“I think, Ms. Erickson, that something could be worked out between us. In fact, we may be more beneficial to one another than even you might imagine. But first, may I offer you a drink?”
“Oh, no thank you.” She twirled the wedding band on her finger. “I’m working.”
Nicolas frowned at the ring. If she was married, that might cause problems. But she was so close to perfect for the job that a husband might be a mere inconvenience. “So am I. But I do understand how important it is to keep a clear head. How about some coffee or juice?”
“All right. I’ll have some juice. Thank you.”
Nicolas looked at his nephew and made a swirling motion with his hand, a signal for the special addition to her drink. It was odorless and tasteless, and she wouldn’t realize what was happening until it was too late. “Perhaps you could see to it, Giorgio.”
If the reporter noticed anything odd about their exchange, she said nothing. Giorgio smiled, his teeth showing white in his dark face. “Sure, I’ll take care of it.”
* * *
FRED HUNG UP THE PHONE after talking to the Legat office in London. In England it was very late, past midnight, but they were also still working on the case. They had traced the thugs to France, but still knew nothing of who hired them. Fred worried that their lawyer would be able to free them before they spilled the information. Once out of custody, he knew they would immediately disappear.
At least he was satisfied that Jared and Cassi were on their way to the safe house in Portugal. Somehow he would get to the bottom of this mess. He would begin by confronting Nicolas Donelli this afternoon. There was no way the man could know how much Holbrooke had spilled before his death, and they might be able to use that against him.
Justin came in the door, fingering the pocket in his shirt. “Have you seen my notepad?”
“You don’t have it?” It was uncharacteristic of Justin to lose or misplace anything.
“No. The last time I remember having it was this morning, when we shredded the information about that guard. I set it on your desk. Then Brooke came and Jared called . . .”
Fred and Justin searched the room. “It’s not here,” Fred said. “Are sure you didn’t take it?”
“Yes.”
Fred sat in his chair. “Brooke.”
“You think she took it?”
“I think she may have.” His heart sank as he spoke. Had he only imagined there was something special between them at the café? “She’s all too eager for information.”
“Did she leave a number?”
“No.” That in itself was odd. What reporter didn’t have a slew of business cards to hand out? “Let’s try to find her. If she did take that pad, we’re going to have a serious discussion.”
“I’ll call the paper.” Justin looked up the number and placed the call. “Yes, this is Special Agent Justin Rotua with the FBI. I’d like to speak to one of your reporters, a Brooke Erickson. Yes, that’s right. Or if you have a cell phone or pager number, I’ll take that. What? Are you sure? Could you check again?”
Justin hung up the phone. “She’s not there.”
“You mean she hasn’t checked in with the paper?”
“They claim no one by that name works there. I’m sorry.”
Fred stifled his irritation. Why should Justin be sorry? That a beautiful woman had lied to him? It wouldn’t be the first time. But why had she done it? And where was she now?
He mentally kicked himself for trusting her. Why hadn’t he checked up on her in the first place? Just because she came touting a good story didn’t mean she was legitimate. It was one of the first lessons he had learned in his short stint as a police officer.
“Let’s do a complete background check on Brooke Erickson,” Fred said. “I want to know where she lives, what she really does for a living, and even what she eats for lunch.”
Hours later, they still knew little about Brooke Erickson. National phone records placed a woman by that name in a town called Bakersfield, California. Local driver’s license records showed she was near the same age as the Brooke they searched for, though the picture was too poor for proper identification. Using that woman’s social security number and digging deeper, they found that she had worked until two months earlier at the Tribune, a newspaper in Salt Lake City. The surrounding counties had no record of a birth certificate, meaning that she was most likely born somewhere else. She had no debts or outstanding warrants, or anything to mark her as unusual. Local police failed to contact her after repeated tries, nor had they been able to contact friends or relatives in the area. It was as if that Brooke Erickson and all she held dear had dropped off the face of the earth two months ago.
Fred wondered if this could be the same woman. What if Brooke wasn’t her real name at all? They would have to continue the search until they found a positive identifier.
“Why lie to us?” Fred said. “What’s her game?”
“Maybe she’ll come by tonight and we can ask her.”
Brooke had said she’d come by after work. Fred had hoped to ask her out to dinner, and then to casually mention her ring.
“There were no marriage records for her in either California or Utah,” Justin said, as though reading his mind. But the words weren’t convincing. Justin knew as well as Fred did how hard those things were to track without central records. It would take time to follow the paper trail backwards to find out who she really was.
If there was a paper trail. People who didn’t want to be found usually avoided anything on paper. Even with all the resources of the FBI, finding a person was sometimes very difficult. A needle in the proverbial haystack.
Fred sighed in frustration. “Let’s put one of the guys on this and go back to work. Jared and Cassi are our priority now.”
“What would you like me to do?”
“Check out Brohaugh again. See what he’s been doing these last twenty-four hours. Meanwhile, I’m going to pay Donelli a personal visit.” He wanted specifically to see if Brooke had shown up there. It would have been just like her.
