Lara’s heart squeezed with commiseration for James. He was hoping to exonerate a brother from a heinous act just as she wanted to clear her father’s name.
“We still haven’t found William’s laptop which might contain some answers. I think all the trash bins in the area need to be checked.”
Victoria nodded. “I’ll make sure that’s done before I leave here today.” She leaned forward, her eyes tired but her gaze intense. “Keep digging, Lara. We desperately need some answers. I’ve got everyone exploring every avenue possible but we’re all at dead ends and I can’t tell you the pressure I’m under to get results.”
She sat back and frowned, as if embarrassed by the uncharacteristic outburst. “I’m sorry. I know everyone is doing everything possible. Go home. Tomorrow is another day.”
A half an hour later Lara was on the train headed home. She leaned her head back and closed her eyes, knowing that it was going to be one of those long nights.
There was no way her racing brain was going to quiet anytime soon. Right now it screamed inside her skull, trying to sort through all the information the team had gathered since the first bomb had gone off on 34th Street.
An anonymous bomber with no apparent motive, designated survivors who were saved by the promise of a free concert, and a gay politician. How on earth did they all tie together?
Had somebody threatened William with exposure? Even if that was the case, what did that have to do with the note he wrote claiming responsibility for the bomb?
Why pick a smoothie shop and a police precinct? What was the reason? Where was the damned connection? Why would a Brooklyn Borough president with a bright and shining future set a bomb and then kill himself? If he was being blackmailed, then how in the hell did that tie in to the bomb? God, it was all so damned confusing.
Her thoughts shifted to her boss. Victoria rarely lost her composure. She’d been more emotional than Lara had seen her for a long time when she’d stopped in her office. The pressure on her had to be enormous. The top brass would be leaning hard on her.
It was the end of another long day and frustration gnawed at Lara’s belly. Instead of new information providing answers, it had only added to the questions.
She roused herself from her thoughts long enough to get off the train and head toward her apartment building. Night had fallen unusually early tonight given the thick clouds that had moved in during the afternoon.
A chilly wind blew from the north and the smell of impending rain was in the air. She’d gone only a couple of steps when she thought she heard the faint slap of a footfall behind her.
She whirled around, every nerve ending screaming inside her. She stood frozen, staring down the sidewalk. Nobody. In spite of the darkness she didn’t see anyone behind her.
A couple of dried leaves skittered across the sidewalk. Relax, she told herself. That was probably what she’d heard, no footsteps, but rather autumn leaves dancing on the wind.
Jesus, she was on edge. She was always acutely aware of her surroundings, never knowing if one of Moretti’s thugs or somebody else she’d helped put in jail might try for some retribution. Now she had the potential of dirty politics and even dirtier blackmail to add to her edginess.
She turned back around and hurried down the sidewalk, eager to get inside her apartment where she could completely relax.
“Evening, Ms. Grant,” Freddy Anwar, the doorman, greeted her with his usual pleasant smile.
“Hi, Freddy,” she replied. “I think we’re in for some rain.”
“Weather report is only calling for drizzle,” he replied. “But of course the reports don’t always get it right.”
“Isn’t that the truth,” she replied and then waved a good-night and stepped into the elevator.
Once she was inside her apartment she took a quick shower and pulled on a nightshirt, then zapped some leftover Chinese food in the microwave.
When dinner was ready she carried it to the coffee table and ate while she went over William Walsh’s banking statements. It took her almost two hours to get through them. By that time her leftover sweet-and-sour chicken was gone along with any whispering doubts she might have entertained about James. Just as he had told her, his brother’s banking statements held nothing remarkable. There was nothing in them that would raise a single red flag.
She almost felt guilty about double-checking James’s work. Almost...but not quite. There would be some cynical eyes watching over this investigation and she was determined to make sure it was clean of any impropriety.
She shoved the paperwork back in her bag and then told herself it would be a good idea to go straight to bed, but as usual lately she knew she wasn’t going to listen to her own good advice.
Her office and the investigation into her mother’s death called to her, as it did almost every night now, and no matter how hard she tried she couldn’t resist the siren song.
Minutes later she sat at her desk and stared at the case files her father had been working at the time of his wife’s death.
She’d been through them a hundred times already. Instead of pulling them all out yet again, she leaned back in her chair as the contents of the files swam through her mind.
Her father hadn’t just been involved in the ordinary crimes that plagued a big city, but had also been instrumental in several high-profile cases. Still, nothing she’d found in any of them had given her a clue as to what had happened to her mother.
And she still hadn’t heard anything from Josh Inman about the gun she’d found in her mother’s old hope chest. She released a deep sigh and closed her eyes.
What had her mother gone through on that horrible day? Lara had never gotten the impression that Anna was afraid of her husband. When Lara’s father had started a screaming argument with her, Anna had always held her own against him.
Although Lara’s impression of her mother was that she’d been sweet, and usually soft-spoken, Anna had not been a shrinking violet. She’d met her husband head-to-head when he went into one of his yelling, jealous fits.
