“Trip told me I couldn’t tell anyone. He said it was too dangerous.”
“What the hell do I look like? A Boy Scout? That’s my job, Sheila. And it helps when people tell us exactly what is going on so we don’t goddamned get ourselves killed.”
“You’re yelling at me.”
“Yes, I’m yelling at you! What the hell were you thinking?”
“That maybe Trip would tell you?”
“Jesus,” he said. “He’s in friggin’ jail, so I think the likelihood of him mentioning it to me is about nil. Which is not to say I believe you.”
“Does that mean I can stay?”
He took a deep breath, then looked at his wife, wondering how it was he’d stayed married to her as long as he had. He’d loved her once. Hell, he still loved her, even though she’d slept her way through half of his friends over the years and, after the most recent round of counseling failed, he knew when it was time to let go. Past time. “You can sleep on the couch.”
She rushed forward and hugged him. “Thank you, Tony.”
“Yeah,” he said, holding his beer away to keep it from spilling, and wishing he’d had the foresight to bring home a case of the stuff. “Write down everything you know about this charity, this Dorian Rose guy, how we can get ahold of him, and anything else you can think of.”
Sheila took a pad of paper from the drawer, then started writing, and he tried to ignore the occasional tear running down her cheek, since each one made him want to drive out to the jail and strangle Trip until he confessed to exactly whatever the hell was going on. One thing was certain. He knew when Sheila was keeping secrets, and he was sure she hadn’t yet told him everything—a fact confirmed the following morning when he discovered that not only was Sheila gone, but so was his ATM card.
Sydney Fitzpatrick tossed the newspaper on the coffee table, disgusted at the California State Legislature’s latest efforts to balance the budget—the early release of prisoners into the parole system, because the jails were too full. Apparently someone forgot to mention to the lawmakers that they’d already laid off hundreds of parole agents earlier in the year due to lack of money. Never-ending circle, she thought, as her eleven-year-old half sister, Angie, rolled a tennis ball across the floor near the Christmas tree, hoping to teach her shepherd-mix puppy to fetch. But try as she might, Sydney couldn’t stop thinking about the news article. The same thing was happening on the federal level, too, even at the FBI where she worked. They’d frozen all hiring, and she’d heard rumors that they were canceling the next recruit class for new agents.
“Watch, Syd,” Angie said.
“I’m watching.”
Sarge scrambled after the ball, stopped when his tail hit an ornament, turned, eyed the shiny orb swinging from the lowest branch, then jumped up, trying to nip it. Angie dove forward, catching the pup, shaking her finger at him. “No, Sarge. No!”
“Angela!” her mother said, walking into the room just in time to see her precious collection of decorations threatened by the dog’s antics. “Be careful. Those are older than you are.”
“Everything’s older than I am, Mom. Maybe you should be more specific.”
“Is playing with your dog outside specific enough?” she asked, constantly challenged by her youngest daughter, a change-of-life baby who was far too intelligent for her age. “Do not play near that tree again, or the dog goes out,” she said on her way up the stairs.
Any retort her sister had planned died at the sound of a sharp rap at the front door, and Angie jumped to answer it, Sarge bounding after her. She threw open the door before Sydney could remind her to check out the peephole. All Sydney could see was a dark suit as her sister hugged the man, saying, “I was hoping you’d come.”
“Hey, squirt.”
The voice belonged to Tony Carillo. She and Carillo had been partners before she’d transferred from the San Francisco FBI field office to the FBI Academy at Quantico to teach forensic art. Angie opened the door wider and dragged him in by his hand. “Look who came by to see me.”
“I was in the neighborhood. Bank robbery in Marin yesterday. A couple houses I want to check on a tip we received.”
Sydney glanced out the window. His blue Crown Victoria was parked in the drive, the front seat empty. “You’re by yourself?”
“I was thinking maybe you’d like to go with me.”
“Hard as it is to believe, I did not fly all the way out from the East Coast so I could work a bank robbery with you.”
“I’ll go if she won’t!” Angie said.
Carillo grinned at Angie’s enthusiasm. Her dream was to be a cop and he loved to encourage it. “Let’s talk your sister into coming, first, eh, Angie. We wouldn’t want those skills of hers diminishing now that she’s sitting behind a desk in a classroom all day.”
“If anything,” Sydney replied, “my skills have been sharpened these last few months. Besides. It’s Christmas.”
“Last I checked, it was the twenty-seventh.”
“And I’m off until New Year’s.”
Angie’s mouth dropped open as she looked at Sydney. “You can’t let him go alone! What if something happens?”
“Yeah,” Carillo said. “You don’t want something to happen to me.”
“I am doing nothing today and enjoying every second—”
Her mother came down the stairs carrying a basket of dirty clothes. “Hi, Tony. Are you staying for lunch?”
“Sorry, Mrs. Hughes. Working a case. But thanks.”
She hefted the basket on her hip, then pinned her gaze on Sydney. “How about running Angela down to her ballet lesson, then basketball practice? It’ll give you two some good quality time together and I can get some laundry done.”
