As I near the end of the article, I glimpse my name. I clench the sides of the paper so hard, the fingernail of my thumb turns white, and my heart beats in angry thumps.
Sources close to the investigation have also confirmed that the suspect is connected to one of Kalispell resident agency’s local FBI special agents, Ali Paige. The two had previously been in a relationship and now share custody of their young daughter, Emily. Sources say that Agent Paige has not been forthcoming with the local authorities and did not immediately disclose her personal involvement with Landon when he became a person of interest in the case. Special Agent Paige has since been asked to step aside from any involvement with the case.
“Asshole!” I say out loud to my kitchen. I can feel my pulse in my temples. Reynolds. It has to be him. I’m so angry, I bite my bottom lip so hard that I draw blood. I throw the paper across the kitchen. I can hear my own breathing, and I’m surprised at how fierce I sound. I can’t believe Reynolds would talk to Jones of all people—Jones, who may be cleared now, but who until recently was also a person of interest in the case.
And Will, how dare he! I wonder how he found out. Maybe he saw Reeve pick Emily up one day and recognized his face. I’m sure he went and pestered Reynolds, who couldn’t resist leaking the information about me to the press. Why not? He hates me and probably hates the FBI—we’re such a big operation that local departments tend to find us threatening.
I place my forehead against the heels of my hands and press hard to push back the rage. I’m in hotter water than I’ve ever been in before. The SLC field office will have been pinged by the article and will want to speak to me immediately. When I look up, Emily is standing in the kitchen entryway in saggy pajama bottoms, holding her fists to her eyes to rub out the sleep.
“Oh, good mornin’, chickadee,” I say, trying to swallow my wrath. I go kiss her, then begin to collect the papers strewn across the floor.
“Why are those on the floor?” Emily asks, going to the section closest to her, the page with her father’s picture.
“Oh, they just fell. I’ll get it.” I rush to it, but I’m too late. She’s reaching for it, saying, “Hey, that’s Daddy.”
I yank it out of her hand too abruptly, and kick myself for not being calmer.
“Why is Daddy in the paper?”
“Oh, just some stuff on his research.”
“Can I see?”
“Aw, come on, sweetie, you’ve seen this photo before,” I say.
“I want to see,” she says in a higher pitch. She senses my reluctance. I decide it’ll seem even weirder if I refuse to show her, so I fold the headline under so that only the photos are visible.
“See.” I hold it out. “It’s just a nice picture of Daddy, nothing you haven’t seen before.”
“Oh,” she says, then takes her little finger and points to Anne Marie’s photo. “I know her,” she says.
“What?” I say.
“I know her.”
“You do? How?” On top of all the rage, my heart feels like it’s sinking too. Had he already introduced her to our daughter? He certainly didn’t waste any time . . . or had he known her for longer than I assumed? “From your daddy?” I say pointedly.
A frown settles on her face, and she tucks her chin under. “Are you mad, Mommy?”
“No,” I say, taking a breath. “So you know this woman?”
She nods.
“Through your daddy?”
She shakes her head.
“No?” I ask, but my phone is buzzing on the counter right next to us. I jump, which is uncharacteristic of me. I don’t startle easily. I’ve had too much training for that. We both look at it. Without even picking it up, I can see SAC Shackley, Salt Lake City Field Office, across the front in bright white letters.
“Who’s that?”
“Someone from work,” I say.
“Aren’t you going to answer?”
“No, you need breakfast and to get ready. I’ll call him back in a moment.”
“When’s Kaylee coming over?”
“What?”
“Kaylee,” she repeats, and I remember that Kaylee’s mom asked me last week if she could drop her off early on Tuesday because she needs to be at an early meeting for work, and was wondering if I could drive her to school.
“Oh, that’s right,” I say. “She’ll probably need breakfast too.” I take out some bagels, thinking I need to circle back to the photo of Anne Marie, but right as I open the twist tie on the plastic bag, the doorbell rings and Emily runs out of the kitchen to go let Kaylee in.
• • •
After I make Emily and Kaylee bagels and send them both upstairs so Emily can get dressed, I sit down and close my eyes for a moment before listening to the message. I’m nervous.
Now the whole damn community will know about my little broken family, and what’s worse, I have no idea what’s coming down the pike in terms of a reprimand from Shackley. All I want to do is find Reynolds and chew his ass out, but I’m not sure on what grounds. For issuing the BOLO on circumstantial evidence? But Herman said they have something more, so I can’t claim that without knowing what they have. For leaking inappropriate information to the press? He’d just turn the tables on me.
I wonder what Reeve didn’t tell me. How does Emily know Anne Marie? I sink into a chair at my kitchen table. I don’t have a leg to stand on, and I cannot afford to lose my cool. I can’t believe that I’ve stuck my neck out for Reeve like this and he hasn’t even leveled with me. I think of the voicemail from Shackley waiting for me on my phone, picture being reported to the Office of Professional Responsibility.
