He picked up the folder with the evidence he’d compiled on Sam Hart. Surgeons weren’t paupers either, and the doctor had a healthy bank account as did Nikki. Her sizeable trust fund was administered by her father, which begged the question why hadn’t her husband taken over as administrator, but it could have something to do with trust laws. He knew very little about that stuff. He hoped Greg’s cyber digging would turn up something new. Now that he thought about it, the doctor was too good to be true. He didn’t smoke, gamble, play the ponies, or run around. He didn’t even play golf. If Sam Hart hadn’t been tortured and killed, Jason might have put him at the top of the suspect list.
According to the hospital administrator at San Francisco General, where Sam worked before moving to Larosa. Sam had been offered a big promotion. He’d refused it and resigned. Go figure—you had to be damn sure of yourself to give up a quarter million a year job to work longer hours to stitch up itinerant local farmers, migrant workers, and tourists, or, now that he thought about it, if you wanted to stay out of the limelight.
Those he’d spoken with had commended Sam’s skill as a surgeon, but he hadn’t had many friends—too wrapped up in his work for socializing, and, from what Jason gathered, his people skills and bedside manner had been lacking. He could be demanding and a perfectionist, but a man who played God every day was bound to be a little cocky.
Buck’s wife, Trudy, had known the family better than anyone in Larosa, and she wouldn’t give you two cents for the man. As far as she was concerned, he was a controlling, manipulative bastard. She claimed he treated his wife and children like property, not people.
How did a man like that manage to hook a prize like Nikki Lincoln?
Trudy thought there might have been a submissive-dominant angle to their relationship. Sam spoke to his wife the way a domineering father speaks to a recalcitrant child. Nikki was shy and quiet. Her kids came first above everything else.
What had surprised him, aside from the fact that their first conversation had been even more painful than he’d anticipated, was her absolute refusal to let him move her to a safer place. This wasn’t a meek, mild woman who’d do what she was told. No, she was a tigress determined to set her own destiny.
Her words resonated with him. What was the motive? Every crime has a motive. Why come after us? Answer those questions, Agent Spark, and I’ll consider your request.
He’d been asking himself that question for weeks. He thought he’d known the answer. He’d come back to the office tonight hoping someone had found new information to help him convince Nikki the danger was real. He took a mouthful of water and turned as Ivan came into the room. The Interpol agent looked as tired as he felt.
“Is it him?” Jason asked, skipping the polite chitchat. “Neither Nikki nor her father believe me.”
Ivan nodded. “My source in Geneva just confirmed it. A contract was issued six months ago. Now that he knows she survived, he’ll go after her, after them. His reputation depends on it. No loose ends, no unfinished business. He knows how badly she’s been injured. The first place he’ll look if he learns we’ve moved her, will be other hospitals, private nursing homes, and rehabilitation centers. She’ll be easy to find given the severity of her injuries, hard to hide with the child.”
“This is one contract he won’t satisfy. No one’s going to hurt Mandy or Nikki. If The Butcher wants them, he has to go through me, but before I can move her, I need her cooperation. She’s made it clear she won’t budge without proof. Her father is dead set against it, and according to what I was able to learn, he says ‘jump’ and everyone asks ‘how high?’ How do I convince her to listen to me and not him?”
Ivan smiled. He indicated the photograph on the table in front of Jason. “The ring is the key. Why keep something so hard to fence, as you say, and leave the rest of the jewelry and cash behind? Because it’s what he was sent to recover.”
“If the damn ring is so special, why doesn’t anybody recognize it?”
“Because, mon ami, they’ve all been looking at the forest and can’t see the tree.” He picked up the photograph. “On the tape, the man said his employer wanted it back. You’ve been looking for the ring, the way it appears in the photograph. It’s not the ring itself we should search for. It’s the red stone at its heart.”
“Wouldn’t whoever took the stone and made the ring recognize it?”
