Identity Unknown

by Debra Webb

  “Remember that receptionist at Peyton and Wyatt?”

  “Definitely.” Hope rose in her voice once more. “Do you think we could talk to her outside the office? She might open up if she doesn’t have to fear any repercussions from her boss.”

  “Exactly.” Patrick sent Sande a warm smile. For a civilian she was damned good at this. “I’ll ask Windy to track her down and see how receptive she is to talking.” He took a right at the next intersection. “Meanwhile, we’re going to visit Agent Wheeler and find out why he’s not returning the voice mails Cates left.”

  And anything else Patrick could prompt from the seemingly behind-the-scenes agent.

  Patrick entered the number he had memorized into his cell, expecting to get Wheeler’s answering machine. To his surprise, the agent answered.

  Even more surprising, he was quite willing to meet with them. Now. All they had to do was name the place.

  Special Agent Wheeler’s training obviously hadn’t included one primary element the Colby Agency’s training covered thoroughly: always assume the home field advantage.

  The Colby Agency.

  Patrick’s home turf.

  HER HEART THUMPING WILDLY, Sande stepped off the elevator into the Colby Agency lobby.

  Wow. She had expected nice, but this went way beyond nice. Lush carpeting and deep, rich colors.

  Classic fine furnishings. The atmosphere evoked a sense of welcome, as well as an assurance that only the very best would call this place home.

  “Patrick, Agent Wheeler is waiting in your office,” the receptionist announced as O’Brien passed her desk.

  He thanked her without pausing. Sande scarcely had time to return the woman’s smile as she hurried to keep up with O’Brien’s long strides.

  At the door to his office he stopped and waited for her to enter first. Sande walked, part of her hoping to glean something about the man from his work environment. But instead, her attention was snagged by the visitor standing on the other side of the room, staring out the window. There was something vaguely familiar about his posture and the color of his hair…

  He turned around slowly.

  Sande’s breath caught.

  It was him.

  The man she’d seen in the coffee shop.

  The one she was certain she knew from somewhere.

  Special Agent Wheeler smiled broadly and reached up to remove his dark eyewear. “Mr. O’Brien.” He settled his gaze on Sande. “Ms. Williams. I had hoped we could come together like this.”

  Somehow, Sande managed to sit down in the closest chair. She wasn’t sure how much longer her legs would have held her upright.

  How did she know this man?

  Equal parts fire and ice rushed over her skin. She couldn’t decide if she was freezing or burning up. A sharp pain pierced deep inside her skull.

  O’Brien offered his hand to their visitor. “I’m certain we’ve met, Agent Wheeler,” he said, his tone all business and nothing short of direct. “You look vaguely familiar to me.”

  Sande didn’t know if O’Brien recognized him from the coffee shop or if he was merely fishing.

  “We have, indeed, Mr. O’Brien.” Wheeler shook the offered hand, then shifted his eyes toward Sande. “At the coffee shop this morning. I noticed the two of you there when I made my morning stop.”

  “Have you spoken to Detective Cates in the last hour?” O’Brien gestured for him to have a seat as he rounded his desk.

  “Yes.” The agent lowered himself into a chair near Sande. “I spoke with him perhaps ten minutes ago.”

  “Then you know Detective Lyons was murdered this morning.”

  Wheeler gave a nod of acknowledgment. “Tragic.”

  Sande watched the man, finding his cool demeanor infuriated her beyond reason.

  O’Brien nodded. “Yes, tragic is an apt description.”

  Wheeler crossed one leg over the over and leaned back in his seat as if he owned the meeting. “Cates mentioned that you had questions regarding the case Detective Lyons and I were working.”

  The rest of the conversation was lost on Sande. She couldn’t stop staring at the man. She knew him. Somehow. His mannerisms. His bearing. Everything about him was innately familiar.

  Her thoughts jolted back to the conversation just as Agent Wheeler stood, announcing the meeting was over.

  “Feel free to call if there’s any way I can assist your investigation, Mr. O’Brien.” He turned to Sande. “Ms. Williams, good luck with your quest.” He slipped his sunglasses back into place and walked away.

  Confused, Sande looked at O’Brien. “I was a little preoccupied just now. But did we learn anything? I mean—” she glanced toward the door the agent had only moments ago vanished through “—he was in and out with scarcely a sentence between.”

  O’Brien appeared almost as confused as Sande felt. “We now know that the Bureau was allowing Lyons to lead on this one. Wheeler claims his only interest in the case was in an advisory capacity. That’s it.”

  The pain that had started deep in her skull started to throb in time with the pounding in her chest. “Do you believe him?” Wheeler had shown up at the coffee shop that morning as if he had known they would be there. Then he’d driven away in a car registered to a dead man. This was wrong. So, so, so wrong.

  “Come on.” O’Brien skirted his desk.

  “Where’re we going?” Her head was still spinning from the agent’s bizarre hit-and-run.

  “We’re going straight to the horse’s mouth.”

  Sande followed O’Brien back toward the lobby. “Meaning?”

  “The Bureau.” O’Brien pushed the elevator call button. “I want to speak to Wheeler’s superior. I want confirmation from the top.”

