“You’re saying there’s a third person,” Noah said.
“I think that it’s highly likely. I’m not one hundred percent certain—Mallory has the capability of being a leader, he’s just never done it.” Hans steepled his fingers and looked up at the ceiling. “If there’s another player, a leader, then he’s lost someone close to him. One of the victims will connect back to him. I need more details about the murders. Dillon made a copy of Lucy’s files and I’m going to review them and see if there is another connection.”
Dillon commented, “Do you think there are more than three people involved? For crimes like this—in seven different states—it seems like they’d need a network.”
“It’s a small group,” Hans said. “A larger conspiracy wouldn’t have been able to keep such control over their activities for this long. There is no evidence at the crime scene that ties in with any other crime. That tells me they have money to buy and dispose of guns. They use the gun once, get rid of it, get another. Travel—Mallory could easily be traveling around the country. No ties to the city he kills in, the perfect assassin. I’d imagine there is at least one other involved, but he would be someone Mallory trusts. Mallory is the key—he knows who’s really in charge.”
Sean considered what Hans said, his mind running through all the possible people who could have organized such an elaborate and successful vigilante group. He’d call Duke as he left. Between his brother and J. T. Caruso, they had contacts all over the country.
Noah asked Hans, “Who’s the weak link?”
Hans weighed his thoughts carefully. “Frances Buckley, if interviewed properly, by a male in authority.” He glanced at Kate. “No offense, Kate.”
She waved off his comment. “I understand. She’s old school, considers women equals, men as superiors.”
“Not exactly,” Dillon said. “I think she has contempt for women.”
“Right,” Hans said, nodding.
“I don’t get it,” Sean said. “She’s fond of Lucy, or she’s a damn good liar.”
“You’re right, Sean, about Lucy,” Hans said. “Think of it this way. Fran is sixty. She joined the Bureau when few women did, when the mentality of the Hoover years was still dominant. She fought hard to earn what she had. Many of her contemporaries didn’t, or chose professions where they weren’t constantly butting heads with men. Right there she considers herself superior to most women—she chose the harder path.
“Next consider her chosen field since her retirement. Sexual predators. They prey on women and children. The weak, in her mind. She is protecting the weak. That puts her on higher ground. Couple that with crossing the line—not only is she legally working to protect the weak, she’s doing more. She’s risking her life and her freedom to protect other women and children—not herself.”
“Maybe not so much contempt,” Dillon said, “but a superiority complex. She’s doing what others refuse to do.”
“How do we make her talk?” Noah asked.
“Put Rick Stockton and Dillon in the room,” Hans said. “Rick is the ultimate authority, only a step down from FBI director, and well known as being tough but fair. He plays the role of hard-ass. Dillon commiserates with her, understands her, even commends her. Strokes her ego, lets her know that she’ll be admired and respected for doing the right thing in the face of overwhelming odds. No one understands the pressure she faces, et cetera.”
Dillon asked, “Isn’t this a conflict of interest for me?”
Hans shook his head. “Not with Buckley—and she’ll feel comfortable with you because she knows you, knows Lucy. It’ll work. But if we find Mallory? Stay far away from him.”
“You don’t have to tell me twice,” Dillon said.
Noah said, “I’ll call Stockton and get the warrants moving, then bring in Buckley.” He put up his hand to ward off any more comments. “You say Lucy is suspicious. Do you think Buckley might know we suspect her?”
Hans nodded. “She could be in denial, but it won’t last long—she’ll start destroying evidence.”
“If she hasn’t already,” Noah said. “We have nothing else—no hard evidence, no forensic evidence, no witnesses.”
