by Simon Wood
Sheils snapped his fingers and pointed at Scott with overdramatic flair. “That’s what I thought, but it doesn’t make sense. Why arrange to kill Redfern in the middle of a ransom drop with the FBI crawling all over the place? That’s just asking for a screwup.”
“He’s showboating,” Scott said. “He wants to show the world how good he is. He shows you up yet again, turns my life to hell, and assassinates his number one fan, all at the same time.”
Sheils exhaled. “Nice theory. You want to hear mine?”
He didn’t give Scott time to object.
“You and the Piper are working together. The pair of you orchestrated this whole thing to extort money and dispose of Redfern.”
Sheils didn’t know how close he was to the truth. If his grudge wasn’t blinding him, Scott felt he would have guessed by now what was really going on.
“Cat got your tongue?”
“It’s an allegation unworthy of a response.”
“Is that right?”
Brannon rifled through his file again. “Local police entered Mike Redfern’s home. They found signs of a struggle. Currently, the place is being checked for fingerprints and trace evidence.”
Scott knew they’d find proof to tie him to the house. He hadn’t wiped the place down. He hadn’t had the time or the opportunity. The noose tightened.
“We also have an eyewitness,” Brannon said. “A neighbor of Redfern’s remembers speaking to someone matching your description at the time of your abduction. Would you be available for a video lineup?”
“It doesn’t make sense,” Scott said. “You said as much yourself. It’s overly complicated. Diverting the ransom drop so that it occurs in Redfern’s backyard just to kill him is crazy. It could have been done a lot more quietly.”
“And to quote you, ‘He’s showboating.’ You both are. You two think you’re smarter than us.”
“You’re crazy.”
“Was Redfern part of your act eight years ago?”
“You might not believe in coincidence, but you sure believe in fantasy.”
It had to be close to seven now. Scott could play the lawyer card, but not in time to meet the seven o’clock call, and it would only buy him a day. By tomorrow, Sheils would have enough for an arrest. He couldn’t find the Piper while he was behind bars. He needed to stay out of jail until Monday. He didn’t feel any closer to finding the Piper, but he still had five days. A lot could happen in five days. Christ, Sheils had almost pieced it together in a day. He had to keep the faith that he would find the Piper by Monday. But he couldn’t do it if Sheils kept him pinned down here.
“What time is it?” Scott asked.
The question threw both Sheils and Brannon.
“Excuse me?” Brannon asked.
“Time. What’s the time?”
Brannon checked his watch. “Six fifty.”
Ten minutes. There was no shaking Sheils off in ten minutes without forcing his hand. He’d lost. There was no other way around it. Maybe this was for the best. He would have liked to have run it by Jane, but they had him.
“I can’t do this anymore.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Whenever a case split open and the hard shell of lies fell away, a flash of excitement always ripped through Sheils. This time was no different. Adrenaline coursed through him, leaving him shaky and on edge. But then Scott Fleetwood sucked the excitement from him.
“I’ll talk to you and only you,” Scott said to Sheils.
“It doesn’t work that way.”
“It does this time, or I’m leaving. The only way you’ll stop me is if you shoot me.”
Sheils could tell he meant it. He wasn’t going to get anything from Scott unless he complied. What did it matter if Scott spoke off the record? It would all end up on the record eventually.
“You’re wasting time,” Scott said.
Sheils nodded to Brannon, and Brannon left the room.
“Kill the eyes and ears too,” Scott said and nodded at the camera.
Sheils looked at the camera and drew a line across his throat in a “kill it” gesture. The red light next to the camera lens went out.
“What’s the time?” Scott asked. “The exact time.”
Sheils checked his watch. “Seven minutes to seven.”
“What I tell you doesn’t leave this room. Understood?”
Sheils didn’t like the turn this interrogation was going. He’d seen crap like this before when a suspect tried to save his neck, but he could tell Scott was vibrating with fear. Sheils slipped into the seat vacated by Brannon.
