No Good Deed

by Allison Brennan

  “Dr. Vigo was my mentor at Quantico,” Lucy said. That was the simple version of the truth, which was that Lucy had known Hans for years and he’d been her mentor long before she’d been accepted into the FBI academy. “There’s no one better.”

  “I’ve never met Dr. Vigo, but his reputation is outstanding, and I was very pleased when he informed me he would be coming here personally to assist. With budget cuts and priorities, headquarters rarely approves BSU going into the field.”

  “Which was one reason I declined an offer to join the Behavioral Science Unit,” Lucy said. “Profiling isn’t as effective if criminologists are looking at photos and reports—they need to be in the field, interviewing individuals, viewing the evidence firsthand.”

  Durant smiled. “That’s close to what Dr. Vigo said. He reminded me that you’re a criminal psychologist, told me about several cases where you assisted that aren’t part of your official record.”

  Lucy had no idea what Hans had told Abigail, so she remained silent. Abigail waited a beat. Was she expecting Lucy to talk? Her heart raced, and didn’t slow even when Abigail did start speaking again.

  “Dr. Vigo also has a copy of the Rollins file, but he asked that I bring you in on it as well so that when he arrives tomorrow morning, you’ll be up to speed. Will you be able to do that while also assisting Agent Donnelly?”

  “I’ll make time,” Lucy said. “May I be blunt?”

  “Please.”

  “Agent Donnelly is a sharp agent. We both have an understanding of this case that goes beyond Nicole and her escape. This investigation connects to the murder of Congresswoman Reyes-Worthington, the drug runner Tobias, the murdered marines six months ago, and the stolen guns they’d recovered. To bring someone else up to speed would take far too much time, and they wouldn’t understand the nuances of the investigation. Except Ryan, of course—he was involved in Operation Heatwave as well, and he’s the one who uncovered Rollins’s involvement with Tobias.”

  Abigail raised an eyebrow. “I read Ryan’s report. He stated you helped uncover her involvement.”

  “We both did—using different sources,” Lucy said. “But what I’m getting at is that I can work up a profile, but in doing so I would need to involve Brad because he knew Nicole better than anyone else. He’d worked with her for three years. They were partners on Operation Heatwave. He knows things about her that he doesn’t realize he knows—so working with him will help me put together a viable analysis. I’ll also need to talk to Samantha Archer.”

  “You have cover from this office, Lucy.”

  Lucy said, “If I had to guess at this point—based on what we know about Nicole, what happened with Congresswoman Worthington, and the fact that Nicole escaped today instead of being killed so she couldn’t testify—Nicole wasn’t turned because Tobias caught her killing a drug dealer in cold blood, as the disk we uncovered during Operation Heatwave suggested. I think she made it all up when she realized we had the video. Based on my limited knowledge of her personality and background, I think she was corrupted from the very beginning.”

  “And you’re basing that opinion on what? You haven’t read her file yet.”

  “Because she’s smart. She showed no fear at any time. During Operation Heatwave, she behaved exactly as I would have expected a seasoned agent to behave. It was natural. She is so used to playing both sides that it wasn’t even a challenge. At most, I would say she was cold—but I know a lot of cops who are cold. Someone of her intelligence—someone who could orchestrate an escape like today—couldn’t be blackmailed into it. That makes me think killing the drug dealer five years ago wasn’t the first time she’d crossed the line. For Nicole, there was no line to cross because she’s never been loyal to the DEA.”

  Abigail leaned back and steepled her fingers as she looked at Lucy. “That’s very interesting. So, essentially, she was a double agent. If this were the Cold War, she would have been an American spy working also for the Soviet Union.”

  “Uncovering her personal motivation will help us find her,” Lucy said.

