“Are you seeing a lot of fallout over Ashton’s death?” Kotler asked.
Miller shook his head. “No, nothing we weren’t expecting. In fact, if anything, it’s brought our work more prominently into the public eye. There are vigils all over the country right now, and all the news is focusing mostly on Ashton’s music career. Some of the majors have picked up the story of what Ashton was hoping to do with this company, and that’s been highlighted as a major humanitarian effort. We’ve had thousands of people call to make charitable donations. We’re funneling all of that into paying for cochlear implants for several thousand recipients, at cost.”
“Very big of you,” Kotler said, nodding.
“It’s the job, actually,” Miller replied, smiling lightly. “Part of our charter, as a hybrid charity, is that a hundred percent of outside donations go into providing services and resources to the community we serve. The profit-building side of our business comes from licensing, primarily.”
Kotler nodded again, and sipped his coffee. As if that were a cue, Miller went to the Keurig adorning the small bar on one wall, and made his own cup. He held up another, offering to make one for Denzel, who shook his head.
“Mr. Miller,” Denzel said, taking out his notebook. “We have a few questions, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course,” Miller said, turning with his cup, and leaning against the bar.
“When we questioned Dr. Patel, he mentioned his former research partner, Dr. Lawny Bristol.”
Miller nodded, a sad expression on his face. “Lawny was a wonderful person, and a brilliant researcher. She died in an accident, several months ago.”
“When she died,” Denzel continued, “who gained access to her files and records?”
Miller thought about this. “Well, I did. Garret. Nick. And whoever Nick assigned to vet her files.”
“Can we get the name of that person?” Denzel asked.
“Of course,” Miller said. “Was she … involved in this somehow? She’s been gone for quite a while.”
“I can’t really comment,” Denzel said. “But we do believe there was a connection.” He turned back to his notebook. “We’ve learned that you had someone from security leave recently. Do you know who that was?”
Miller sipped his coffee and shook his head. “No, sorry. Nick can give you that information. I do know that someone left.”
“Were they fired?” Kotler asked.
Miller pondered for a moment, then said, “No, I believe he resigned. Nick reports to me on this kind of thing, but honestly it wasn’t something that caught my attention at the time, so I don’t have any details.”
“We’ll circle up with Mr. Peters,” Denzel said. “Is he still on the premises?”
“No, I don’t believe so. He likes to leave at a decent hour. Perks of no longer being in the CIA, he says. Honestly, I let him do anything he wants. He’s earned it.”
“How so?” Kotler asked.
“Well, serving his country helps,” Miller smiled. “But he’s also kept our overhead down quite a bit by preventing a lot of IP theft. It’s amazing how often it happens. He has measures in place that tell him exactly when and how data leaves this building.”
“Sounds like he’s pretty indispensable,” Kotler said, smiling.
“I’m more easily replaced than he is,” Miller chuckled.
“Speaking of data, have you had any luck determining what files Ashton Mink took? And how he was able to do that?”
“We think he took some of the lab records and research. We don’t really know how he did it, though. He wasn’t exactly tech savvy. And most of the research had been deleted or locked tight by the time he got to a computer. For the most part, we think he could get it out of here because … well, frankly because he owns the place. We’re not under any sort of government contracts, so ultimately he had carte blanche to do whatever he wanted with data or anything else here. He would have been the only one capable of taking that data out of here without it being noticed.”
Kotler said nothing, but he knew that Denzel would find that last bit of information just as interesting as Kotler found it. There were several dominoes stacked in a row for this, and that fact made it look even more orchestrated.
They continued to ask questions of the CEO, over the next hour, and finally let him get back to finishing up his day. Arrangements were made to talk to Nick Peters and any other security staff who had access to the Dr. Bristol’s files, as well as to Patel’s research.
“I’m meeting with Detective Holden in the morning,” Denzel said. “He’ll want the name and any other information you have for the security guard who left.”
“Of course,” Miller said. “I’ll have my secretary pull that information for you. He can email it to Detective Holden directly.”
They parted then, and within half an hour Denzel dropped Kotler at the doorway of his apartment building. “Bright and early tomorrow,” Denzel said.
Kotler yawned and nodded, then walked into the lobby.
Ernest was off duty for the evening, and there was no one manning the doorman’s podium. Kotler had to let himself in with the security key fob. He fumbled for this in his travel bag, found it, and pressed it against the sensor next to the door. There was a click as the lock disengaged.
Kotler opened the door and was about to step inside, but was suddenly pushed from behind. He tripped, his bag flying forward into the lobby, and barely caught himself before hitting the ground. The door swung into his head, and he was dragged backwards by the feet, letting the door close and lock.
Kotler rolled on his back and saw the man from London, weapon raised and aimed for his chest. There was no way for Kotler to escape. “Still need a ride?” the man asked, waving the gun toward the street. “You’re in luck.”
Chapter 11
Denzel had slept on the plane, and even though he was bone tired, he was having trouble getting to sleep in his own bed. Details of the case were still flitting around in his head.
But it wasn’t just that. His conversation with Kotler, from in the pub the night before, still had him thinking.
