“After a fashion.” More like a secret hideaway, where Victor had kept information about the Skaladeskas, as well as his escape route out onto Lake Superior.
Marina didn’t know what she expected to find, five years after the place had been destroyed and then searched through, but she was compelled to look. To make certain nothing was here.
Or perhaps to make certain nothing had changed.
She wore her helmet, and flipped on the headlamp when she got to the bottom. Bruce’s own beam shone over her shoulder as she picked through the chunks of concrete, rotting wood, and tufts of old upholstery.
She’d taken all of two steps when she saw it: a crinkled brown paper sack, too clean and new to be very old. Probably some kids sneaked in with a six-pack…though this was such a remote location, why would they bother climbing down in here?
Maybe a squatter? Someone who needed a place to stay? But there were plenty of abandoned hunting camps this time of year…
Marina’s heart was thudding as she reached for the bag. The paper crinkled in her hands, still dry and untouched by the damp, when she opened it.
Inside she found sandwich crusts, recent enough that the animals hadn’t discovered them, and their crumpled paper wrappings.
She recognized the distinct sticker from Zingerman’s Deli in Ann Arbor…the city where she lived.
A coincidence?
Hardly.
EIGHT
September 22
Genesys Regional Medical Center
Grand Blanc, Michigan
Dr. Brenda Hatcher looked grimly at the small plastic bag, then at the covered figure lying on the hospital bed.
Michael Wiley, aged forty-nine, had gone into cardiac arrest an hour ago. Though she and her team in the ER worked on him for over sixty minutes, there was nothing they could do to save him.
He’d expired less than two hours after being brought into the emergency room.
The patient had presented with what seemed to be a severe allergic reaction—quarter-sized, lumpy red lesion-like boils over his entire body. His face was so swollen he was hardly recognizable as the photo on his driver’s license. His vitals were out of control. His eyes were unfocused and he had uncontrollable muscle tremors and some bleeding from his ears and nose.
The ambulance had brought him in after a 911 call, and he’d been incoherent since the paramedics found him collapsed on the floor of his living room, cell phone in one hand still showing the call to 911, plastic baggie in another. The only thing he’d been able to say was: “The bugs.”
Over and over. The bugs.
Brenda looked down at the small plastic bag again—the one the patient had been clutching when Julio and Wayne found him. Inside were several specimens of a beetle-like insect still attached to a strip of sticky yellow flypaper. They glinted metallically under the bright hospital lights.
One would assume these were the bugs in question.
Brenda didn’t know much about insects, except that in order to be classified as one, they had to have six legs. Or was it eight? No, that was arachnids. Though there were some poisonous species of insects, she knew all of the dangerous ones in Michigan, and these didn’t resemble any that were on the list.
They didn’t even look real, come to think of it. They looked as if they were made out of copper, and there was a black residue that smudged the inside of the baggie as if it had rubbed off from the creatures. She counted. Six legs. The insect looked like a beetle, with what appeared to be a hard, shell-like covering and minuscule hooks on the ends of the legs. Its head and thorax were much more slender than its oblong body.
They didn’t look deadly. They looked like a normal garden variety of beetle, with a fancy copper shell.
But apparently, Michael Wiley thought otherwise.
Whether the medical examiner would as well remained to be seen.
* * *
Chicago
FBI Field Office
Special Agent Helen Darrow had been forced into the digital age six months ago. Her superior had presented her with a department-issued smartphone and an iPad—and told her to use them.
Gone were her small notepad and Day Runner calendar (she had been having trouble finding the inserts for it anyway now that everyone else had gone digital), and in their places were two heavier, more delicate contraptions that didn’t fit into her slim, no-nonsense pocketbook. Plus, her fingernails—which really weren’t very long anyway—got in the way of typing on the touchscreens. Nor could she answer her smartphone when she was wearing her favorite cashmere-lined leather gloves in the freezing Chicago winter, which was another pain in the rear, especially if she was driving. And the beastly things had to be plugged in and charged every night.
