by Ian Smith
Hanlon cleared his throat. He wasn't sure what Sterling Bledsoe did for a living, but it was obvious that he wasn't unfamiliar with police work. Bluffing would be a waste of time. “Mr. Bledsoe, typically we'd wait a little longer before entering someone into the computer. There's no reason to suspect any criminal activity or anything like that, at least not yet. We are, however, putting all available manpower on it. We realize that your brother isn't just anyone. He recently won that science award and a helluva lot of money.”
“Big fucking deal about the award,” Sterling shot back. “He also won the Nobel and nothing happened.”
“That I know,” Hanlon said. “But this is worth $2 million, double what the Nobel's worth.”
Sterling knew damn well how much money his older brother had just won. He didn't need to hear it from some local cop who didn't even know which countries sponsored the awards. Sterling's gut was already churning and it was telling him that money wasn't the motive. Wilson was a frumpy academic, not some industrial titan. He and Kay had plenty of money, but they lived a pretty simple life. Not too many people would have a sense of how much they were actually worth.
“Have you called state yet?” Sterling asked.
“No, we're still treating this as a local matter between us and the department in Vermont,” Hanlon said. “The investigation is just beginning. If the time comes when we need to bring them in, we will, of course, make the call.”
“Where exactly did Kay say he was when she spoke to him last?” Sterling was in his apartment in New York City, but he was thinking like he was in Quantico.
“He was still in the car, just a few minutes from home.”
“Did she get an exact location?”
“No, just that he was stopping somewhere on River Road, not far from the house.”
“Is the area secured?” Sterling had already mapped out the scene in his mind.
“Like I said, Mr. Bledsoe, we're just beginning our investigation.” Hanlon's voice wasn't friendly. “It's been less than ten hours since he was last heard from. It takes some time to gather all the facts and put everything together.”
“Goddammit, Hanlon! If this is a missing person case, there's not a second to spare. Every tick of the clock can mean the difference between life or death. If River Road was his last identified location, don't you think it would make a world of sense to secure the area? Random car traffic or even roaming animals can destroy any evidence that's there.”
There was a pause at the other end. “Anything else, sir?” Hanlon sighed.
“Yeah. Tell Kay I'm on the next goddamn plane!”
4
Sterling Bledsoe moved quickly and silently, packing enough clothes to last him a few days. He was more nervous than he wanted to let on, which is why he decided not to wake Veronica until he was heading out the door. Getting her upset wouldn't do either of them any good.
He walked into his small study and quietly closed the door behind him. He pulled out a small notebook that had been taped underneath his desk. He thumbed through the names of some of the most powerful people in Washington and stopped on Daniel J. Murphy, director of the FBI.
The phone rang once. “Murphy here.” Even at five in the morning, the director growled like a man in charge.
“It's Bledsoe, Murph,” Sterling said. “I've got some trouble up here.”
“A student of yours has finally figured out what you really do for a living,” Murphy cracked. One of the deals he had made with Sterling to keep him from leaving the Bureau was to allow him to teach an anatomy course at Hunter College one semester a year. Murphy never understood why it mattered so much to one of his top investigators to teach at some dinky city school.
“Wilson is missing,” Sterling said.
Murphy's voice tightened. “How long?”
“About ten hours, from what I can gather. But who knows with the locals.”
“Sorry to hear that, Sterling.” He knew as well as Sterling that finding a missing person alive was always a race against the clock. The first twenty-four hours were critical. After that, the chance of a happy reunion dropped drastically with every passing minute. “Was he up at Dartmouth?”
“Yup. That's where I'm heading right now.”
“Have they called us in yet?”
“No, but I'm sure they will soon.”
“Anything suspicious?”
“A $2 million science award just hit the bottom of his bank account.”
“Holy shit. You think it's a kidnapping?”
“I doubt it, which makes me feel even worse. Kidnappers would want him alive. Whatever the hell it is, I don't feel good about it. I need a favor, Murph.”
“Shoot.”
“If we get the call, I want to lead the case.”
Murphy let out a sigh. “Sterling, you know I can't do that. Against policy.”
“Fuck policy, Murph. This is my brother we're talking about. I want the case.”
“Goddammit, Sterling,” Murphy groaned. “You're putting me in a tough position. Sixteen Hundred will be down my throat if you fuck this up.” Sixteen Hundred was their internal code name for the White House.
“So I'm in?”
“Every bone in my body tells me to keep you out.”
“Murph, you know me. I can do it by the book with your blessing or I can do it on my own. It's your call.”
“Doesn't sound like I have much of a goddamn choice.”
“Thanks, Murph. I owe you.”
“Be careful, Sterling. And for Chrissake keep a level head.”
“Don't I always?” Sterling said before hanging up. He really didn't want to hear the director's answer.
Sterling loaded his shield, his Beretta Tomcat because it was easiest to conceal, and several bullet magazines into his travel bag. Though most of his work centered on evidence collection and analysis, he always left home prepared. He returned to his bedroom to finish packing.
