by Неизвестный
Caller ID was unavailable. Dillon answered.
“Dr. Kincaid.”
“Doc, it’s Quinn Peterson.”
“Is Patrick okay?”
“He’s out of surgery.”
“And?”
“That’s all I know. I’m at headquarters. I have some information about your Stonebridge Academy theory.”
“And?”
“Roger was close to three people in school. His roommate, Paul Ullman, is one. Ullman is a stockbroker for one of the big five in New York. Lives in a penthouse, high security, and nets five million a year. He’s from old money out of Vermont, estranged from his parents, and takes care of his mentally ill sister, who’s in an expensive assisted-living facility in Vermont.
“Adam Scott is a year older. Expelled with Roger and Paul over something Morton wouldn’t disclose. My agent out there is going to make a trip to the school, should only take a couple hours for her to get there and report back. Might be something. Morton got Roger back into Stonebridge, as did Ullman’s parents. But Scott never went back.”
“Why?” Dillon asked.
“Morton didn’t know. But get this: Roger’s other close friend was named Trevor Conrad.”
Dillon leaned forward. “Trevor Conrad? Where’s he now?”
“Dead.”
“Are you sure?”
“Died on campus apparently. In an accident. Morton clammed up.”
“There was no Trevor Conrad on the list,” Dillon said, fearing he’d missed an obvious connection when he was putting together the list of names for Peterson.
“No, but when the agent asked who else Roger was close to, Morton named the kid.”
“And you’re sure he was a student at the school?”
“Yes, according to Morton they were roommates the year of the expulsion. I’ll let the agent know that we’re interested in more information about Conrad.”
“Could his accident have something to do with the expulsion?” Dillon pondered out loud.
“Could be. Morton threatened to call his attorney. We don’t have to jump through the hoops, my gal out there can threaten with the best of them, but she felt it would be easier to get the information from the school than from Roger Morton’s father. Who, by the way, hasn’t heard from Roger in more than five years. Agent Resnick believes him. The man hates his son.”
“What is Adam Scott doing?”
“Morton didn’t know. He’s familiar with the Ullman family, so he gave Agent Resnick that contact information. All he knew about Scott was that he’s from New York, his father was a judge, and his mother was from the established New England family of Mortimer.”
“That should be easy to trace.”
“I already have people on it.”
“Thank you, Peterson.”
“What has Kate discovered? We only have eighteen hours.”
“I know.” Dillon swallowed. “We’re getting closer,” he said.
“Close enough to get to the location? Shit, I don’t have to tell you this but even if we find out where Lucy is it may take us hours to get to her location.”
“I know,” Dillon said quietly. “What about your people?”
Peterson didn’t say anything for a long moment. “I think my boss has an inside man. I have someone looking into it. But…it’s under the radar. I think it’s an unauthorized operation and heads are going to roll.”
That confirmed what Kate had said, Dillon thought.
“Will you let me know when you find out?”
Peterson didn’t say anything.
“Peterson?”
“I’m watching a very interesting computer program,” he said.
“Lucy?” Dillon’s stomach clenched. They had shut down the computer to save the battery, checking on the status of the Internet feed every thirty minutes.
“No. A GPS satellite. Through your cellular service provider. You’re moving fast, Kincaid.”
“That I am.”
“Where are you going?”
Dillon was torn. He wanted to tell Peterson. He trusted him. He knew he would do anything to save Lucy’s life. Kate? He didn’t know what she would do. Her drive was focused on Trask, not Lucy, no matter what her heart said. She wanted to wait until they were closer.
Dillon felt a hand clasp his shoulder. Jack’s voice low in his ear. “Don’t.”
“Keep in touch,” Dillon said and hung up.
He whirled around and faced Jack. “Or what?”
“We have a plan, we stick to it.”
“I think we need backup.”
“I think you’re wrong.”
Dillon looked out the window. It was dawn, the sun coming up on the right side of the plane. They were flying low; it looked like they were somewhere over Arizona. Deep canyons and high plateaus in red and gold gleamed in the morning sun.
It would have been romantic if he was with any other woman on any other trip.
“How did you learn to fly?” he asked Kate.
She glanced at him, said, “My boyfriend. Evan Standler.”
“He’s the one who died five years ago,” Dillon said.
She nodded. “Evan had a small plane. Saved up every dime to pay for fuel. I put in enough time, got my license. I’ll admit I haven’t kept up on my license. It expired four years ago. But it’s like riding a bike.” She glanced at Jack. “But I’m sure the Colonel can pitch in if I get in trouble.”
Jack winked.
Kate smiled. She was beautiful when she smiled, looking like the girl next door instead of a mercenary. “I always wanted to fly.” She turned wistful. “I remember sitting on the roof of my grandparents’ house and watching the sun rise. The birds would wake up, start flying around, and I wanted to join them. I’ve always thought the Wright brothers were incredible. I mean, to see a dream, work their asses off, and achieve it. Not many of us can say that. We could barely get off the ground at the beginning of the century, and way before the end of it we’ve put a man on the moon and the rover on Mars.”
