He bought a tall cup of decaf at the coffee shop near the field office and hurried through the security process. His eye ached, and he was still hungry, but he felt more upbeat than he had in months. At his desk, Drager sipped his still-too-hot coffee and called the Virginia Power Cooperative. The utility company serviced the farmhouse where the inner circle was based. A customer-service rep asked how she could help him. “Agent Drager, FBI. I need to talk to your supervisor.” He knew better than to waste time with people who didn’t know anything or weren’t authorized to share what they did know.
Another woman, older and more assertive, came on the line. “This is Angela Milton. How can I help you?”
Drager introduced himself again, giving his badge number this time. “I need to know if Luke Maddox pays the bill at 1577 Wolf Run Road. He’s wanted for murder, and we’re trying to find him.” The request was a long shot, and the manager would probably protect her customer.
“Oh my. Let me get back to you.” She put him on hold with country music playing. Drager muted his phone.
A judge had finally signed the subpoena to check Luke Maddox’s credit card and phone records for the window time surrounding Bidwell’s murder, but it turned out the activist didn’t have any services in his name. No financial accounts, no cell phone service, no rental agreements. A dead end. Based on Dallas’ intel report of Wolf Run and “the seventh driveway past Butt’s Corner,” Drager had been able to pinpoint the house and its address. The owner turned out to be a real estate company with an address in Japan. So far, he’d learned nothing about the connection between the company and the inner circle, and no money exchange had surfaced. Maddox was careful about hiding his tracks.
The utility manager came back on line. “The account is held by Hana Kasumi. She’s had service at the address for eighteen years.”
Another dead end. Or maybe not. “How is the bill paid?”
“It’s on autopay with a credit card.”
“Will you give me the number?”
“I can’t do that. Not without a court order.”
“I’ll get one. What’s your fax number?”
Drager noted it on his yellow tablet—a disposable piece of information. He’d learned to categorize, so the paper pileup in his office didn’t overwhelm him. By the time he got the subpoena for the utility payment number and waited for the credit card company to send him records, it would be next week. He sent a quick email to Chuck Surry, in the White Collar unit: How are you coming on the bank accounts for the inner circle? Surry, who had contacts in the financial world, was checking into Abby Gleeson and Cree Songchild—plus his real name of Drake Morrison— to see if they had bank accounts or credit cards.
Maybe it was time to check the Real Food blog again to see if Dallas had posted anything. UC agents were often lax about checking in, but in this case, Dallas was being monitored by her targets, and it made him nervous to not hear from her. He opened the blog from a bookmark and scrolled through the comments. There she was. Tara Adams had posted a rambling comment about food choices, but he read the message loud and clear. The inner circle would be at Senator Pearlman’s home on Friday at one, so he could get his people in place for a takedown. Excellent! That was fast. Agent Dallas had a reputation for speed and manipulation, and he was impressed. The activists had also been ripe for stepping up their game. But this was happening almost too fast. He had to call Senator Pearlman and prep him and his wife for Friday, then get out to their house and map the layout. Plus pull in more agents for the operation.
Before he could do any of that, two emails landed at the same time. The first was from the Agent Surry: Songchild has a credit card that is paid automatically by an account connected to the American Tradition Foundation, a private charity. But no large transfers of cash. Sorry. That was disappointing. Where and how did the inner circle access their money? Drager was impatient to find the source.
The second email was from the manager at the Grand Roosevelt Hotel, and it had an attachment: This file was recorded by one of the guests at the fundraiser for Senator Pearlman. It has the voiceover the activists used. Can you compare it to known criminals?
Drager smiled to himself. Yes, the bureau had recordings of some criminals, and now banks were capturing thousands more of potential criminals. But the issue wasn’t about identifying the perps—they knew who they were. It was a matter of collecting all the evidence they could to convict them. The recording would help. He wondered which one of the inner circle had made it. They would know soon enough.
Agent Wunn stepped into his workspace. Open doors were the policy in this field office.
