Losing Sarah (A Sarah Roberts Thriller Book 16)

by Jonas Saul

  “Can you use another camera to show us a better image of that man’s face?” Parkman asked.

  “Hold your horses. Already on it.” Bob adjusted one camera, then another, and typed in the date and time. “I might even be able to utilize the cameras outside the building to see the vehicle they left in. If so, I’ve got the ability to read a license plate.”

  “Good. Just show me the face as soon as you can.”

  “Less than a minute.”

  There was something familiar about that man. Something ominous as well, though. Whoever it was probably wasn’t good for Sarah. From his back pocket, Parkman retrieved his cell phone and brought Casper’s number up on call display. As soon as he got a name, or just a picture of the face, he would need Casper’s help in getting more on the guy. If that man had kidnapped Sarah, Special Agent Buck “Casper” Schaffer would probably come back to Mexico and spearhead the investigation himself.

  “Got it,” Bob shouted.

  A face materialized on a camera closer to Aaron. Blurry at first, it started to take shape. The camera had zoomed in and was now filling in the blanks with some kind of computer program.

  As the man’s hair took shape, the pit in Parkman’s stomach got heavier. In his haste to come to Aaron’s aid last night, he had jammed the toothpicks in his back pocket. He retrieved one now and popped it between his lips.

  The man’s brow formed at the same time the chin and mouth took shape. Then the eyes.

  “No,” Parkman whispered. “No way …”

  “What?” Aaron said. “What is it? I don’t recognize him.”

  “You wouldn’t. No one would.”

  The face finished on the screen and Parkman knew exactly who it was.

  “What’s no one would mean?”

  “No one would recognize a dead man.”

  Aaron stepped around Bob’s chair and grabbed Parkman on each arm. “You’re not making sense. Who is that?”

  Parkman shook his head, averted his eyes, then looked back at the screen.

  “That man is dead. He died years ago. His body was dumped in Toronto in Lake Ontario.”

  “He doesn’t look dead to me. What’s his name?”

  “That dead man walking on that camera, the man who Sarah appears to know and was shocked to see, used to go by the name Drake Bellamy. But who knows who he is now.”

  Aaron let go of Parkman’s arms.

  Parkman hit dial on his phone with a shaking finger. The toothpick fell from his mouth. As he tried to unwrap another, the phone rang on the other end.

  It was time to get Casper more involved.

  Chapter 20

  FBI Special Agent Mary Fitzgerald, along with her partner, Special Agent Stacy King, sat in their cruiser, waiting for the call to authorize them to take Blair Turner into custody.

  The taco from yesterday’s lunch was cold and soggy, but King ate it anyway. She was hungry and it might be several hours before she got the chance to eat again. Once they had Blair in custody, the briefing and stripping down would last into the night without let-up.

  Blair Turner, eighteen-year-old drug dealer, was the son of Jane Turner, rich widower of a man of Indian descent. She had reverted to her maiden name when her husband, Vihaan Singh, died. His death was still clouded in suspicion, but King and Fitzgerald weren’t interested in her for that. They were interested in her because of the two trips to Bulgaria she had taken within the last six months. Particularly, the small town called Sliven, about three-hundred kilometers east of Bulgaria’s capital, Sofia.

  Jane Singh, nee Turner, had no family in Sliven. It wasn’t the tourist destination like Greece to the south and Istanbul to the southeast. Organizations within the American government monitored chatter, and that chatter zeroed in on Sliven where an old Russian military arms dump was located. As recent as February, Moldovan authorities, working with the FBI, stopped the sale of nuclear material to Islamic extremists by arresting the smugglers. They had successfully arrested smugglers and gangs four times in the previous five years, ceasing the movement of illegal arms.

  With that much heat, the FBI wanted to know why such a rich woman as Jane Turner would be interested in flying to Sliven. And why did she transfer several million American dollars to a bank in London? Was her plan to relocate to Britain? Or was that money there to be transferred for a purchase of some kind?

  Jane Turner was no criminal. If she was attempting to purchase something on the black market, she wasn’t going about it discreetly enough. When that much money transferred in and out of the United States, it raised eyebrows. As much as it was Jane’s money and she could do with it whatever she thought fit, with the world climate in regards to funding terrorism and extremist cells, governments around the globe were keeping a tab on transfers of that nature.

  She had no ties to religious sects, no affiliation through her dead husband to any hostile groups, and lived a relatively quiet life in Mexico. But two trips to Bulgaria and a large money transfer raised questions Jane needed to answer. Even if she had valid reasons for her actions, she would be on their radar for a few more years.

  “How can you eat that soggy taco?” Fitzgerald asked. “Looks gross.”

  King examined her half-eaten taco. “Not so bad. Rot in the hand or rot in the stomach.” She shrugged. “Makes no difference to me.”

  “Gross.”

