by Amy Wallace
Gracie watched Susannah’s fiery red locks escape her white bows while she played. The daughter of Steven’s partner was the spitting image of her mother, Sara, and as free with a smile as Agent Rollins had been the first time Gracie met him.
She would have liked to get to know the Rollins family better outside of Hope Ridge Academy. Not a possibility anymore, though. But among Akemi, Susannah, and Victoria, Gracie’s days would be filled with beautifully drawn flower gifts and gentle manners.
A knock sounded at the door. Please, don’t let this be Steven.
She opened the door. Breath catching in her lungs, she forced a smile. “Good afternoon, Steven.”
“Hello, Gracie.” His eyes searched her face. “I’d like to speak with you a minute if I could.”
Part of her job consisted of short, impromptu parent-teacher conferences at the door with concerned parents. She’d already endured the usual round of “Did she cry long after I left?” to the academic grilling, “My son made straight As today yes?” Gracie tried to comfort and reassure each parent and affirm their love for their offspring.
But talking with Steven felt unsettling, which had nothing to do with his son and everything to do with her resolve crumbling as she looked into his pained blue eyes.
“I feel like I’ve said ‘I’m sorry’ far too much already.” He ran a hand through his thick brown hair. “Last Saturday at the park, I—”
She held up a hand. “You don’t owe me an explanation. I think maybe we’d better keep things focused on James.” She glanced over her shoulder into the classroom. “He’s a wonderful little boy and I’m so thankful he’s in my class.”
Steven clenched his jaw. A carbon copy of the last look she’d seen from him on Saturday.
“James made fast friends with every one of his classmates and was especially kind to Victoria. I believe this will be a good year for both of them.”
“With you as their teacher, I’m sure it will.”
The compliment heated her cheeks. One more brick fell from her wall of resolve. “Thank you. I’ll go get his things.”
Steven touched her hand. “That woman was Angela. My ex-wife. I didn’t want her there, Gracie.”
She swallowed the lump rising in her throat and placed ten more bricks on her wall. No way did she want to stand in between Steven and the ex-wife whose glance could slice steel. The same woman who still elicited powerful emotions in her ex-husband.
Love and hate weren’t opposites. Love and indifference were. And Steven was as far from unaffected as a sloth was fast.
“I’m sorry, Steven.” She gripped the door with white knuckles.
“I’d like to explain. May I call you tonight?”
Thomas Perkins walked down the hall, eyes fixed on her. The vice principal stiffened as he stepped to Steven’s side. “Is there a problem here, Mrs. Lang?”
“No, sir. I was just getting James.”
Gracie turned away from the door and Steven’s once again clenched jaw. She heard the vice principal’s clipped tones, something about dating and maintaining decorum, and cringed. Maybe she should give Steven another chance. At least listen to him, let him talk out whatever had morphed his entrancing eyes into heated lasers of pain.
She and James walked to the door, gathering art projects as they went.
“Daddy!” James rushed into his father’s open arms.
“Hey little man. I heard you had an awesome first day.” Steven’s eyes, focused on his son, resumed some of their former twinkle.
Mr. Perkins turned on his heel and left without a word.
“I’m sorry about that.”
He shifted James to his hip, a smile nowhere to be found. “Not a problem and not your fault. We’ll see you another afternoon, Mrs. Lang.”
“’Bye, Mrs. Lang.” James waved. “See you tomorrow!”
Gracie waved like a robot and held her breath until the pair disappeared down the hall. Tears fought for release. Steven’s pleasant but clear dismissal replayed in her mind as she shut her classroom door.
So much for second chances.
23
Thursday morning’s early teleconference with Britain’s Security Service and Secret Intelligence Service had Steven’s boss fuming.
Steven leaned back in one of the conference room’s leather chairs and smirked at the backpedaling the Brits were doing because of the unit chiefs bellowing.