I still have multiple leads to investigate and only myself to rely on. So far Reeve remains the suspect with the best opportunity to kill Anne Marie Johnson, but the suspect with the strongest motive is Jessie O’Brien. There are still unanswered questions about Vivian Gould, and there’s also the rest of the Smith file. Plus, I have more phone calls to make, and I certainly can’t do that if I’m worried about the local news. But first I have to find out what’s waiting for me at the other end of that ominous voicemail. I take a deep breath, steady myself, and hit play.
Reeve
* * *
Present—Tuesday
A STORM IS BREWING, and the sky over the ridge is turning a deep and bruised gray. I can smell the ozone and the wind has begun to pick up, rustling the bushes and the tops of the trees. Out of instinct, when I heard the chopper, I grabbed McKay and hid in a thick copse of alder brush until it left. Then, when the helicopter was out of sight, to be safe, I dismantled my tent for the time being. The helicopter is still gone now, though, and McKay and I sit on a rock a little way around the lake on its western side, protected by the thick cover of bushes still hanging on to some of their foliage.
I am caught, wondering if I should stay or not. The looming storm has forced the choppers away, but now I have the storm itself to worry about. The temperature is dropping. McKay whines every now and then and looks at me hopefully. He still seems stiff in his hips, but he wants to work, always wants to work.
I plant a sample nearby so that I can reward him with a little fetch. After he finds the scat, I take a seat on the same broad rock and throw to him. I’m careful to not cast the ball too far so I don’t make him more stiff. I sit on the rock, tossing the ball, having him dart after it and return to drop it at my feet. I notice that the skin on my hands looks tanned and leathery in the ashen light, dark and radiant at the same time.
I lift my face to the building breeze, feeling unprepared for what’s coming.
“Two more throws, buddy,” I say. “Then we head back to the campsite. Those choppers are long gone for now.”
Ali
* * *
Present—Tuesday
“AGENT PAIGE, SAC Shackley here,” the message said. “I’m in Helena today to take care of some things and plan to head your way as soon as I finish up this afternoon. I’ll be there by five p.m., so I expect you to make
yourself available.” His voice sounds calm and direct, but also sharp, tinged with anger. When he adds, “Agent Paige, don’t say another word to the county sheriff,” I’m certain it is anger I’m hearing.
A dipping sensation turns in my stomach, like standing on the edge of a mountain cliff. Shit. If he came all the way here, he’s more than concerned. Possibly irate. I play the message over several times, trying to decide just how angry he sounds. Okay, I force myself to breathe calmly. I can deal with this.
I try to reassure myself that the extent of what they know comes from the article and they’re simply making sure everything is on the up-and-up. I have a right to keep my life private, even if it pissed the county off, and at the point that I watched his interview, I did not know he was a prime suspect.
On the other hand, if they’ve gotten a direct complaint from Brander, Reynolds, or even Herman—oh god, would Herman say something to the higher-ups?—if they know I’ve been doing some digging on my own, that’s a different story.
Five p.m., I think as I drive to the office. I’ve got one workday to follow up on the rest of my leads. I know I should put all of it aside before I dig myself in any deeper. It’s not my case. It was never to be my case. But I’ve already come this far. What’s the worst that could happen? I’ll be reprimanded, sure. How badly, I don’t know. Worst-case scenario, they tag me with an actionable offense under the inspector general. The idea turns my stomach, especially given how hard I’ve worked to get to this point in my career, but I can’t let it affect me. Not now.
When I get to the office, I sit in my car to make some phone calls before I go in. I see Herman’s car in the parking lot. I wonder if he knows that Shackley’s in town.
Yesterday, on the way back from Missoula, I called the Marriott Courtyard to check on Jessie O’Brien’s alibi, but the manager said that the guy working the front desk on Wednesday around the time when Jessie would have checked in wouldn’t be in until Tuesday. She said she couldn’t give his personal number out. Company policy. I pushed it, telling her I was working on a criminal investigation, and she finally gave it to me.
Josh Bergman is his name. I’ve called the guy three times, and it keeps going to voicemail. I’ve left messages, but I wonder if he’s even gotten them—if he’s a young guy, he probably doesn’t even check his voicemail. I decide to call him again now before I go in.
This time Josh answers right away, and I find out that he does indeed remember Jessie. When I give him only her name, he describes her accurately: “auburn-haired, slender, maybe late forties or early fifties. Well made up,” he says, then adds: “I asked her if she had a preference: if she wanted to be on the first floor or near the elevator or anything. She said the only thing she wanted was a room that was quiet. I figured she either wanted to sleep or had a lot of work to do. She asked for some water, and I gave her two bottles.”
“Do you recall what time she checked in?”
“I don’t remember for sure, but I can look on the system.”
While I wait, his computer keys clicking away, Herman comes out the door and walks across the parking lot toward his car. When he sees me, he gives me a nod and switches directions to head my way. As he gets close, I roll down my window and hold up my finger to him and show him the phone so he knows I’m busy, then roll it back up.
He nods, standing next to my window, waiting for me to finish my call. I’m about to roll it down again and say, “This could take a little time,” but I decide I can’t afford to display even a smidgen of annoyance toward him. He doesn’t deserve it anyway. None of this is remotely his fault.
Come on, hurry up, Josh. I tap my foot on the floorboard and give Herman a little smile. Josh finally comes back on and says, “Looks like she checked in at four fifty p.m. on Wednesday.”