“Does a dead man speak of his work? There are many fine craftsmen in Europe. Any one of them could have created the ring, but most of them would die rather than admit it. I suggest we get some rest while people in other places find the answers we need.”
“That’s a good idea.” Brad came into the room. “Greg has every techno geek in the country digging into Dr. Samuel James Hart. If there’s anything to find, they’ll find it. I’ve sent an agent to Larosa to get DNA from the body. Go. Get some sleep. We’ll meet here at half-past eight. With a little luck, by then we’ll have something to convince Nikki she’s better off out of San Francisco.”
“Maybe you should talk to her, woman to woman, mother to mother. She’s a little pissed at me right now.”
Brad laughed, “Why Jase, don’t tell me you were your usual diplomatic self? Let me guess. You dropped all this information on her and told her you were moving her. No schmoozing, just drill sergeant efficiency.” She reached out and touched his shoulder. “I know you feel bad about what happened. I’ve been to Larosa. I know how long it takes to get from A to B. You have to let it go. You’re no good to her if you’re on a pity party. Now, go back to the hotel and get some rest. You didn’t miss anything here—none of us did. We didn’t have all the puzzle pieces. Now we do, and we’ll make them fit.”
* * *
Nikki sat in the bed toying with the remnants of her breakfast. She was achy and tired. Her head throbbed, but she didn’t want to take the pain medication and chance falling asleep again. Last night had been a series of nightmares, each one more confusing than the first. She looked up as the door opened, and Agent Spark entered her room. He was the last person she wanted to see right now. He’d featured prominently in those dreams. Unlike last night, he didn’t ask her permission to enter, and that annoyed her even more.
The man nodded at the tall, leggy blonde named Angie who’d taken Troy’s place as jailor of the day.
“Why don’t you go and get yourself a cup of coffee in the lounge. I’ll be here a while. I’ll let you know when I leave.”
“Sure thing, Agent Spark. I’ll be right outside if you need me.”
He’d changed his shirt, and wore his Kevlar vest. His jacket was open, and his exposed weapon made her nervous. Angie must be armed, too, but wherever she kept her gun, Nikki couldn’t see it.
The strange bits and memories from last night’s dream haunted her. He was supposed to be FBI, one of the good guys, but now ... What if her subconscious was right? He was guilty of something, she could sense it.
“I’m sorry to bother you so early, Mrs. Hart, but I have more information—information I think will convince you that we need to move you and Mandy as far away from here as we can.”
She picked up the glass of juice on her breakfast tray. For a while last night, she’d been sure she could trust him. Now, she wasn’t so certain. How did she know he was who he said he was?
“Good morning to you, too,” she snarled. “Welcome to my cell. Come right in. So, you’re still convinced this international assassin is after me?”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. I can come back after you finish your meal.”
His apology mollified her, and she regretted her boorish behavior. She’d had a lousy night, but her animosity wasn’t based on anything real. The man was trying to do his job, and she was fighting him every inch of the way. The least she could do was listen to him.
“No. I’m sorry. I didn’t sleep well, and I can’t blame that entirely on you.”
He reddened. “I’m sure what I told you yesterday would have affected your sleep
. Interpol verified a contract had been agreed to six months ago.”
“Who’d he sign this contract with? Who wants us all dead?”
“We don’t know for sure.”
Nikki snapped. “You don’t know this, you don’t know that. What the hell do you know?” Tears of anger and frustration ran down her cheeks. “You’ve given me no proof, no motive, and yet you expect me to trust you and go along with your ideas just like that.”
He seemed as stunned by her outburst as she was.
“Please let me explain. I left out a few details yesterday to spare you, but I think you need to hear them. One of the reasons we believe the man after you is The Butcher is the fact that all of your husband’s fingers were cut off.”
Nikki felt the bile rise and was afraid she’d be sick. My God, he’d said Sam had been beaten and tortured, but she hadn’t imagined that. “Who would order such a thing?”
