Before Fred could form a question, Justin pulled a small notepad from his front pocket and launched into the information Fred had asked him to find. “The local authorities arrived at the cabin first. They found a couple of suspicious characters inside, but they got away into the woods. Probably had their escape planned. The police let our boys search the cabin, but the only thing of interest they found were some papers in one of the boy’s suitcases. One was a legal document giving Jared and Cassi Landine temporary custody of Sampson Quentin Holbrooke.” Justin folded his tall, lean frame into one of the chairs in front of Fred’s desk, the same chair Brooke Erickson had sat in four hours earlier.
“And get this: in exchange for the baby-sitting, the Landines are to receive a half-million-dollar allowance per year until the boy reaches eighteen or until Big Tommy is released, whichever comes first. Collectable on a Visa credit card—”
“Is the number included?” Fred interrupted. If Jared and Cassi used the card, they might be able to be traced—if it became necessary.
“No. I suspect the funds won’t be coming from the United States.”
“Did they find any credit cards in the cabin?”
Justin ran a hand through the extremely short brown hair on his head. “No. Either those two thugs took it, or the boy still has it. Or maybe Cassi or Jared.”
“Could be. Well, tell our boys to hold on to those papers. We might need them.”
A slight smile creased Justin’s face. “I did.”
Fred laughed. “Of course.”
A knock at the door interrupted their conversation. “Come in,” Fred called.
A man Fred vaguely recognized from another department entered. “Sorry to bother you,” he said, “but there’s a guy downstairs demanding to see you. We told him the office was closed, but he seems to know you’re here. I’m not sure what you want me to do. He’s got two guys with him. They look like bodyguards. He’s a mobster type if I ever saw one.”
Fred exchanged glances with Justin. Given the latest developments, this couldn’t be a coincidence. “We’ll see him,” Fred said. “But tell him his friends will have to wait outside.”
Justin returned minutes later with a man dressed in a suit Fred knew cost more than an FBI agent earned in a month. Maybe even two or three months. He was of average height and build, with dark brown eyes, dark blond hair, and a receding hairline. At first there was nothing to mark him as different—except the clothes—until Fred recognized the hard, expressionless face and eyes that he had seen on so many men before, a look designed to hide lies. There was no doubt in his mind that this man was connected to organized crime.
“TC Brohaugh, I presume,” Fred said, standing to meet his guest. He had learned early that it was always wise to be courteous, even to slime like this. It appealed to their civilized side—or at least the part they considered civilized. To Fred, they were little better than hunters who preyed upon the weak, and he despised them.
“And you are Supervisory Special Agent Fred Schulte,” Brohaugh said with a nod in greeting. “I would have preferred to speak to you under other circumstances, but it seems you don’t intend to return to your home tonight.”
“There is pressing business here,” Fred said, glad now that he’d stayed. A meeting alone in his apartment with Brohaugh and his two goons was not high on Fred’s list of preferred activities.
“That’s why I’ve come. I believe you have news of my nephew.”
“Yes,” Fred replied warily. He glanced at Justin, who studied the man in silence. Later they would exchange impressions. “But some of it may be classified. I will try my best to help you, however.”
“I thank you,” Brohaugh said. “You will see I am not unreasonable.”
“What would you like to know?” Fred sat behind his desk, motioning toward a chair for his guest, but Brohaugh gave a slight shake of his head.
“I want to know if the boy is safe, and when he can be returned to me.”
“Well, I can’t answer either of those questions, as much as I would like to,” Fred said. “I did have contact with the couple he’s with, but it was interrupted, and currently I know nothing of their whereabouts.”
Brohaugh stared at Fred for a full minute before speaking. “You’re talking about the Landines. So they do have the boy. My brother-in-law thought turning him over to them was best for Sampson, given the untimely demise of his two cousins. But I would like the boy with me so I can protect him.”
“So you agree that someone is killing off your relatives.” Fred smoothed his moustache in thought.
Brohaugh gave a short, dry laugh. “Not my relatives. Quentin’s. I’m a brother-in-law, not blood-related.”