Nicolas Donelli had the servants usher Fred into his house without hesitation, where Fred took the proffered seat on a sleek black leather sofa. “I’m here because of Quentin Holbrooke’s sudden death,” he stated without preamble.
“I read about it in the papers.” Donelli was a big man without being fat. He had a square, fleshy face, a large nose, and exotic Italian features that exuded confidence.
Fred tried to focus on the man, but his thoughts kept returning to Brooke and how she had pretended to be planning to give information to her newspaper. What kind of scam was she running?
Donelli poured himself a glass of red wine from the coffee table between them. He didn’t offer any to Fred. There were a few used glasses already on the tray. Had Brooke taken a drink with him?
“What I don’t understand,” Donelli said into the silence, “is what Holbrooke’s death has to do with me.”
Fred smiled without mirth. “He was going to put you out to dry. He had enough dirt to completely sink your organization.” Now the gamble. “I’ve seen enough that he would have done it, too.”
“So you think I killed him.” There was no surprise in Donelli’s eyes or voice. Someone had already told him about Holbrooke’s plea bargain. Brooke? Fred winced inwardly at the possible betrayal. Take it easy, he told himself. Donelli could just as well have gleaned the information by other means. That was Fred’s premise, after all: if Donelli had ordered the murder, he would have first needed to learn what Holbrooke planned before deciding to kill him.
“I assure you, I had no reason to kill Holbrooke,” Donelli continued. “He was safe enough in prison, in my opinion. Besides, I have nothing to hide. He couldn’t hurt me.”
Well, he can’t now, that’s for sure. Fred forced a smile. “The FBI has been speaking to a few reporters. One was headed over here. A woman. Brooke Erickson.”
“Yes, she was here. A very insistent, beautiful lady.”
“She left about an hour ago. I didn’t have anything to tell her, just as I don’t have anything to tell you.”
There was a movement at the door, and for the first time a frown passed over Donelli’s dark features. “What is it, Giorgio?”
Fred craned his neck around to see a young man with a strong family resemblance. There was a fresh scratch across the man’s right cheek. Giorgio glanced at Fred, then away quickly. “It’s done.”
“How long?” Donelli asked.
“A few days, maybe longer.”
“You know what to do.”
The younger man left and Fred stared at Donelli, a clear question in his eyes. “Business, huh?”
“Yes. My nephew is young, but he has a good head on his shoulders. That’s vital in the importing business. Now, is there anything else, Mr. Schulte?”
Fred stood. “No. Nothing. Thanks for seeing me.” He crossed to the door. “And what was it you said you were importing?”
“I didn’t.” Donelli’s smile was as cold as ice. “But since you are so curious, we import wines. Mostly from France. I suspect you already know this.”
Fred had known, but it didn’t hurt to pry. “Oh, right. Well, have a good day.”
A servant appeared to show Fred to the door.
The day progressed, and there were no new leads on the case or news about Brooke. Dinnertime came and went, and Fred began to worry. He had a feeling in his chest that told him something terrible had happened to her.
“What did you find at Brohaugh’s?” Fred asked Justin.
“He wasn’t there, and they wouldn’t tell me where he went. The men he left in charge seemed very uneasy.”
“You think Brohaugh’s disappeared like Big Tommy’s other relatives?”
“No, it wasn’t that. But when I asked them about Brooke, just to see if she’d been around, I got the feeling they were definitely hiding something.”
Fred had suspected that nothing good would come from Brooke’s impulse to visit Brohaugh. “I wonder if she upset Brohaugh yesterday.” She certainly seemed to have a way of upsetting people. “I wonder if he decided to do something about her. He could have easily had her followed and abducted.”
“And what better time to do it than right after she went to see Donelli.”
“Better check the morgue.” The words tasted like ash on Fred’s tongue.
Justin nodded and set about that grim task.
Fred called to see if the special agent he had assigned to the case had found more information on Brooke. He hadn’t. But one thing seemed to be sure: Brooke—if that was even her name—was definitely missing.
CHAPTER NINE
CASSI RELAXED BETWEEN JARED AND Sampson in the back seat of the car. They had taken a commercial flight late Friday morning, and were now driving in a rented car toward the Alvito Dam. The dam was farther south in the Alentejo than Laranda had taken them in their previous visit to the country, and they had been assured by Anderson and Worthington that the weather would be great for fishing, boating, and swimming.
Anderson was at the wheel and Worthington studied a map. Cassi was glad to leave it all to them. At least if they were in another car chase, they would be protected by the men’s weapons.
Sampson was sound asleep, his head in Cassi’s lap. In repose, the child’s face appeared calm instead of tortured as he had since learning of his father’s death. She stroked his blond locks and hoped the cabin really was the safe haven they expected. Sampson needed time to heal.
At least there seemed to be no chance that someone would find out where they were, even in the case of a leak at the FBI. After the last incident with Laranda, Fred had gone to extreme measures to make sure his office wasn’t bugged or his phone calls overheard. And not even Anderson and Worthington had been given the exact location of the cabin until they arrived in Portugal. Both Jared and Cassi had insisted on total secrecy.