“Lucy has a copy of everything she’d—”
Noah interrupted Kate. “A copy is good, but it’s not the original database, and there’s no guarantee that Lucy didn’t manipulate or change the data. I’m sure she didn’t,” he added quickly, “but prove that to the U.S. Attorney’s Office. We need all files, all computers, all backups—and if Lucy’s circumstantial evidence is good enough for a judge, we’ll get it before the end of today.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
Noah had made it clear that Sean should make himself available but stay away from the investigation. Kate pulled Sean aside and said the best thing he could do for them was keep an eye on Lucy until they resolved the WCF situation. Sean agreed, but he had several hours before he needed to pick up Lucy from the Medical Examiner’s Office. He couldn’t sit around doing nothing, so he went home to do his own research.
Because two of the people allegedly involved in the vigilante group were former FBI agents, Noah was playing the investigation close to the vest. He’d briefed Rick Stockton, who was apparently on board, but everything else was off the books. They didn’t want to tip off Mallory and Fran Buckley and give them a chance to disappear or destroy evidence. It would be extremely difficult to get a conviction, let alone an arrest, because they had no physical proof. Sean understood the pressure that Noah was under to get one of them to talk. Lucy’s discovery about the parolees being killed was a big red flag, but there was no hard proof that WCF had anything to do with it. The only physical evidence she had came from Cody Lorenzo, who’d taken one email out of the police report. They needed to prove that someone at WCF had used Lucy’s password, which means they needed the WCF records before they were destroyed, if they weren’t already.
And connecting it all to Morton? They could connect the dots, but the dots were all over the place and the overall picture was still unclear.
Sean called his brother Duke and filled him in. Even when they had disagreements, like they’d had earlier in this investigation, when it mattered, Duke would do whatever it took to help. He said he’d shake some trees and see what fell.
“You should know,” Duke said, “someone tried to run a background on you.”
Sean wasn’t surprised. “Who?”
“Don’t know, but it came from D.C.”
“The FBI?”
“I’d know if it was the FBI. This was private.”
He wondered who it was. Lorenzo? Fran Buckley? Or was it unrelated to this case?
“I can be there first thing in the morning. Just say the word,” Duke said.
“I have it under control. It’s not a solo operation—the FBI is in with both feet.”
“Be careful.”
Sean hung up and did his own search for Mick Mallory. It didn’t help that “Michael Mallory” was a common name. But Sean knew a few tricks and it didn’t take long to find him.
By searching newspaper archives, he found the article about the bombing that had killed Mallory’s family. Mallory’s name had been left out of it, and the victim—Janice Blair—and her son didn’t share Mallory’s last name, but this was the U.S. and car bombings were extremely rare.
Sean couldn’t find anything viable under Janice Blair or Michael Mallory or any combination of their names. He pulled up Janice Blair’s obituary and noted that Janice was the only child of Margaret-Ann Blair of Herndon. It didn’t take long from there to ascertain that the ninety-two-year-old woman was living in a rest home in Chevy Case, Maryland, but still owned property in Herndon. Sean had a hunch—if the mother-in-law was in a nursing home, who lived in her house?
It was noon. He had time to drive to Herndon and back before he had to pick up Lucy.
Sean went to his gun safe. He always had his nine-millimeter on him, but he liked the .45 best. He added a Taser and extra ammo and grabb
ed his keys. He was in his car when Dillon Kincaid drove up.
Sean almost sped off and pretended he didn’t see him, but Dillon caught his eye.
He rolled down the passenger window to talk but Dillon reached in, pulled up the lock, and slid into the seat.
“I’m going on an errand,” Sean told him.
“You’re going to see Mallory.”
“Why do you think that?”
“I’m good at my job.”
“What? Psychic?”
“Psychic, psychiatrist, they’re almost identical, aren’t they?”
“So you’ve analyzed me?”
“Am I wrong?”
Sean didn’t answer.
“I’m going with you.”
“No—”
“Why? Because it’s too dangerous and I’m not a cop?” Dillon shook his head. “Guess what? Neither are you.”
“Do you know where he lives?”
“No,” Dillon said. “I gather you already found him.”
“Kate’s going to kill me,” Sean muttered as he drove off.
“Probably.”
“Call her and let her know.”
“That we’re going to confront Mallory? She’ll kill me.”