“I found something that could be important.” Her typically expressionless face held a tremor of nervousness.
“What have you got?”
“I’ve been running the activists’ names into every database I could think of, hoping to find other aliases they might have used.” She paused and sat down. “There’s an Aaron Foster in the witness protection program.”
Chapter 26
Thursday, Oct. 9, 10:49 a.m.
Luke pulled off his sweaty biking clothes and stood in a hot shower. He’d ridden twenty-five miles, trying to burn up the stress, his brain racing as fast as his legs. He couldn’t stop thinking about the mission tomorrow. The decriminalization vote was critical, and none of the other efforts they’d tried with Pearlman had worked. The senator’s announcement, claiming that the more he was targeted, the more intractable he would become, had infuriated him. So the dog-napping/blackmail tactic was critical to finally getting some forward momentum. The mission seemed simple to execute, and Luke wanted to be optimistic. Cree was out there in the senator’s neighborhood now, watching the house to see if they’d beefed up security. Cree had texted earlier to report no sign of anything new and would be on his way home soon. Everything indicated a green light for the mission. Yet, uneasiness plagued Luke.
He stepped out of the shower and dried off, trying to put his finger on exactly what seemed wrong. Abby, for starters. She’d been tense and irritable at times and fiercely upbeat at others. Their breakup could be to blame, but the headspace she was in at the moment made him wonder if he could trust her in a tight situation. He would feel better about the mission if she stayed home. They didn’t need everyone to be there. But he knew Abby would freak out if he suggested it, and he didn’t have the patience to argue with her.
As he pulled on jeans, his thoughts came back to Judge Bidwell. He’d always assumed the mean bastard had sentenced him to ten years out of a sincere belief that drugs were evil and people who did drugs needed to be locked up. As hard as that was to accept, at least it was an honest sociopolitical difference of perspective. But to know the judge had done it for profit filled Luke with such rage and despair he felt almost dysfunctional. If someone hadn’t already killed the judge, Luke would happily do it himself for the peace of mind. Or so he thought. But now he couldn’t even confront the man. How could he process his rage and move forward? He had to find a way to accept this new reality about his lost years.
A loud knock jarred him. Before he could answer, Abby burst in. “Hey, you’re looking good.” She closed and locked the door behind her.
Luke reached for a T-shirt shirt off the bed. Abby needed to stop thinking about him in a sexual way.
She rushed at him and grabbed the shirt. “Don’t get dressed. I like your naked chest.” She moved in and rubbed his nipples.
Luke grabbed her hands and stepped back. “Please don’t. That part of our relationship is over.”
“Oh come on. I’m not asking to be your girlfriend again. Just your fuck buddy.” She grinned, her eyes dancing with lust.
“I’m sorry, but it’s best if we keep it simple, everyone in the house on equal terms.” He’d been careful to avoid alone time with Tara too, so Abby wouldn’t be jealous and spiteful. He hadn’t expected her to take it as sign that he was still available.
Abby scoffed. “There is no true equality, ever. Eve
n utopian societies never achieve it.”
He didn’t have the heart for a philosophical discussion. “Unless we have business to discuss, I think you should leave.”
“We do have business.” She let go of the T-shirt and plopped down in his desk chair.
Luke pulled on the shirt and sat on the bed. “What is it?”
“Why aren’t we following through with Aaron’s idea of interrupting prison supply trucks?”
They’d had this conversation. “Because it’s dangerous and doesn’t accomplish much. To be effective, we would have to do it on a much bigger scale, and when you start involving that many people, things get sloppy.”
She slammed her hand on the desk. “You’re too cautious, and we’re getting nowhere.”
Luke clenched his hands and counted to three. “We’re making a big play tomorrow, and it will produce long-term results. This is a lifetime commitment. Civil rights take decades to win.”
“I don’t have decades,” Abby whined. “I have Hep C and colitis, and I won’t live to be forty. I want to feel good about what we’ve accomplished before I’m too sick to give a shit.”
