by Ronie Kendig
His eyebrow arched. “Even I am tethered to His will. I can go but where He allows.” He indicated the stacks of paper. “How are you doing?”
She grunted. “It’s entirely unfair that you can appear out of nowhere, yet you can’t tell me what page I’m supposed to be looking for—or better yet, tell me what we’re looking for, so I don’t have to keep digging through these dirty, musty ledgers. They stink of cigarettes and cigars.” She huffed.
“The desire for more power was the reason Lucifer led the Fallen.” Tzaddik gave a grim nod. “I will never again wish for more.” He inclined his head to the book. “You have what you need. Though time is short, it will be accomplished.”
Her mind took a whirlwind trip through the Bible, following the tale of Lucifer and a third of the angels who revolted. “You’re one of the Fallen?” She laughed, more at herself and the ludicrousness of her question.
A tangle of emotions twisted through his features. “Waste not time, Haven. Cole’s life depends on you finding the answer.”
She frowned, not surprised he wouldn’t answer her query, but . . . “How does genealogy impact his life?” Why was he besieging her with idle searches?
Tzaddik tapped the ledger. “It is there.” His eyes, fathomless and calm, stirring both fear and awe in her being, held hers.
“Why are you even here?” she asked.
“Because I felt you surrender to the doubt of success. And despite my beginning, I am tethered to the will of God. Where He sends me, I go.”
She eyed him skeptically.
“You believe in an all-powerful, all-knowing God, yet you find it too hard to believe that a realm exists outside this one. A realm where angels and demons war for the hearts and minds of His creation. Have you, like the angels who fell, grown so prideful that you exalt your belief, your will over what is written?” Tzaddik’s eyes blazed. “You decide it is too fantastical for one like me to exist outside of time, yet is it not God who created angels? Is it not God who is the same yesterday, today, and forever? You accept that He cursed man, that He wrought great miracles—water turning to blood, snakes to staffs, dead brought back to life. What were those miracles, but demonstrations of His power to turn hearts back toward their Creator? How then is this any different? You may understand that I have asked you to do this, but not the why. But trust . . . as Chiji has said. Trust me in this. Trust me that it must be done. Trust me that you are”—he nodded at the book beneath her hand—“on the right path. And give care to the secrets you hold. If anyone learns you are married to him and carry his progeny, they will use you and the child.”
Haven drew up sharply. Out of the corner of her eye, she noted Chiji straighten. “Nobody knows that.”
Tzaddik smiled. “Keep it that way.”
“Are you doing okay?” a soft voice from behind drew Haven around. It was Ellen.
“Yes,” she said. “Thank you.”
“We close in an hour,” Ellen said.
“Of course.” When Haven turned back, she wasn’t surprised to find Tzaddik gone again. “I will never get used to that.” Still stinging from the chastisement, she slumped. “He’s right,” she admitted. “I believe in the Bible, in God’s Word, but to think of such incredible things happening today . . . I guess we’ve rationalized it away.”
“And that is what the Dark One wishes. For us to be caught up in the belief that we are so much more advanced now, so much more intelligent, that we desperately search for justifications to drag God to our level where we can see Him. Where we can control what He does and does not do.” Chiji swung his head back and forth, long and slow. “That is not a God I can serve. Mine is mighty. Powerful!”
“He is,” Haven said with a smile, feeling the truth of that infuse her limbs. When she glanced down at her hand, to the last place she’d read before Tzaddik showed up, she hit a familiar name. And gasped. “Here.” A giddy trill ran through her. “I found it!” The entry simply read: January 1972—Linwood Estate—20 items 72.13.01. E.C. Fellowes.
“Looks like we might just beat the bell,” she said, copying the information as Chiji gathered the most recent ledgers they’d been through. Collecting her coat and purse, Haven hefted the book.
They hurried down the all-too-quiet passage, and something skated heebie-jeebies up her neck. Grateful when they emerged into a well-lit reception area, Haven smiled at the curator. “We found it!”