She sighed. “Originally, I wanted to join the air force. I needed a way to pay for college.”
“Why didn’t you?”
She glanced at him, smiled again. “A problem with obedience to authority.” She looked over at Jack. “I think your brother understands that.”
Jack just grunted and closed his eyes again.
“What happened to your parents?” Dillon asked.
“You my shrink now?”
“I’m making small talk.”
“Right. What happened to your parents? How do you feel about that?” She frowned, staring straight ahead, out the window.
Dillon tensed. “That’s not fair, Kate. I haven’t done or said anything to make you feel uncomfortable, other than question your motives and reasoning.”
“You’re right,” she said quietly. “I don’t know who my father was. My mother left me with my grandparents when I was five. Couldn’t stand me.”
“I’m sure that’s not—”
“Don’t placate me, Dillon,” Kate snapped. “My mother was raped, okay? And I’m the end product. She went in twice to have an abortion but couldn’t go through with it. When she left me with my grandparents she told me, ‘I’m sorry, Katherine, I tried to love you but I can’t.’” Kate took a deep breath. “I must look like him, because I look nothing like my mother.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I don’t want your pity.”
“It’s not pity.”
“I can’t believe I said anything,” she mumbled and fidgeted with the controls. “Shit.”
“What?” Jack asked from the back.
“I don’t think we’re going to make Red Rock.”
“It was those headwinds outside of Phoenix,” Jack said. “They ate up the fuel. How long?”
“Fifty miles before I start getting really nervous.”
“That’s almost there.”
“Almost ain’t good enough.”
“It’ll have to be. I�
�d offer to jump and lighten the load, but you’d probably be shot down. My friends are a little sensitive.”
“Great.”
“Trust me, we’ll make it,” Jack said. “My license isn’t expired.”
Kate rolled her eyes.
“Nice friends.”
“I have a lot. Surprised?”
“It sure isn’t for your bedside manner.”
“Ouch,” Jack said. He leaned over and whispered in Kate’s ear, “Just because I’m for hire doesn’t mean the government doesn’t hire me.” He looked at the controls. “Ten degrees north, we’ll come at Red Rock from the east, which should help with the fuel. The wind will be behind us.”
“It’ll add another fifteen miles that we don’t have fuel for.”
“Trust me.”
“Right.”
Dillon had always assumed Jack was still in the military, one way or the other. “Who do you work for?” he asked his brother.
“Mostly the good guys,” Jack said, leaning back in the seat and closing his eyes again, but he wasn’t fooling Dillon.
“So you’re not in the military anymore?”
“What does it look like to you?”
“It looks like you won’t answer my damn questions.”
“Double ouch.”
And he didn’t answer Dillon’s questions.
Stonebridge Academy had a gated entrance, ivy-covered brick walls, and a huge, stately brick mansion in the middle of the grounds, flanked on either side by long, two-story buildings. In the center was a large grass area where young men were playing polo. Sports for the rich youth, not the urban hellhole Special Agent Abigail Resnick had grown up in.
During the two-hour drive, which she’d done on personal time, Abigail hoped Hans Vigo was right and she wouldn’t be answering to anyone for what she was doing. She didn’t mind breaking rules—she didn’t much care for rules anyway—but she didn’t want to get caught.
She took the circular drive up to the mansion, but before she could get out of the car, a tall, distinguished man—butler, she thought—came down the stairs and held her door open for her.
“Thanks,” she said and flashed him a smile that had melted icier men.
No dice. Heart of stone in this one.
“Who do you have an appointment with?”
She flashed her badge. “I need to speak to the headmaster. George Fleischer.”
The butler frowned almost imperceptibly. She’d done her homework while on the road—gotta love wireless Internet—and knew Fleischer had been the headmaster for the last twenty-eight years.
“Follow me.”
She did.
The inside of the mansion was even more opulent than she’d expected. She almost gawked. Her pathetic public school in the heart of Richmond, Virginia, was functional. Metal, wood, desks, graffiti. None of this Victorian furniture, oil paintings—which had to be real—or polished wood.
Instead of being embarrassed or intimidated, she grinned. “So, how much to send my kid here?”
“You have an applicant?”
“No. Just curious.”
He didn’t answer her. Maybe it wasn’t just money. A poor girl from the wrong side of the tracks in Richmond sure wouldn’t cut it here, nor would her kin.
She smiled wider. “Mr. Fleischer, please?”
“I will see if he’s available. Please be seated.”
She sat, watched where the butler went. Checked her watch. Ten minutes passed and she followed the same path. Almost immediately the butler emerged from down the hall.
“Ms. Resnick, I’m sorry, only students and employees are allowed beyond this point.”
“Special Agent Resnick,” she corrected, “and I need to speak with Mr. Fleischer now or I’ll be back this afternoon with a warrant. And I won’t be smiling.”
“I don’t threaten easily, Special Agent Resnick.”
“And I don’t make idle threats.”
“What is this regarding?”