“You mean to tell me you believe you were justified in with-holding information from my agents conducting a federal investigation?” Agent Maxwell barked at the large video screen. Clint and Michael stayed focused straight ahead and said nothing.
The honorable Sir Peter Barnstable closed his eyes and took a deep breath before answering. “Agent Maxwell, you are aware we have similar protocols to your American agencies in regards to protected information.”
“My agents requested information on Harry Landridge the eleventh of August and were told he died of natural causes after working for years as a glorified file clerk for your agency Now you’re telling me he was actually killed in the line of duty as an SIS officer investigating arms deals that you now believe involved Ambassador Walter Kensington? The same ambassador we’ve been investigating concerning his daughter’s kidnapping and subsequent death?”
“Yes.”
“Agent Kessler, what were we told about the ambassador?” Maxwell’s face grew redder with every tick of the clock.
Steven flipped open his case file. “That the investigation concerning Sir Walter’s consuls had been closed satisfactorily that the ambassador was independently wealthy, and any further investigation into his character was unnecessary.”
“That was after we’d been told none of the ransom note’s black market references were relevant to our investigation.” Michael spoke to Agent Maxwell, then crossed his arms and glared at the video screen.
“Our new information has only recently been authenticated …”
“It’s high time you came clean with us.” Maxwell stood and jabbed a finger toward the stuffy British officer. “Exactly what information do you now have?”
Sir Peter’s stony disposition set Steven’s jaw on edge.
“Because our intelligence officers are reopening this case, we cannot acquiesce to your further demands for information. This is a British security concern. As a courtesy toward your government, we will keep you apprised of our investigation.”
Maxwell paced around the conference table. “You’ll do better than that.”
Sir Peter opened his mouth to reply, but Steven held up a hand. “Sir Barnstable, we understand that you have an open investigation, but we have a homicide that occurred on American soil we are tasked with solving. We need to know the information pertinent to our apprehending the killer.”
It was a good thing the Brits were safely across the pond because their stretching silence had Maxwell ready for blood.
Clint’s bowed head went wholly unnoticed by everyone else in the room. Steven didn’t know what to make of his partner’s way of handling the standoff. But he hoped the prayer worked.
The Brits shuffled papers and a few Security Service officers clicked away on their keyboards. Nothing moved in the FBI conference room.
Sir Peter cleared his throat. “Our information on Ambassador Kensington was received from Harry’s brother, Gordon Landridge, former SAS officer.”
“Special forces soldier and SIS officer. That explains why neither brother appears in Charlotte Brown’s file.” Clint shook his head. “I’d say we have motive and strong evidence Gordon is capable of everything we’ve seen thus far.”
Maxwell returned to his chair. “Where is Landridge now?”
“Unknown.”
“Rollins, I want warrants for Charlotte Brown’s phone records. Parker, get surveillance on Brown’s house. Kessler …”
“I’m on my way.” Steven hotfooted it out of the Hoover building. He would have liked to stay and hear the full dressing-down Chief Maxwell was sure
to unload, but he had a killer to catch and the gut assurance that they’d finally gotten the break they needed.
The embassy was fast becoming Steven’s least favorite place.
Right up there with anywhere Angela Carter could be found. Funny how Pavlovian instincts hooked Angela’s name to the stress of an adrenaline rush.
He maneuvered in and out of DC traffic, letting his mind spiral through what he would say to Charlotte. He’d spoken with her supervisor and verified that she was at her desk. Now all he had to do was get there and not arouse suspicion before he secured concrete evidence of Gordon’s whereabouts. Surely she’d make a slip like she’d done with Clint a few weeks ago. Then they’d find Landridge. Make an arrest. And put this case far behind them.
Rush-hour gridlock forced the other mental balls he was juggling to the forefront, stealing his focus. Gracie’s obvious disinterest still stung. And he could do without her bothersome boss. Something about the vice principal nagged at his conscience.
Just like Gracie’s smile refused to disappear from his dreams.