Ellen lifted her coiffed head, hesitated, then peered at the clock.
Haven’s tension rose. “You said once we found the listing, it’d go quick,” she reminded her.
“So I did,” Ellen said with a smile as she took the slip of paper with the information. “Wow, that was ages ago. Carson hasn’t worked here in decades.”
Haven glanced at Chiji as Ellen came around the desk with a ring of keys in hand.
“He was brother-in-law to Mr. Hyatt—very good friends, those two.” She led them down another dim hall, all the way to the end. Shoes clopping out each step, Haven ignored the chill scampering up her spine but couldn’t help glancing over her shoulder.
“Here we are,” Ellen said, unlocking the door and flipping a switch.
Flickering lights sprang to life, cascading down a very long, narrow corridor lined floor to ceiling with shelves.
“This is our document storage—the walls are reinforced concrete, and there are multiple redundancies to protect against fire.” Ellen wandered about halfway down the aisle, glanced at the paper, then at the labels on the end of the rows. “Ah, this should be . . .”
Haven followed her around the corner. A crooked file box caught her shoulder. She stumbled, bumping her other shoulder into the opposite shelving unit.
“It’s tight in here,” Ellen said. “Be careful.” Tilting her head back, she pointed to a box on the second to the top shelf. “I think that’s the one.”
Chiji was there, his presence eerily quiet and stealthy as he reached without effort and caught the edge of the box. He lowered it, backing up as he did to give them room.
Ellen verified it was the right one, then walked them over to the sorting table along the wall, free of the claustrophobically placed shelves. She removed the lid and set it aside. Hands poised on both sides of the box, Ellen crawled her fingers over the tabbed tops, muttering dates as she went. “Seventy-one . . . seventy-one . . . two! January.”
Haven’s heart beat a little faster, and she felt Chiji’s presence close in.
“Here!” Ellen snatched out a file folder, reread the tabbed header, then handed it to Haven.
When she opened the leaf, she found all the pages were held together by a giant bracket at the top. Haven laid the folder on the table and fanned the pages, grateful to see a series of old color photographs on each item of record. “Ah!” she yelped, seeing the bust slide by. She flipped back two pages to the record of the bust. “How do I know who bought this piece?”
“On the back,” Ellen said. “They record the purchase, and the buyer signs and dates it.”
Haven turned the page over and skimmed the information, but her gaze dropped to the signature line. She sucked in a breath. Her gaze popped to Chiji, who looked just as shocked.
“This can’t be right,” Haven said. She stared at the buyer’s name.
Joseph Cathey.
26
— FBI RESIDENCE AGENCY, MANASSAS, VIRGINIA —
Four bodies now, and the heat of every politician breathing down his neck. And what did he have? Bubkes.
“We need answers, Wallace.”
Tapping the folder against his palm, Levi nodded, unable to meet Special Agent Parker’s gaze. “There are no matches on facial recognition across any database from the Seaton murder. Wolf Trap is just as blank—worse, because three people saw the same person, but they can’t agree on a description.”
“You realize if you don’t solve this, they’ll never advance you,” Parker said in warning. “This case is too high-profile now. You fail, your career goes down with i
t.”
Levi clenched his teeth. “I don’t care about a promotion—I care about stopping this. These are especially cruel killings. We can’t let it happen again, but to prevent it, we need a suspect. SAARC has a plausible organization connection, but it’s like going after an entire government.” He shook his head. “We need a person in our sights. I want this solved, not because of a promotion, but because it’s my job.”
“Understand, I’m not threatening you.”
“Right,” Levi breathed as he came to his feet. “Just telling it like it is.” He turned toward the door, hating this case with every ounce of guts he had left.
“Maybe if you paid as much attention to this case as you do that photographer . . .”
Levi stopped. Glanced back. Pulled himself around. “Come again?”
“Larsen saw you with that crime scene photographer in the conference room, eating Chinese food and laughing.” Annoyance played over the SAC’s face. “Having a real good time, he said.”