How to play it? Vigo had given her so little information, but apparently she had learned something juicy from Morton.
“Trevor Conrad.”
The cadaver of a butler paled, if that was possible. “Wait.”
He left again, but less than a minute later he returned and escorted her to a parlor. Not the headmaster’s office, but private. Progress.
George Fleischer entered by another door, younger than she expected. If he was sixty, she’d eat her badge. He had dark, graying hair, was impeccably dressed in a tailored suit, and his eyes were clear blue and focused.
For the first time she felt a tad nervous. She had no authority to be here. But if he even smelled that she was hesitant, she wouldn’t get the answers Vigo needed.
“Mr. Fleischer, thank you so much for taking the time out of your busy day to—”
“Stop the game. What’s going on?”
“I don’t—”
“You come in here and drop a name and expect us to jump through hoops? I demand an answer or I will call your superior.”
“Fine. Call him. I’ll wait.”
He hesitated. Call his bluff.
“Perhaps you don’t know that there is a warrant out for the arrest of one of your former students, Roger Morton.”
“I didn’t.”
Liar.
“And in the course of investigating his whereabouts, I learned that he may be in contact with some of his old friends from this school. I was speaking with Charles Morton and—”
Fleischer’s head shot up higher, if that was possible. “You spoke with Mr. Morton?”
“Yes, this morning. And he suggested that I come out here for answers. He’s still angry with what happened with his son.”
“His son was reinstated in school and graduated with his class. Mr. Morton has no cause—”
“He’s not upset with the school. He and his son are estranged. He told me his closest friends were Paul Ullman, Adam Scott, and Trevor Conrad.”
Fleischer nodded. “That would be my recollection.”
“You would have a recollection about friendships formed nearly two decades ago?”
“You don’t know Stonebridge Academy, do you? We are a premiere school for young men age five to eighteen. Our students go to the top universities; they are from the best families in the world—we have a prince from the Middle East among our students. The brightest and the wealthiest. I’ve been here for nearly thirty years. Roger Morton was nine when I took this post. I know him and his friends.”
“Do you know why the FBI is looking for Morton?”
“I’ve heard.”
“And we believe he’s working with one of his old pals. We know where Ullman is.”
“And you know Conrad died.”
“What I want to know is why did you reinstate Morton and Ullman, but not Adam Scott?”
Fleischer looked distinctly uncomfortable. She had him. “A witness indicated that Mr. Scott was the ring-leader. He was the oldest, and he claimed responsibility for the accident.”
“So it was an accident?” She raised an eyebrow to show that she didn’t believe him, and to give him a chance to explain. She didn’t know how Trevor Conrad had died.
“We had no reason to believe otherwise. A thorough investigation proved that the boys had been experimenting—yes, against school rules—and the laboratory exploded. An accident.”
“But it wasn’t reported to the authorities.”
“No need. We take care of these things internally.” That might explain why Conrad’s records had been expunged and therefore his name not on her original list.
“So because Scott was the instigator, he was kicked out.” She made notes. “I need his most recent picture.”
“I can’t give you that.”
“I’ll be back with a warrant in four hours.”
She turned.
“Wait. Just wait.”
He left. Ten minutes later he came back with a thin file. “Photo, last-known address, and parent
s. That’s all I can give you without a warrant, Ms. Resnick.”
“Thank you so much for your help, Mr. Fleischer. It’s been a real pleasure.”
* * *
TWENTY
QUINN PETERSON SLAMMED down the receiver after Hans Vigo called him about what he’d learned. As soon as they found Lucy Kincaid, someone was going to pay for the botched undercover operation.
What was Jeff Merritt thinking when he sent Mick Mallory deep undercover? Mick had been a damn good agent at one time, but when his wife was killed three years ago he’d developed a death wish. He was technically on psychiatric leave and Merritt had no business bringing him in on this case.
But more important than that, they now had a line on Trask’s real identity. The agent Vigo had tagged to quietly work the investigation had uncovered huge news.
Merritt walked into the task force room without knocking. “What is so damn important that you demanded I drop a conference call with Virginia?”
Quinn knew he had to tread lightly. Merritt had his emotions involved and that was never good. Quinn knew that from firsthand experience.
“I have a line on Trask’s identity.”
Merritt couldn’t keep the shock off his face. “And?”
“We think he’s a friend of Roger Morton from grade school. Morton went to an elite boarding school in Connecticut. His father is a big shot, old money—”
“I know all about Morton. I interviewed the father myself. He has no idea who his son is running with. He disowned him, and our people know Roger Morton has never been home.”
Quinn took a deep breath. “Did you ever interview the headmaster from the boarding school?”
“Why? He graduated nearly twenty years ago. Paige was killed five years ago.”
“Dillon Kincaid read over all the files and he—”
“You mean the doctor I’m this close to getting an arrest warrant for?”
“What?”
“He’s aiding and abetting a known criminal.”
“Are you talking about Kate?”
“Do I need to pull you off this case?”
Quinn stared at Merritt. “Take a step back, Merritt. You’re doing yourself a disservice.”