Vegetating between ballet and basketball? Definitely not on her list of how to spend the rare day off. “Geez, Mom,” Sydney said, standing. “I’d love to, but they’re running shorthanded at work, and Tony needs my help.”
“Bank robbery,” Angie said solemnly. “FBI stuff.”
Her mother gave a sigh, then continued on through the hall into the laundry room just off the kitchen. If she’d had her way, Sydney would be teaching kindergarten at some secluded private school where nothing bad ever happened.
Carillo turned a triumphant smile Sydney’s way. “Get your gun, Fitzpatrick. We’ve got a bad guy to catch.”
“This is for you,” Carillo said, once they were in his car. He handed Sydney a thick envelope.
“Gee, and here I was hoping for coffee and a donut. What is it?”
“The BICTT numbers. Figured it was safer to give it to you in person, what with Sheila snooping around.”
Sydney fingered the envelope. The acronym stood for Bank of International Commerce Trade and Trust but was better known in their world as the Bank of International Crooks, Terrorists, and Thieves. Even the CIA had used the bank, which had caused a major government scandal a couple decades ago, before it was shut down. Sydney had stumbled across several players in the BICTT coverup while investigating her father’s murder, and found the original set of numbers, which the government confiscated. Carillo, being a firm believer in governmental conspiracies, made a photocopy of the numbers, feeling that somewhere, sometime, they might come in handy. Now all they had to do was figure out what they meant. “Any idea what I’m supposed to do with these?” she asked.
“Well I sure as hell wouldn’t flash them around. And for God’s sake, don’t start running them on any computers. Doc figures if you do, you might as well hold up a sign asking the CIA to come knocking on your door,” he said, referring to his current partner, Michael “Doc” Schermer.
“Lovely.” She tucked the envelope beneath the seat. “So why’d you really want me to come with you?” Syd asked as they drove south on the freeway toward San Francisco. “You caught that bank robber yesterday. I read about it in the paper
.”
“Doc’s out of town,” he said. “Wasn’t anyone else I could ask. It’s about Sheila.”
Carillo and Sheila were in the midst of a contentious divorce battle over the “custody” of Carillo’s modest condo. It was, as far as she knew, the big holdup in why they hadn’t finalized the divorce.
“What’d she do this time?”
He glanced in his rearview mirror, then changed lanes. “You remember that boyfriend she had back when we were working your father’s murder?”
“The guy with the mansion?”
“Not him. The other one. The guy from England.”
“Must have missed that update.”
“Yeah, you might’ve been in Mexico dodging a few bullets at the time.” He signaled for a right turn, glanced over his shoulder to check for traffic, then gave her a pointed look before turning his attention to the road. “She’s talking marriage with this one.”
“Bigger checkbook?”
“Bigger something,” he said. “And as much as I’d like to move on, get Sheila out of my hair, the guy bugs me.”
“He’s not you?”
“Aren’t you the funny one. He’s being investigated by the locals for skimming money from the charity he works for, and Sheila’s insisting I look into it and clear his name.”
“Only a minor conflict of interest, eh?”
“I called the detective investigating it. Clear-cut case. Not a lot I can do, even if I was so inclined—which I’m not.”
“So she’s involved with a dirtbag. That can’t be the only reason.”
“She took off last night. Said she was scared, wanted to spend the night at my place because she thinks someone’s trying to kill Trip.”
“The boyfriend who’s in jail?”
“Right. So, I let her. Only she took off with my ATM card. Guess I probably should have changed the PIN when she moved out.”
“I’m assuming you called the bank?”
“She last used it at the market about a block from her house for cash.”
They drove across the Golden Gate Bridge, through San Francisco, then on to San Mateo, and he pulled in to a subdivision of houses that had to be worth a small fortune, parking at the end of the street. He pointed to the last house on the block.
“That’s Sheila’s house?” Sydney asked.
“It is.”
“What is this guy? The CEO for the charity?”
“No. Apparently the charity owns the property. Isn’t it nice to know when you donate money, it’s being spent wisely? They lent it out to him.”
“Nice. And here we thought working for the Feds was cush because we get paid holidays. So what are you planning to do?”
“Find Sheila and talk some sense into her head. She doesn’t have to save every stray that wanders into her fold.”
“That what you were? One of her strays?”
“Except I couldn’t be saved.” Carillo walked up the hill, stopped in front of her house. A white BMW convertible was parked in the driveway. “Well, her car’s there,” he said. “Can’t wait to hear what she has to say.”
The two walked up to the door and Carillo rang the bell. No answer. He looked in the leaded decorative glass of the door, then pulled out his cell phone and called her. “Still not answering. Something’s up. This is too weird, even for Sheila.” He headed to the side gate, opening it to allow Sydney to enter first. “I think we could jimmy one of the dining room windows back here. These are nice and low. Easy to climb in.”
“How sure are you about this?”
“I’m not sure about anything. Sheila’s a ditz, no doubt about it, but she seemed genuinely upset last night.” He took a pocket knife and slid it into the window, popping it open. “I told her these windows were crap and that she should secure them better. But no. She didn’t want to waste the money when they were only going to be here until the divorce was final and she got her claws on my condo.”
