Eleri turned to Donovan, her heart beating faster. “A ‘blond-and-blue’ is a white, American-looking person on the side of a non-white, non-American terrorist group. A ‘blond-and-blue’ can move freely throughout the US— easily fly on planes, carry guns and other weapons—without all the racist profiling that occurs.”
Eleri blew out a breath and hoped to expel her growing terror with it. “A blond-and-blue is an enormous benefit to a terrorist cell.”
14
Donovan sank into the seat at the small, chipped blue kitchen table. It had been painted long ago and aged into a shabby chic finish that was legitimate rather than created. The chairs matched, though they showed traces of a pale peach paint underneath.
He never knew if the colors he saw were the same as everyone else's. He knew his night vision wasn't anywhere near the normal human spectrum, so it stood to reason his day vision might not be either. So he stuck to 'blue,' 'green,' 'red' and the basics when he spoke.
Mostly, right now he thought the chairs worked because they held him up. Because the table held a beer Eleri had popped for him, and it was from a local brewery. He saw some posh, hand-bottled cider in front of Eleri, and Marina Vasquez was sitting down with a store-bought hard lemonade.
All three were at the table, all three were drinking, and all three had finally, blessedly slept. For the last one, Donovan was the most grateful. He remembered long nights from their last case, but not so many of them. Then, they’d been working in a small town, where being out and about at two a.m. was frowned upon. He remembered being up all night in med school. He also remembered it was working with live patients that bothered him far more than the hours. He'd counted down until he got into the morgue, knowing the day would come, that he was paving a job that suited his particular needs.
Then, he'd wound up here. Up all night, surrounded by people, and having early evening meetings in rental houses on the opposite side of the country. Suddenly, he craved a run. Deep in the woods, with no people around, no one who would care anyway. Sadly, he knew that was a long way off.
So he sipped at the beer, unable to hide the sigh at finally getting a cold one. Finally being rested enough to do his job. And just for being in jeans and barefoot in a homey kitchen, instead of in work clothes in the stuffy, orthogonal Bureau building.
"You look like you're feeling better." Eleri grinned.
"You slept fewer hours than me. You went out and got beer, arranged a meeting . . ." He held the bottle up, tipping it and his head towards her as a thank you. "You were awake just as long."
She lifted her shoulders in a shrug. "Maybe you need more sleep than I do." Her eyebrows indicated what her words allowed to stay silent—that she understood the change required food and sleep. He’d sacked out cold without even undressing when they'd finally arrived.
Beer aside, it was time to get back to this case. They'd started with two linked deaths, and a third person had died already.
Donovan knew that more deaths were inevitable. While he didn't know Vivian Dawson personally, didn't grieve her loss as her husband would, he felt the weight of the failure on his shoulders. Life was precious. He'd felt the deep cuts that loss left when his mother died, and he'd lived with the pressing sensation brought on by the shadow of his father's deep disrespect for all life.
That Mrs. Dawson had died while they ran down Cooper Rollins didn't help either. He drank more of the beer, not that it would make him feel better about her, but it felt cold, and it tasted good, and it was a small comfort in a fucked up case.
"Anything new about Vivian Dawson?" He looked at the two women sitting at the table.
They looked about like he imagined he looked. A little disheveled, a little down-hearted, a lot determined.
Marina put down her lemonade and nodded. "I have more about her work. Obviously not the full story, but her death and the manner of it, caused them to release more information about her. She definitely bought supplies for troops in Fallujah." Marina sighed and Donovan had learned that was a sign that something was bad, but it was good for the case.
"I don't know why I followed it, but I did. I found someone at her office, an assistant willing to talk to me. Maybe because I'm FBI. It was off-the-record and I'm currently protecting my source like a reporter. So only the two of you know about this. I haven't written it up yet." She fortified herself with another drink, the level in her bottle dropping faster than his or Eleri's. Donovan thought that spoke of the nature of the issue.
