He forced away thoughts of everything but the case. “I’ve been reading your book.”
“You and every other cyber crimes nerd who wants to shut me down.”
He couldn’t contain a low chuckle. “Actually, it’s just the opposite. I’m hoping you can help me.”
He quickly explained what he was looking for, still not sure she could assist him, but unable to regret making the call. That one dig, which sounded so much like the woman who’d written the entertaining book he’d read, made it entirely worthwhile.
“So you’re basically asking what kind of person allows himself to be victimized in this way. Didn’t we talk about this yesterday?”
“I mean beyond the non-cyber-savvy, vulnerable elderly or the teenager who wants to get rich quick. I’m looking for the psychological slant, of both the victims and the perpetrators.”
She didn’t respond at first. Through the phone, he heard her moving around. A quick visual of her in that nightshirt shot through his mind, but he shut it down.
“I think with the victims, it’s an it-won’t-happen-tome philosophy,” she finally said. “People always truly believe good things can happen to them—like winning a lottery jackpot despite having a better chance of contracting Ebola. Conversely, the bad things are always reserved for someone else.”
True.
“So despite the warnings all over the news, they are still convinced they are much too savvy to be taken in by a fake Rolex hawked by a guy on the corner. . . .”
“Or a check-kiting scam for something they sold on eBay,” he said.
“Exactly. It’s the innate desire of people to believe they’re smart that gets them every time. At least, that’s what Flynt says.”
“Who?”
“James Tucker Flynt.”
“The name sounds familiar.” He tried to place the memory.
“It should. Your agency busted him several years ago. He did five years in federal prison; now he’s locked up on state convictions in Maryland. He was a pioneer in the Internet fraud movement.” Her voice dripped disgust. “One of the founding fathers, you might say.”
He thought about it. “I think I remember that case.”
“He’d be so pleased,” she said. “He’s charming, in an aw-shucks way. You can almost see how people fell for his shtick. And the ego is something to behold.”
“You know him?”
“I interviewed him, and his attorney, when I was writing my book. Who better to reveal how these scams work and what the dangers are than someone who invented and ran them, and the man who defended him?”
“He actually talked to you about his crimes?”
“Yes. Like I said, ego. Plus I guess he doesn’t get many visitors; the warden said Flynt has turned down other journalists, but he heard I was young and attractive, so he accepted.” She sighed audibly. “I think he likes me a little too much. I get letters from him just about every week.”
“You actually went to a maximum-security prison to talk to this man,” he said, dumbfounded by the idea.
“Medium-security.”
Semantics.
He stood and stared at the stained wall of his office, the phone held tightly in his grip. Something inside him rebelled at the very thought of the beautiful, intelligent woman walking into a prison to talk to a scumbag like Flynt. But he kept his reaction to himself. “And the letters? What do they say?”
“I have no idea. I stopped opening them. In fact, just a few days ago I decided to try to get the message across to him, so I put them all in a large envelope and mailed it to the warden with ‘refused by addressee’ written on the outside.”
Okay, so she was handling the situation with the same common sense he’d seen in her book. Still, the idea that she’d gone there, started a relationship with a scummy criminal, bothered him. A lot. “Are you telling me your book was worth exposing yourself to someone like that?”
“I didn’t expose myself,” she snapped. “But yes, the project meant a great deal to me. I have a background as a journalist, and I’m used to doing whatever it takes to get the story.”
Knowing he had offended her, he muttered, “I see.”
God, he had blown this. He had let his completely unexpected reaction to her mold his responses to things that were none of his business. “I’m sorry for disturbing you. Thanks for your help.”
“You’re welcome, Agent Lambert. Good luck to you.” Her voice no longer sounded sleepy and sexy, but decidedly cool.
Yeah, he’d definitely blown it.
She didn’t ask him to call back if he needed more assistance, didn’t hint in any way that she was bothered they would likely never speak again. Which should be a very good thing. But somehow, as he ended the call and hung up, Alec couldn’t help wondering if he’d just missed out on something pretty fantastic.
After a brief, restless night, and an annoying morning phone conversation with a sexy FBI agent who had passed judgment on the choices she’d made regarding her book, Sam really wasn’t in the mood for company. Especially not male company. Still, when someone knocked on her door at around noon, her first thought was of Agent Lambert, and her pulse doubled its speed.
Her second thought was that she hadn’t put the Do Not Disturb sign up. So she might instead be getting a visit from her nosy, chatty neighbor, whose “Bal’mer” accent was so thick Sam sometimes didn’t even understand what the woman was saying.
Feeling kind of like the guy who’d opened the door not knowing whether he would see the lady or the tiger, she turned the knob. And found herself face-to-face with option three. The lawyer.
“Rick?” she murmured, both surprised and wary.
“Hello, Mrs. Dalton,” he said, stepping closer to the doorjamb, shivering a little as he tried to avoid the bitter January wind.
Let him in, her polite mother’s voice whispered in her head.
But she couldn’t do it. She just couldn’t.
Most women would probably like having two different, very good-looking men show up on her doorstep two days in a row. But not Sam. No matter how much she respected Rick Young, who’d done a great job handling her divorce, she could never get past the thought of him being privy to all the painful, ugly details of the final days of her marriage.