  Abigail made a few notes on a notepad in front of her. “For the time being, work under Agent Donnelly’s direction, but report to me daily. That means, by the end of the day—whether that’s five, seven, or midnight—I need a report. It doesn’t need to be long or formal, but I need something in writing. Copy in Ryan Quiroz, because while I can’t give up two agents to the DEA, if I need to reassign you after Dr. Vigo arrives tomorrow, Ryan will step in. Currently he’s working with Proctor on security at the jail, our office, and other federal buildings. Any flaw needs to be remedied immediately. We’ll meet with Dr. Vigo here at nine a.m. tomorrow.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Lucy left Abigail’s office a little surprised by the turn of events, but eager to jump into Nicole’s file. She went back to her cubicle and sent Brad a message to let her know when he was done.

  She also sent an email off to Hans Vigo, offering him a guest room. Her house was certainly big enough, and she hadn’t seen him since she graduated from the FBI Academy.

  While waiting for Brad, she opened up Nicole’s file and started reading.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  FBI Supervisory Special Agent Noah Armstrong had just celebrated his fifth anniversary with the FBI. The anniversary came only a week after his thirty-ninth birthday, which itself came a week after his promotion to SSA. The FBI was his second career, after spending more than a decade in the air force, most of it as an Air Force Raven protecting US planes on foreign soil and transporting prisoners internationally. And while he’d planned on being a career air force officer, he’d found a calling in the FBI.

  It helped that he was most often assigned special cases by Assistant Director Rick Stockton. Technically, he was a field agent working out of the DC regional office, unassigned to a specific squad, but Noah spent most of his time investigating cases for Stockton. Projects that needed complete discretion. The promotion had no impact on what he did for Stockton, but came with a small pay raise and a private office. Noah found more value in the door than he did in the nominal salary increase.

  But even the call he’d received from Stockton’s private cell phone thirty minutes ago was odd. The assistant director told him to come to an address in nearby Alexandria, Virginia, and not tell anyone. When Noah arrived, he found waiting for him both Rick Stockton and Dr. Hans Vigo, another assistant director who’d recently returned to duty after being on medical leave for several months.

  Hans didn’t look like his old self—he’d lost a substantial amount of weight and looked all of his fifty-some years. He could have taken disability since he’d been nearly killed in the line of duty, or retired early because he already had more than twenty years in the Bureau, but he’d chosen to return to work. Hans had no immediate family, no children, no wife—his life was his job. Mandatory retirement was still a few years away.

  Noah didn’t want that kind of life for himself, but he was nearly forty and hadn’t been on a serious date in months. Years. He’d been in love once. So deep in love he’d crossed an ethical line he’d sworn he’d never cross. But instead of losing his soul, he walked away and lost his heart. Only one person had come close to breaking down those barriers, but she was taken, and he wouldn’t pursue an unavailable woman—even if he thought he was the better man for her.

  A coroner’s van was parked on the street at the address Noah had been given, along with several Alexandria police cars, officers standing outside the narrow end-unit town house.

  He approached Rich and Hans waiting on the small porch. Someone was dead, and if two assistant directors were here, that meant murder and the victim was a fed. “Who was killed?”

  “Logan Dunbar was murdered last night.”

  “Dunbar?” Noah was one of the few people who knew that Logan Dunbar had been working undercover, gathering evidence against Texas Congresswoman Adeline Reyes-Worthington who’d been suspected of a multitude of political corruption crimes. Noa
h had been working the DC angle with the other members of Dunbar’s small team. Dunbar’s assignment was cut short when the congresswoman was murdered. Her crimes were far more severe than bribery—drug running, gunrunning, money laundering, conspiracy to commit murder. Noah had been wading through the documentation that Dunbar had compiled, and they’d planned a huge debriefing later this week. She wasn’t the only corrupt official in the middle of the shitstorm. “I just spoke to Dunbar on Friday.”

  Rick said, “He flew back last night. We don’t know if his killer followed him from the airport or was already here. I’ve called in a forensics team directly from the lab—I want our best people on this.”

  “You think it’s connected to his assignment in San Antonio.”

  “I don’t know,” Rick said. “But very few people knew he was coming back last night. My office. His direct supervisor. You. And his next-door neighbor who was watching his place while he was gone. But Dunbar could have told any number of people, both in San Antonio or here. It wasn’t like he needed to keep the information secret, now that his assignment was over.”

