“Why didn’t I hear about this sooner?”
Jim met her gaze and shrugged. “I can’t answer that, but I can guess you’re about to be filled in now.” He nodded to his left.
Emily looked where he indicated and saw Captain Weathers coming toward her. He was accompanied by a man in a dark suit.
Dark suits were never good.
Chapter Seven
She couldn’t make up her mind if they were some sort of military group or cops.
Abigail didn’t exactly eavesdrop on any of their conversation, but she heard words such as guarding and surveillance. At the same time, when she brought them their orders, she couldn’t help but notice some of the photos they placed on the table. She was certain she saw a photo of the guy on the news, the weirdo that had supposedly been behind several bank robberies. Abigail avoided watching the news if possible. That guy’s picture had been on the screen of the TV when she stepped into the Mexican restaurant several days ago. Another criminal, just what the world needed.
The men at the table, joined by John, the man she planned to have dinner with, seemed to be personally involved somehow. But if he was already in custody, why were they still interested? They didn’t sound as if they planned to break him out. But she did wonder where four of them went when they left.
And what about Gil? She knew he was Ellie’s new boyfriend, but didn’t know how he fit into this. Maybe Ellie would be a little more talkative when she came to work this morning after dropping her little boy off at school.
Maybe at dinner she could ask him. Maybe at dinner, he’d tell her what he did for a living and explain his friends.
The chimes rang over the door as a newcomer came in. Sophie, the mail woman, came in with Abigail’s mail bound together with a rubber band. In return, Abigail handed her a cup of coffee. “I’ve got your usual. Cappuccino with cinnamon.”
“Mmmm, thanks, it’s a perfect day for it.”
She handed the bundle of mail to Abigail and, after they each wished one another a great day, Sophie continued on her trek to deliver the mail. The breeze picked up as she went out the door and set the chimes to ringing with her departure.
Abigail slipped the rubber band off her mail and quickly glanced through it. Coupons, junk, election endorsements. She stopped at a white envelope. She thought her heart skidded to a stop, too.
A letter from the Department of Corrections.
She glanced at John and thought about dinner with him.
Oh, please. Not today.
Chapter Eight
Alexander Brubaker III studied his reflection in the mirror in the men’s room of the jail. He smoothed down his hair and looked for a hint of gray. He saw none, which was good for his hair dresser this week. He paid a hell of a lot of money for dark perfection and he expected to have it. He blinked against the blue contacts in his eyes. It was a well-known fact that blue eyes were the most captivating. Right now, he needed to be captivating.
He had landed the case of a lifetime, and it was about fucking time. Hell, he’d sucked up to more people than a prostitute in the red-light district trying to get here. Never mind that he was standing in a men’s room in a small-town city jail that looked like it was taken right off the set of a dark film noir. Hell, even the faucets were old-fashioned quad handled knobs that made him feel like he’d stepped back in time somehow.
Never mind that Pennington was on his back every moment, asking questions. Never mind he wasn’t in New York, or Vegas, where there was action every minute of the day.
He was in charge of what was probably the investigation, arrest, and possibly trial of the twenty-first century. He’d listened to Bob Smith from behind the two-way mirror for no more than thirty minutes. The man was a brilliant sociopath with secret dead bodies, and he was the son of the former FBI director.
And now he was owned by one Alexander Brubaker III.
Alexander would finally have the recognition he deserved.
His father had wanted him, actually planned for him, to go into law, work the family firm, then move on to politics as he and Alexander’s grandfather and his great-grandfather had. And Alexander had planned to do just that. Until he’d been caught cheating on a Constitutional Law test. His father said he couldn’t help him. But Alexander knew the truth. The old prick just refused to help him, wanted to teach him a lesson, wanted to see him beg for help.
So he showed his father up by going to Quantico. He didn’t have much use for guns or criminals, and he certainly didn’t last long sifting through bomb debris. His goal was simply to rise through the ranks and get to the top where he could be on camera, wearing an expensive suit, getting a pat on the back for a job well done.
