those simple desires seemed self-indulgent, perhaps ultimately impossible to achieve given what she’d heard the previous evening. She could still picture Ann Jenkins as she laid out her response to rumors of eight Russian air-to-ground missiles and several pounds of spent nuclear fuel.
As the impact of Jenkins’ Condition Red began to spread, things in New York would soon be a complete mess. Tankers would back up in the Atlantic as they waited to unload, and local business owners would be screaming as their goods accumulated and food rotted and the shelves of New York’s stores grew bare. Then, in the absence of quick irrefutable proof, politicians would slam Project Seahawk for unrealistic, heavy-handed tactics. Maggie had to admire the woman’s guts.
However, as if Jenkins’ announcement wasn’t troubling enough, it wasn’t even the worst thing. Brent’s name had come over the law enforcement network at around eleven thirty, a flicker on her computer screen, one more green line of print among thousands of others, but her eyes had gone straight to it. He was the subject of a detain-for-questioning order regarding the disappearance of client funds and possible violations of RICO and anti-money-laundering statutes.
She’d been stunned because the idea of Brent stealing anything was preposterous, but she also remembered his phone call, the troubling undercurrents in his voice, his need to meet with her. Had he been reaching out for help?
Her teeth chattered in the morning air, but she ignored the chill and stepped through her backyard gate in the hope that movement would diminish her anxiety. The eastern sky was growing paler, and the outline of her flowerbeds began to emerge. There were roses along one side and at the rear a perennial bed with a thick phalanx of iris stalks, their blooms already past. Overhead, more birds were starting to sing, and the scent of fresh dew rose from the grass.
As soon as she’d seen his name on the wire she’d called Brent’s cell phone, letting the number ring until she got his recording. Around one a.m. Brent’s name had come across her screen a second time. His client, a Dr. Khaled Faisal, had been found murdered along with two other people in a Manhattan townhouse, and the detain-for-questioning order had been upgraded to an arrest warrant. According to the report, police had found the bodies after a butler’s wife alerted them that her husband hadn’t returned from work. This time the bulletin had included Brent’s picture.
At three a.m. a third bulletin said Brent’s car had been located in a Manhattan garage, along with the body of a slain garage attendant. Until then, all of it might have been a terrible mistake, but now she knew it was much more than coincidence or mistaken identity. By four a.m. she could no longer keep even the simplest thoughts in her head, and she made an excuse that she was ill and went home.
In spite of the hour, she’d almost stopped to see Brent’s Uncle Fred on her way home. She knew Fred couldn’t be sleeping. First losing Harry and now this—he had to be beside himself. Nothing about the accusations made sense to her, yet she hadn’t stopped. Emotionally, she was in complete denial, but as a cop she’d seen people, even wonderful people, sometimes go over the edge. It seemed incomprehensible that Brent could have become homicidal, but regardless of her emotions, she needed to admit to the possibility.
Now, on a sudden whim she kicked off her shoes, hiked up the skirt of her navy blue pin striped suit, and pulled off her panty hose. The grass was long and needed mowing, and the wet blades licked the tender skin between her toes with shocking coolness. She closed her eyes, thinking it felt good to be here, so peaceful. For a few moments she wished she could be a little girl again, back in that perfect age of innocence where the dew could wash away her worries and make all the bad things disappear.
She crossed her arms and looked overhead at the last pale wash of the night’s stars. Where are you, Brent? Maggie wondered. Where would you run? She sighed and started toward her back door, thinking she’d go inside and try his cell phone once more before she tried to sleep. Maybe he was already in custody. If he wasn’t, even if she managed to talk to him, what could she say? Give yourself up? She shook her head. Not him.
She was so tired that the squeak of her garage door hinges barely registered, but in another instant her training took over. In one motion, she unsnapped her holster, pulled her Glock, spun, and crouched. She thumbed off the safety, and in less than a half second held a rock steady aim on the dim outline framed in the blackness of her now open garage door.
“Police!” she barked. “Raise your hands and come forward! Move slow!”