Sure, he was nice, and successful, and he obviously liked her. But this man had read the awful things her ex had said about her. He’d seen the disgusting pictures—vivid proof of her husband’s infidelity. He’d heard her break down and weep during mediation. He’d witnessed her at her very lowest point.
Some chapters of her life just needed to remain closed, including that one. So there was no way she could ever be comfortable getting too friendly with this man, no matter how attractive he was, with his handsome face, sandy blond hair, and solid, strong body.
“I would have called, but I was driving by here on my way out to take a deposition.” He lifted a gloved hand, extending a large manila envelope. “My assistant reminded me of this a few days ago. It’s about to expire. I wasn’t sure if you were ready to take it.”
She eyed the envelope, feeling as if she were face-to-face with a poisonous snake. Because she had no doubt about what it contained. “I told you I didn’t want it.”
“I know. I just wasn’t sure if you’d change your mind. You are entitled to this money under the terms of the divorce. Actually, you were entitled to a lot more, and you could have gotten it if you’d demanded it.”
She didn’t want her ex-husband’s payoff money any more now than she had a year ago, when their divorce had been finalized. Frankly, she hadn’t expected Rick to hold on to the certified check that had shown up a few weeks after the final decree came through.
“I haven’t changed my mind.”
“I understand. Still, you do need to be the one to do something with it.”
She contemplated tearing the entire envelope in half, check included. But she suddenly hesitated, realizing that while she didn’t want any money from the Dalton
family, others might.
“Wait.” Grabbing a pen from a table by the door, she yanked the envelope from him, tore it open, and scribbled on the back of the check, not even glancing at the numbers on the front. “There. Will you make sure the Red Cross gets it?”
A small, admiring smile widened his mouth and he nodded once. “Yes, I will.” He took the check from her and tucked it back in the envelope. Then, his voice lowering a little, he murmured, “Are you doing well?”
“Fine,” she replied, steeling herself for what she knew was coming next. God, she didn’t want to come right out and tell the man why she wasn’t interested.
“I was wondering, now that it’s been a year, if perhaps we might—”
Suddenly her phone rang, and she was literally saved by the bell. Sam eyed it, then offered him an apologetic shrug. “Sorry, I’m expecting an important call. Thanks so much for stopping by—I hope that money does some good for people who need it.” Meaning it, she added, “It’s nice to have it over with once and for all.”
“Mrs. Dalton . . . Samantha,” he said, glancing back and forth between her and the phone, speaking quickly and obviously uncomfortable at being rushed, “would you like to go to dinner with me?”
There was no easy way out of this. No simple explanation. So she had to provide a simple answer without even trying to explain. Her tone as gentle as her expression, she murmured, “I don’t think so. But thank you very much.”
Rick stared, and she hoped he saw the finality in her face. Eventually he replied, “You’re welcome.”
Without giving him a chance to say more, Sam reached for the phone. She waved good-bye to Young as she picked it up without even glancing at the caller ID.
Noting the lawyer’s broad shoulders were perhaps a bit slumped as he walked away, she felt her heart twist. Maybe she’d been a little abrupt, but getting the message across that she wasn’t interested was like pulling off a bandage: best done quickly.
The phone tucked into the curve of her neck, she shut and locked the door as she mumbled, “Hello?”
“Mrs. Dalton? This is Martin Connolly.”
She hesitated, not placing the name.
He cleared his throat, then, with a note of irritation in his voice, added, “I’m the warden at the Maryland House of Corrections. You visited here?”
“Of course,” she said, suddenly remembering the warden, whom she had met when she’d gone to interview Jimmy Flynt for her book. The older man had been a bit pompous, a bureaucrat through and through. Flynt’s defense attorney, Dale Carter, had told her Connolly had completely turned the previously troubled facility around during his tenure.
“I’m calling about your package.”
She sank into a chair, realizing he meant Jimmy’s letters. “Yes?”
“I assume you intentionally returned them? That they weren’t delivered to an incorrect address?”
“That’s right. I’m sorry, I should have written to explain. Frankly, I wanted them out of here.”
“Very well. Before I destroy them, though, I wished to assure you that no mail ever leaves this facility without thorough screening. If you were concerned you might read something inappropriate, you needn’t have been.”
“That wasn’t it. I just needed to cut the connection. I don’t want to encourage Mr. Flynt into thinking we have any sort of personal relationship.”
“Wise,” he said. “He’s not the kind of man you want for your friend or your enemy. I think you’re right in ending any contact.” He hesitated for a moment, as if debating whether to continue, then added, “Mr. Flynt may seem harmless, friendly, and cooperative now that he’s safely locked away. But I fear he does still have substantial reach. The man has contacts, friends on the outside who might do favors for him.”
She tensed. “Favors? Should I be concerned?”
Another hesitation, as if he wanted to warn her but didn’t quite know what he was warning her against; then he said, “No, no. I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about. I just wanted to reiterate that I think you’ve done the right thing. I’ll destroy the letters and make sure no more are forwarded.” Another brief delay; then he mumbled, “Though perhaps it’s wise not to let Jimmy know that.”