“At least send her the address. We don’t know for certain that Mallory is living there, but I don’t want Noah Armstrong breathing down my neck, talking about obstruction of justice or any crap like that. I’m just feeling the situation out, not looking for a confrontation.” Sean didn’t know if that was the truth or not, but it sounded good.
Back at his cubicle in the FBI office, Noah quickly typed up the facts for Rick Stockton to push for a warrant for Frances Buckley and WCF. Stockton thought they had enough, but Noah was skeptical.
He went through the case methodically, glancing at both his and Abigail’s notes. He sent it off just as Sandy, the analyst who was working the case with them, emailed him the list of property owners on Eucalyptus Street in Somerset, and the two cross streets. He glanced at the list, then did a double-take.
Biggler.
He looked at the map, and the house owned by David and Brenda Biggler was vacant and had been up for sale for the last four months.
It couldn’t be a coincidence that Ralston had been an informant for Jerry Biggler.
Since Abigail was on her way back to Somerset, Noah quickly sent her a message to check out the house and talk to the neighbors about the Bigglers. He then ran a quick background check on the two. He immediately learned that they were not married as he’d first assumed, but brother and sister. The house had been owned by their father, Detective Jerry Biggler, who’d lived there until he died.
Definitely no coincidence.
David Biggler, thirty-four, was a high school English teacher. A teacher. Noah pulled up his photograph. He looked like a nice kid, though he was only a year younger than Noah. Biggler had a degree in American literature from John Hopkins University.
Brenda Biggler, twenty-six, was an attractive blond nurse.
A teacher and a nurse. Maybe he was wrong about this.
He looked closer at their history. David Biggler graduated only four years ago. Noah looked farther back. Biggler had enlisted in the Marines when he turned eighteen. Spent eight years active duty. Came home after his dad died and went to college.
Noah reviewed his notes on Mallory. He’d been a Marine as well. Coincidence?
Was Biggler part of this whole thing? Was he with Morton and Ralston—or Mallory and Buckley?
But why on earth would Biggler either help his father’s informant in a criminal enterprise or turn vigilante? Neither he nor his sister had any criminal record. David had been honorably discharged.
Noah considered what Hans Vigo had said about vigilante personalities and wondered if he was missing something in Biggler’s background. Where was the mother? Divorced when David was fourteen. She went to Arizona and remarried. It didn’t look like there was much communication between the kids and their mother, and it seemed odd that the father was given custody, especially more than two decades ago. He’d have to get an analyst to pull the case file, but there was no way he’d get it today.
It took Noah twenty minutes to find the connection, and he would never have found it if he wasn’t looking for one, or if he hadn’t talked to Hans this morning.
Four months before Mrs. Biggler filed for divorce, thirteen-year-old Nicole Biggler was raped and murdered by a known sex offender, released only three months before after serving four years for attempted rape of a fifteen-year-old.
Hans said that the vigilantes involved likely had lost someone to violence. Losing a sibling, coupled with the mother leaving, could have been the impetus that Biggler needed to turn vigilante. Just because he didn’t have a record didn’t mean he wasn’t a killer. And just because he was a teacher didn’t mean he couldn’t turn violent.
Biggler’s sister is killed, then his mother leaves him and his younger sister to the dad and moves nearly three thousand miles away. Biggler joins the Marines first chance he gets. Returns when dad is dying.
All the pieces by themselves made sense, but together Noah had a mess. Far too much conjecture and no solid evidence to link Biggler to Mallory or to Morton.
Noah leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. He had a few options, but none of them appealed to him. He could go to the high school and pick up Biggler now or wait until school let out. He could get his current address and wait for him at home. Or, they could simply put a tail on Biggler, and see where he went and what he did.
The last option seemed the most viable. Once they had a warrant for Fran Buckley and WCF, the news would get out and Biggler might rabbit. Noah needed eyes on him before then. If he pulled him in too soon, Noah might tip his hand.
