“You’re guessing,” she hedged. “You don’t have any evidence.”
Jake was encouraged, even as she hit the nail on the head. It made too much sense for it not to be true, but he was powerless to verify anything. If he did his job right, she’d do the research for him.
“Oh, there’s evidence,” he bluffed. “You already see it in your head. I know you do. You don’t want to, but it’s there, isn’t it? If you want the same proof I have, all you have to do is look for it.”
“Where?” she pressed. “Where do I look for this earth-shattering revelation? Who do I talk to?”
“C’mon, Rivers. People can die for answering questions like that.” It was the response he’d rehearsed in the car with Nick. Mystery masks any lack of substance.
She shook her head vehemently. She refused to buy into it. “Why not just blow the place up, then? Why go to all the effort to kill so many people if he was just trying to hide some evidence of missing inventory?”
Her question stopped conversation dead. Jake narrowed his eyes and allowed himself a bitter smile. “Why kill so many people…” He savored the words as he repeated them. “You ask that question when it’s one of your own, yet you assume simple insanity when it’s Carolyn and me. Strange, huh?”
She acknowledged the point by looking away.
“Think about it, Rivers,” Jake urged, his tone growing more insistent. “Assume for just a second that I’m telling the truth here-that Carolyn and I are innocent. Now look at the facts. If you want to truly hide a secret, it’s not enough merely to destroy it. You’ve got to provide an alternative explanation for the destruction. The last thing Frankel wanted was an open-ended investigation. Without evidence to point to someone else, the trail might very well have led back to him. As it was, he got his bad guys on the first day and got the entire episode cleared up within a couple of weeks. Because of who he was, no one questioned anything.”
Irene considered it, and the more she thought, the more frightened she looked. “How could he have known that you and Carolyn would survive? If he was planning to pin this elaborate conspiracy on you, how could he know you’d get away?”
Jake watched her for a few seconds, waiting for her to see it for herself. “The name Tony Bernard mean anything to you?” he asked.
It took her a moment to place him. “Yes. He’s one of the people killed that day. Back at the motel room.”
“And why was he back at the motel? Do you remember?” If this was going to work, she had to put some pieces together for herself.
Irene closed her eyes. She’d just reread the file that morning, but it felt like years ago. “He was sick, wasn’t he? Some stomach thing.”
Jake waited, but she still didn’t get it. “Awfully odd, don’t you think? Young man like that suddenly too sick to work, and then these murderous barbarians go all the way back to the motel just to pop him-and to leave a note?”
Irene’s eyes grew intense enough to spark a fire as the pieces fell into place. “You think that Tony Bernard was the original patsy?”
Jake smiled. “In fact, I know he was,” he lied.
“But what about his illness? There were witnesses-”
“And how tough is it to give somebody a bellyache? I saw him that morning, too. He was heaving his guts out. He thought it was something he ate. I bought it at the time, just like everybody else did. But hell, we all ate the same stuff at the same place. Why was he the only one to get sick?” He let the words settle for a few seconds. “When Carolyn and I survived, Frankel had to shift gears a little, but he stayed with essentially the same plan. I figure that Tony was killed as an insurance policy. No telling what he might have known.”
She considered it all for a moment longer. “And if you and your wife had gotten arrested, it wouldn’t have mattered a bit, would it?” she thought aloud.
“Not with the case that Frankel put together,” Jake agreed. “And the further false evidence I’m sure he would’ve found if he was pushed to the wall. Plus, when emotions run as high as they did after Newark, the standards for evidence decrease. Why scour the bushes when the answer is delivered to your door? People want a quick conviction in these things. In the end, nothing we said could have gotten us off.”
Her head spun with new possibilities. It had never occurred to her to believe Carolyn’s story. Was it possible the Donovans were telling the truth?
“So how’s Carolyn?” Jake asked, another radical change of subject. Irene looked at him, confused. “I trust you’ve spoken with her?”
Irene nodded. “She’s fine. Frightened, angry, and sad, but otherwise fine.”