The truth was he didn’t care about catching criminals.
He did, however, care about having the country know who he was. He cared about having his face on television. He cared about shaking the hands of important people while flashbulbs went off and he was made to be the hero. He cared about being in charge, about making the decisions, and telling others—who were beneath him—what to do.
And unlike politicians in the spotlight, no one was busy trying to dig up dirt on him.
From what he could tell, Bob Smith had a long criminal career that probably spanned twenty years and covered several states. Bob was definitely a career maker.
Now all he had to do was get Pennington off his back. Oh, and that washed out former Navy SEAL Brandeberry, and his team, who liked to dress up in costumes and play decoy. Alexander didn’t need to deal with the likes of any of them, either. They thought just because they caught the criminal of the century, they should be kept in the loop. Well, he’d pulled the right strings and showed them who was in charge, hadn’t he?
Alexander took another look in the mirror. Then he grinned so big he looked like a big smiley face icon while he looked to make sure none of the organic toast, soft boiled eggs, and fresh strawberries he’d had for breakfast were caught anywhere within his perfect, six-thousand-dollar smile. After one more smoothing of his hair, he turned away from the mirror and headed out the door, where Bob Smith and Alexander’s next step up the ladder waited.
He, of course, never had to actually touch Bob Smith. After all, the man was slime, and others—several rungs down on the FBI ladder of success—had the job of actually guarding him and keeping him in line. Alexander was only there to be in charge, not to do any of the work. He watched as two colleagues escorted Smith out the doors. Two other agents accompanied them. Alexander didn’t even know any of their names. They weren’t important, anyway. He looked around as they left the building, always on the lookout for the Press, for cameras or even some teenager with a phone who might be running the video. Much to his dismay, there was none of the above. So he did his best to look official and important as he moved behind the prisoner toward his designated SUV.
He looked around more. There weren’t even any simple onlookers who might notice him.
There was only a lunch truck manned by a hefty woman. Well, she was better than nothing. Then as he got closer, he thought she wasn’t all that hefty. She was just a little taller than average. She was also very pretty with dark hair and dark eyes.
There was something about her lipstick-covered smile, as if her mouth was just a little big for her face, but he liked it. He’d always liked a woman with strength. He’d never been drawn to a small woman. They just seemed so…helpless, like little damsels in distress. And that was the last thing he needed—a needy woman. No, he required a woman who complimented him, not worked against him and stole attention from him.
“Can I get you some coffee?” she offered.
He took in her jeans, blue work shirt, and apron. Beneath the apron, she filled out the shirt with a nice pair of tits. “That’d be great, thank you.”
“Cream or sugar?”
“Just black.” A man of his caliber didn’t need anything sweet.
She dispensed a cup of coffee for him from the huge built-in maker and covered
it with a lid. As she handed it to him, she reached out and touched his coat. “If you don’t mind,” she said. “Your jacket’s a bit crooked. There. That’s perfect.”
“Thank you so much.” She helped him look perfect. Yes, she was his kind of woman. Perhaps later, when this little outing was over, he could track her down. After all, he was FBI. He could find anyone.
He turned toward the SUV. His four cohorts were a few yards from putting Bob Smith into it. One kept his hands on Smith’s arm. Another looked around as if he expected an ambush. Amateurs.
He had cased the area and saw no threat, but then, he knew his job better than they did.
An obvious homeless street person approached. Holy shit, Brubaker found himself downwind from the guy. He reeked of piss. He weaved, also obviously drunk. Then he plowed right into Brubaker’s prisoner and one of his guards.
“Fuck,” he muttered, picking up his pace. He muttered more four-letter adjectives as his coffee spilled out onto his hand and burned him causing him to pause in helping get rid of the vagrant. But the tallest of his guards beat him to the punch, literally.