  Noah didn’t know Dunbar well—most of their conversations had been over the phone or via encrypted email—but Noah knew he was a diligent, dedicated agent.

  Hans said, “Dunbar’s flight arrived at eight thirty last night. He took a taxi from Dulles; the receipt in his pocket says he paid the driver at nine forty-nine—which would have given him enough time to get his bags, hail a cab, and drive home. He came in through the front door and disengaged the alarm. He didn’t reengage it. He put his bag down in the entry at the base of the staircase and went to the kitchen. Took a beer from the refrigerator—it’s all that was in there, which isn’t surprising since he’s been undercover for six months. He opened the beer. Someone shot him twice from behind, once in the back and once in the back of the head, possibly when he was already down.”

  “No sign of a struggle?”

  “None.”

  “And no one heard anything?”

  “It smells professional,” Hans said. “Execution.”

  Rick said, “Logan and I were supposed to meet at one this afternoon. When he didn’t show up, I called. No answer. I confirmed his flight, and then I called the Alexandria police for a welfare check. They found the body.”

  “Anything stolen?”

  “Not that any of us can tell. His briefcase is here, but something could have been taken or copied. Noah, I need you to take the lead on this,” Rick said. “We need to know if this was connected to San Antonio as soon as possible. If it’s not, we’ll regroup and look at his old cases and personal life. But it sure as hell wasn’t random.”

  “You heard what happened this morning in San Antonio?” Hans asked Noah.

  “The escape? Yes.”

  “Two dead DEA agents. Dunbar spent the last six months in San Antonio, and there’s a tertiary connection between the escaped felon and Logan Dunbar. Nicole Rollins, the escapee, worked for the same gunrunner that Worthington laundered money for,” Hans said. “Worthington is dead. Dunbar’s murder could be retaliation, payback, or something else.”

  Rick said, “While we waited for you, I called SAC Naygrow in the San Antonio office to find out where they are on the investigation and who is point. All agencies are working together, and I found out, without explicitly asking, that Lucy is on the task force. But because of Dunbar’s murder and the escape, Hans is going to San Antonio. He’ll ostensibly profile Nicole Rollins, but he’ll be covertly investigating the leak. While logic suggests there is a mole in the DEA who passed on information to Rollins when she was in prison, we also believe there’s a mole in the FBI.”

  “The San Antonio office?”

  “Most likely. Kane Rogan contacted me ten days ago and said he believes someone in the FBI is vulnerable, whether because they are the mole or have been compromised in some way we don’t know yet. That’s why I want Hans down there to assess.”

  “Rogan,” Noah said flatly.

  “You don’t have a problem with that,” Rick said, more as a statement than a question, though the question was there.

  “No,” Noah said. He still didn’t understand Rick Stockton’s loyalties to the Rogan family.

  Rick clearly didn’t believe him; Noah had never told anyone what happened in Europe with Liam and Eden Rogan. It could be that Rick knew what had happened—he had an uncanny way of gathering information—but Rick had never discussed it with Noah.

  That was six years ago, and he hadn’t seen the Rogan twins since.

  But Rick would know that while Noah was in the Air Force, he’d crossed paths with Kane Rogan who, Noah felt, envisioned himself as the Guardian Angel—or Avenging Angel—of innocents south of the border. Kane’s team took out guerrilla fighters and cartel leaders, burned cocaine fields, and rescued kidnapped Americans. And on one hand, Noah had a deep respect for what Kane and his ilk did. On the other, he’d seen firsthand in Kane a calm brutality and antipathy for the law that was disturbing. Noah didn’t want to believe that the FBI had a corrupt agent, but just because he didn’t want to believe didn’t mean he wouldn’t believe. And though Noah didn’t know Kane well, if he had information that he felt was viable enough to share with Rick, there was at least a basis for the suspicion.

  Noah realized that Rick was assessing him. “You should tap Lucy to help weed out the traitor,” Noah said.

  Hans shook his head. “Lucy would not do well in that role.”