“And do you recall seeing her around any more after that? Like in the lobby later that evening or anything?” I already know she didn’t check out, just left the keys in the room.
“Hmm,” he says. “Let me think. I mean, I might have, but I can’t say for sure.”
“Okay, thank you.” I want to press him for more information, but with Herman standing beside my car, I end the call, figuring I’ll call back.
I put my phone in my bag and open my door. “What’s up?” I ask.
He levels a serious look at me.
“What?”
“SAC Shackley is coming to see us later.”
I look down at the pavement for a moment, then back up to meet his gaze. The cool breeze rustles my hair and nips my cheeks. “You speak to him?”
“Yes.”
“What did he say?”
“Not much, just to stay put. Wants to chat with us both, but you mainly. He didn’t seem to want to get into any details over the phone. Said he was busy in Helena.”
“Okay,” I say.
He shakes his head like he’s irritated, but doesn’t see the point in saying anything about it.
“Look, it’s all on me, Herman. You’re not responsible for any of this, and that’s what I’m going to tell him, so you don’t have to worry about anything.”
“I’m not worried about me.”
“Good, you shouldn’t be.”
He continues to look at me with a mixture of confusion and worry.
“All right, well, I better get moving. I’ve got a lot of stuff to do today before he comes.” I glance at up at our shiny, dark office windows, which are on the second floor of the building. The sky above is a pale blue.
“What kind of stuff?”
When I don’t say anything, he takes the hint, jiggles his keys, and turns to go. “Okay, Ali. I’ll see you later.”
“Wait,” I say, “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be rude.”
He doesn’t respond, just looks at me like he’s trying to be patient.
“Are you making any headway on the Smith case?”
Herman shakes his head. “Ali, you know I can’t discuss that case with you anymore.”
“I know, I know, I’m just wondering if you think there’s any way Smith was behind whoever killed Anne Marie?”
“I’m not seeing any evidence of it yet. But I’m scanning her computer files to see if anyone else she interviewed ties back to Smith.”
“Okay, thanks,” I say.
He turns around and starts heading toward his car again.
“Where are you going?”
“Dentist appointment,” he calls over his shoulder. “I’ll be back in an hour.”
“Oh,” I say. “See you then.”
• • •
What I should do next is enter our building, climb the stairs at the back to our offices on the second floor, go in, and sit at my desk as usual instead of quickly zeroing in on the fact that Herman said he has Anne Marie’s digital files on his computer. I should contemplate how much I’ve damaged my relationship with Herman, wondering how to get him to trust me again. At the very least, I should sit at my desk nervously, fidgeting, chewing a pencil or biting my nails, glancing furtively at my coworker’s desk before deciding to proceed with trepidation toward it to find the files. But that’s not what happens.
I go in, drop my bag at my desk, and head straight for Herman’s. It’s a long, sleek dark desk identical to mine, utilitarian, with filing drawers that lock on the right side. I start with his files stacked neatly to the side of his computer to see if he happened to print anything out, but all I find is stuff I’ve already seen on the Smith case. I know he keeps his desk drawers locked, but I try to pull them open anyway to no avail. I sit down and hope he’s left his computer on and that all I have to do is wiggle the mouse to bring up his last working screens, but I’m not optimistic. I’m right. He’s shut down his computer, as he always does when he leaves the office. I would do the same. It’s what we’re trained to do.
I turn on his computer and wait for it to boot, but I know I’m not going to get far. At our office we use fobs—small security devices with built-in authentication codes that contr
ol access to our networks and data. The fob displays a randomly generated code, which changes every thirty seconds. We first have to authenticate ourselves on the fob with a PIN, then enter the current code on the device. I have no clue what Herman’s PIN might be because we’re always updating those as well. Conceivably Herman could have written it down somewhere, even though we’re not supposed to do that, but sometimes it’s difficult to remember all the new combinations of numbers and letters we’re constantly coming up with, and we do work in a small office that is rarely intruded upon.
I search all the sticky notes on his desk, finding nothing. Then I rummage through his wastebasket, looking at all the notes he’s tossed, but still find nothing—just some old grocery lists, a few to-do lists, some telephone numbers, restaurant receipts. I decide I’m not going to be able to access his system until he returns and boots it up himself. My best bet is to either ask him to share the files with me, which I know he won’t do, especially given the fact SAC Shackley is heading our way today, or to have him boot up his computer and then move fast if he leaves the room to go to the restroom down the hall.
When I get back to my desk and sit down, the heaviness I’ve been avoiding descends upon me. What have I done? Even if this turns out okay, how much have I damaged my relationship with him? It’s possible he’ll never trust me again, which would be even worse than a reprimand from Shackley.
But I have no time for remorse. There’s too much to do. I call Josh back again and tell him to contact me if he remembers anything else about Jessie O’Brien. I also ask him to check with housekeeping to see if they recall how her room looked when they cleaned it the next morning. I hold back on asking him to check the times the key card was used to get in the room because I know I’d need a subpoena for digging that deeply into the hotel registry data. He promises that he’ll call me back.
A Sharp Solitude_A Novel of Suspense Page 27