Which had made things a little difficult during the three-day blackout. But Helen, team player that she was, hadn’t said a word to her boss. A few pointed looks, sure, but no snarky comments. At least out loud.
Now, however, as she looked at the man sitting across from her, Helen was grudgingly grateful for the digital tablet—and the end of the crippling power blackout. She’d used a rubber-tipped stylus to type Binger Blue into the search field, and was pulling up the information about the short, wiry man on the other side of the table even as she talked to him.
“You witnessed Cora Allegan’s abduction?” she asked with one eye on Mr. Blue and the other on the screens as she scrolled through. William (Binger) Blue, True Blue Gumshoe (really?) Private Detective Agency. Hm. That could be interesting. Or he could turn into a pain in the ass if he decided he was qualified to work the case himself.
She smiled at him with particular warmth and noticed his automatic response: he sat up straight, pulled his eyes up from where they’d dropped to the area of her breasts (and she wasn’t even wearing a low-cut blouse), and smoothed a hand over his wispy, thinning hair. He wore a copper bracelet around a slender wrist.
“I was on a stakeout,” he told her. “It’s confidential,” he added quickly, as if to forestall a follow-up question. “My client doesn’t want the information to get out at this time.”
Helen nodded, scrolled, and scanned. DOB 7/29/1966, current residence Des Plaines, IL. Divorced, 1997. No children. Northwestern University, 1990-1994. (No degree) Loss Prevention, Macy’s, 1993-2005. Licensed private investigator, 2005. Registered firearm owner ID, 2003. Renewed 2008. No record. “Was your client pleased with your report?” she asked casually.
Binger Blue’s fingers tightened briefly. “I’m not at liberty to say.” But the expression on his face spoke otherwise. He was dying to tell her.
“Of course. I understand completely.” She smiled again, nudging up the warmth in her expression. Honey worked better than vinegar, and all that. “Tell me what you saw.”
“It was almost seven o’clock in the evening. I was about eighty feet away and saw a car pull into the driveway at Ms. Allegan’s home. Three people got out of the vehicle, two men and a woman, and they walked to the front porch. They were all dressed in plain off-white clothing, like undyed linen. All the same style: loose pants and loose tunic shirts. I couldn’t see their shoes.”
Helen had picked up a pen and was scrawling notes, pleasantly surprised at the coherent report Binger Blue was giving her. “Any other identifying factors?”
“I was looking through the lens of my camera—it’s a long-range lens—but they were facing away from me as they walked up the drive. They didn’t seem to interact with each other at all, and they all had light-colored hair. I tried to take a few photos. They didn’t turn out great because I was so surprised—well, you can see.” He pulled a sheaf of photos from his inner pocket and shoved them at her.
A quick glance told Helen there was some hope of identifying the men, but Binger Blue hadn’t been exaggerating when he said they hadn’t turned out great. She nodded and collected the photos in her folder. “What happened next?”
“One of them must have knocked or rang the bell, because Ms. Allegan answered the door hers
elf. They talked for a minute, then the next thing I knew, she was out on the porch with them and the door closed behind her. I thought maybe she didn’t want anyone inside the house to hear the conversation. Then she sort of slumped between them, like she’d fainted or something, and they carried her off to the car. That’s when I jumped out of my vehicle and shouted at them. One of them threw this at me, so I ducked behind some landscaping.” He dropped a lump of something iron gray onto the desk.
Helen picked it up gingerly. Soot and ash stained her fingers and she could smell old smoke. The metal object resembled a grenade. “A smoke bomb?”
Binger Blue nodded. “Yes, but I didn’t know it wasn’t going to explode, so it was effective in keeping me from chasing them or even getting a good look at the license plate. The vehicle was a black 2003 Cadillac and the plate could have been Illinois, but I wasn’t at the best angle to see.”
She nodded and made a few more notes, pleased with his clarity and conciseness. He was probably a damn good PI. “Did you notice anyone else who might have witnessed any of this?” Helen tapped on the iPad screen to bring up the notes she’d received from the CPD, who’d been notified when Cora Allegan hadn’t arrived at her office for work yesterday morning and hadn’t been reachable. The Chicago cops weren’t thrilled that the Feds were in on this, but when the daughter of a senator goes missing, it becomes everyone’s problem.