This new role with the FBI was an honor, and it was big. He was running his own division—not a common thread for an agent’s career. But he couldn’t seem to help the ‘imposter syndrome’ he was feeling. He couldn’t shake the idea that he was somehow superfluous to his own department. Kotler was the genius with multiple PhDs, and a head crammed full of history and science that Denzel had never even heard of.
What was he really bringing to the table?
That’s it, he thought, swinging his legs out of bed. Night’s over.
It was four in the morning, and the best he’d managed was to doze for a few minutes. He might as well get an earlier jump on the day.
He pulled on workout clothes—a pair of shorts and a T-shirt—and laced up his running shoes. He hadn’t been on a solid run for a month now, and he was starting to feel it. A jog would do him some good. Maybe he’d sprint down to the park, make a circuit of it.
He downed some water from the tap, and filled his water bottle. He’d carry it like a baton. Very important to stay hydrated, especially when you’re tired. He’d seen more than one cadet fall face down from heat exhaustion and dehydration, during boot camp and, later, during his FBI training. He had learned that it was worth the inconvenience of carrying a water bottle as he ran.
Outside, he stretched on the steps, then started moving. His pace was slow at first, but as he got his wind he started to get into the run. He pushed himself a little, got up to speed, and soon was several blocks away from his apartment. The park was coming up in the next block. At this pace, he’d finish a full loop right around sunrise, and he could snag breakfast at a little diner he liked, on his way back.
The run burned off a lot of the stress and weariness he’d been feeling. He called this “leaving it in the miles behind.” As if every step forward was a step away from the tension.
It was good to have so
mething he could control, something he understood. He used to do runs like this with a full pack, rifle raised over his head, canteen bouncing at his belt. He and his unit joked about how much they missed running snakes up and down the bleachers, for football practice, in comparison to lugging a hundred pounds of gear and body armor up and down every hill their drill instructor could find, and usually twice. But the unspoken part of those conversations with his platoon mates was the wonderment of what they could do—more than they ever would have thought possible, back in whatever hayseed, Podunk towns they’d come from. They could endure physical discomfort and weariness and pain beyond anything they’d ever imagined. Even if it did suck.
Embrace the suck, Denzel thought. A mantra from Special Forces. And one that reminded him, suddenly, that sometimes you’re just there to do the job, even if you don’t like it much. Sometimes, the mission requires you to be the pawn, the sacrifice made so that the mission can be completed. You do your best to keep your bodily fluids on the inside, but you do the job. That’s what you swore to do.
That was the nagging perspective that Denzel had been struggling with, ever since he’d been offered Historic Crimes. This new role chafed him a bit, because he couldn’t seem to find his fit. He felt like a bureaucrat, when he’d always been a soldier. He was built to take action, to complete the mission, not push paperwork and track down stolen antiquities.
But that was the job. The paperwork was there no matter what. That was always a given, at the Bureau. And tracking down stolen antiquities—well, that could require as much of his military training as anything else, as evidenced by being shot at in an underground chamber in London. This was the job. The boring bits and the bullets.
He realized then, if he wanted fulfillment out of his job, and wanted to feel worthy of his new role, he was going to have to embrace the suck. He was going to have to do the parts he wasn’t comfortable with, and grow into his new role—and keep growing until all of this was just part of who he was.
He was going to have to change his attitude about it, and accept that he had a part to play, even if it was just pointing, shooting, and filling out the paperwork.
It wasn’t a perfect philosophy, but he felt comforted by it. He could define his own purpose. That was the point. If he couldn’t contribute at Kotler’s level, he would contribute at his own, and to his own ability. And he’d learn some things, as he went, to make him better at it.
He immediately felt better about things as he wound up his run, rounding things off at that diner, as planned. He ordered three eggs with wheat toast, and as much fruit as his waitress would bring him. That and the coffee set him right. He could feel life returning to his body. His energy was up, despite the fitful sleep.
He had cooled off by now, the sweat dried on his shirt and his body. He was only a block or so away from home, so he did a light jog back, up the stairs and right to his door. He fished the apartment key out of his shoe, but stopped just as he was about to unlock the door.
He was crouched, with the knob at eye height. The door was closed, just as he’d left it. But as he looked at the deadbolt, he saw a series of tiny scuff marks.
Admittedly, it had been awhile since he’d been on one of these runs. But he’d always come home the same way. He always crouched here, dug out the key from just inside his shoe, and opened the deadbolt before standing. He knew that deadbolt, in other words. Every little scratch on it had been accounted for. Except these.
These were new.
For a moment, Denzel stayed frozen in that position, wondering what he should do. His firearm was inside, locked in a gun safe beside his bed. He was wearing nothing but running shorts and a T-shirt, plus his Nikes. He didn’t even have his mobile phone.
He stood slowly, looking around, trying to find anything that might give him an advantage over whoever was inside. Across the hall, beside the stairwell, was a metal box with a fire extinguisher. It would have to do.
Denzel moved quietly, stepped to the box, opened the glass door and removed the fire extinguisher. He pulled the lock pin, and held the metal canister at the ready.