TWENTY-NINE
Mallory’s mother-in-law’s house was thirty minutes away in Herndon on a secluded parcel of land. “I’ll knock,” Dillon said. “He knows me.”
“What makes you think he won’t shoot you on sight?”
“Jack saved his life.”
“Maybe he should have let him die.”
Dillon hesitated. “Mallory is heavily burdened and made huge errors in judgment. But if it weren’t for him sending Kate the longitude and latitude of the island where Lucy was held captive, we’d never have saved her in time. He nearly died because of it. He did the right thing.”
“Too late.”
“You’re not going to get an argument from me, but he’s not going to kill me.”
“You can’t be sure of that. It’s been six years.”
Sean didn’t like the idea of Dillon taking the lead, but they were already far off the reservation in disobeying Noah Armstrong’s direct orders to stay out of the investigation. Since Noah wasn’t his boss, Sean wasn’t taking it seriously, but they both knew that Kate could get some heat for their actions.
Dillon rang the bell. Sean peered into the garage. There was one car inside, but the garage could fit three.
There was no answer. Cautiously, they walked the perimeter of the house. The windows were covered by storm windows and the blinds were all drawn. Sean heard no movement inside. He put a small microphone in his ear and positioned a small amplifier close to the door.
Dillon motioned toward the device. Sean took out the earpiece and whispered, “It detects and amplifies sound and movement. Not foolproof, but it’s worked for me before.” He put the earpiece back in and listened for a good minute.
“I don’t think anyone’s home,” Sean said, taking out his lock pick.
“We’re not breaking in.”
“Go back to the car then.”
“Dammit, Sean!”
Sean popped the lock, then faced Dillon. “We’re in and out. I won’t take anything. You stand guard.”
“Sean—”
“All we need is information.”
Sean went inside and closed the door before Dillon could argue.
The house was extremely tidy, but there was a slight gr
easy smell. Sean checked the garbage in the kitchen. Someone had cooked a meal last night. No rotting food.
He searched the place quickly and saw nothing out of the ordinary. Then he went to Mallory’s den.
A computer. That was all Sean needed. He’d promised Dillon he wouldn’t take anything, but he hadn’t said he wouldn’t make a copy. He didn’t even try to boot up the computer, but took out a pocket computer and carefully removed the covering on the hard drive. He then hooked up two wires to the motherboard and copied all the data on the computer, making a perfect replication. He replaced everything and was about to leave when he saw two framed photographs on a small table next to a reading chair. His heart nearly stopped.
The larger photo had been taken on a beach: a young, beautiful brunette with a toddler in her arms. They were smiling. Mallory’s family.
But the second photo definitely had more interest for Sean. A younger Lucy, maybe nineteen. Just as beautiful as today, but her eyes were sad. The shot had been taken from afar with a zoom lens.
The fucking bastard.
Sean left and said to Dillon, “He has a picture of Lucy.”
“Anything else?”
“No. But I have a copy of his computer.”
“What did you do?”
“I didn’t disturb anything. Just made a copy.”
“Kate’s going to kill me.”
“We won’t tell her. Unless, of course, we have to.”
Sean looked back at the house as they drove off. Something was amiss—he had a strong sensation that Mallory was watching. Not from the house … Sean looked around the perimeter. There were plenty of trees and shrubs he could be hiding in.
He had an idea.
Dillon sat patiently in the passenger seat. How could he be so calm? The minutes ticked by and Sean wondered if he’d been wrong and Mallory hadn’t been watching the house while he searched it.
No. Sean never doubted his instincts. When they hummed, he listened. And from the minute he stepped foot outside Mallory’s house, his instincts had been beating the drums like John Bonham. Mallory had been watching. He was waiting for them to leave. For how long? Until he was sure they were gone. There were only two ways out of this neighborhood—on foot and by car. One entrance into the neighborhood by car. Could he have come on foot? In the ice and snow? Possible, but unlikely. And Sean didn’t see Mallory as the type to be without transportation.
Mortal Sin Page 24