Had she been afraid of somebody else in her life? A neighbor perhaps? There was no indication that anyone had been giving her trouble at the time of her death. There had been no reports of stalking or frightening phone calls.
At the time Lara’s father had been interviewed he’d been unable to name a single person who might harbor any ill will toward his wife.
Lara squeezed her eyes more tightly closed. Anna had been killed in the kitchen, where she’d been cooking a pot roast with potatoes and carrots for dinner.
As far as the evidence had shown, Anna had done laundry and chatted on the phone with a friend in the morning. It had been like any other ordinary day.
What terror she must have felt when she’d been confronted by somebody in the sanctity of her own kitchen. What horror must have swept through her when she’d been challenged by somebody wielding a baseball bat or something like it as a weapon.
And what incredible pain she must have gone through when she had been beaten so savagely. Lara couldn’t imagine the last minutes of Anna Grant’s life, it was simply too painful to even attempt to visualize in her mind.
It was bad enough that the memory of walking into the house where the air smelled of the simmering roast and finding her mother’s broken and bloody body on the floor was burned into her brain forever. Even now the scent of roast beef could throw Lara into a dark flashback to that horrible day.
Despite the embittered relationship she’d shared with her father, she would never believe that he was capable of so brutally destroying the woman he loved.
Like James, all she wanted was the truth. Dammit, she needed answers. And she would stop at nothing to get them. Even if it killed her.
Chapter Six
“Laura and Nick, can I speak to you in my office?” Victo
ria asked as the morning briefing broke up.
“Of course,” they both replied and followed their boss into her private domain. The briefing had yielded nothing new and everyone was holding their breath, hoping that Homeland had the bad guys under wraps, although there was still no known tie to the people who had been arrested and William and David.
“Homeland has invited you two to watch the interrogation of Miranda Connelly. Unfortunately her husband has already lawyered up,” Victoria said.
“And she hasn’t?” Lara asked in surprise.
“Not so far. I believe they’ve already started the interrogation.”
“What about Mohammed Johnson?” Nick asked.
“He also has a lawyer, although none of the three have been charged with anything yet,” Victoria replied.
“I’m in. It’s always nice to see how the other half lives,” Lara said half-jokingly. The Homeland Security offices were much sleeker and more updated than the CMU workplace.
“Why haven’t they already talked to her?” Nick asked.
“They kept her on ice for a while to make her more eager to talk,” Victoria explained.
“And what about all the students that were taken in?” Lara asked, remembering the sobbing girls and the young man worried about possessing three joints.
“They’ve all been released. With the third floor door being locked and only the owners having access, there was nothing to charge the four students with, although the house where they all live is now a crime scene. I’m sure Homeland intends to keep an eye on them until the investigation is concluded.”
Lara looked at Nick. “Ready?”
Minutes later she and Nick rode the elevator to the third floor where the Homeland offices were located. “I’m hoping this is the end of the bombs,” Nick said.
“That makes two of us. Your snitch definitely came through for you.”
“Yeah, I never know with him, but I’m glad this tip panned out the way it did.”
The elevator doors opened and they walked side by side down the hallway to the Homeland Security offices. An agent was waiting for them in the lobby. He greeted them and then escorted them down a corridor to a small room designed for those who wanted to watch an interrogation through a large two-way window. The leather chairs were cushy, but as she and Nick sat down her entire focus was on what was happening in the interrogation room.
Agent Warwick sat across the table from a slender dark-haired woman Lara assumed was Miranda Connelly. Another agent stood by the door inside the room. Miranda’s hair was in disarray and her face was unnaturally pale. Apparently her time in a jail cell hadn’t been kind to her.
“Please, just let me speak to Jeff.” Her low voice held a breathy anxiety. “I’m sure this is all a mistake. I don’t know anything about bomb-making items in our rental house. I just need to talk to Jeff.”
“According to the people who rented rooms in your house your husband had a key to the third floor and came and went from there,” Warwick replied. “You had no idea what your husband was doing?”
“None, but I don’t care what he’s done. I want to talk to him. I need to talk to him.” She lowered her face into her hands and began to weep.
Warwick threw up his hands and left the room. He greeted Nick and Lara with a grim smile. “I’ve been at it with her for the past half an hour and I can’t get anywhere with her. All she keeps saying is that she doesn’t care what her husband has done, she wants to see him.”
“Mind if I have a go at it?” Lara asked. “You know...woman to woman.”
“Be my guest,” Warwick replied. “Maybe you’ll be able to get something out of her. She was Mirandized, but waived her right to council.”
“Let’s see what a woman’s touch can do.” Lara got out of the chair and headed to the doorway into the interrogation room. Even though she’d only seen a minute of the interview, something felt off to her. Would an innocent woman who had discovered her husband had been hoarding bomb-making items want to speak with him? Would she so desperately want to see the man potentially behind the two bombings that had killed dozens of people?
She entered the room. “Hello, Mrs. Connelly. I’m FBI Agent Lara Grant.”