"According to him, the requisitions she handled were for large numbers of weapons for the troops. Often for more weapons than needed. There was an internal investigation that's still ongoing about munitions disappearing. No one knows where they went, only that the numbers were off. The requisitions seem to have normalized, but Vivian's department was in on it."
"What does it mean that the numbers are off? Where do the extra weapons go?" Eleri frowned.
"I can't say for sure, but my guy is pretty convinced that there are factions over there, selling them or outright giving them to militant groups."
"Is that supposed to happen?" Donovan had his own frown now. He felt it in his chest. "I mean, it makes sense that we'd help arm allies, right?" He looked around the table but didn't get the easy response he'd hoped for.
Marina outright shook her head at him. "According to my guy, . . . and this is all according to he-who-shall-not-be-named, but no. Maybe groups that we think can help, but not formal allies at all. Weapons were turning up in the hands of militant groups that were turning on soldiers. There was plenty of evidence that soldiers were being killed by US supplied guns and ammo."
She drank again, though it didn't improve her mood. "A lot of people are arguing that this is due to insurgents pulling weapons from dead or incapacitated US soldiers, but the numbers don’t hold up for that. The numbers apparently only work if we're supplying relatively large quantities of arms—far more than go missing from our dead. There are a few higher ups being investigated, but it looks like it was working at all levels. A network of officers and soldiers and Iraqis. It wasn't all about just arming the right people either. There was a lot of money changing hands."
She tipped the bottle up, not finishing it either. "The three whistleblowers have already been found dead or declared missing. One of the guys was mutilated and left for carrion just beyond the base fence. Troops found him the next morning . . ."
Donovan leaned back. "That alone almost speaks to the accuracy of the information. Whistleblowers suffering repercussions is usually an indication of someone's guilt and desire to keep things quiet."
"It's worse," she said.
"Well, shit." Eleri's response.
Donovan stood up for another beer, hoping Eleri had gotten him more than one. He pulled open the older fridge and saw that yes, he was at the beginning of a six pack. He felt like grabbing two so he didn't have to get up again, but didn't feel like looking like an ass, or taking any steps toward becoming his father. Donovan had always been a responsible drinker after seeing what unchained alcoholism had done to his family. But now his main concern was making very poor decisions in front of Marina. His bad choices could scare the shit out of her.
He hid a chuckle in the fridge as it was totally inappropriate to the conversation. But she didn't stop talking because he wasn't far enough away. His faint smile died on his lips as she said, "Some of the higher ups over there and over here are trying to shut down the investigation."
"Holy shit." This time Eleri had more emphasis. "In the states, too?"
Vasquez shrugged. "Sounds like." Then she stood up. "I have to use the ladies." She headed toward the hall before anyone could say anything else.
Donovan set his beer down trying to avoid a telltale thump. His frustration was edged with fear and he leaned across the table, whispering loudly, grateful again that he was not the senior partner. "This is so beyond our scope! This is an international terrorism plot with US military involvement!"
"We don't have a scope." Her vo
ice was flat, her face completely devoid of his welling anger.
"The FBI functions within the borders of the US—"
Eleri leaned forward this time. Though her words were not soothing, it was comforting that she was upset, at least a little. "NightShade isn't really FBI. We know that now. We have to shut this down." She shrugged, as though she knew no other way. "We're brought in when other organizations can't fix things."
His breath huffed out. "I wish I'd known that when I thought I was joining the actual FBI."
Her brows quirked, her mouth turned down. She hadn't known either. Eleri had been what he now thought of as ‘real’ FBI—under the standard umbrella—for years. Now their pay came from the Bureau, they had all the badges and ID, but Donovan had learned the diamonds on the borders of their ID cards and at the bottoms of their badges signified they were NightShade Division . . . and it was just as dark and underground as it sounded. Maybe even more so.
He looked to his partner for answers again, "What about Vasquez?" His whisper was harsh, cutting through the air between them.
"We'll leave her behind if we get into something we can't explain."
He snorted. He was so far into what he couldn't explain, he didn't understand how anyone could even see him.