A man took several slow steps forward. “Maggie?”
She knew the voice. “Keep moving!” she commanded then watched him stumble and go to his knees.
“Lie face down on the driveway with your hands out to your sides. Now!”
“Maggie,” the voice said again. “It’s Brent.”
“I know who it is!” she said, only now her hands were shaking, her breath coming short. She kept the gun aimed but clicked the safety back on because she no longer trusted her control.
“What the hell have you done?” she demanded.
He wasn’t lying down. He stayed on his knees with his hands over his stomach. “I didn’t do it,” he mumbled.
She took two steps closer. “On your face, Brent! Now!”
He looked up at her and shook his head, and that was when she saw the blood. His shirt was dark with it where his suit coat came apart.
“Jesus,” she said, coming closer but staying out of reach. “How bad are you hurt?”
“Not as bad as I could be,” Brent said. “A guy tried to kill me in a parking garage.”
Maggie felt sick. “The attendant?”
“No, another guy.”
“Who?”
Brent shook his head. “I never saw him before.”
She looked at him hard. She saw no sign of lunacy, not on the surface at least; instead she saw fear and vulnerability and isolation. Her instincts told her this was Brent, the man she’d loved and trusted, but her training made her question his innocence. She pushed it back and came another step closer. She could see him clearly now in the gray light, exhausted and haggard, like he’d aged ten years.
“I’m sorry I came here,” he said, his voice little more than a whisper. “I’m not going to involve you in this.”
“I have to arrest you, Brent. I don’t have a choice.”
He looked at her, and something like Brent’s old determination emerged. “Yeah, I know,” he said. He winced then struggled uncertainly to his feet. He turned and lurched back toward the garage.
“Stop!”
He shook his head and kept going.
“Stop!” she cried a second time. She felt tears well in her eyes, but she thumbed off the safety.
“Shoot me or let me go,” he said over his shoulder.
“Why are you doing this?”
He turned halfway around. “Cause I’m innocent.”
“So give yourself up!”
He shook his head. “Got no proof.” He stumbled and put his hands on his knees. “They did too good a job,” he said, and then crumpled to the ground.
• • •
Thirty minutes later, Maggie was slumped on one of the chairs at her kitchen table with her head on her folded arms. Brent lay asleep on the couch in her small den, where he’d half walked and she’d half dragged him. She’d pulled off his shirt and pants, washed and disinfected his wound, and then used all the butterfly bandages in her police-issue first-aid kit to close the cut. She knew the wound probably called for stitches, but the butterflies would do for now.
She hadn’t made the call to turn him in, but it had to be done. There was no rush. Brent wasn’t going anywhere. He’d been barely coherent when she bandaged him, babbling names she’d never heard and something about being set up.
After several minutes she raised her head, glanced around her kitchen, and gave up any pretense of sleeping. She stood, loaded the coffee maker, took eggs from the refrigerator, and then pulled bacon and English muffins
from the freezer.
She defrosted the bacon in the microwave and put the muffins in her toaster oven to thaw. A few minutes later the bacon was soft enough for the frying pan, and shortly afterward, the kitchen filled with its mouthwatering aroma. She split the muffins once they softened then cracked eggs into a blue crockery bowl that had belonged to her grandmother. Her ability to do something simple and physical was like a balm. Twenty minutes later she took two heaping plates of scrambled eggs, toasted muffins, and crisp bacon into the den.
“Wake up,” she ordered.
Brent opened his eyes. His lips were dry and cracked.
“Sit up and eat,” she said in a deliberately cold voice.
Brent winced, but he struggled into a half-sitting position and took a plate. He glanced down at the blanket she’d thrown over him, lifted the corner, and peeked at his boxer shorts. “Did you take advantage of me?”
Maggie ignored the comment as she fixed him with her toughest glare. “Who is Spencer McDonald?” she demanded, repeating one of the names he’d babbled as she bandaged him.