Now Binger Blue seemed surprised. “Do you mean no one else has come forward?”
She looked up from the iPad. “Someone else was there? Do you know who it was?”
He swallowed and began to play with his copper bracelet. “There was a person in the house. He came out onto the porch after they took Ms. Allegan away.”
Helen waited. She didn’t look anywhere but at Binger Blue.
His eyes skittered around the room, but she knew there was nothing to look at. Gray walls, gray floor, dirty white ceiling, colorless table. No windows.
She waited, her expression impassive. Her body remained completely still although her mind was racing.
Binger Blue drew in a long, deep breath then spewed it out. He pursed his lips, curling them in unattractively, then flattening them. “Jerome Blankenship.”
Helen sat back unable to keep her expression blank. “Of Nellworth Bank?”
He swallowed and nodded. “That’s the one.”
“And you’re telling me he was there? And he did nothing?” She snatched up the iPad and began to tap on the touchscreen. Jerome Blankenship. DOB 11/05/1963. CEO Nellworth Bank, Chicago, IL.
Married, Lucinda Fennel, 6/3/1998.
Oh. She looked up at Binger Blue, True Blue Gumshoe. “Caught him in the act, did you?” she said, a wry smile twitching the corner of her mouth. “Presumably you’ve already made your report to Mrs. Blankenship?”
He nodded again. “But she doesn’t want it to be made public until she has her divorce lawyer engaged. She doesn’t even want Blankenship to know she’s got the money shot until she gets her ducks in a row.”
Helen noticed he didn’t look as miserable as he should have, after spilling his “confidential” information.
“This is the abduction of the daughter of a US senator,” Helen reminded him. “Not to mention the CEO of a Fortune 500 company. It’s all going to be public. You’d better get your fee from Mrs. Blankenship, stat.”
Binger grimaced. “I was afraid you were going to say that. I suppose there’s no chance you could wait a day or so to pull him in…?”
She shook her head. “Like I said, you’d better get your fee today. So, what exactly did he see of the abduction?”
“I don’t know what he saw,” Binger said carefully. “For all I know, he was watching from a window. But I didn’t see Blankenship until after they took Allegan away. He came out on the porch about two minutes later, as if he was looking for her. I saw him pick up a piece of paper or something white from the porch. I assumed,” he said with a little cough, “he’d already been in touch with the authorities and had told you about it. Now he’s going to know Mrs. B knows. Damn. How much longer are you going to need me? I need to get that check.” He stood, gathering up his briefcase and cell phone, and hesitated—clearly waiting for her to dismiss him.
Helen nodded. “Good luck. Hope you get your fee. Thank you, Mr. Blue. I’ll need a copy of that picture. The money shot.”
He groaned, but she merely smiled. “You did your civic duty, Mr. Blue, and I thank you. So does, I’m sure, Ms. Allegan.”
As Binger Blue swept out of her office, Helen was already mentally in the process of moving her accounts from Nellworth Bank to somewhere else. Anywhere else. To a bank where the adulterous CEO might actually make a report if his lover—presumably a woman he cared about—had gone missing while he was on the premises. Douchebag. He was damned lucky there’d been a witness basically proving he’d had nothing to do with the abduction.
A cool smile curled her mouth. She couldn’t wait to drag him in and pose a few questions to the jerk. Let him squirm and sweat.
NINE
“I don’t understand what I’m doing here. Do you realize I’ve been sitting in this room for over an hour? I was on my way to a very important meeting when I was intercepted by your associate. You’re wasting my time and yours, Agent…Darrow.”
Though it was rare for Helen to dislike someone unless she knew them well enough to form a logical opinion, Jerome Blankenship had never had a chance to end up in her positive column.