“I’m not making any promises until I’ve heard what you’ve got to say.”
Scott shot out a hand and snared Sheils’s arm from across the table.
“My kids’ lives depend on this, and I have minutes to save them.” Scott’s eyes were wide. “I’ll tell you everything, but I need your word.”
Sheils knew he was making a mistake, but he wanted to hear what Scott had to say. “You have it.”
Scott released Sheils arm. “I’ve been working for the Piper against my will. The ransoms have been a cover for his personal vendetta for the screwup with Nicholas Rooker.”
“Is that the best you can come up with?”
“I’ll prove it. He’s calling me at seven on a cell. He’s going to let me speak to Sammy and Peter. Let me take the call.”
Sheils checked his watch again. Five minutes to seven. Five minutes for Scott to hang himself. It was worth the indulgence. “Where’s the phone?”
Sheils guided Scott through the building and to the parking lot. Sheils held on to the car keys, just in case it was a scam.
In the parking lot, he followed Scott over to his car and unlocked it. Scott yanked open the back door, stuffed his hand between the seat cushions, and jerked out a cell phone. He powered it up, but it didn’t ring.
Sheils imagined the Piper sitting somewhere secluded, phone in hand, waiting for the clock to change from 6:59 to 7:00. He eyed his watch. “It’s two minutes to. Let’s get you inside.”
The phone vibrated in Scott’s hand in the middle of a corridor.
“Not yet,” Sheils warned.
“I can’t hold off. He knows I’m going to be waiting by the phone.”
Sheils cursed. He wanted this call taken in a controlled environment. He would have liked to trace it, but there was no time for that. If Scott was telling him the truth, as long as they maintained the Piper’s belief that Scott still worked under the FBI’s radar, they’d have other calls. When those came, he’d be ready. He shoved Scott into a copy room and closed the door.
The phone had rung four times. Scott answered it before it rang a fifth time.
Sheils leaned in to listen. He heard the Piper’s electronically disguised voice.
“What have you learned about me, Scott?”
“You keep the kidnapped children at a farm or ranch. Some place with horses.”
Sheils flashed Scott a look. Where the hell had he gotten that information?
“How did you come across that tidbit?” the Piper asked. “From one of the kidnapped children.”
“Which one?”
“I’m not saying.”
The Piper laughed. “Just like a reporter to protect his sources. Scott, I’m not going to punish your source. I told you I want you to find me. I’m just interested in who remembered horses.”
“It wasn’t part of the deal. Now I want to speak to my sons.”
“I said you could speak to one of them. Don’t get greedy. Now, which one? Who’s daddy’s favorite?”
The perverse pleasure the Piper took from teasing Scott disgusted Sheils.
Scott squirmed. Sheils saw the dilemma. Regardless of which of his sons he chose to speak to, the other would take it personally, especially if the Piper had the boys within earshot. It was the kind of remark that would leave a scar.
“Peter. Let me talk to Peter.”
“So Daddy likes Peter more.”
The Piper laughed. “I’ll get Peter.”
Scott sagged. Sheils squeezed his shoulder and gave him the thumbs-up sign.
Distant fumbling noises came over the line. The Piper spoke in the distance. Sheils guessed he was using a landline.
Scott stiffened when a boy shrieked. The Piper barked something, and the shriek turned to crying.
“Take it easy, Scott,” Sheils whispered. He needed Scott to hold it together. “He’s not going to hurt them. He still needs you.”
The crying increased in volume as the Piper returned to the phone with Peter. Sheils hoped the Fleetwood boys were holding up. He’d seen Peter and understood why Scott had chosen him over Sammy. Peter needed the reassurance. No kid was built for this kind of trauma, especially Peter. He’d hate to see the kid permanently damaged by all this.
“I’m putting Peter on. Don’t say anything stupid,” the Piper said. “Peter, it’s Daddy.”
Peter’s sobs dried enough for him to speak. “Daddy?”