There were several things already bothering him about the call from Hanover. He didn't like it that Kay, who was always under control, was too distraught to speak. Then there was Hanlon, the local tight-ass, practically reading his answers from a police academy training manual. He had good reason to doubt the locals' ability to handle a case like this, especially if it really turned into something. Hanover was a quiet town centered on the college. Crime wasn't a part of their everyday lives; they weren't likely to have the kind of experience needed to crack a case like this.
Just as troubling to Sterling was his relationship with his only brother. Sterling didn't know Wilson—not like brothers should. In fact, he had spent most of his life hating Wilson, the chosen one in the Bledsoe household. Pops was constantly rambling about Wilson's success, and his mother openly worshipped him. Sterling's whole childhood was spent trying to figure out ways to escape his brother's shadow, but the comparisons were always there.
The fifteen years that separated the two brothers had something to do with their emotional distance, but Sterling's deep sense of inferiority played a much larger role. Nothing he did was ever good enough. If he proudly brought home a report card with all A's and one B+, his father glanced at it and reminded him that Wilson had had a perfect card all the way through high school. And when Sterling made the basketball team, his mother murmured that Wilson had been the champion of the chess team and won the state tournament two years in a row.
Sterling had acquired his love for science only through a desire to surpass Wilson. He decided, however, to distinguish himself in a different field. Sterling's choice was anatomy. In childhood, he had dissected the dead mice and birds his cat dragged home late at night. He loved probing the striated muscles and following the tiny network of blood vessels. It was his mastery of anatomy, both animal and human, that had put him on the fast track in the world of homicide. His college professor, a retired FBI agent himself, had discreetly suggested to Sterling after class that the Bureau could use a smart, ambitious young man like him.
For an ent
ire year, Professor Martin Gilden, ex–field office director of the FBI, tutored his favorite student on the nonclassified inner workings of the Bureau. He delighted the impressionable Sterling with grand stories of horrible crimes solved by great detective work. The Bureau was a special place, he had assured Sterling Bledsoe, but it wasn't a place for those who dreamed of stardom. Many would benefit from his work, but most if not all of his efforts would be conducted in anonymity. The Bureau was full of unsung heroes, definitely not the place for those seeking celebrity. One afternoon, Gilden sketched a career outline that would shape young Sterling's behavior. He needed to keep up his grades, stay on the right side of the law, and always run in the opposite direction from trouble. If he could accomplish all three and was serious about a future in the Bureau, Gilden would make the necessary calls.
Sterling followed the outline to the letter, and Professor Gilden stayed true to his word. Sterling began just like the others, with a mandatory two-year training period, but in short order ambition and guts earned him a promotion and assignment to the most elite homicide unit. He led a team that was only called in on special cases—high-profile crimes or when the political stakes were so great that the director couldn't afford a botched investigation. Through the years, Sterling had earned a name for himself, twice receiving commendations from the director. Everyone in Justice, from the attorney general on down, regarded Agent Bledsoe as a comer.
Veronica opened her eyes as Sterling came back into the bedroom. She was gorgeous, like all his women. Wilson may have gotten their parents' attention, but it was Sterling who had always gotten the attention from women. He was tall and tightly muscled, and even as an adolescent, a flash of his smile would make married women fidget nervously.
“Where were you last night, baby?” Veronica purred in a morning voice that had made him late to class on more than one occasion. One of her long, toned legs was uncovered. Seeing it took some edge off his tension.
“I was over at the school finishing up a few things.”
“But I waited up for you well past midnight.”
“And I'm sorry for that. I should have called.” He reached down and kissed her on the forehead, then he walked to the closet and pulled out a sweatsuit and running shoes. He was in no mood for being questioned.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“Something's wrong up in Hanover,” he said, stuffing more clothes into the suitcase. “They can't find Wilson.”
“What happened?”
“He's been missing for ten hours.”
“Where is he?” Veronica was the most beautiful girl that Sterling had ever dated, but she was certainly not the smartest, especially so early in the morning.
“They don't know, Ronnie,” he answered teasingly. “That's why he's considered missing.”
“It's too early for me to think,” she said, slowly bending her exposed leg. She yawned but didn't bother to cover her mouth. Sometimes she had the manners of a guy, and when she did things like not cover her mouth it made her even sexier. Sterling fought the temptation to meet her back under the covers.
“I'll call you when I figure this out,” Sterling said. He reached for a quick kiss, but she pulled him down farther and explored the inside of his mouth.
“That's so you won't forget about me,” she said, finally releasing him. She fell back against the pillow.
“Little chance of that.” He smiled. “Do me a favor and leave a note for the students on my office door. Cancel office hours for next Monday and Wednesday, but I'll be back for class next Friday.” Sterling spoke with his usual confidence, but a bad feeling in his gut told him that his plan to be back in a week was overly optimistic.
5
Sterling grabbed his suitcase and caught the elevator down to his garage. Most New York City apartment buildings didn't have garages in the basement, and those that did weren't cheap. Though Sterling made decent money and lived well, he wasn't rich, but he had bought his apartment just after the stock market crash, when the once almighty dot-commers were forced to practically give their apartments away. It also didn't hurt that Pops Bledsoe had lived an excessively frugal life and saved a bundle. That, combined with the life insurance money, allowed the two sons to split a rather generous inheritance with their mother. Wilson saved his money, but Sterling used his to buy the apartment, and what was left over he poured into a life of fast cars and beautiful women.