“So what are you trying to say? She’s a gold-digging stray saver? Which is going to sound so good when we get picked up for felony breaking and entering.”
“Nothing’s going to happen.” Carillo drew his gun, sat, then straddled the window ledge, one foot inside, one outside. “Besides. I hear the water running upstairs. She’s probably in the shower.”
“That’ll go over good in divorce court,” she said, drawing her own weapon, then following him in. “We’re the FBI, Your Honor. Breaking into estranged wives’ houses while they shower is what we do.”
Everything looked neat and tidy, she thought as they walked through the kitchen toward the living room. No sign of a struggle or any trouble.
Carillo stopped. Listened. “Definitely coming from the second floor. Which maybe explains why she didn’t answer her phone.” He holstered his weapon, appearing much more relaxed now that they knew she wasn’t lying dead somewhere with a knife-wielding suspect standing over her.
They started toward the stairs. Carillo stopped when he saw Sheila’s purse on a table in the hall. He reached in, pulled out her wallet, found his ATM card, and shoved it in his pocket. She was surprised he didn’t take the two hundred bucks Sheila had withdrawn from his account along with it.
The upper story consisted of four rooms—two unfurnished bedrooms, an empty bathroom, and the master bedroom, where the sound of running water seemed to originate. He and Sydney stood on either side of the closed double doors that led inside. Carillo, his free hand on the doorknob, looked at Sydney. She nodded and he unlatched it, then used his foot to push it open. They peeked in. The room appeared unoccupied, the bed neatly made. Two doors on the far wall, both closed, faced them as they entered. A thin strip of light reflected beneath the door on the left, undoubtedly the bathroom. The other, she assumed, was the closet.
“Time to find out what’s going on,” he said.
“Sure you don’t want to wait until she’s done?”
“If I thought she wouldn’t run off, yeah.” He crossed the room, his footfall silent on the off-white carpet.
Sydney hung back, fairly certain that Sheila was not going to like that her soon-to-be-ex was about to burst in while she was showering, especially with a spectator in the room.
He opened the door, then pointed for Sydney to enter.
“Me?” she whispered.
“You think I’m going in there?”
“You’re married.”
“By a technicality.”
“You are so going to owe me.” She gave him a look, then pushed the door open the rest of the way, the hot, moist air hitting her face as she stepped in. She stared at the steamed-up glass enclosure. Empty.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“There’s no one here.”
“What?”
He pushed past her, moved inside, opened the glass door. “Where is she?”
Sydney glanced out into the bedroom. “A better question is why is she hiding from you?”
“Because she stole my ATM card?”
At which time they both looked over at the closet, still closed.
He and Sydney flanked it. “Sheila?” he called out.
Sheila, however, was not in the closet. She was under the bed, poking her head out from beneath the bed skirt, and looking imminently relieved when she saw Sydney and Carillo standing there.
“What the hell?” he said.
“I’m sorry!” she said, crawling out. “I thought you were them.”
“Them who?”
“I told you last night. The ones after Trip.”
“Isn’t he in jail?” Sydney asked.
Sheila sat on the bed, her hand to her chest as she took a deep breath. “He got out this morning.”
“And what?” Carillo asked. “You needed my ATM card to welcome him home?”
“No,” she said, turning an
angry glance his way. “I needed it so they couldn’t trace my movements and find me, thereby finding him. Don’t you think it’s odd that they dropped the charges right after they learned I asked you to look into it? Like they knew you’d find out they were setting him up?”
“Great. He’s out. So where is he, then?”
“In hiding.”
“Hiding? Under the bed with you?”
“My God, Tony. What part of this don’t you get?”
“The part where you go sneaking off and don’t answer your goddamned phone so I think you’re lying dead somewhere.”
“You mean you actually care what happens to me?”
“Finish your goddamned story so I can figure out what’s going on.”
“Fine. I heard a car pull up and looked out my bedroom window, expecting to see the maid’s car, but saw yours instead. I freaked.”
“Because you saw my Crown Vic, the same one I’ve been driving every day for the past year?”
“No. Because, A, my maid has been coming here for six months at seven-thirty in the morning and has never been late until today, and, B, I wasn’t expecting you. Naturally I thought you were the guys after Trip, so I hid. Happy?”
“Ecstatic. So what now?”
“Now I pack a few days of clothes and go to meet him. And then we need to get a hotel or something so they don’t find us. I don’t suppose you’d let me use your credit card?”
Sydney, trying to ease Carillo’s frustration, asked, “What makes you think someone’s after you?”
“Trip. He told me.”
“Why does he think this?” she asked.
“I have no idea. I only know that he’s too scared to come to the house.”
“And yet,” Carillo said, “he had no problem sending you here?”
“He’d be furious if he thought I was here. He thinks I’m at your house.”
“He just went up a few notches in my book.”
“So I can use your credit card?”
“Tell you what, Sheila. Assuming any of this is true, I’ll follow you to your hotel, pay the bill, then sit down with Trip and get to the bottom of it.”
The Dark Hour Page 35