At her mention of the name, Brent’s attempt at humor vanished. He took a few bites and then began telling her a convoluted story about how he’d gone to work at Genesis Advisor at the request of the Justice Department, how some bogus FBI agents and a bogus lawyer had embezzled his client’s money, and how he’d found bodies in his client’s townhouse. Finally, he told her about the assailant with the knife in the parking garage.
“You’re working for government?”
Brent nodded. “For a woman named Ruth Simmons.”
“You have anything in writing that proves it?”
“No,” Brent said.
Maggie made a mental note to call Ruth Simmons, and then asked, “How about the FBI Agents or the lawyer, could you pick them out of a lineup?”
Brent nodded, as he continued to shovel food.
“What about the guy with the knife and the driver of the van?”
“The guy with the knife,” Brent nodded. “But I never saw the driver’s face.”
“You think they’re all tied to the money?”
Brent nodded, some of the old spark returning. “If they made me disappear, the Feds would keep on thinking I took the money, but they’d never find me.”
“How did they set this up?” she asked.
“I’m guessing through somebody I work with.” His gaze turned inward, and his shoulders slumped. “Only I’ve got no way to prove it.”
Maggie nibbled at her eggs and thought for a minute. “Have you considered the possibility that this is why you were hired?”
“Only about a hundred times in the past few hours. I tried to call Simmons on the cell phone she gave me. It’s supposed to reach her twenty-four seven.” He shook his head. “She hasn’t been answering.”
On an emotional level Maggie believed him. As she listened to his story the rational part of her brain was becoming persuaded as well. His story triggered another association deep in her subconscious, but she pushed it aside because the extrapolations seemed too fantastic. “Is there anybody else who might be able to help you? Someone at work?”
“One guy, and I should have heard from him by now.” Brent’s head shot up, and he patted his shirt pocket. “Shit!” he said. “He may have been trying to call me. I turned my cell phone off to save the juice.”
He tried to swing his legs to the floor and then groaned and fell back. “Stay here,” Maggie commanded. She stood and headed out the back door. The sun was over the trees, and in the early light the dew-drops in the grass glistened like tiny diamonds. The air had a foggy, romantic quality, and for a few seconds she could almost imagine that it was a weekend morning and she and Brent were still together.
She raised the garage door and saw the Volvo, and her spirits plummeted. She knew the car was stolen even before she pulled the registration from the glove box. It hammered home the fact that Brent was wanted for murder. It didn’t matter that she loved him. She had an obligation to uphold the law, and she couldn’t escape it.
She grabbed his cell phone off the seat then leaned against the car roof with her face in her hands. She let out a quick sob, but after a second she bit her lower lip and straightened. Get a grip, she told herself as she headed back to the house. She knew what she needed to do.
THIRTY-FOUR
MORRISTOWN, NJ, JUNE 30
BRENT SAW THE CHANGE THE moment Maggie returned with his cell phone. Her eyes had grown murky, her expression distant, and he knew it had been the discovery of the Volvo. He was too exhausted, his brain too full of sand to try and explain, and he watched her turn and walk out of the room.
He checked the phone, cursed himself for having turned it off and saw that he had six missed calls from Ruth Simmons and three messages from Smythe, the first from around eleven thirty last night. In it, Smythe’s normally superior voice betrayed an anxiety he’d never heard.
“We’re more than even, you sonofabitch,” Smythe said. “I went back and pretended there was some work I’d forgotten to finish up. Betty had already gone home and Biddle’s office was locked, but Wofford’s assistant was there. I chatted her up and got her a Coke, then I stood in the stairwell ‘til almost ten o’clock.”
Brent smiled as he pictured Smythe hovering in the shadows. His pulse quickened as he heard what came next.
“She finally went to pee, and I snuck onto Wofford’s computer. One of the phone numbers was in his trash file. Lucky for you he forgot to erase it. The name that went with the number is Howard Turner. I’ve got more, but it’s too long to leave on a message. Call me!”
The second and third messages had come in at midnight and one a.m. “Where the hell are you? Call me!” Smythe said both times. Brent lay back on the couch and allowed himself his first breath of hope.