  King laughed. “I’m joking. It’s not rotting. It’s fine.” She lifted what was left of the taco to show her partner. “A little limp, but good.”

  “Ewww.” Fitzgerald reared back from it.

  The street in front of the Mexican police station where they held Blair Turner and the others from last night’s debacle at the casino hadn’t seen a street cleaner in years. Filth, rubbish, and stains had built up over the years leaving behind an odd collage of dark colors across the cracked pavement.

  “What do you think happened last night?” King said with a mouth full. “You think Turner’s kid had anything to do with it?”

  “Who knows? The Mexican authorities are staying mum about the whole thing. Probably because they have no idea themselves.”

  “Why are we here so early, anyway?”

  “Because.” Fitzgerald cast a glance her way, then looked back at the police station. “I got word that the okay to pick up Blair was coming through this morning. When it does, I want to be close. If they let him leave or he walks out and disappears for a couple of days, that sets us back. What if Ms. Turner heads to the airport again? We need to nail this down, see what he knows, and get him on our side, if possible.”

  “You know how hard that’s going to be? Get the kid to spy on his own mother?”

  “Not hard at all.” Fitzgerald examined King’s face. “Do you have any kids?”

  King shook her head. “No.”

  “Ms. Turner has only one and she treats him like shit. Blair hates his mother. We’re going to offer him a way to hit back.”

  “Sounds good. In theory. But in the end, don’t we all innately love our mothers, even if they are bitches?”

  “We have something that’ll help Blair make up his mind.”

  “Yeah, I know. Threats.”

  “It works. You can’t tell me it won’t.”

  “Blair has been practically living on the street since he was sixteen. He’s been in and out of scraps, the local jail, and half the girls’ pants around here. You think threats will make him crumble, make him talk, when his mother fixes everything for him?”

  “My brand of threats will.”

  King sat up straighter in her seat. “What brand?”

  “I’m going to threaten his mother. That’s the one thing she won’t be able to fix and it’ll be his fault.”

  “Wait, I’m confused.” King scrunched up the empty taco wrapper and tossed it in the backseat. She tied her hair into a neat bun as she talked. “I thought you just said he hated his mother. So threatening her harm should please him, wouldn’t it?”

  Fitzgerald gave her the one
-eye-half-lidded look, eyebrows raised. “Not if you threaten her life. Without Blair’s help, his mother will die. Ultimately, he would be responsible for her death. Let’s see if he doesn’t help us then.”

  “How do you pull that off?”

  “Her trips to Europe were by herself. He knows that. The money transfers were something she would’ve kept from him. I’ve been authorized to concoct a story around that. As long as he wears a wire and gets her talking, I’m authorized to lay anything on him.”

  King slapped the dash above the glovebox. “How come this is the first I’ve heard of it?”

  “Just got word this morning when I was told the paperwork was being filed for us to pick him up.”

  “Great.” She looked out her window at a dilapidated house a block away. They had been in Sliven coordinating with the Bulgarian authorities for a month. Back in the States, they were ordered to Mexico to follow Jane Turner. After all the action in Bulgaria, this had been a boring, shit job. Just last night, the idea was raised to bring Blair Turner in. He was now detained by the Mexican authorities, so more paperwork was necessary.

  There could be no mistake, no letting this go. If Ms. Turner learned of their existence, all their work would dissolve in an instant. If in fact she was attempting to use her transferred money for something illegal, she would simply back off and let it go until she wasn’t under surveillance anymore. Then, when no one was looking, she would quietly buy what she wanted and a price would be paid for their error.

  If Blair wouldn’t help, then he was to be kept in custody until they brought Ms. Turner in. If it turned out she had a boyfriend in Sliven and simply decided to send money to the boyfriend’s family in Britain, a lot of people were going to be embarrassed. But if it turned out she was in contact with smugglers and was trying to buy something on the black market, a lot of lives would be saved.

  Whatever the reason for Jane Turner’s recent activities, Special Agents Fitzgerald and King were on the job, parked out front of the Mexican police station, eating day-old tacos, and waiting for her eighteen-year-old son to come out so they could threaten and cajole him to death.

  “Shit, sometimes this job sucks,” King whispered.

  “Tell me about it.”

  Fitzgerald’s phone rang.

  “This has to be it,” she said to King as she answered the phone. “Fitzgerald here.” A pause. “Yeah? Really?” Another pause. “Interesting. Okay, thanks.” She hung up.

  King raised her hands. “Well? What was that? We got the go-ahead?”

  Fitzgerald shook her head. “Not yet.”

  “Then what was that all about?”

  Fitzgerald glanced over at the police station’s front doors as a Mexican cop stepped out and headed for his cruiser.

  “An interesting development.” She faced King. “You ever heard the name Sarah Roberts?”