He smiled. “Good. Next time you see her, will you tell her I love her? And that I’m doing my best to fix everything?”
She saw a chance. “Why don’t you tell her, Jake? Let me take you in, and we’ll get this all straightened out. I promise you, I’ll pursue every lead you give me.”
That one made him laugh. “You’re kidding, right?” She wasn’t, and he knew it. “Well, I appreciate the offer, but forgive me if I decline. I’m not entirely convinced that trusting you this much hasn’t been a huge mistake. Somehow my faith in the criminal justice system just isn’t as strong as it used to be.” As he spoke, he dropped the clip out of Irene’s weapon and started thumbing the bullets into the toilet. He saw her look of disgust and smiled. “I know, it’s kind of gross, but I can’t very well leave you with a loaded gun, can I? I don’t think either of us wants the hassle of a shoot-out at two-thirty in the morning.”
“So what’s next?” she asked cautiously.
He shrugged. “I guess that’s up to you. You need to decide if your job is about justice or simply about following orders.” With the bullets removed, he dropped the clip into the bowl, then drew his own weapon before snapping the last of Irene’s bullets out of the chamber and closing the toilet lid. “I do have one last thing for you to think about, though.”
“I’m all ears.”
“I know you’ve been wondering why we came back here today, and I’ve done my best to explain that. We came for that dog skeleton, and it was a horrible miscalculation. Stupid reason, isn’t it? Made no sense. So how come you were expecting us?”
Without waiting for an answer, he slid down off the vanity and turned the doorknob to let himself out. “By the way,” he said with a grin. “I was hiding in the closet when you came in, and I have to agree. You’re not bad at all for forty-two.”
Sleep now was out of the question. Irene considered trying, anyway, if only in deference to the time of night, but even as her body screamed for a place to lie down, her mind spun like a top.
Donovan’s visit had left her stunned. All day long, she’d tried to think of a sound, logical reason for the couple to return to Arkansas. Cliches notwithstanding, smart criminals never returned to the scene of the crime. And after fourteen years on the Ten Most Wanted list, the Donovans had proved themselves to be very smart indeed.
After fishing the ammunition out of the toilet bowl-thankfully, she’d flushed after using it last-she’d strolled back into the bedroom, where she found her weapon in the middle of the king-size bed. She didn’t bother calling to alert anyone about Jake. He’d be long gone as it was, and the last thing she needed was another documented getaway.
Pulling on the lightweight flannel nightgown she always kept stuffed in her garment bag, she sat heavily in the hardback desk chair in front of the faux-wood desk. The Donovan file lay in her briefcase, just out of reach, but she didn’t want it right now. She wanted to reconstruct the case against them from memory.
What did the Bureau have, really? The note. Sixteen dead bodies. The fact of their survival and escape. What else?
Nothing. The thought made her gasp. What had seemed so ironclad-so obvious-only an hour ago now seemed pitifully superficial. Fragile almost. There was enough there, she supposed, to win a conviction in the hands of a skillful prosecutor; but suddenly, there seemed to be huge holes in the case. Holes big en
ough for a skilled defense attorney to drive a Mercedes through.
Maybe that’s what this was all about, she mused, resurrecting her natural cynicism. Maybe their return and the attendant shenanigans were merely stunts, designed to build a case for reasonable doubt in the minds of a future jury. Lord knew that the standard for acquittal was getting lower these days. Maybe this was just a high-stakes roll of the dice. They’d made their stand, and if they won, they’d be able to reenter society as full-fledged citizens. Was such a plan truly out of the question for people as intelligent as the Donovans? Especially if they had Harry Sinclair’s money behind them?
Certainly, it wasn’t as absurd as Jake’s assertion that Peter Frankel was involved in arms trafficking and murder.
So why did the Donovans return? Why didn’t they just disappear one more time? They’d made it, for heaven’s sake; they’d dropped completely off the radar screen after they snagged their kid from the school. Certainly, Sinclair would have helped them one more time. Why risk so much just for a jury stunt?
And why the hell would they just give up like that, after all this time on the run?