He often forgot about her illnesses because she rarely brought them up. He’d been fortunate to get out of prison after a decade with only emotional scars. He’d had staph infection and food poisoning while incarcerated, but neither carried long-term effects. Most ex-cons weren’t that lucky. Stress could ruin the immune system, and prisons were rampant with contagious diseases like hepatitis and tuberculosis.
Luke softened his voice to show compassion. “You will see progress, I promise. And you may get treatment for the Hep C someday. There’s some new drugs out there.”
“But not for Medicaid patients.”
They’d had this conversation too. He suspected she was just feeling lonely, maybe a little depressed. But he had too many other things on his mind. “Eventually, those meds will be available to everyone.” Luke stood, walked to the door, and opened it. “I still have more preparation for our mission tomorrow. Will you give me some space?”
She laughed. “You worry too much. Tomorrow will be easier than the damn fundraisers we’ve targeted. We’ll be alone in the house with lookouts on either end of the street.”
Her cavalier attitude reinforced his concerns. “Anything can happen, and if you don’t realize that, maybe you should excuse yourself tomorrow.”
Abby blinked and her mouth dropped open. “Are you telling me to stay home?” She raised her voice. “You think I’m a risk?”
“Carelessness is always a risk.”
“Fuck you. I’ll be fine.” She stormed out, shaking her head.
Luke breathed a sigh of relief. He sat down at his computer and opened a Google Earth image of the senator’s house. His cell phone rang, and he jumped a little. Boy, he was wound tight. Luke glanced at the ID: Jason. One of the only JRN members who knew how to contact him directly. Jason was a friend, but he didn’t officially know about the inner circle’s activities. Luke pressed the speaker button and answered the call.
“It’s Jason. Are you sitting down?”
Dread settled into his stomach. He opened his sock drawer, took out the anti-anxiety medication he’d bought online, and dissolved one under his tongue. He rarely took it, but sometimes he had PTSD prison nightmares he couldn’t shake. “I’m ready. What is it?”
“Judge Bidwell is dead. Murdered. He handled your case, right?”
His shoulders relaxed. “Yes, and I heard about the bribes too.”
Jason cleared his throat. “Did you see the breaking news? About the court clerk?”
The panic was back. “No. What?”
“Callie Sayers, who clerked for Bidwell for ten years, was murdered too.”
It took him a moment to process the full implications. “How and when did she die?” Maybe it had been a random coincidence.
“She was shot in the face sometime last week and dumped at a construction site.”
“Holy hell.” Luke turned back to his computer and googled her name to see if a news report would come up. Several did, and he started scanning, but the information was limited. Still, it was clear Callie Sayers had died before the judge. Had Bidwell killed her to keep her quiet? The evil motherfucker!
Jason made a nervous sound in his throat. “I’ll bet the police are looking for you.”
Another punch in the gut. He hadn’t considered that. Would the cops try to frame him for the murder? Maybe he had to rethink everything.
Chapter 27
Thursday, Oct. 9, 1:30 p.m.
Jocelyn read the ballistic section of the forensic report and caught herself grinding her teeth. She reached for some gum—she refused to wear the damn mouth guard during the day. She’d already heard from the ME that the gun was fired at close range, six feet or less, and that both bullets had exited the victim. Even if she found the killer and he still had possession of the weapon, without bullets or casings to compare grooves, it wouldn’t mean much. She stood to stretch, wishing she had an adjustable desk that would let her stand up at work. She’d asked for one, but the department had balked at the eight hundred dollars, saying she needed a doctor’s note. And she had no intention of seeing a doctor.
After a minute, she sat back down and called the victim’s cell phone carrier again. She needed the damn phone records to see who Callie had interacted with the day of her death. The killer had obviously disposed of her purse, phone, and shoes. Jocelyn suspected the victim had been tortured and shot in her car, and the bullets were embedded in the seatback. The vehicle, along with all her personal items, had probably been dumped into the river or dropped off at a crushing operation. She would have her partner look into that too.