When he stepped back to his door, he inserted the key as slowly and quietly as he could, standing to the side of the door frame. He took a deep breath, then turned the key. The lock made a loud thunk as it disengaged, and he slammed the door open, standing to the side as he pointed the fire extinguisher into the apartment and let loose with a billowing cloud.
A shot was fired, hitting the wall opposite Denzel’s door and plowing through it like it was paper. There was nothing on the other side of that wall but the stairwell, and beyond that, the exterior of the building. For that Denzel was relieved. He would never forgive himself if someone were hurt or killed because of him.
He stooped low, holding the now-empty extinguisher like a stubby baseball bat. He raced inward, keeping close to the wall, and as soon as he saw a shadowy shape he leapt, raised the extinguisher above his head and brought it down hard on the skull of the other man.
The man grunted, and fell, sprawling to the floor. He was unconscious.
The fog of the extinguisher was swirling, and Denzel opened a window to help clear it out. He’d be cleaning this mess up for weeks, he knew. But more important things had to be dealt with now.
He looked at the man on the ground, and recognized him.
Christopher Partano. One of Nick Peters’ security team, from AMSL.
Pixels and pieces from the case were starting to resolve for Denzel, but he had to put it all aside while he secured Partano’s weapon, searched him, and then tied his hands with the man’s own shoelaces. He used Partano’s belt to bind his feet as well, for good measure.
There was a bleeding wound on Partano’s head, and it looked bad. Denzel may have been a bit overzealous with his attack. Which didn’t particularly bother him, at the moment.
He picked up his mobile phone from the charger beside his bed. His first instinct was to call his home office, to have some of his people come and deal with Partano. But he stifled that. This was part of something else, after all. More than just an attack on a Federal Agent. This was part of an ongoing murder investigation, and he had made a promise.
He called Detective Holden.
“Agent Denzel?” the man answered. “Shit, we just got a call about shots fired at your address.”
“You know my address?” Denzel asked.
“I looked into you,” Holden said. “But I was also about to reach out to you. There’s been a development. Your boy, Kotler, was nabbed last night.”
Denzel huffed, as if he’d been punched in the stomach. Kotler had been taken? It must have happened just after he’d been dropped off at his apartment. Denzel cursed. “Fill me in when you get here.”
“I don’t usually respond to this kind of thing,” Holden said.
“You’re going to want to respond to this one. I have one of the AMSL security guys here, and he tried to kill me.”
“I’ll be there in ten minutes,” Holden said.
“Bring an ambulance. He’s not in good shape.”
“You shot him?” Holden asked.
“Beaned him with a fire extinguisher. He’s the one who shot at me.”
Holden chuckled. “You brought a fire extinguisher to a gun fight and won? I had you pegged as a badass from day one.”
They hung up, and Denzel checked Partano’s bonds. He then got on the phone with his home office after all, and had them ping Kotler’s mobile phone. He also put in a request to pull local camera footage, which would take a bit.
He was breathing in long, steady breaths, trying to stay calm. Kotler had been in situations like this before. Multiple times.
In fact, as he thought of it, Denzel realized Kotler was a kidnapping magnet. This was the third or fourth time that Kotler had been grabbed since the two of them had met. It was becoming a problem. They’d have to do something about it.
Kotler’s last known location was his apartment building, and his phone went of
fline shortly after Denzel had dropped him off. It had connected with a couple of cellular towers that put it only a few blocks from Kotler’s place. His kidnapper probably smashed and tossed it. Maybe they could recover the phone, run prints, get lucky.
Denzel looked down at his ‘guest,’ and regretted that the man was still out. He might have leads on Kotler, as well as on this case. As it was, that appointment Denzel had with Nick Peters was definitely going to be kept, and it was going to be a much tenser conversation than originally planned.
Chapter 12
“I don’t know anything,” Jared Partano said. “Is my brother ok?”
“No,” Denzel said. “And neither are you, if you don’t start telling me something, right now.”
“I want a lawyer,” Partano said.
Denzel leaned in, and nodded to Detective Holden, who was standing near the doorway. Also in the room was Nick Peters, who had requested sitting in on this. Denzel had allowed it, primarily to shortcut time. He wanted Peters to answer some questions himself, and he didn’t want to waste time bringing him up to speed.
“The Detective will make sure you get a lawyer,” Denzel said. “I’ll make sure it takes a very long time for him to get here.” With that he stood, and motioned for Holden and Peters to follow him.
They were at Detective Holden’s precinct, using one of the interrogation rooms. Denzel knew he was skating, when it came to Partano’s attorney. Legally, he couldn’t continue to question him until the attorney was present. It was frustrating. But it was also costing time.
“We’ll keep leaning on him,” Holden said.
“Let me talk to him,” Peters said. “I know him. He trusts me. I can get him to talk about what happened. And I don’t have to wait for a lawyer.”
“Peters, I’m not entirely sure how much we can trust you at this point,” Denzel said, bluntly.
Peters blinked, his mouth opened to respond, but closed again. He took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and finally said, “Ok. I can see why. You want to question me now?”
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