Fred leaned back in his chair and asked very slowly, “And who is running the business while Big Tommy’s locked up?”
“I really don’t know or care.” Spreading his hands out before him, Brohaugh shrugged. “It is none of my concern. My only concern is my sister’s child. I need to know where my nephew is.”
The man seemed sincere, but his shuttered expression could be hiding a world of untruths. Fred shook his head. “I’m sorry. I can’t help you. To tell you the truth, I don’t even know if this is an FBI matter. No reported crimes have been committed against any of the U.S. citizens involved. The cabin where they were staying was broken into, that much we do know, but it could have been a one-time occurrence by common thieves or something directed toward the French family who owns the cabin. Until we hear from the Landines or find other evidence, we can’t assume anything. I do know that the Landines aren’t exactly anxious to keep the boy. In fact, they are rather disturbed by the whole situation. They’re on their honeymoon, you know.”
“I’ll bet a half million a year would sweeten the deal,” Brohaugh said dryly. “Maybe even convince them to overcome their disturbed state.” He leaned forward, shifting his weight to the balls of his feet. “If you hear from them again, tell them this: I will give them two million dollars myself if they will return the boy safely to my custody.”
“Two million, huh?” Fred didn’t try to hide his surprise. Brohaugh wasn’t joking around.
Justin cleared his throat, and the other two looked at him. “Tell me, Mr. Brohaugh,” he questioned, “with such resources, can’t you find the boy yourself?”
“I will find the boy, make no mistake,” Brohaugh said with a scowl. “I am here simply to try to facilitate things. In fact, I have operatives in France even now who hopefully await me with better news.” He approached the desk and laid down a card. As he did, a thick gold ring on his finger caught the light. “Please contact me if there are any new developments. The bottom line is that I care about Sampson. I want to protect him. And I can do that better than anyone else.” He left the room without another word, and Justin hurried to escort him from the building.
When Justin returned and settled again in his chair, Fred spoke. “Interesting fellow, Brohaugh.”
“He wants that boy badly.”
“Yeah, but why?”
Justin wrote something on his ever-present notepad. “He seemed sincere when he said he cared about Sampson.”
“Perhaps, but he lied when he said he didn’t know who was in control of Big Tommy’s organization. He’s in it big time, if not the top man. I’m sure of it.”
Justin drew one long leg up and set the edge of his foot on Fred’s desk. His ultimate thinking pose. “Brohaugh already has men in France searching for the boy,” he said. “For all we know, they were the ones at the cabin. We can’t overlook the fact that with Sampson and Big Tommy out of the way, this guy stands to inherit big. If not directly from Big Tommy’s will, then from simply taking over his operation.”
“But Holbrooke isn’t dead.”
“Not yet.”
Fred met Justin’s steady gaze. “Good point, Justin. And one has to wonder why Holbrooke didn’t leave his son with his own brother-in-law. I think early tomorrow morning we had better take a little trip to visit Holbroo
ke. Maybe he can give us a clue as to why he trusts this TC Brohaugh enough to run his company, but not to watch over his son.”
* * *
TC BROHAUGH LEFT THE FBI offices fuming inside the calm outer shell he had shown the special agents. They knew more than they were telling, he was sure of it. And he also knew by studying their reactions that they didn’t believe him.
Well, no matter; he was lying, after all.
He approached the limo where his men waited. Something moved in the shadows, and TC instinctively dived toward the car. That move saved his life. He felt a bullet rip into the back of his left arm, tearing apart skin and muscle, pummeling deep into the bone. Pain filled TC’s senses.
In an instant, his men returned the near-silent fire, dull thuds in the dark night. One pulled him inside the limo and hit the gas.
“You okay, boss?” Baker asked.
“Yeah,” TC grunted. “I’m going to need to see the doc, though.” He held his handkerchief over the wound.
“Right away.” Baker spoke into his cell phone, directing the doctor to meet them at the house. TC knew he wouldn’t grumble—not at the rate they paid him to keep his mouth shut.