  “I’ve worked with her, Hans, I know what she’s capable of. Lying isn’t her strong suit, I grant you, but something like this—when agents are being threatened and killed—she’ll rise to the occasion.”

  “I don’t disagree that she could do it, but I don’t know the dynamics of the office. I don’t know what relationships she’s forged and with whom. I don’t want to put her in that position of spying on her colleagues, not unless it’s absolutely necessary. I would rather use Agent Dunning.”

  “Dunning?” Noah didn’t know him.

  “I’ll fill you in later,” Rick said to Noah. Then to Hans, “You have as much latitude as you need. You speak for me, and I don’t doubt that you’ll find out the truth. If someone in our house is corrupt, your presence will put the fear of God into them—and may force their hand. No paper trail on this—no email or cell phones. If either of you needs anything, call only though a secure line.”

  They watched as the coroner’s team wheeled Logan Dunbar’s body out of his townhouse. They collapsed and lifted the gurney to carry it down the stairs, then raised it and rolled the body to the van. Noah stared at the black bag, a cold anger washing over him. He’d been in the air force for ten years and had never lost a man in his unit. But he’d flown back the bodies of other good soldiers, men and women zipped into body bags, dead simply because they were doing their job.

  Noah said, “Dunbar was a good agent. He did his job. Now he’s dead. I want to know why and stop these bastards from hurting anyone else.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Lucy scoured Nicole’s file, first skimming it, then going back and reading it in greater depth.

  Immediately two things became clear: First, Nicole had lied to Lucy about her background. During Operation Heatwave, when Lucy was alone with Nicole, the former fed had said she’d lived in Kansas until she was fourteen and mentioned she had “brothers”—the truth was, she had only one brother, two years older than Nicole and currently in the army. Nicole had only lived in Kansas for fourteen months, when her father had been stationed at Fort Riley, and she’d been five when they moved to Fort Benning in Georgia. When she was nine, her father had left the military after twelve years of service and moved cross-country, to Los Angeles, where he went through the police academy. He’d been killed in the line of duty when Nicole was fifteen.

  According to Nicole’s application to the DEA, under the question, “Why are you applying to be a federal agent with the Drug Enforcement Administration?” Nicole had written:

 
My father was a veteran in the army and then served six years as a police officer with the Los Angeles Police Department. He was killed in the line of duty during a turf war battle. The only way to stop the violence is to stop these battles, and that starts at the top—which is why I want to be a DEA agent.

  Lucy made a note to find out more about the murder of Nicole’s father. Lucy couldn’t reconcile Nicole working for the same sort of people who killed her father. Maybe her betrayal of the DEA had started with avenging her father—if a drug dealer was responsible, she may have wanted access to records that she couldn’t get otherwise. But if that were the case, how did she turn away from revenge to working with the same type of people who’d killed her dad?

  The second truth Lucy learned was that Nicole had manipulated her way into the San Antonio DEA field office. She wanted to be here for some reason—why, Lucy had no idea. It took Lucy two passes before she saw the pattern.

  Nicole had been recruited into the DEA right out of college, fifteen years ago. She’d been assigned to the Atlanta main office for her first year, then to the smaller Savannah resident office for the second year. After her two-year rookie probation she’d asked to be transferred to Mexico City, but had been denied because she didn’t speak Spanish well enough. She’d been transferred to the Chicago Division, where she took night classes to learn Spanish. Over the next ten years—between the end of her rookie years until she landed in San Antonio three years ago—she’d asked for a total of nine transfers. And while she was only granted two of them, she’d still been moved several times—no office assignment lasted longer than two years.

  Until San Antonio.

  It seemed odd to Lucy that Nicole had asked to transfer so many times. In both the DEA and the FBI, rookie agents had little to no influence over their initial two-year assignment. Prior to graduation at Quantico, Lucy was asked to list the three offices she wanted to be assigned to. Nothing guaranteed that she would be assigned to one of the three—it depended on many factors. She’d listed two offices in California—both her family and Sean’s family were in California (hers in the south, his in the north)—and Norfolk, because it was in Virginia and only a few hours from where her brothers Dillon and Patrick lived in DC.