“Larsen should mind his own business,” Levi bit out. “Ms. Lefever was here with crime scene photographs from the Capitol Hill murder.” He pointed to the updated report he’d handed Parker. “We worked until ten that night, so yeah—we ate dinner.”
“Well,” Parker said, shaking a finger at him, “keep your nose clean, Wallace. They’re all watching you.”
“Maybe they should start doing their jobs instead of watching mine.” Levi pivoted and left, throwing over his shoulder, “I’ve got work to do.”
Stalking down the hall, he bit back his anger. He’d lost Kasey by not making a move, by respecting boundaries and not crossing lines. But he’d be hanged if he was going to lose Maggie, too.
Back at his office, Levi pitched the file on his desk. Stared at it. Wiped a hand over his mouth, then stalked to the blinds that shielded his office from the afternoon sun. He opened them and squinted out. Sighed heavily. What was he missing? What clue, what nugget was staring him in the face, mocking him?
“What if they’re using that program to track down people and kill them?”
TAFFIP.
As Barclay Purcell’s words played in his head, Levi glanced again at the file. Was it possible? But fingerprints tracking down people connected to the AFO . . . how? He moved to his desk and flipped it open. Rifled the pages. Slid out the profile sheet he’d put together on the initial list of victims. There appeared to be hundreds across the globe, entirely too many for them to sort through in a limited time, so he had started with American cases, including the newest one in Queens that had been sent from New York, and the first two Robbie had confirmed internationally.
Travis Seaton—45, congressman, divorced, Washington
George Schenck—53, married twice, Wolf Trap, two adult children
Bernard Kline—35, butcher, Queens, married, four kids
Paul Toledano—67, screenwriter, St. Petersburg, Russia
Jens Abrams—58, politician, Netherlands
Only two common denominators—males and MO. Age, marital status, occupation, number of children—all different.
“Hey.”
Levi snapped his gaze up to the door. “Maggie.” Relief chugged sweet and strong through his chest at the sight of her.
Black hair swirled around her elegant neck, accenting the blue shirt that clung to her waist and curves. “Still no closer?” She came to his side, nodding at the file.
He moved around the desk and closed the door. Tweaked the blinds to afford them a modicum of privacy. “Hey, um . . .” Parker’s words gonged in his head, planting his feet by the door. He wanted to go to her but instead scratched his jaw, knowing he was giving tells and not really caring. “I think you should steer clear for a while.”
“Steer clear of what?” She frowned and closed the distance. “What happened?”
When she touched his face, he felt a bolt of electrical surprise. Which wouldn’t help things. He caught her fingers. “Things are . . . this case . . .”
Hurt surrendered to sincerity as she smiled. “I want to help, Levi. In fact, I noticed something in one of the photos that we missed.”
Hesitancy guarded him, anxious—desperate—for a lead to chase.
“You have that photo from Toledano’s living room?”
Scowling, Levi returned to his desk and fished out the photo. “What about it?”
She took it and shifted in the light so her back was to him, then lifted it. Pointed. “Look.”
He craned closer, keenly aware of her bare neck. Her floral perfume. His hand somehow found its way to her waist and rested there. “What am I looking at?”
“The family photo on the wall.”
He squinted and angled in even more. “What?”
“Paul Toledano is wearing a kippah.”
Levi’s thoughts slowed, processing the information. “Jewish.” He snatched up his list and glanced at the names.
Maggie wedged in closer. “Abrams and Schenck are German-Jewish.”
“So, anti-Semitic?” That would fit with the AFO, who seemed to be on an annihilation mission against the Jews. “I . . . I think you’re onto something.”
She was near again. Smiling. Thickening the air and his ability to think. He looked at her, noticed she was chewing the corner of her lip. Full lips. It wasn’t the first time he’d thought of kissing her. What would she do? Was he really interested in her like that?
He wasn’t sure. But he wanted to find out.
“Levi?”