A footstep on the hard wood behind him let him know Marina Vasquez had returned from her restroom break, and he had to wonder how much she had heard.
Eleri watched Marina come back into the eat-in kitchen and she scrambled to cover for the conversation she and Donovan had just bitten off. Vasquez would not understand getting dumped mid-case and left behind. Nor could she; it wasn't something Eleri or Donovan would be able to explain.
The woman's face didn't give away that she'd heard anything, but she was clearly confused as to why the conversation had stopped. She didn't ask though.
Eleri didn't volunteer. "I don't have any new intel to add. Honestly, I would say the interview with Rollins was a bust. Marina?"
Whether it worked at steering the conversation, or if Vasquez just let it seem that way, Eleri didn't know. "He didn't want to tell us much." She turned to Donovan, giving a quick rundown of the brick wall Rollins had presented. "He refused most questions, citing that if he wasn't under arrest we couldn't demand answers. And if he was under arrest, he wouldn't answer until his lawyer was present. He wouldn't tell us where he lived, or how he was getting his money. We asked if he was in contact with his wife and son, but he said no. Seemed like he was lying though. But maybe I only thought that because I already knew he was lying."
Donovan nodded, the conversation starting to wind down with all of them a little wiser. "There's more from the Dawson house, not sure if you heard it from Wade or Westerfield?"
"I heard from Wade." Eleri spoke up. "He sent me a bunch of documents, crime scene photos, early lab results." She turned to Marina who wasn't getting a second drink. Unlike Eleri and Donovan, Vasquez had to drive home. "I'll share with you as soon as I sort it out."
She meant, as soon as I make sure you can see it all, but she thought maybe Marina was already onto that. As NightShade agents, they were allowed to interact with other FBI Agents, but they weren't to let anyone know what their directive was or that NightShade even existed. Eleri knew that firsthand; she'd been friends with Wade for years, having no idea he was NightShade. All along, she'd believed he was just a senior investigator. She'd been right, but so wrong. Now she was keeping Marina Vasquez in the dark just like Wade had done to her. Only, Eleri thought, Wade had done it better.
Donovan's voice broke into her thoughts. "Victor Dawson said something interesting in his interview the other night. He didn't know if it was pertinent or not."
Donovan wouldn't have said anything unless it brought something up. "So?"
"There was an Indian man who came by in the evening several days before. Vivian answered the door and let the man in, as he was preaching some door-to-door religion. Victor called her 'Viv'—he said 'it wasn't like Viv to let anyone in the door that she didn't know. She wasn't a 'serve you lemonade' kind of woman.'"
Eleri frowned. It might be nothing.
After another sip of his second beer, Donovan spoke again. But Eleri was watching. She'd seen his father, seen what he could do on a bender. She needed to be sure Donovan didn't go for a third, or more. Besides, the ready excuse was they had to stay sober in case a call came in.
"According to Dawson, Vivian let the man into the living room—the room where Vivian was actually killed. And he said the man seemed startled to see him there." Another sip. Eleri didn't want to count, but she was counting. "I asked him why he thought the man might not have expected him and the only thing he could think of was that Viv's car was the only one in the driveway."
Donovan was drinking and referring to the victim with the husband's pet name. The case was getting to him more than he wanted to admit. And Vasquez' own info-bomb about military involvement was making him squirrely.
It was Vasquez who asked the pertinent question. "That would mean the Indian man not only knew that they had two cars, but that he knew whose car was whose. That's a stretch for a door-to-door guy. . . . unless you don't think he was."
Eleri was shaking her head already. "Wade's notes. There was an Indian man in the neighborhood yesterday. The canvass brought it out, several neighbors mentioned it as the only thing out of the ordinary. They all found him sweet and not pushy at all."
"So the Dawsons have a different perspective of the man?" Marina asked. "Okay, that is odd. Not sure it's relevant."
"The neighbors said he hadn't been there before." Eleri filled in. "So he went through the neighborhood this afternoon . . . and he was gone before she died. But he'd been to only their house before?"