“Any idea who they were?” TC asked.
“Didn’t see ’em. But it’s got to be Donelli.” Baker motioned for one of the other bodyguards to hand TC a glass of wine to dull the pain. TC gulped it down and indicated that he wanted more.
“So the Donellis are involved,” he mused aloud, his anger almost making him forget his pain.
“They’ll want Sampson, too.”
“I’ll get the kid first.” Silently TC cursed Quentin for complicating matters. Why couldn’t he have left Sampson in town? At least now that the cousins were out of the way and TC was in charge, things would go more smoothly.
“Get the jet ready for tomorrow night,” he said through gritted teeth. “After we see the doctor and tie up a few loose ends, we’re going to France to clean up that little mess. It seems our men there haven’t been doing their duty.”
TC sat back in the seat, satisfied that he had things well under control. It was good to be in charge.
* * *
NICOLAS DONELLI GLARED AT HIS nephew, Giorgio, and two other men. “Outside the FBI offices! Don’t you think that was a risk? I’m as upset as you are at that idiot Brohaugh. Who would have guessed that he’d end up in charge? But we have to move more carefully now. Stay away from the FBI. We’ve got enough trouble as it is. Don’t worry; we’ll take care of Brohaugh in time. Big Tommy’s going to regret the day he decided to take over my territory.” He laughed and rubbed his hands together, realizing that he sounded obsessed. And he was. With Big Tommy in prison, Nicolas intended to get everything back that was his own. He would stop at nothing. Revenge was sweet.
“Heard anything from France?” he asked into the awkward silence.
“Yeah. They—”
“Wait. Have a seat and taste this wine. It came from France, you know.” As he poured the liquid into a glass, the heavy gold ring on his finger glinted. “Before we begin, I want to tell you about this idea I’ve been working on. An idea as delicious as this wine. I think you will approve, my dear nephew. I’m even going to let you be the one to carry it out.”
* * *
DENNIS FARON WAS HAULED OUT of his house through the back door, taken quietly from bed where he had been lying next to his sleeping wife. He struggled soundlessly, to no avail. Burglars, he thought, expecting they would kill him. Instead, they took him in a car to a dark part of the local playground. A bright light shone into his eyes, making his captors murky shadows in the night.
“Who are you? What do you want?” Dennis asked desperately. He shivered, though the late September night air wasn’t cold. Wracking his memory, he still could think of nothing he’d done that would have brought this terrible occurrence upon him.
There had been many prisoners over the years at the federal prison where he worked. As a guard, Dennis had always treated them with respect—unlike many of the others who laughed and jeered or even tortured their prisoners when they thought no one was watching. So what had he done to deserve this? He thought of his beautiful wife, Gloria, and their two children. Would he ever see them again? Tears gathered in his eyes, and he couldn’t blink them away.
“Do you know Big Tommy?” a hard voice asked.
“Who?” Dennis was genuinely confused.
“Quentin Thomas Holbrooke,” another voice said. Or maybe it was the same voice. Dennis couldn’t be sure. “The mob boss awaiting sentencing.”
“I know him,” Dennis said, collecting his wits as best he could. The man was such a high profile prisoner that until his sentencing, he’d been given his own cell.
“We have something we want you to pass on to him.”
“What?” His voice came out as a squeak.
“Look here, either you do it, or we’ll get someone else. It’s all the same to us. It’s just a letter, nothing more.” A gloved hand entered the light and waved an envelope for emphasis.
“Plans for escape?”
“No, just a personal letter. No escape, nothing for you to concern yourself over. You deliver it and we’ll pay you well. One million dollars in an account of your choosing. Tomorrow morning we’ll transfer half the money, and you’ll get the other half after you give him the envelope.”
“That’s all?” It seemed too simple. An envelope delivered, and Dennis and his family would be rich. Voices inside him battled to be heard. It was against the law, and failing that, there had to be a catch. He should refuse and keep his honor clean.