  Sande decided they should hurry. Otherwise Wheeler could end up dead, too.

  Cates should watch his back as well, she mused. Every damned body they had talked to so far ended up that way.

  AS FRUSTRATING AS getting past security at Peyton and Wyatt had been, it turned out to be a piece of cake compared to getting past the Bureau’s security.

  Sande Williams didn’t exist as far as the FBI was concerned. The DMV information utilized to obtain her driver’s license was of little consequence in their eyes. After fingerprinting and a background check, all of which took approximately fifty minutes, she was finally admitted onto the Bureau’s sacred ground.

  Special Agent in Charge Dennis Young was more than happy to take time out of his busy day to see an investigator from the Colby Agency. But that was where the good news began and ended.

  Young shook his head. “Mr. O’Brien, I’m afraid you’ve stumped me. We have no one here that matches the description you and Ms. Williams gave of the man with whom you spoke.”

  O’Brien studied Young for several beats. “You’re saying you don’t have an Agent Wheeler at this field office?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “What about at another field office?”

  Young gave another of those adamant head shakes. “Let me clarify this for you once and for all.” He buzzed his secretary and asked for the personnel file on Wheeler.

  “But you said you don’t have an Agent Wheeler,” O’Brien stated.

  Young held up a hand signaling him to hold on.

  Sande waited, her heartbeat stumbling. Like everything else in her life since she’d woken up on that gurney, this did not add up.

  When the secretary provided Young with the file he’d requested, he opened the folder and pushed it across the desk for O’Brien’s perusal.

  “That,” Young said, reaching across his desk to tap an eight-by-ten photo, “is Special Agent Chet Wheeler.”

  The Chet Wheeler in the photograph was older than the man who had come to O’Brien’s office. Sande leaned forward to get a closer look. Definitely not the same person.

  “I don’t understand.” O’Brien looked from the file to the agent in charge. “First you tell me you don’t have an Agent Wheeler, then you show
me his file. If this agent is on staff here, I’d like to speak with him.”

  Sande imagined O’Brien was thinking the same thing she was. The guy who had shown up at his office could have been masquerading as Wheeler for reasons she couldn’t begin to fathom. Then again, Young insisted Wheeler didn’t exist. It was too crazy for her.

  Young closed the file and dragged it back to his side of the desk. “I’m afraid that’s impossible, Mr. O’Brien.”

  Patrick O’Brien generally kept his face clear of emotion, but not this time. Frustration was etched on every plane and angle.

  “I think it’s a reasonable request, considering what’s at stake for my client.”

  “Chet Wheeler is dead, Mr. O’Brien,” Young said flatly. “He was killed in the line of duty. Two years ago.”

  The rest of the exchange was lost on Sande.

  She felt numb as she and O’Brien left the building.

  Dead. Dead. Dead.

  Everyone was dead.

  As she climbed into the car, O’Brien took a call on his cell phone. Sande leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes. She felt exhausted. She couldn’t take any more. When would this nightmare be over?

  And when it was, who would be left?

  “We may have gotten a break.”

  Sande opened her eyes and sat up straighter. “What?”

  O’Brien shot her a faint smile. “That was Windy. The receptionist from Peyton and Wyatt has agreed to talk to us. Windy’s waiting for us at her apartment.”

  Finally. A step in the right direction.

  Chapter Eleven

  Lincoln Park

  Kitty Grant lived in an apartment building in the Lincoln Park neighborhood. According to Windy, she had lived there since starting at Peyton and Wyatt four years ago. She had no children and was unmarried. Peyton and Wyatt was her first job out of college.

  The receptionist had admitted to recognizing Sande, but refused to say more until she and Sande were face-to-face. Patrick could understand her hesitation. She was afraid for her job, probably for her life, considering the number of people who had been murdered in the past thirty or so hours.

  The bodies just kept piling up.

  And he and his client were getting nowhere.

  Windy’s car was parked in the visitor’s space next to the one designated for apartment 331. Patrick parked two slots away and led Sande into the building, to the third floor. The complex had no security as far as he could see. But the neighborhood was a good one, so there was no compelling reason for a prospective tenant to seek out a more secure property.

  At the door marked 331, he knocked. The silence in the corridor, as well as on the other side of the wooden panel sent his instincts on alert.

  “If I was ever employed by Peyton and Wyatt,” Sande said quietly, “the receptionist would’ve had to see me on a regular basis.”

  “Unquestionably.” Patrick hoped that would be the case. So far, however, this investigation had gone any way but as expected.

  He hoped for Sande’s sake that pattern was about to change.

  When there was no answer after a second knock, Patrick put through a call to Windy’s cell phone. No answer there, either.

  A distant muffled sound caused him to frown. He entered Windy’s number a second time and waited, then heard the sound again.

  Cell phone.

  Windy’s.

  Patrick grasped the knob and twisted.

  The door opened without resistance.

  He pushed it wide and listened.

  The muffled rings were louder now. One more and the call went to voice mail.

  With an alarm going off in his head, Patrick stepped cautiously through the doorway. “Stay behind me,” he ordered Sande.

  Three steps farther and he understood why no one had answered the door or his call.