He jumped into the shiny black Porsche 911 and turned on the ignition. The twin turbo engine roared awake, then settled on a loud hum. He pulled his cell phone from his jacket and dialed.
A woman answered. “Travel.”
“SA 2378,” Sterling said. “Reservation for one this morning.”
“Agent Bledsoe? Is that you?”
“Ten-four,” Sterling answered. “Monica?”
“Yes, sir,” she said. “It's so good to hear your voice again.”
“Yeah, it's been a while,” Sterling said. “I've been on hiatus.”
“I hope you enjoyed it. Where are you going now?”
“Hanover, New Hampshire, just outside of Lebanon.”
“Lebanon, New Hampshire?” she repeated. “I don't think I've ever sent anyone there before.”
“No good reason to,” Sterling added. “It's a small, out-of-the-way kind of place in the mountains. Not much action up there. Most of the work in the area is handled by our field offices in Boston or Albany.”
“When do you want to leave?”
“The next flight out of any New York City airport.”
“Let me see what I have.”
Sterling could hear Monica's rapid-fire typing. She had booked most of his travel since he joined the Bureau, and he liked it that way. Only the higher-ups were allowed to fly first class, but when Sterling playfully whispered to Monica, she always found a way to bend the rules. The irony was that after all these years he had never met her in person. The travel offices were somewhere in North Carolina. Several times he had promised that he'd stop by if a case brought him down there, but the closest he'd ever got was Atlanta for a grisly drug-trafficking case. Twenty-five bodies in all, including five cops. He was there for three weeks straight, but still couldn't string together enough free time to drive up and see her. To this day, he regretted the missed opportunity; a few agents from the Charlotte field office who had seen her happily reported to Sterling that he'd made a big mistake.
“There's a flight at seven o'clock out of La Guardia,” she said. “Are you close to there?”
“Twenty minutes away this time of morning,” Sterling said. “How long is the flight?”
“Only an hour and fifteen minutes. Nonstop. You arrive at eight fifteen. US Airways flight 5991.”
“Good, that gives me a few minutes to grab something before we take off.”
“It's a Beechcraft 1900,” Monica added. She remembered that SA 2378 liked to know detailed information about the plane he'd be flying on. She thought it was odd the first time he asked, but then he explained about a college friend of his who was going home to West Virginia for Christmas break. He didn't like flying the small puddle jumpers into Morgantown, so his parents always picked him up at the Pittsburgh airport and drove the hour and a half home. No one was available to come get him this particular Christmas, so he'd agreed to fly the rest of the way from Pittsburgh. The plane went down on a heavily wooded mountainside, killing all nine passengers and the two-man crew. The pilot's body was the only one recovered whole. The rest had been shredded or burned—barely recognizable body parts hung from trees like snared kites.
“Capacity?” he asked.
“Nineteen max.”
“Accidents?”
“First commercial flight was 1979. Fifteen accidents. The first on November 23, 1987. Many of them were out of the country. Two hundred eighty-two casualties total. Last accident September fourteenth of last year. Two occupants, no one died.”
“Where was it?”
“St. John's, Newfoundland,”
she replied. “Agent Bledsoe, this plane has one of the best safety records in its class.”
“Thanks, Monica. Grab a seat for me.”
“Won't be a problem,” she assured him. “Only three others on the flight.”
“And, Monica, see if you can get me a rental car. I have a feeling I'm gonna need to get around up there.”
“Something fast, preferably a convertible.” Monica remembered everything. That's why the agents loved it when she answered the call.
“You're the best,” Sterling said. “We'd be lost without you.”
“Anytime, SA 2378. Don't be a stranger.”
“When I'm down your way, I'll look you up.”
“As always.”
Sterling burned rubber out of his garage. It was almost six o'clock. He needed a tall glass of freshly squeezed orange juice and a warm bagel. He also wanted to get the early editions of the national papers to see if there was any mention of Wilson's disappearance. Unlikely, but worth a check anyway. He had to hurry, however. Security at the airports was ironclad even with his FBI credentials.
An image of Wilson flashed in his mind. They had grown a little closer during the last few years. They had most recently seen each other over New Year's, when Wilson and Kay spent the weekend in the city. They all went to a big party at the Rainbow Room overlooking the skating rink and Christmas tree in Rockefeller Plaza. That night, as he watched them holding hands and giggling, he found himself once again envious of his brother's marriage. Sterling wondered if maybe a wife would bring more calm in his own life. Wilson was so content as they looked out over the city, sixty-five floors in the sky. It doesn't get much better than this. His eyes had a gleam that night that Sterling had never seen before. The look of a man at peace with himself and the world around him.
Sadness, mixed with anger and guilt, misted Sterling's eyes as he raced the Porsche across 70th Street and turned onto a deserted Third Avenue. In less than an hour he'd be on his way to the tiny town of Hanover. He promised God that if he found his brother alive, he'd never ask for another blessing as long as he lived.