But with the money they could take that trip to Spain Gloria had been longing for. She’d sent for passports already, hoping to convince him. He could also pay for his children to take whatever lessons they wanted and buy them all the things he’d never had as a child.
No more making excuses, no more scraping by from paycheck to paycheck. And best of all, no more patronizing statements from Gloria’s brother. Dennis didn’t have to do anything really illegal, just pass on a sheet of paper that Holbrooke would most likely dispose of quickly. No one would ever have to know.
I’d know, he thought. But maybe with the money, he could live with the knowledge. There were many things much worse.
Did he really have any choice? The guard in him thought not. If he refused, his life would probably end as a headline in the local newspaper: Prison guard found murdered in local park. No, there had never been a choice for him. Not since they had ripped him from his bed. His honor wouldn’t do his children and Gloria much good once he was dead.
“I’ll do it,” he said.
“Good.” The envelope was shoved into his hands. “We want it done tomorrow. And don’t try to open the envelope. We’ll be watching.”
Dennis had toyed with the idea of seeing what was inside the envelope, but now he wouldn’t open it for anything. He just wanted the whole thing to be over.
“Call this number tomorrow morning and tell us the bank and the account number. We suggest overseas.”
Dennis knew all about that. His brother-in-law had bragged for years about his overseas account that yielded high interest and didn’t have the federal government looking over his shoulder. Dennis had secretly hoped he would be caught, but now he was grateful for the knowledge.
The men took him to the back of his house and ordered him to count to a hundred before removing the blindfold. When he finished counting, they were gone, and there was nothing to remind him of their visit except the blindfold and the thin white envelope. Dennis breathed a silent prayer of relief. The envelope shone in the moonlight and seemed to burn his hand. He went inside and shoved it in his top drawer under his wallet and checkbook. Gloria was still sleeping peacefully.
For the first time since they were babies, Dennis checked on the kids as they slept. Their chests moved up and down at regular intervals. Dennis clenched his jaw. “They’re okay,” he whispered. “They’re okay.”
* * *
ON WEDNESDAY MORNING, DENNIS FARON put on his guard uniform with less enthusiasm than normal. Gloria stared at him strangely, and he hurriedly pulled on his socks. He was already late, having taken an early drive to the gas station where he had exhausted his supply of newly purchased phone cards making telephone calls. But his new bank account was all set up. The only thing left was the letter.
“Is something wrong?” Worry creased Gloria’s forehead, and for a moment Dennis wished he could tell her everything. He wished last night hadn’t happened. He wished he could just walk away.
But he knew if he did, he would die. Or Gloria would, or his children. Likewise, if he told the police he was a goner. There was nothing to do but pass the envelope to Holbrooke and pray it was nothing more than an innocuous letter from a business partner or a girlfriend.
Yes, a love letter, he thought. That’s what it is.
He gathered Gloria in his arms and kissed her as he hadn’t for a long time. Her long blond hair smelled clean and fresh. He reluctantly let her go and kissed the kids, who were still in their pajamas eating breakfast cereal at the table.
“Yuck, Dad!” said his son. He was twelve and not used to such remonstrations from his father.
The wrinkles in Gloria’s forehead deepened. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
He forced a smile. “Just a little tired. I’ve been thinking we need a vacation. What about making that trip to Spain? I think we could swing it now. I’ve got some time coming, and I’ve heard that airline rates have gone down.”
Gloria’s face lit up. “Do you mean it?” He nodded, and she threw herself into his arms. “Oh, it’ll be wonderful!”
He kissed her again. “We’ll talk about it when I get home.”
Before leaving the house, he slipped the envelope into his chest pocket. It seemed to burn his hand and then his chest through the fabric, but the sensation was only his imagination.
Once in the car, he carefully cleaned the envelope of fingerprints, wrapped it in a cloth, and hid it in his sock. That should get him past the cursory search at the prison that had been instigated to screen out guards who sold drugs. Of course, the few guards who were involved in a drug ring found other methods, but they were always eventually caught. Dennis had never been a part of such activity. Until now.
Love On the Run Page 4