His audible concern did little to make her feel better.
Sam thanked him, hung up, then sat down to absorb all that had happened in one short morning.
She’d had a terse final conversation with an FBI agent she couldn’t stop thinking about.
She’d refused the attention of a successful, handsome attorney.
She’d given away a small fortune.
She’d been warned that a convicted felon who seemed to have a thing for her might be keeping tabs on her from his prison cell.
All before one o’clock.
Well, there was one silver lining. All those little issues had now been dealt with, and she shouldn’t have to worry about a single one of them ever again. Which was fine by her.
Mostly fine.
Because, if she was completely honest with herself, knowing she had shared her final conversation with Special Agent Alec Lambert wasn’t fine with Sam at all.
As Lily Fletcher walked through the parking garage Wednesday evening, finally having let Brandon convince her to go home after another long day, she saw a large form lurking in the shadows. She instinctively tightened her hand around her key ring, then laughed at herself. She was at the FBI headquarters building, for God’s sake, and she was armed. Why on earth was she reacting like a woman leaving a twenty-four-hour Wal-Mart, who needed to defend herself with a sharp jab of a key?
She hesitated when she realized the person standing by her car was Special Agent Tom Anspaugh. Something big must have happened for him to stake out her vehicle.
“Hello, Anspaugh,” she said as she reached him.
“Where have you been? I’ve been calling.”
“I know.” Anspaugh had tried to reach her in her office hours ago. She’d been away from her desk. He’d also tried her on her cell. Seeing his name on the caller ID, she’d ignored it.
She had promised Wyatt she would not allow her real job to come second to any side investigations. She meant to keep her word. Besides, there was no way she would bring Brandon any further into the situation. His knowledge that she was proceeding without technically having their boss’s permission was bad enough.
Anspaugh, on the other hand, didn’t seem to give a damn whether Wyatt approved of what she was up to or not. In fact, she suspected he’d like nothing better than to think Lily was less than loyal, or that her work on the other CAT could inconvenience Blackstone’s team.
“I’ve been very busy; we’re working on a case,” she explained out of courtesy, not about to let him put her on the defensive. “That came first.”
“Oh, right, hunting up phantom killers who attack through the Internet. Is Dr. Horrible sending electric shocks via DSL to strike down anyone who touches his keyboard?”
Jerk. “What is it you want?” she asked. “Has something happened?”
“Yeah. And I want you . . . in on it.”
She had the feeling the hesitation between his words had been intentional. Anspaugh had never made a move on her, but she’d seen the way his stare sometimes lingered, noticed how frequently he found an excuse to touch her. Like now, as he moved a bit closer.
She intentionally stepped around him. Even if she weren’t a block of solid ice beneath her warm skin, with no interest in being close to anyone ever again, she would have recoiled from that particular touch. Anspaugh might be good-looking in a big-jock-football-player way, but she truly couldn’t stand his type.
“Lil?”
God, she hated that nickname. “What happened?”
“You know we were finally able to sift through the history of Satan’s Playground and isolate a general geographic area of Lovesprettyboys.”
Her stomach knotted, as it always did when she thought of him. “You said as much earlier.”
; “He’s somewhere near Richmond, which is where we’ve focused our investigation. We’ve been monitoring message boards, chat rooms, anything that would draw residents in a hundred-mile radius, particularly kids.”
“And he showed up?”
“We think so.”
“My God,” she whispered.
He stiffened. “You sure you’re okay talking about this? I mean, with everything else?”
He hadn’t been part of the team that had investigated her nephew’s case, but he knew about it. Few people working crimes against children didn’t. It wasn’t every day that kind of tragedy touched one of the bureau’s own.
“I’m fine. Tell me what happened.”
“One we were watching was a Web site with a bunch of message boards for kids involved in a community program in Williamsburg. Sports, after-school activities, stuff like that.”
Classic pedophile territory. She sucked in a breath of freezing air, then, shivering, tugged her coat tighter.
“We’re not certain. But there have been a few comments this one supposed kid has made that sound like some things our perp said in the transcripts from Satan’s Playground. He didn’t use the same handle, of course; he’s been posting as Peter Pan.”
The boy who never grew up, who wanted only to be with his lost boys. Sick bastard.
“That’s not an ID a child would choose.” The Peter Pan fantasy was one grown men enjoyed. Certainly not seven-year-olds who were much more into superheroes like Spider-Man or the Dark Knight.
“No, I guess not,” Anspaugh said. “We can’t know for sure this is the same guy, but there doesn’t seem to be much doubt he’s a pedophile. So either way, we want him.”
“How can I help?”
He smiled down at her, as if she’d offered to do him a personal favor. In truth, she would find it hard to turn on a light if he asked her for personal reasons.
“We’ve had no luck drawing him out. One of my agents has been posting as an eight-year-old boy, but he can’t get anything started with this prick.”
“He’s going to be incredibly careful, of course,” she said. “He would never engage with someone who sought him out. Every pedophile in the country knows those sites are monitored.”
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