  He shoved his phone at Sande. “Call 9-1-1.”

  Patrick dropped to a crouch next to Windy, who lay facedown on the floor. He closed his eyes and fought the emotion that accompanied the confirmation that she was dead.

  Kitty Grant was dead as well.

  Each woman had taken one shot to the back of the head.

  Patrick stood. He turned all the way around, emotions funneling inside him.

  He should check the apartment.

  Make sure it was clear. Make sure it was safe for Sande to be here.

  Ensure there was nothing useful to his case lying in plain sight.

  But he could do none of that.

  Windy Millwood was dead.

  Agony erupted deep in his chest.

  To his knowledge the Colby Agency had never lost an investigator.

  Until today.

  Chapter Twelve

  Victoria Colby-Camp had taken the helm of the Colby Agency after her husband’s murder. More than twenty years had passed since then. Her personal life had fallen apart twice over and been rebuilt. The original home of the agency had been destroyed and rebuilt. Investigators had suffered heartache and physical injury. They had come and gone, always keeping in touch from wherever life took them.

  But not once in all those years had one been lost.

  Windy Millwood’s death would not be for naught.

  Victoria would see that her killer was found and brought to justice. She would also see to it that Sande Williams got her life back. However long it took, whatever the cost.

  Victoria considered the investigator seated on the other side of her desk. She knew the pain he was feeling all too well. Regret, guilt. He had sent Windy in search of the receptionist. He had walked into a murder scene with a client in tow, without ensuring that it was safe to do so.

  He had made mistakes.

  “Patrick,” she said, her voice surprisingly strong despite the emotion tearing at her insides, “your only misstep was in allowing the client to follow you into an uncertain situation. You have carried out the responsibilities of your assignment to the best of your ability. As did Windy. You did not ask her to do anything she would not have asked you to do had circumstances been reversed.”

  He swallowed with effort. His throat would be dry. His head likely ached. His gut was probably in knots. And his chest would feel as if it might explode.

  She knew all the symptoms.

  “The only question now,” Victoria continued, “is are you able to complete your assignment?” She drew in a bolstering breath. “If you feel you are not, that’s perfectly understandable, as you well know. Ian or Simon will step in for you without question or hesitation. Lucas has taken a personal interest in this case and is working with a contact he believes might be able to shed some light on the involvement of our federal friends. The Bureau may not be the agency involved.”

  Patrick found his voice. “With all due respect, Victoria, I would prefer to remain on the case.” His gaze connected fully with hers. “Unless you’ve lost confidence in my ability to finish the job.”

  She shook her head. “Not at all, Patrick. It would be my preference for you to complete your assignment. The client has developed trust in you, and in this case, that’s particularly important.”

  He stood. “Very well. I’d like to get back to my investigation now.”

  “Simon will provide any backup you need,” Victoria explained. “Under the circumstances I’d like you to report in as often as possible.”

  Patrick nodded and turned toward the door, but hesitated before opening it and walking out. A moment passed before he spoke. “Thank you.”

  The words were scarcely more than a whisper.

  “For?” Victoria could feel the tension radiating from him all the way across her office. Her own emotions were barely held in check.

  His dark eyes collided with hers again. “For allowing me the opportunity to get this bastard first.”

  Patrick O’Brien walked out of Victoria’s office.

  Despite his years of formal training in recognizing and understanding the behaviors of the human psyche, he was as human as she or anyone else.
r />   He wanted revenge.

  He wanted justice.

  Victoria had taken care of notifying Windy’s family and the man she’d dated for nearly two years. The funeral would be in three days. Anything Windy’s family needed would be taken care of by the Colby Agency. Everyone on staff would be in attendance at the funeral.

  And for the first time in nearly twenty-five years, the Colby Agency would be closed on a workday.

  Victoria cradled her face in her hands and did something she hadn’t done in a very long time.

  She cried.

  For the waste of such a lovely, intelligent young woman’s life.

  For the anguish that would stay with Patrick O’Brien for the rest of his.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Patrick took Victoria’s advice and sought refuge for Sande and himself at the Colby Agency safe house. The spacious, exquisite house perched on the lakeshore had once been home to Victoria and her first husband, James Colby. But after their only child, Jim, had gone missing and James had been murdered, Victoria had refused to return to the place she’d called home. The house had sat empty for years until it was put into use as a safe house, to shelter a client.

  Like now.

  “Explore the place if you want to,” Patrick told Sande as she turned around in the well-appointed entry hall. “Pick any room you’d like on the second floor.”

  He placed their bags at the bottom of the staircase. He needed coffee. And then he needed to think about how to proceed from here.

  He armed the security system and headed for the kitchen. When he’d set the coffeemaker to brew, he braced his arms against the counter and stared out the window above the sink. Moonlight glistened on the dark waters of the lake.

  He’d been here once or twice.

  With Windy.

  She’d been his mentor for the past year. Showing him the ropes of how things were done at the Colby Agency. He’d met her boyfriend a couple of times. Nice guy. Totally the opposite of Windy. He taught school, coached Little League in the summer. He’d wanted to get married months ago, but Windy kept putting him off. She wasn’t ready to make that leap.