Jocelyn had already contacted the organizers of the veteran’s event Callie had come to DC to attend. Her car wasn’t in their parking lot, and they had no way of knowing if she’d ever been there. This case was maddening. The perp was clearly someone who knew how to cover up a crime. Judge Bidwell was a prime suspect, but she couldn’t exactly bring him in for questioning. But she could look at his phone and credit card records to see where he’d been on Tuesday.
Knowing that her most likely suspect was dead had taken some of the time pressure off the investigation though. Now it was a matter of following up every lead and digging up all the little pieces of evidence to make a solid case. If she was right about Judge Bidwell, they would never go to court, but Callie’s family deserved closure, and the people of Virginia needed to know the whole truth. Jocelyn took a long drink of soda and opened a digital subpoena form.
“What are you working on?” Sergeant Murphy’s voice boomed behind her.
She turned and tried not to appear rattled. “A subpoena for Judge Bidwell’s phone records.”
“We have those, and I’ll get you a copy.”
Of course. The rest of the team was working to solve the judge’s murder. What a bizarre turn of events.
Murphy raised an eyebrow. “Anyone from the Justice department call you?”
“Not yet. Maybe now that Bidwell is dead, they closed out the charges against him and moved on. Callie Sayers may not be important to them.”
The sergeant brought his hands to his hips. “She ended up in our jurisdiction, so we will resolve this, even if her killer has already received his own brand of justice.”
That sounded like she would get some help with it. “Thanks. Anything new on the judge’s case?” Ross would want to know, and she’d been thinking about calling him.
“A surveillance camera caught someone leaving the parking garage on foot, but not the perp’s face. Slender, five-eight or nine, and dressed in all black.” The sergeant scowled. “Luke Maddox, your ex-husband’s favorite suspect, is that height, but when he left prison, he was two hundred pounds. So unless he’s lost a lot of weight, it wasn’t him.”
“The person leaving on foot might not be the killer either. The perp may have driven in and out.” She wasn’t defending Ross, just pointin
g out the obvious.
“We’ve looked at all the vehicle footage from the garage, and none of the license plates are connected to the judge or belong to any ex-cons that are connected to him.” Murphy still loomed over her.
Jocelyn stood to straighten her back and be at his level. “Has the team tracked the judge’s whereabouts for Tuesday evening?” She’d called Murphy on the drive home the day before to update him, so he knew Bidwell was a viable suspect in the clerk’s murder.
“His wife says he told her he went out to see a movie, but she thinks he was seeing another woman.”
An idea hit her. “Or a prostitute. My victim had a hooker’s ID. I haven’t found her yet, but she might know something about the judge.”
“Keep me posted.”
As soon as the sergeant walked away, her partner came into her workspace. John Snyder was chubby, pale as a ghost, and had no lips to speak of. When she’d first started working with him, she’d found him hard to look at, but now it didn’t matter.
“It’s about damn time.” She gave a half smile. “I’m glad you’re feeling better.”
“Me too. That was the worst case of flu I’ve ever had.” He grabbed the visitor’s chair and sat down. “I’m sorry I haven’t been here. But I’ve read your reports, and I feel like I’m up to speed. What can I do first?”
It was only fair to give him the grunt work. “Find a prostitute named Sherry Jones. I’d start with her cousin, Kaylin Parshelle. I’ve already been to Jones’ last known address, and it’s a dead end.”
Snyder’s smooth forehead crinkled. “Are you sure that’s a good use of my time?”
“The hooker’s ID was on the victim, so maybe she knows the killer.”
“I get it. What else?”
“Check out local junkyards and see if the victim’s car was brought in for crushing, then help me peruse her bank and phone records when they come in. We’re behind on this one because of the wrong ID.”
The Trap (Agent Dallas 3) Page 15