He checked his watch and saw that it was already six fifteen. Smythe would be up and just about to leave for the station. Knowing his cell phone could be traced, he dropped his feet to the floor and sat up. His stomach had stiffened, and movement brought a tearing feeling. He looked down, saw that the butterfly bandages seemed to be holding, and then gritted his teeth and stood.
He hobbled into the kitchen and saw Maggie slumped at the small table, her eyes unfocused. He took her cordless phone from the wall, shuffled back to the den, and dialed Smythe’s cell phone. The number rang until he got a recording. He hung up, found Smythe’s home number on his BlackBerry, and dialed. The number rang, only this time there was no answering machine. Probably Smythe’s wife on the computer, he thought.
He waited five minutes and tried both numbers again. Still no answer. “Damn,” he said. He felt a huge surge of gratitude for the risk Smythe had taken. He couldn’t wait to hear the rest of his message and then offer to take him to New York’s best restaurant by way of a thank-you. Hell, he’d take the Smythes to Paris if that was what they wanted!
He heard Maggie’s chair scrape the kitchen floor. A second later, she stood in the doorway, her face grim.
“It’s time,” she said, not meeting his eyes. “I’m turning you in.”
Brent looked up and saw exhaustion and worry carved in her face but also determination. “Not yet!” he said. “I’ve got a name!”
Her face flooded with anger. “You come back into my life and expect me to risk everything for you?”
“I’m just asking for a little time.”
“You’re wanted for murder. You stole a car.” Her voice shook with emotion. “I can’t keep you in my house.”
Her vulnerability struck him. It made him want to go over to her and cup her face in his hands, but he held back. “Give me a few more hours,” he said. “Please!”
“I’ve already given you too much time!”
“A couple hours! These guys have been flawless! If they even suspect I’ve got a lead, they’re liable to vanish completely!”
“What do you expect to do?” she demanded.
“Get something!” he shouted, sitting
up, ignoring the pain. “You’ve got to let me try!”
She turned away and looked into the kitchen. “I just hope you’re worth it,” she muttered.
Brent slumped back on the pillows. “So do I.”
THIRTY-FIVE
OYSTER BAY, NY, JUNE 30
FRED WOFFORD STOPPED AT PRESCOTT Biddle’s gates, took a deep breath, and tried to punch the entry code into the keypad. His hand shook, and he hit the wrong numbers. He cursed then took a rattling breath and tried again, once more his fingers shaking out the wrong code. He tried a third time, and the gates finally swung back. He headed down the driveway then braked at the small guardhouse located around the first curve, just out of sight of the road.
A man wearing a blue blazer and gray flannels stepped toward the car. He had an earpiece in one ear and a small microphone at his lapel, and even though he recognized Wofford, he walked around the car, peered through the windows, and tapped the rear hatch. Wofford hit the unlock button, and the guard opened the hatch and glanced at the boxes inside. “Mrs. Biddle order all this?” he asked.
“I believe they’re expecting guests in the cottage for a few days,” Wofford replied. He tried for an easy smile, as though delivering cases of foul-smelling stuff purchased from a Middle Eastern grocery was nothing out of the ordinary.
The guard raised his eyebrows and shrugged. He closed the tailgate then bent to his lapel mike. “Clearing Mr. Wofford,” he said. “Silver Mercedes SUV, New York plates, one passenger. Going to the cottage.” The man listened then nodded. “Roger.” He saluted Wofford. “Have a good day.”
Wofford started moving again, leaving his window down. The sea air was soft against his face, the bright morning light adding an extra touch of splendor to Biddle’s acres of lawn and flowers, but the beauty was illusory. Dread chewed the lining of his stomach as he thought of what was hidden just ahead.
Clearly, Biddle’s security people remained ignorant of the three men in the little stone cottage. Thank God. Only a tiny group knew—Biddle, Wofford, their two secretaries, Reverend Turner, and the two sheriff’s deputies from Turner’s church. Each of them had sworn a sacred and holy oath to the prophecy and the promise of bringing Jesus back into the world!
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