  “Yeah. It’s that psychic girl or something. See her name in the papers here and there. Hey,” King snapped her fingers. “Wasn’t she involved with the sting on the Enzo Cartel?”

  “The one and the same.” Fitzgerald pointed at the station. “She’s in there with Blair.”

  “What?” King sucked in air. “You’re kidding? Sarah Roberts is working this case?”

  “I didn’t say that. She was taken in with Blair last night and it seems they were chummy before that car accident at the casino.”

  “Chummy? How?”

  “Not sure, but it was just relayed to me that last night’s bust was a set up. A man named Wallace Stern was working with the authorities to stop two other guys from robbing the casino. Wallace gave his statement last night and in it he says Sarah Roberts was with Blair in Blair’s car. Although Wallace didn’t know Sarah’s name when he wrote his statement.”

  “No way.” King shook her head. “Something doesn’t add up.”

  “What doesn’t?”

  “Sarah Roberts is clean. She doesn’t do drugs.” She bit her lower lip. “We know Blair deals out of his Camaro and she wouldn’t have been buying shit from Blair.”

  “I agree. So she’s working our case, then. That’s the only conclusion we have. That’s why our contact in there,” she pointed, “just called it in.”

  “Shit. This is going to get fucked up. We can’t let someone like Sarah near this. Too many cooks in the kitchen or some shit like that. We’re the FBI. She’s just a private citizen.”

  “We won’t let Sarah near this. Any minute from now, our authorization to nab Blair will come in and we’ll take him, leaving Sarah in this Mexican hellhole.”

  “I love what Sarah’s done. I mean, what I’ve read about.” King slapped her hands together. “But I don’t want her working an FBI case. That’s fucked up. She’s not one of us.”

  “My thoughts exactly.” Fitzgerald stared out the windshield. “Hey, any more of those tacos left?”

  Chapter 21

  From Aaron’s room on the sixth floor, Parkman got through to Casper on the second try. He stared out of the window, coffee in hand, quiet. He seemed to be in a reflective state after seeing Sarah on camera. The moment she leaned into Drake. How close they got. How she avoided him in the lobby when she saw him on the phone. Her deception regarding the Advil errand. Aaron had a lot to think about, a lot to consider.

  “Schaffer here.”

  “Casper, it’s Parkman. We located Sarah on the hotel cameras.”

  “What did you see?”

  “It appears she left the hotel with a man.”

  “You have a name?”

  “Drake Bellamy. A Canadian. But there’s a catch.”

  It sounded like Casper was writing the name down. “What catch?”

  “He’s dead.”

  “Explain.”

  He liked that about Casper. No surprised inhale. No misunderstanding. Just a one word response. All business.

  “Sarah saved Drake’s life a couple of times a few years back in Toronto. Later, when she was dealing with these religious zealots called the Rapturites, we heard Drake was found dead in Lake Ontario. His death had to have been faked to get whoever was after him off his back.”

  “It’ll make finding anything on this guy extra hard, even if I do. He’s probably got a new name. Everything.”

  “I know. Look, contact a cop in Toronto named Spencer. He was intimately involved in the Bellamy case. You may have to push, but Spencer would know something. He would’ve been in on the faked death of Bellamy.”

  “Done. What are you guys going to do now?”

  “Not much we can do. Wait here for Sarah to come back or get in touch with us. Or wait until you call me back with something.”

  “I’ve called the local hospitals and the three closest police stations,” Casper said. “Got nothing. I’ll double-time this. Leave your phone on.”

  Parkman disconnected, grabbed his coffee and stood beside Aaron. He waited a heartbeat, took a drink, then said, “Nice view.”

  “Yeah.”

  “She’ll be fine, Aaron.”

  “I know.” He dropped a hand on Parkman’s shoulder. “She always makes it out, whatever’s happening.”

  After another moment, Parkman asked, “What’s on your mind?”

  Aaron turned to face him. “You saw her on that camera. Sarah lied to me. I’ve never seen this side of her.”

  “It’s the drugs, then. Chalk it up to her not being herself because of what Enzo did to her. She’ll make it out of that, too.”

  Aaron turned back to the window.

  “I’m just afraid we won’t make it out of this.”

  Chapter 22

  Manuel Hernandez returned with another cop in a brown suit, white shirt. Would the new guy have a message for her, a new threat of imprisonment?

  Whatever they wanted to discuss would go over better with food in her stomach. And water. She would need to use a toilet soon, too.

  “Sarah Roberts,” Hernandez said with a gesture toward the other man. “This is my superior.”

  Sarah n
odded at him. “No name?”

  The man in the brown suit shook his head in a small spurt that she almost missed it.

  “Let’s get down to business,” No Name said, his accent American, south.

  “No.” Sarah tapped the table with her fingers, one after the other. The men exchanged a glance, then turned back to her. “Not before I’m offered something to drink or eat. I’m ravenous.”