The guard cold-cocked the stinky, washed out form of a man with stubble and greasy hair and ratty clothes, just swung and popped the guy right in the jaw and knocked him several feet away.
Brubaker got there just in time to see the guy land on the curb, unconscious. “That was not necessary.” Although he had no idea what he would have done if he’d been the one the drunk had stumbled into. He might have reacted the same. “What’s your name again?”
“Shackleford, Sir.”
“Well, Shackleford, don’t do that again. We’re agents, not thugs.” His biggest worry was that someone might be watching, or worse, capture something like that on video.
“Oh, quit reprimanding him like you’re his mommy,” Bob Smith said as he tried to brush off his orange jumpsuit like a little kid in grade school might try and brush off cooties. “That piece of shit smelled like it, too. And he touched me with his filthy hands. He got what he deserved. I say good job, Shackleford.”
He glanced back enough to see the pretty lunch truck woman was watching them with something close to a look of horror on her face. He thought he better do something that looked admirable. He took out his phone and called into the front desk of the police station and city hall, just inside the doors they’d just left. There was a skeleton crew working there because of their prisoner. Loudly so she could hear him, he said, “There’s a poor man out here on the sidewalk who needs some assistance, get someone out here now.”
Then he looked Shackleford in the eye. “I said don’t do it again.” He moved his attention to Smith, who had a nasally voice that grated on him like a screechy hinge that couldn’t be fixed no matter how much oil got put on it. “Shut up and get in the car, Mr. Smith.”
The six of them took their seats in the eight-seater SUV. Shackleford was behind the wheel. Brubaker rode shotgun. Smith was in the middle between two agents, and the last agent rode in the back seat.
Within seconds, Smith’s whines filled the car.
“It’s hot in here. It’s too crowded. You guys are squishing me. Can’t one of you ride back there? I should have gone to the bathroom before we left.”
Brubaker turned back to him, a sweet but deadly smile on his lips. “Shut the fuck up or I’ll handcuff you to the mirror—the outside one.” He pointed to the passenger-side mirror out his door. “So we’ll see how fast you can run. And if you—or anyone else—needs to take a piss, he can just hang it out the window.”
“I’m going to tell them how you treated me, how you threatened me. You do know who my father is, don’t you?”
Brubaker was well aware of who Bob Smith’s father was. He fought the urge to smile. He had been a recent law school failure when he met then Director Jamison. Jamison wasn’t exactly drunk. And Brubaker had come into the bar looking to drop the roofie he had into the prettiest girl’s drink. He saw opportunity instead and dropped it into Jamison’s drink. Then he posed the director in several positions with and without clothes and took pictures. Hell, there were even a couple pictures of the director with another man giving him a blow job.
It was not a great picture of Brubaker. He couldn’t be identified at all. But it was a fantastic shot of the director, looking as if he was in ecstasy. Brubaker had even lit a couple of candles. Jamison woke up in a hotel room, not knowing how he got there. Brubaker woke up with a new path before him.
“Oh, yes, I know who your father is.”
For Brubaker, who preferred women, it was a few minutes of discomfort that had provided years of getting what he wanted. Even after almost twenty years, he still got what he wanted. It was how he got his hands on this oh-so-special case.
But now, with Smith in the car, all Brubaker could think was there had better be a body…Or there was going to be one there when they left.
Chapter Nine
Dell turned the air conditioner on high after he started the lunch truck. He drove almost three blocks before he pulled to the curb and stopped and cut the engine. In less than a minute, Virgil climbed in, already peeling off the layers of ragged clothes he wore for his disguise. He rubbed his jaw as he buckled his seatbelt.
“Did you see that fucking suit hit me?”
“Yep.”
“Wait ‘til I meet up with him again. I’m going to turn him inside out.”