Thanks to the report from Binger Blue (True Blue Gumshoe), she already intensely disliked Blankenship, even before she sat down across from him. Therefore, she hadn’t been particularly warm in her greeting, nor had she been apologetic about his wait or even forthcoming about the reason he’d been brought into the field office. And though she certainly could have gone to him, catching him at his office or elsewhere more convenient for him, she’d made him come to her, having her team snag him as he left an early afternoon workout at the gym. To add insult to injury—she hoped—Helen had had him seated in the most bland, uncomfortable of interrogation rooms (and where the Wi-Fi only showed one bar—on a good day), and most definitely hadn’t offered him any coffee.
Which was why she had a surge of satisfaction when she noticed his attention settle hungrily on her Starbucks cup. Not that it was coffee anyway—a chai latte was her preference—but clearly he didn’t know that.
Helen smiled at him, pulled out her electronic tablet along with a trusty pad of paper and a pen, and took her time sizing him up. Early fifties, with the not-very-well-obscured evidence of hair plugs, steel-gray eyes, a thin, flat mouth, and shiny, buffed fingernails. Helen subdued a shudder. Manicured hands on a man were a definite, one-hundred-percent turnoff for her. He was wearing workout clothes, which made him appear less like an executive and more like the perfect male gym teacher for an all-girls school: frumpy and disheveled.
Important meeting, indeed.
She lifted her drink and sipped, pretending to skim through the notes on her tablet, but was really checking out the headlines on the Chicago Tribune. Then, just as he opened his mouth to speak again, she looked up. “Mr. Blankenship, I do appreciate you coming in this morning. I realize what an inconvenience it must be for someone in your position.” She smiled again, allowing a little bit of apology to drift into her eyes as he responded in the manner she expected: by nodding peremptorily, as if granting her permission to grovel. Then she went right in for the kill. “But then again, I suspect Cora Allegan is even more inconvenienced at the moment. I understand you were with her on the evening she disappeared.”
This had a most gratifying effect on the man across from her. His face leeched into gray, his shoulders snapped up tight, nearly to his ears, and his eyes went wide…then immediately narrowed.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He stood. “I’m finished here.”
“I have a witness who saw you come out of Cora Allegan’s home moments after she was abducted.”
<
br /> “Whoever this witness is, he or she is mistaken.”
Helen merely turned her tablet around so he could see the photo Binger Blue had taken of him standing on the porch of Allegan’s condo. “Nice boxers.”
Blankenship’s face drained of what little color was left. Muttering a filthy word, he sank back down into his chair, bumping the table with his inattention. “Is there any chance of keeping that”—he gestured at the image with distaste, his voice thick—“confidential?”
“Your lover has been abducted and all you care about is whether word gets out that you’ve been unfaithful to your wife?” Helen didn’t bother to keep her own disgust hidden. She shook her head, reminding herself she was neither judge nor jury—but then again, having been in a similar position as Mrs. Blankenship clearly was, it was difficult not to have at least a little flicker of empathy for the woman. Nevertheless, she drew in a slow, deep breath. Keeping her personal prejudices out of her professional life was one of her personal credos, and she’d done an excellent job for the decade she’d been with the Bureau. That was why she had been promoted to special agent in charge after only three years with the Feds.
Thus, she merely gave the man across from her a level look. “I have no intention of making this information public, Mr. Blankenship. At least, not purposely. I have no reason to do so. However, since you have been placed at the scene of an abduction, and you didn’t come forward with any information about it, I can only hope no one would consider you an accessory…”
“What?” He bolted from his seat. “An accessory? Are you out of your damned mind? How dare you accuse me of such a thing!” Spittle flew and his eyes flashed. “Who do you think you are? I want to speak to your director!”
Helen merely watched him, her disgust growing. She lifted one brow, waited until he finished his tirade, then said, “Please take a seat, Mr. Blankenship. No one is accusing you of anything. However, I do find it curious that you made no move to come forward after Ms. Allegan disappeared. And I may not be the only person to do so. So perhaps if you give me a statement about the—er—extenuating circumstances that prevented you from doing your civic duty, we can nip any future issues in the bud.”
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