But they didn’t give up, did they? Their kid got hurt, and they sought medical attention. If that hadn’t happened, would they have disappeared, anyway? Dammit, why weren’t these questions in her head when Jake was in her bathroom?
Maybe hurting the kid was part of the plan. Certainly, that would garner more sympathy from the jury. Wouldn’t it be harder to send grieving parents up the river than it would a pair of hardened killers?
Perhaps. But she’d seen the pain on Carolyn’s face. And on Jake’s. As a sometimes-negligent parent herself, Irene easily recognized parental guilt in others, and the emotions she saw in the Donovans today were as genuine as any she’d ever seen. There was no faking that kind of pain.
What was Jake’s challenge to her? Is your job about justice or merely about following orders? She wondered bitterly if salvaging a career might be a noble third option.
So if the day finally came to testify against the Donovans in open court, could she sell a jury on the idea that all of this conspiracy crap was merely an absurd stunt to deflect attention away from their heinous crimes? Absolutely. And in so doing, did she believe in her heart of hearts that justice would be served? The answer to that one scared her.
But Frankel? Jesus.
Jake’s claims of hard evidence were a bluff, and she knew it. Clearly, lies were not his strong suit, even after so many years of living one. Still, even though she wished with all her heart that she could dismiss his theories as crazy, she had to admit that he made a lot of sense.
What was it he asked on his way out? The question she was supposed to ask herself? Ah, yes. Frankel was the one who told her that the Donovans were coming to Arkansas. Something about a computer geek at EPA. So what was the big deal there? They put triggers on computer files all the time. If someone tried to access it, then a warning..
Then she saw it. “God damn it,” she breathed. “He knew they’d go back, sooner or later.”
Her face flushed hot as the pieces fell into place. Oh, God, this is suicide.
Now it was just a matter of proving her case without detonating her career. Fact was, she found herself liking this criminal named Jake Donovan. Much as it sickened her to think it, he seemed far nicer-and far less likely to take another life-than Peter Frankel ever had.
Moving quickly to make the most of the few hours remaining before dawn, she opened her briefcase and slid her laptop out from under the Donovan file. Damn thing took forever to boot up, but once running, the rest was a breeze. The Internet was never busy at this hour.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Despite the sprawling opulence of the mansion-in-the-meadow-Jake had it pegged at about ten thousand square feet-they remained clustered in the tiny parlor. Never much of a brandy connoisseur, Jake had developed a taste for Armagnac in the hour since he returned from the Radford, made even more discerning by Thorne’s observation that the stuff sold for four hundred dollars a bottle.
Nick had crashed shortly after they’d returned, claiming the love seat as his own and leaving the two chairs for Jake and Thorne. Harry Sinclair’s right-hand man looked exhausted, yet he remained awake and attentive while Jake recounted all that went on in Irene’s hotel room. He seemed particularly intrigued by the part about finding the “FBI lady” naked. Under different circumstances, Jake might even have considered this little chat a bonding session, but he never doubted that Thorne’s single purpose was to report everything Jake said back to his boss.
“I think Rivers is pretty sharp,” Jake concluded. “I’m sure she’ll do the legwork we need to get done.” Did I just say that? He wondered if he wasn’t trying to convince himself. The fact was, the odds were even that she’d take his information straight to Frankel, at which point Jake was screwed. No, correction-they were all screwed. Possibly even the mighty Harry Sinclair, given Irene’s question about his involvement in all this-the one detail he’d omitted from his report to Thorne.
As the big man started to doze, Jake was seized by melancholy, and the image of Travis fixed itself in his thoughts. Was there at least a safety net for his son-a level below which he wouldn’t fall? Jake wanted to believe that even if the fight to prove his and Carolyn’s innocence dragged on, the boy would be cut loose and-
What?
It worried Jake that even if he saw his most fervent wish fulfilled and Travis staged a full recovery, the likelihood was that his son would become a ward of the state.
A thought materialized out of nowhere. It was a wild one-one that was formed more from exhaustion than logic-yet in the space of seconds it grew from merely a seedling notion to a fine compromise to a question in need of speedy resolution. He turned urgently to Thorne and tapped the man’s knee, startling him from a fragile sleep.