"Not sure." Donovan answered, leaning back in the chair. "The description is 'Indian man.' It's not very clear."
"Native American? Or India Indian?" Vasquez asked, not seeming to recognize Donovan’s own Calcutta heritage.
"India."
"Are we sure he went to the Dawsons' house yesterday?" Eleri asked filing the pieces and looking for gaps.
Donovan nodded. "The girl next door who called it in? She said he went there. Also, another odd note: Victor Dawson says Vivian was mugged recently. Downtown. They took her purse. It's why he knew exactly what purse she was carrying and what was in it. He had to go shopping with her for the replacement."
Eleri was ready to rattle her head and see if that made some of these odd pieces go together.
"Too much coincidence." Marina's voice took on an ominous tone that Eleri didn't like. "So someone had their home address, her keys?"
They had so many pieces, but as of yet none of them fit. "Was the mugger Indian?"
Again, Donovan shook his head. "Muslim."
"How would they know his religion?" Eleri asked. 'Muslim' was not a race.
This time her partner held his hands up. "His words, not mine! When asked, Victor Dawson clarified 'Middle Eastern'."
That's not good either. Eleri almost said it out loud, then she catalogued what Marina knew and what she didn't. The agent knew of Aziza and Alya, and the cell, if not that Aziza had killed Dr. Gardiner herself. "We already have people of Middle Eastern descent in this story."
Donovan looked at her. Though he didn't say it, she could almost hear his thoughts. And a white police officer.
"Oh!" Eleri jumped up. The pictures. She grabbed her tablet and started sorting, not ready to show Marina everything until she knew exactly what was in them. But she pulled up one and flashed it around. "Look."
Donovan and Marina both squinted at the picture of the couch, the mess that had been Vivian Dawson, and a coffee table with magazines.
She pointed. "The pamphlet?"
Marina squinted and Eleri enlarged that portion of the photo allowing Marina to read it. Donovan could see it with an easy clarity, but he let Marina say the words out loud as though he needed her to. "Jesus' lost years—the Best of the Sons of Men." Then she looked up. "It's
a religious pamphlet. Do we know if the neighbors got anything like it?"
"Not yet." But it wasn't the pamphlet itself. "Jesus' lost years were supposed to be in India. It makes perfect sense that this is what he was handing out. And if he is linked to this stuff, that paper may have answers or at least leads."
Jesus' lost years . . . it wandered through her head and linked up with something she'd heard before. The kills were connected. They couldn't not be. So the words probably were, too.
Then she remembered.
And they told the rest but they did not believe.
15
Donovan smelled Westerfield before he saw the man, and he wondered if his boss knew he could do that. Probably he suspected—Westerfield had worked with Wade for years. What had Wade told the man about their kind?
Donovan was still getting used to the idea that there were more of them out there than just his family. Wade had been an anchor of sanity linking Donovan to a past that was more due to his father than his breed. He hadn't realized until he met the other agent/wolf that he'd carried a heavy burden for a long time, wondering if he would turn out like his old man.
He'd been hoping Wade would be here today, expecting it actually. As Donovan and Eleri walked into the conference room, he saw that it was just them.
Eleri seemed well put together, but she was in full-scale professional mode. Donovan couldn't quite put his finger on it. He didn't think she was ever really unprofessional in a work situation, but there was something about Westerfield that Eleri seemed to answer to. She was more than happy bossing Donovan around, easily fulfilling her position as the senior partner, but she was all business in the meetings with Westerfield.
They hadn't seen him face-to-face since the day he pulled the quarter trick and Donovan wondered if Eleri was going to ask him to do it again. She might even demand.
Westerfield only nodded at them to take their seats, and both obediently sat. He didn't move much, except for the quarter that nearly always walked across his knuckles. Back and forth. Donovan had initially thought it was a fidgeting thing. He'd been wrong. "What have you got?"
The NightShade Forensic Files: Fracture Five (Book 2) Page 12