“In the past, The Butcher has worked for Vincent Scarletti, the head of the Sicilian mob. The man has a birth defect that left him with only one hand. Cutting the fingers off those who’ve wronged him in some way is his signature. Interpol knows this, and they’ve been after him for years, but they can never make anything stick. The Butcher works through intermediaries. A request is made. It’s accepted or rejected, and money is deposited in a Swiss account. The information he needs to fulfil the contract is sent to an email account which disappears as soon as the information is received.”
She shivered. “So why is a Sicilian mob boss trying to kill me?”
“Whoever hired The Butcher wants you all dead—not for anything you did, but because of Sam Hart. It’s a vendetta against him—the father’s sins.”
“That makes no sense, Agent Spark. My husband was a doctor. Are you telling me he messed up in surgery and someone died because of it, so the mob’s after me? Why would anyone want to kill us because of that? We didn’t do anything.”
He ran his fingers through his hair, as if he were trying to decide what to tell her. She saw right through him.
“If you want me to cooperate, then you’d better tell me the truth. Who knows, something you tell me could trigger a memory, and that’s what you want, isn’t it? What you’ve been hoping for all these weeks?”
He looked uncomfortable, and there was that flash of guilt again. She stiffened her spine, steeling herself for the news.
“I told you two of the suspects were dead last night. What I didn’t tell you was that your jewelry, at least a quarter million dollars’ worth, was recovered. The only items unaccounted for were your wedding rings. On the 9 1 1 tape, we heard the man who cut your finger off say he’d been told to retrieve it for its owner.”
Nikki reached for the framed wedding picture on the bedside table. She’d found it in the drawer earlier. Staring at the ring on her finger, she made a face.
“Recover it for its owner? Are you telling me this ring was stolen mob property?” The look on his face answered the question. “You think Sam himself stole it from the mob. Why on earth would he do that?”
“I don’t know, but we believe Sam Hart wasn’t the man we thought he was.”
She shook her head. “This is like the soap opera from hell, with me in the starring role. I keep hoping it’s all a horrible dream, and I’ll wake up in my own bed, but I can’t even remember what my bed looks like. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t make light of it, but if I take this all seriously right now, I’ll burst into tears, and I may never stop crying.”
He reached for her hand and squeezed her fingers. The gesture was reassuring, and she relaxed.
“I know it’s a lot to take in, but the danger is real, and I’m going to protect you and Mandy, but you have to trust me. I’m not going to let The Butcher have a second chance at either of you. If you’re agreeable, I want to move you away from here tonight, as soon as it gets dark. We’ve come up with a plan I think will work. I have to iron out the logistics, but the decision is yours. It’s only fair to tell you that your father disagrees with us on this. He feels he can protect you better than the FBI can ... ” His phone buzzed, interrupting him. He pulled it out of his pocket and checked the display.
“Damn. I’m sorry. I have to take this. Finish your breakfast. I’ll be right back.” He moved quickly to the door, and the blonde returned to sit where she’d been earlier.
“You don’t have to sit with me, Angie. I’m perfectly safe in my own room.”
“Sorry, Mrs. Hart, but I really do. You’re not to be left alone under any circumstances.”
Nikki made a face. “I feel like a prisoner,” she grumbled.
“Everyone feels that way at first.” She chuckled. “Agent Spark wants you safe, and it’s our job to follow his orders and keep you that way.”
Nikki took a bite of her poached egg. She liked eggs, but not cooked this way. These were slimy.
“How long have you worked with Agent Spark?” Maybe she could learn more about him from this woman and decide where he fit in the scheme of things.
“First time.”
Huffing out a breath, she reached for her juice. That was no help.
“My boss speaks highly of him,” Angie continued. “That’s good enough for me.”
Before she could ask another question, the door opened and Jason reentered the room. Whatever news he’d learned on the phone hadn’t pleased him. He nodded to the agent and she stood and left.
“You don’t look happy.”