Only then did he realize she was staring back. She took a step in, and he accepted the invitation. Lowered his head to hers, homing in on her mouth. Her arm came around his neck. Hand at the small of her back, he tugged her against himself. She was warm and willing, and it spurred him to deepen the kiss. Pressure against his chest snapped some sense back into him.
When he eased off, she smiled, her breathing as ragged as his own. “Whoa,” she murmured.
A crooked smile slid onto his face. “I’m sure my boss won’t like that.”
“Um, hello.” A strange voice joined the conversation—from behind him.
Levi spun. Found a woman in one of the chairs to the side of his desk. “Who—”
“Yeah, you’re asking that two minutes too late,” the woman said with a wry grin.
Levi went for his weapon.
“Whoa, easy there, Clark.” Palms lifted, she came to her feet. “I’m here with full autonomy, immunity—whatever you want.” She nodded to the desk, where a white card had appeared. “My Get Out of Jail Free card.”
When had she put that there? Weapon in hand, he lifted the small card from his desk and cursed when he saw the name on it.
“Boom,” she said.
His gaze snapped to her. Then awareness ignited. He sighed in defeat at Maggie. “Sorry . . .”
Maggie eyed the intruder, then nodded, cheeks flushed with embarrassment and maybe a little leftover passion as she started for the door. “Call me.”
“I will.” Levi let her out, then turned. “Why are you here? How’d you get in?”
“Sorry, but I don’t kiss and tell.” His visitor scowled. “Wait. I don’t kiss—at least, not the way you were working her.”
What little he’d relaxed vanished, his weapon shifting.
“Whoa whoa whoa,” she said with a backward hop. “Okay, bad joke.”
“What’re you doing here?” he growled, rumbling with anger. “What do you want?”
She smiled. “Now you’re asking the right questions.”
Mercy had to hand it to him—she wasn’t surprised he’d pulled a weapon, but she had been to find him lip-locked with a woman in his office.
“Why’d Iliescu send you?” Levi Wallace demanded.
“I can talk a lot better without that in my face,” Mercy said, nodding to his agency-issued weapon. When he didn’t lower it, she gave him a sardonic look. “I can disarm you, if that’d make it easier for your ego.”
Challenge hit his blue eyes, but he finally holste
red the gun. “Start talking.”
“Mercy Maddox at your service,” she introduced herself.
“And Iliescu—”
“Didn’t exactly send me.” When the Glock started coming up again, she huffed. “Like I said, I work autonomously, but . . . under his authority.”
Wallace holstered his gun. “Try that again. Why are you here?”
“Because my friend had an idea, which you soundly rebuffed.” She pinched her lips together and bobbed her head back and forth. “Well, I’m here to give him the benefit of the doubt.”
Hands on his hips, he stared at her impatiently. His eyebrow lifted, as if flagging down her intention and ordering it to land.
“I need to see a TAFFIP console,” she said.
His eyebrows now dug toward his nose. “Purcell.”
“Wow, two points for you, Clark. Kryptonite isn’t affecting your brain today.”
Impatience scratched at his handsome mug. She could see why they called him Superman, and why that woman had so willingly kissed him. But he was too pretty.
“Look, I really—”
“I want to see the console.” She nodded. “Now.”
“Why?”
“I thought I explained that—to give Barc’s theory some exploration, since it’s pretty clear you have no intention of doing that.”
“There’s no direct or obvious link.”
“So you’ve said.” Mercy folded her arms. “Console. Now. Please.”
He pointed to the door. “Down the hall.”
Mercy followed him to a large area that branched off into a series of conference rooms. He let her into one where an entire wall was lined with consoles. “Just awaiting inspection, are we?” she said with a wry smile. Two white PVC tables huddled off to the side. Her fingers itched to play with the systems. “Do they work?”
He nodded.
“All of them?”
“To my knowledge,” he said. “I’m not IT.”
Mercy hauled a PVC table closer to the last two waist-high consoles, whose power buttons she pressed. As they powered up, she removed her crossbody satchel and set it on the table. She tugged out her laptop and turned it on as well. A login screen appeared on the TAFFIP.