Miranda pulled her hands from her face. Despite her shoulders shaking with her weeping, her eyes were remarkably dry. Interesting, Lara thought as she took the seat opposite the woman.
“Maybe you can help me,” Miranda said. “They won’t allow me to speak to my husband. Surely as a woman you understand how badly I need to see him.”
“I know this is a trying time for you,” Lara replied sympathetically. “You do realize your husband is a suspect in the two bombings that have taken place. He might be responsible for dozens of deaths and even more injuries.”
“I don’t care. I just need to talk to him. I want to help but first I want to speak to Jeff.” Where was the shock? The pain of betrayal by a loved one? Where was the utter horror of realizing she’d been married to a man who had done monstrous things?
Miranda’s desperate need to speak with her husband just didn’t ring true to Lara. “I understand what you’re going through,” Lara replied smoothly. “Do you mind if I tell you a little story about myself?”
Miranda looked at her in confusion. “Okay.”
Lara told her about her time undercover, about falling in love with the man she believed was a gunrunner only to find out he was the horrid Moretti. “I know about the piercing pain of finding out the man you love is really a monster.”
Miranda leaned forward. “That’s why I need to talk to Jeff.”
Something wasn’t right. Lara knew what it was like to struggle with the belief that a loved one could be the person you hated. Where was Miranda’s outrage? And that’s why she didn’t believe Miranda. She was too desperate to see Jeff. If she believed that Jeff was the bomber and had betrayed her, then she wouldn’t want to go anywhere near him.
“How do you know Mohammad Johnson?” Lara asked.
Miranda frowned. “Who?”
“He’s a man who has been to your rental house several times.”
“I don’t know who comes and goes from there. Ask one of the people who live there who he is because I have no idea.”
Lara believed her. Maybe by making small talk for a few minutes she might get the woman to open up even more. “I understand that your father left you the house in Brooklyn along with a small fortune.”
Something dark and disturbing danced in the depths of Miranda’s eyes. “My father was a selfish, cold asshole,” she retorted. “He was like all the rest of the Wall Street fat cats, rolling in their money and laughing at the poor and disenfranchised.”
Lara sat up straighter. She’d obviously touched a nerve and there was nothing she liked more than to exploit a weakness in an effort to get more information. “Sounds like you aren’t a big fan of Wall Street.”
“It’s Satan’s playground,” she replied.
“So, what are you? An Occupy Wall Street type?”
“That was a pathetic attempt to draw attention to a real problem,” she scoffed. “I know how to make people take notice. And trust me, people are going to take notice.”
“Does Jeff share your same sentiments?”
“Jeff does whatever I tell him to do as long as he gets to sleep with me.” She quickly pressed her lips together in an angry slash as if aware she’d already said too much.
Lara leaned back in her chair with a faint sense of satisfaction. Miranda Connelly was no victim. Lara suspected she was the brains behind whatever was going on. “So the items in your rental house were to wake up Wall Street?”
Miranda blinked, raised her chin and said nothing.
“And the bombing of the smoothie shop and the police precinct were just the beginning of your plan? To make sure people
noticed you?”
“I want to speak to Jeff,” she replied.
Lara leaned forward once again. “As we speak, Homeland agents are ripping your life apart stitch by stitch. They’re going to find out all of your secrets, Miranda.”
“Fuck them...and fuck you. I’m done talking.” She sat back in her chair and crossed her arms, her eyes holding a hard glint.
Just as Lara had suspected there was far more to Miranda than the helpless, dependent role she’d portrayed. She was also sure that Miranda meant it when she’d said she was done talking. Lara got up from the table and left the room.
“Good work,” Warwick said in obvious admiration.
“I wish I could have gotten more out of her,” Lara replied. “I might have pushed too hard too quickly.”
“You made her show her real colors and that was more than I got her to do,” he replied. “How did you know she had daddy issues?”
“I didn’t,” Lara admitted. “But it’s a little ironic that she hates the Wall Street fat cats, but apparently doesn’t have any problems spending daddy’s money. Didn’t you all bring them in from a resort upstate?”
“Yeah, she and her hubby were dining in bed in a five-star hotel.”
“So where do any charges against them stand?” Nick asked.
“They’re both facing terrorism charges. We have enough evidence and we’ll officially book them this afternoon,” Warwick replied. “Although without any indication of a foreign entity at work I imagine it won’t be long before we back off this and hand it over to the FBI. Still, they meet the statutory requirements to be charged with terrorism simply because they intended their actions to force social change.”
“So, you really think they’re our bombers?” Nick asked as the three of them left the interrogation area and headed for the front office.
“We haven’t specifically tied them to the two bombings, but they had the means and Miranda just spoke of a motive, so I think the odds are good that they’re guilty. Of course we intend to keep investigating as I’m sure the FBI intends to do, and hopefully we can tie up all the pieces in a pretty bow,” Warwick replied.
Tough Justice: Countdown Box Set Page 14