“I’m not. We think we’ve identified your husband, or rather who he wasn’t. The FBI computer whiz was able to access all of the government databases looking for information on Dr. Samuel J. Hart, and found something interesting in the restricted army files. Samuel J. Hart, the J stands for Jameson, not James as your husband’s ID indicates, was born April 9, 1956, in Lobelville, Tennessee. His parents were killed in a car accident when he was twelve, and he and his younger sister went into the system. He graduated Harvard Medical School 1982, and died in Saudi Arabia in 1990.”
She gasped. “That’s impossible. We were married nine years ago—the dates on the photograph.”
“You married that man eight years ago. We’re just not sure who he is. According to Pentagon sources, Dr. Sam Hart was stationed at a MASH unit destroyed in an assault. He’s buried at Arlington.”
She frowned, the vestiges of a headache making her head pound. “So, if my husband wasn’t Sam Hart, who was he?”
“We aren’t sure. There’s a slight possibility he is Sam Hart. Dying’s a great way to elude creditors and make a fresh start, but usually when you disappear that way on purpose, you choose a new name for yourself. We think your husband appropriated Sam Hart’s identity.”
“How could he have done that?”
“It’s a lot easier than people think. With the right information you can get whatever documentation you need. He had a name and a place of birth. All of your husband’s credentials were clever forgeries. Nothing about him prior to his arrival in San Francisco checks out. According to his CV, after acquiring his degree in thoracic surgery, he joined the MSF, Doctors Without Borders. The organization originated in France, so the fact he’d gone from working for them to working in a major hospital in Marseilles wouldn’t raise any red flags. San Francisco General was in desperate need of a thoracic surgeon ten years ago, and he was perfect for the job. The board made a few calls to numbers your husband supplied and they were so happy to get him, they didn’t dig too deeply into his past. Neither did I. He was the victim, but even if I had, he’d have checked out.” He held up his cellphone.
“This is a picture of Captain Samuel J. Hart, taken twenty-four years ago. We’ve got experts comparing this picture to one of your husband. The coroner verified he’d had plastic surgery done, and I put it down to an older man’s vanity. Cosmetic surgery rarely alters bone structure enough to fool the computers. Whoever your husband was, one thing is certain. He was a damn fine surgeon. No one questioned his qualifications or abilities. He had enough money to rub e
lbows with San Francisco’s elite.”
“Is there a way to prove any of this? To identify him?”
“At the moment, it’s easier to prove who he isn’t. We’ve located the real Sam Hart’s sister in Tacoma, Washington. We have an agent collecting a DNA sample which we’ll match against Sam’s. If they match, he was Sam Hart who somehow gave the army a slip. If they don’t match, then we’ll start combing the databases for doctors, aged fifty to sixty who’ve died or disappeared in the last twenty-five years.”
She shook her head. “I should feel something beyond incredulity, but I’m stunned. I’ve looked at this picture for hours, and I can’t imagine ever being in love with this man. There’s something cold and calculating about him.”
“Maybe your parents can tell you more about your relationship.”
The door opened. Cassie entered the room followed by Angie. “Sorry, Agent Spark, but I have to tend to my patient.”
“That’s okay, Cassie. I’m done here.” He turned to Nikki. “Will you let me and the bureau move you someplace safer?”
His eyes begged her to say yes, but she was too full of uncertainty to commit.
“Do I have to answer you now? My father will be here shortly. I’d like to discuss the situation with him.” She didn’t really. She’d make up her own mind, but she wanted more time to decide. She saw his crestfallen look, thought he was going to argue, but he didn’t. Instead, he smiled and held out his hand to the nurse.
“I’ve given Cassie my card. She’ll contact me as soon as you make your decision.” He turned and left the room.
Chapter Nine
Nikki chewed her lower lip and rubbed the sweaty palm of her uninjured hand on the bed, knowing the doctor could hear her rapid heartbeat. It wasn’t every day you met a daughter you didn’t know and a father you disliked, knowing there was a crazed maniac after you who wanted you dead.
On His Watch (Vengeance Is Mine Book 1) Page 11