Scott’s knees buckled. Sheils moved in to catch him. Scott regained his footing, and Sheils released him. All doubt about Scott’s claims left Sheils.
“Yeah, buddy. How are you and Sammy?”
The kid sounded tired, but not drugged. That excited Sheils. If Sammy and Peter weren’t drugged and were conscious of their surroundings, they’d make great eyewitnesses, better than the other kids in the Piper kidnap club.
“We’re okay.”
“He feeds you okay?”
“Yeah.”
“And you’re not hurt?”
“No. Is Mommy there?”
“No, sorry, bud.”
Peter sobbed. “I want Mommy.”
“Not this time. Next time. That’s a promise.”
The Piper snatched the phone from Peter. “I think that’s enough. It’s starting to get sickening. I’ll be in touch.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow at five. Tell me something else about me, and you can speak to Sammy.”
“I will.”
Sheils had the Piper. The dumb bastard had gotten too smart for his own good. He would lead him all the way. Sheils made a fist and punched the air. His elbow connected with a plastic cup with pens in it. The cup and pens clattered to the floor.
“Is someone with you, Scott?”
Scott’s heart stopped. “No.”
“Where are you?”
Scott thought fast. “In a Burger King.”
“So you aren’t alone?”
“I’m alone in the way you mean.”
“What are you eating?”
“A Whopper,” Scott said without any hesitation.
Sheils wondered if Scott had realized his critical save. When people lied, they rarely thought beyond the initial lie. Someone says they went to the movies, and when they’re asked what they saw, they don’t have an answer. The Piper had tested that lie by asking what he’d ordered. Most people would have hesitated trying to remember a menu item. Scott hadn’t hesitated.
“Do you know how many grams of fat are in those things?
You’re heading to an early grave eating that crap.”
“Not if you put me in one first.”
The Piper laughed. “Ain’t that the truth. So what happened?”
“A guy knocked his drink over.”
“Let me speak to your clumsy friend.”
“What?”
“Just do it.”
Sheils pointed to himself and nodded. Scott shook his head. Sheils understood Scott’s hesitance. The Piper knew his voice. If he recognized it, it was all over. He grabbed two sheets off a Post-it note pad and stuffed them into his mouth. He gagged on the treated paper and glue strip. He chewed fast, working his saliva into the paper to soften it.
“Okay,” Scott said and walked across the copy room to Sheils. “My friend wants to talk to you.”
“What?” Sheils sounded as if he’d been caught midchew, his face stuffed with food.
“My friend wants to talk to you.”
“Fuck you, fag. Tell your homo friend to go fuck a pipe wrench.”
The outburst created the desired effect. Scott listened to the Piper talk, then hung up.
Sheils spat the chewed wads of paper into a trash can. “Did he buy it?”
“I think so. He said, ‘Sounds like you found a real knuckle-dragger there. No wonder he knocked his drink over. I doubt his thumbs have had a chance to develop.’”
“Thank Christ. I’m sorry.”
“Believe me now?”
“Yes.”
“So this stays between us?”
“Yes. Does anyone else know about this?”
“Jane does.”
“Okay, I want to talk to you two, but later. I need to square this here. Now go home. Stay there. I’ll be along in a couple of hours. Okay?”
Scott looked uneasy, but nodded.
Sheils hustled Scott out of the building. On the way back to his office, Brannon stopped him in a corridor.
“Where’s Fleetwood?”
“Gone.”
“Gone? We had him. What’s going on, Tom?”
Sheils had hoped to gather his thoughts before having to launch into an explanation. “Who was observing?”
“Just Guerra and Dunham.”
“Tell them it was all a mistake. Then I want you in my office.”
Brannon faltered. “What happened in there?”
“My office in five.”
Sheils got to his office and closed the door. He called Travillian at home. He’d gotten as far as telling him there’d been a new development when Brannon knocked at the door. Brannon came in, and Sheils put Travillian on speaker.
“So what did Fleetwood tell you?” Travillian asked.