“I’ve got a question for you.”
Thorne raised an eyebrow.
“What do you think Harry would say if I asked him to take charge of Travis while all of this business plays itself out?”
“He’d say no,” Thorne replied grumpily. He’d been enjoying his shut-eye.
“Why?” Suddenly, Jake was wide awake. He sat up straight. “I mean, he’s family, right? The courts would surely be inclined to grant temporary custody to family. Christ, Carolyn thinks the sun rises and sets with the old bastard.”
Thorne shook his head. “It’s a question Mr. Sinclair anticipated. The answer is no.”
“It’d be better than shuttling the poor kid from stranger to stranger,” Jake countered. “At least Harry could give some stability.”
“Your boy isn’t Mr. Sinclair’s problem,” Thorne said simply. “I mean, as kids go, yours ain’t so bad, but a kid’s a kid. You know of any kids Mr. Sinclair ever had? I don’t. He doesn’t like them.”
Jake wasn’t about to let it go. “But what about Carolyn? His Sunshine? I mean, she’s-”
“She’s different,” Thorne interrupted. He thought about saying something else but then stopped himself. “She’s different.”
In that instant, Jake saw a look in Thorne’s face that came as close to tenderness as a man like him could ever generate. “Tell me about her childhood,” he said softly.
Thorne’s eyes narrowed. “What do you want to know? She was a kid. Mr. Sinclair liked her.”
“But she has nightmares. Horrible ones. She wakes up screaming, yet she won’t talk about them. I know nothing of her parents. When I try to probe, she just pulls away.”
Thorne looked away, uncomfortable with the topic. “Then she doesn’t want you to know,” he said. “You should just let it go.”
“So why does she adore Harry the way she does?” Jake pressed. “What is it about that ornery old man that makes her melt at the mention of his name?”
Thorne just shook his head. These questions were not even worth answering.
“Did Harry abuse Carolyn?” Jake asked out of nowhere.
“What
?”
“Did Harry abuse my wife when she was a little girl?” Jake said it again firmly, without hesitation. “There are signs, sometimes, that she was molested as a kid. She pulls away occasionally, she frequently doesn’t sleep. And the nightmares. I just thought that maybe…” His voice trailed off. He’d never verbalized his concerns to anyone before, and he was shocked by the emotions that welled up within him.
Thorne’s eyes hardened. “So you think Mr. Sinclair raped his niece? And that afterward she decided to adore him?” He leaned heavily on Jake’s word.
Jake shrugged. “I don’t know. There’s so much weird psychological bullshit you read about. I thought maybe…”
“You really got it bad for Sunshine, don’t you?” Thorne seemed surprised.
Jake looked away, embarrassed. “More than you could know,” he said.
Thorne inhaled deeply through his nose and let it go through puffed cheeks. “Mr. Sinclair’s little sister, Rebecca-she wasn’t very tough… very confident about herself,” he said softly. “She was sick a lot as a kid, and as she got older, she started into that whiny teenage shit, where she thought she was ugly and no guys would ever like her. I never knew her back then, you know, but Mr. Sinclair was very bothered by her attitude. Said she was a pretty thing, but how do you make a kid sister listen?”
He shifted again. “So when she’s eighteen, along comes a twenty-five-year-old dickhead named Mike Skepanski. Him I knew, and you could tell just from looking at him what a useless pile of shit he was. Mr. Sinclair hated him. Hell, everybody hated him. Everybody but Rebecca, of course, who fell in love with the guy and married him. Just weeks out of high school, knows nothing about anything, and she’s attached to this jerk for the rest of her life.”
As he spoke, Thorne’s story took on a momentum of its own, seeming to propel him more than he was propelling it. “Well, he does a stint as a construction worker for a while, but then the poor baby cuts his hand and doesn’t want to do that anymore. So he sits around the house for a few months until some idiot offers him a job as a security guard. He takes it, because he’s allowed to carry a gun and the gun makes him feel like a big man.
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