Dell pulled away from the curb again and maneuvered smoothly out into traffic. “His name is Shackleford. In case you need it for future reference.” He glanced at Virgil, noticing the bruise already starting beneath the stubble on his jaw. Because he was the shortest, he’d had to decoy as a woman. Because Virgil had the stubbliest five-o’clock shadow out of the rest of them, he got to play the street person. For the first time, Dell was glad he wasn’t taller. “God, you stink. What the hell kind of cologne are you wearing?”
“It’s deer piss. I understand deer hunters use it.”
“How do they get that?”
“I have no idea.”
Dell threw him a quick glance. “Well, you need to toss your clothes out the window because I’m not riding the entire way smelling that shit.”
“It’s piss, not shit, but don’t worry. You get used it to after a few minutes.”
From the back of the lunch truck, behind a curtain that separated them, Louis called out, “Take the next left.”
“Did we get the bugs and the GPS transponders in good places?” Virgil still rubbed his jaw. “Because if we didn’t after the pop to the jaw I just took, I’m going to be really pissed. No pun intended.”
“We’re good. They’re heading south on thirteen.”
“Then so are we.” Dell knew the way. “And I’m not kidding. I don’t care if you have to ride the rest of the way in your birthday suit. Ditch the clothes.” He glanced at the rearview at Louis. “Are you able to connect to John’s command station?”
“Doing that now,” Louis called back.
“Where are Al, Monty, and Orrey?” Dell watched to make certain no one followed them. No one did.
“Less than a mile ahead of us.”
“Pull over there at that dumpster.” Virgil slipped out of the jacket he wore.
Dell did and brought the truck to a stop.
Virgil opened the window and tossed the smelly old jacket into the open dumpster. “Better?”
“It’s a start. Leave the window rolled down for a few until the place airs out.”
“Yes, sir.” Virgil reached back and opened the curtain, revealing Louis on the computer, watching a monitor. “What have we got in the truck to drink besides coffee? And do we have any ice I can put on my jaw?”
“We have all sorts of stuff, but you’ll have to get it yourself. I’m busy.”
Chapter Ten
Sweat ran down the back of his shirt. Brubaker hated that. It felt horrid and by the end of the day would smell worse. The only positive thing about it was it was on his back, not on his face where
someone might see it. One thing he had discovered long ago was he could never let anyone see him sweat. No, he had to stay frosty. Always.
He found himself in another small town, one so small it didn’t even have a jail. It did have a police station that housed one cell. Terry Springs, Illinois. Not only had he never been there before, he’d never heard of it. But then, why would he? There were only two churches, three bars, a little store with the post office inside, a park, and a grade school. He had no idea whether or not there was a spring. So far, he hadn’t seen one. And the town was situated to the north of the quarry where limestone was busted up and trucked out and sold.
Even worse, Pennington saw to it that a forensics team accompanied them. One woman with a search dog, and three more men besides the four that tagged along, had wandered about the quarry for the past two hours.
“I’m really sorry,” Smith said for what must have been the fiftieth time. “But things just look so different. I’m just not sure where I buried her.”
It amazed Brubaker that Smith continued to refer to the body he supposedly buried there as her. Not the body, not it. Surely Smith didn’t think of her as a person. He was a true sociopath. People meant nothing to him unless they could somehow benefit him.
Pennington was going to shit a brick and become a hundred pound anvil on his back when he heard they had wasted time bringing the prisoner here and weren’t finding anything.
“Maybe over here.” With his wrists and ankles still shackled, Smith shuffled to the far side of another pile of rock. His guards moved with him. “Yes, I’m pretty certain it was here by the grass.”
It was another spot mostly in the sun. The forensics team had already dug in two other places Smith had been certain about, despite the fact the dog didn’t seem to react to anything. The dog handler was Stephanie and the dog’s name was Buddy. Brubaker had bitten his tongue to keep from voicing how original that was when he heard it. Not only had they found nothing at either of the two sites, but Buddy had even hiked his leg and taken a piss on one of them.
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