Then there were his father’s words about the whole fiasco with Angela at the park. His dad had only meant to help by directing her to Chinquapin. Like Clint, he had wanted Steven to work things out with Angela, for James’s sake. Dad sure had to be disappointed with Saturday’s fallout and the problems that had started over a decade ago with the proposal.
All his father’s logic hadn’t swayed Steven. Angela wasn’t a Christian. Right after college wasn’t the ideal time for marriage. Not even his dad’s insistence that things weren’t what they appeared had altered Steven’s course.
It hit him now with perfect clarity Dad had been right. About all of it. And Steven had paid the price ever since for ignoring him.
He carried the glass shard of Angela’s rejection in his heart. Every memory twisted it deeper. Seeing her again at the park had ripped the still-bleeding scab clear off.
No Band-Aid could cover it either. Nor could Clint’s theories linking bitterness and revenge and his solution of forgiveness. Things were far too complex for a simple cure.
Just like the Kensington case.
But the ambassador was now Attorney Kenneth Marks’s nightmare. Not Steven’s headache any longer.
Finding Olivia’s killer was.
As he entered the embassy from the rear, Steven adjusted his suit coat at the waist to reveal his credentials. He walked the residence halls listening for signs of life. Little beyond electronic buzzing caught his attention, so he proceeded over the bridge and into the original offices.
“I’m here to see Mrs. Charlotte Brown.”
“You’re a bit late. Agent Kessler. She’s just left on holiday and won’t be back for an entire month.” The gold-streaked brunette sitting behind Charlotte’s desk leaned forward. “But I’m Dottie Evans. And I’d be delighted to help you.”
Steven stepped away from the desk, flipped open his phone, and pressed the number three speed dial. “Clint. Charlotte Brown’s not here. We need to check her residence and see if she’s taken her son. Alert transportation routes too. Let’s see if we can find her before she leaves the US.”
“I’m on it.”
Returning to the assistant’s desk, he narrowed his eyes. “I spoke with Mrs. Brown’s supervisor this morning. She didn’t mention a planned vacation.”
Ms. Evans laughed nervously.
“Something funny in that?”
She stood and straightened her tight gray suit. “Follow me. Agent Kessler. I’ll explain in the records room.”
He heard the electronic whir of a surveillance camera turning. Most likely to watch the attractive assistant saunter across the room. Childishness existed everywhere. But there could be a lead to unearth, and he needed the patience to find it.
Ms. Evans unlocked the secluded file room and held the door for him. The room was still tapped, so he was covered should her story about their talk differ from his. Didn’t give him much breathing room, though.
The scent of lavender and lemon quickly overpowered the little room. Less was always more with perfume. “You were going to explain.”
“Charlotte would come back here and put on her little black fan.” Ms. Evans pointed to a back corner of the room. “So as not to be caught on tape when she called her boyfriend, Gordon.”
“What?”
The woman nodded with a wide grin. “No worries, mate. I’m sure you can track ’em down with your supersleuthing. I’d bet the moon that’s where she’s run off to so fast. Find Charlotte’s bloke and you’ll find your answers.”
How right she was. And if he could verify Ms. Evans’s claim, that would link Charlotte as a coconspirator and possibly lead them to Gordon’s hideout. “How do you know this? And why did you wait until now to reveal it?”
Her face lost some color under her caked makeup. “I’m not in trouble, am I?”
“That depends.”
She wrung her hands. “You see, well, Charlotte was a friend, and her private affairs weren’t my business. But when she begged me to file her holiday paperwork request just a short while ago, I knew something was wrong.”
Just a short time ago?
Maybe he wasn’t too late. “Is there anything else you’d like to tell me? Any other memory that seems worth mentioning now?”
“No, Agent Kessler. I only heard the one conversation, and Charlotte would never answer any inquiry into her beau. Very closed to discussion, she was. But she did talk about her little Stewart. Nonstop. Maybe that will help you find her.”