If only they had been so smart when it came to Grant and Sophie. Regret knifed through her. Why had they gone to England at all?
She had tried to tell Grant how sorry she was, but words hadn’t been adequate. “I don’t blame you, Cassi,” he had said when he came to say good-bye.
“No, but I’m responsible all the same.”
He hugged her like the second father he’d always been. “I love you, Cassi, and that will never change. And I love Sophie. Even if I lose her now, the hardest thing I can imagine, it won’t be for forever. I know I’ll see her again.” His words of strength temporarily lightened her guilt, but if Sophie died, Cassi didn’t know if she would ever forgive herself.
Sighing softly, she snuggled into Jared’s arm and felt it tighten around her. He leaned over and kissed her cheek. “I thought you were asleep,” she whispered.
“I was trying, but my mind is too busy thinking. I keep wondering who’s behind all of this. The only one I can think of is”—his voice lowered—“Sampson’s uncle or another organized crime guy. But even in that case, I don’t know why they want us. Anyone who knew where to look for Sampson would have known we weren’t responsible for his being here, and we should just be someone to get out of the way. But that’s not the case. Whoever was after us in England wants us, but doesn’t want us dead. Why?”
“I’ve been thinking too,” Cassi said. “What if there’s more than one group involved? I mean, those guys in France shot real bullets, didn’t they? The bullet holes in Zack’s car were certainly real.”
“Yeah, they were,” Jared said grimly. “I don’t know what to think.”
“At least we’re safe now.”
“I keep coming back to the fact that the only person who holds such a terrible grudge against us is Laranda. If I didn’t know better, I’d say it was her.”
Cassi’s heart beat faster. “She’s dead. We both saw her.”
“I know, and I went to her cremation. But none of it makes sense without her.”
“It’s just because of Sampson and Quentin,” Cassi said. “Maybe now that Quentin’s dead—” She broke off, glancing at Sampson. “Maybe now it’ll be over. Still . . . do you think Sampson could have a tracer on him?”
Jared shook his head. “One that works over such distances? Hardly likely.”
“They did it before. Remember the bug Carl found in the phone card Quentin gave me? That was a pretty strong one.”
“Yes, but they must have had people spread out searching for you everywhere in order to catch the signal. They knew that if you had the envelope, you would go to France. I’ll bet they were watching all the international airports, waiting for you to get close enough for the signal to work. And when you first disappeared, I bet they followed you out of sight, just in range of the signal. That would explain how they followed you to Provo.”
“They could be doing that now with Sampson. Maybe that’s how they found us in England.”
Jared gazed at the sleeping boy. “His clothes are all new. Except his shoes.”
Cassi eyed the tennis shoes on the carpeted floor where Sampson had discarded them the minute they settled in the car. She picked them up, but didn’t see anything unusual.
Jared raised his voice. “Hey guys, at the next town, find a shoe shop, would you? I think Sampson needs some new shoes.”
If the FBI agents thought the request odd, they didn’t say anything, and Sampson, once awake, was only too eager to use his credit card again. For the first time, Cassi was glad Quentin had equipped his son with a credit card that would be difficult to trace. Even if someone very powerful were looking for them, they would never connect the number to Sampson or them.
While Jared and Sampson were in the small shoe store with Anderson, Cassi stayed by the car with Worthington. She went through all of the clothing in Sampson’s new suitcase—only slightly damaged from the car explosion—and then hers and Jared’s, just to be sure. When Sampson returned to the car, she asked to see his wallet.
“Come on,” she said when he ba
lked, “I just want to see those Swiss bank account numbers you said you had.”
To her surprise, Sampson cracked a smile. “Okay.” He handed her the wallet, and Cassi made a point of exclaiming over everything as she thoroughly searched for a bug. She saw nothing but papers, several credit cards, and a wad of American greenbacks—all apparently given to Sampson by his father.
Satisfied, she sat back and relaxed for the rest of the drive. Lush green trees and meadows lined the side of the freeway. They often went miles without seeing another car. “Look, those are olive trees,” Jared pointed out to Sampson.
“Cool,” he said. “I don’t remember seeing one before.”
Cassi was surprised. Maybe the little know-it-all was finally willing to learn something from Jared. She was glad their relationship seemed to be changing. From the grin on Jared’s face, he was, too.
They stopped to eat at a restaurant in a city called Évora and then continued on to their destination, arriving well before dinner. The cabin had two rooms, a main one with an old woodstove and another that had been used as a small bedroom. “Not much room for privacy,” Jared whispered in her ear.
At least the cabin was clean and the main room spacious. There was a square table and a worn sofa that was actually a double bed. Cassi saw no sink or running water, but the pump outside seemed new enough and the water flowed clear. Mismatched dishes were stacked in a worn freestanding cupboard. By the door, buckets piled inside a large metal bin that looked as if it might serve as both a bath and a sink for dirty dishes.
The cabin had two windows, one near the front door and the other facing the body of water behind the cabin. Only a glimpse of the blue water could be seen through the thick trees.
Sampson spied the water and took off running. The adults followed just as quickly. “Look! A boathouse,” Sampson yelled. “A boathouse!”
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