“I can’t go into details, but the Piper is monitoring this investigation. I want him to keep believing he has the upper hand. In the meantime, I want permission to run a second investigation outside of this office to follow up on what I’ve learned tonight.”
“You’re asking a lot, Tom,” Travillian said.
“I know.”
“You’ve got to be shitting me. You haven’t believed a word Fleetwood has said since the day you met him, but suddenly you trust him?” Brannon said.
“Yes, I do.”
Brannon shook his head in astonishment.
“Then you have my blessing,” Travillian said. “This meeting never happened.”
Brannon frowned before answering. “What meeting?”
“Good,” Travillian said. “Can you give Tom and me some privacy, Shawn?”
Brannon got up from his seat and left Sheils’s office, closing the door after him.
“Tom, you’re risking a twenty-five-year career on this.”
“I know.”
“Would you do this if it weren’t the Piper?”
“Oh, c’mon, Bill, I don’t know.”
“Tom, you should know, if this play hits the wall, not only will you be damaged, so will the Fleetwoods and your own family. So think damn carefully before deciding.”
Sheils had tried to ignore the consequences, but Travillian was right. If he failed, many people would suffer the repercussions. Was he being selfish? Was he so focused on catching the Piper that nothing else mattered? He liked to think not, but he felt the grip of the Piper pulling at him. If he didn’t go after this, he’d always regret it. “I know what I’m doing. I know what I’m risking. I can get him, Bill.”
“Then you’d better do it.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Interesting, Friedkin thought as he watched Scott leave the Federal Building. Rooker had called him with the news that Sheils was bringing Scott in. He arrived in time to see Scott riding in the back of his own car, driven by one of Sheils’s agents. Less than an hour later, he was leaving of his own accord. Sheils’s investigation must have taken a shift.
Scott’s Honda emerged from the building’s underground parki
ng lot and drove past Friedkin’s Mercedes C-Class. Friedkin waited until Scott was half a block ahead before pulling into traffic. Traffic was light enough to speed, but Scott observed the speed limits, so he wasn’t in a rush to be somewhere. Scott crossed a light just as it turned red. Friedkin lagged too far behind to run it and had no option but to stop. He cursed under his breath.
The light turned green and Friedkin punched the gas. He guessed Scott was heading home, and he picked him up two streets later. He grabbed his cell and punched in Rooker’s number.
“Any developments?” Rooker asked.
“I’m not sure. Sheils released Fleetwood. Whatever he thought he had on him didn’t pan out. He’s on his way home. Did you call his wife?”
“Yes, but Jane didn’t know anything.”
“Look, I’d like to bring more people in on this one. Something’s changed in the last couple of hours, and I’d like to cover all the bases.”
“No. I want to keep this just between you and me. We’re playing with fire already. Bringing more people in is likely to start one. I realize your limitations, but I’ll use my inside position to direct you.”
Friedkin didn’t understand Rooker’s resistance to assign a full surveillance team. It wasn’t the money. The man had paid him hundreds of thousands over the years. A team of watchers for a couple of days wouldn’t hurt his pocketbook any more than it had already. Friedkin would even do it for cost. He hated doing second-rate work, and Rooker was forcing him to do that, but Rooker was the boss.
“Okay. I just want you to be aware that I can’t be in two places at once.”
“I got it.”
“Putting a tail on Sheils could reveal something.”
“Just Scott for now.”
Friedkin surrendered and ended the call with, “I’ll call you back with updates.”
Rooker concerned him. Friedkin wouldn’t describe him as a friend, exactly, but he knew the man well enough to see changes. When Rooker had first come to him, he was a father seeking justice, which Friedkin understood perfectly. He couldn’t imagine the state he’d be in if someone had murdered his son. Now that justice-seeking father was gone, and Rooker was on a crusade for revenge. What does that make me? Friedkin wondered. Lancelot to Rooker’s King Arthur? Hardly the makings for a happy ending. The quest seemed to have intensified since his wife’s death. Rooker had lost his compass when the cancer claimed Alice.