Clint was already all over that angle. Steven would be too as soon as he could get away from here. “Thank you. We’ll need to get a sworn statement.” He opened the door and held it. “If you’ll follow me, we can take care of that.”
“Am I in trouble?”
“Not unless you’re lying.” Steven almost chuckled at her wide-eyed response.
He led Ms. Evans toward the Secret Service office space in the residence area. After a few paperwork details, he’d join in the footwork that got his blood circulating. Nabbing a suspect beat desk donkeywork any day.
Even more when it ended in arrests and airtight court cases.
Bureau assessments still loomed, case overload or not.
Clint laced his tennis shoes and stretched. The headquarters’ gym smelled of sweat and Old Spice, even on a Friday morning. He watched through the front glass doors for any sign of his partner.
Fifteen minutes to seven, Steven slammed through the door and tossed his gym bag on the first bench. Clint joined him.
“Nice of you to show up, given that our HIP assessments are scheduled for next week and I need the practice. Especially on the range.”
Steven grunted. “After yesterday’s disappointments, I need the physical challenge. Health Improvement Program garbage or not.”
“Wasn’t your fault, Steven. We followed the lead and got the warrants as fast as humanly possible.”
“Too late to do much good. Charlotte and Gordon have disappeared. No trace.”
Michael entered the floor from the locker room. “I think she’s still on US soil. Besides, her son is here. She couldn’t have gone too far. Or for long.”
Clint had seen just that thing happen more often than he cared to remember. Give the rookie ten years, and he’d learn.
“You’re a conspiracy theorist, and I don’t have the brain power to hear it today.” Steven crossed the gym and headed up the stairs to the upper level track.
“What’s his problem?”
Clint shook his head. “He’s the coordinator. It’s his behind that’ll be chewed if every lead turns up a day or even a minute late.”
“Steven’s done everything by the book. We’ll find Olivia’s murderer sooner or later.” Michael jutted his chin toward the stairs. “He should loosen up, or a heart attack will be crouching at his door.”
Michael had no idea how close his words came to Clint’s own thoughts. In fact, his partner’s heart had bee
n the focus of his and Sara’s prayers for a long time last night. God had to be at work, or Steven wouldn’t be fighting the truth so hard and on every possible front. Work. James. His dad. Angela. Even Gracie. A name Clint hadn’t heard in far too long. He’d see what he could do about changing that.
Steven wouldn’t run from his questions forever.
Clint took the stairs two at a time and then positioned himself next to Steven on the track. They waited for Michael’s starting call.
The rookie dropped his hands and shouted. “Go!”
Clint felt every muscle in his body bum with the exertion. Keeping up with Steven’s unrealistic pace wouldn’t benefit him in the end. He watched his partner’s back for the first mile, then increased his stride and pushed harder.
Sara would be proud. And he’d enjoy a good rubdown after their date tonight. Since he couldn’t do anything about the image of his wife’s curves right now, he put the mental charge to good use and drove his muscles harder. By the third lap, sweat soaked both his and Steven’s muscle shirts.
He pulled even with his younger partner by the homestretch. But then Steven kicked it up even further and passed the finish line two strides ahead of him.
They walked off the muscle cramps and heaving lungs in silence.
Michael joined them. “If office scuttlebutt is on, you both just bombed your last assessment times by 20 blips.”
“Say again in old folks’ English?” Steven stretched his neck.
Clint shook his head. At thirty-five, Steven didn’t know old yet. Wait till the big four-o started breathing down his neck. Clint knew that experience all too well. “Michael said we beat our Quantico records.”
“Good.” Steven grabbed a white towel. “Now if we can manage that on the range too, we’ll snap the assessments.”
Snap? “Old folk talk, huh?”
Steven quirked a lopsided grin. “That was for you, pops.”
Showers and promising range scores served to improve Friday’s outlook. But there was still paperwork to do before clocking out tonight. Clint bent his aching six feet five inches into the silver and gray thing the FBI called an ergonomic chair. Torture device fit better.