by Stone, Mary
“Shenanigan?” Noah started to bristle, but Bree stepped in.
“We don’t do ‘shenanigans,’” she assured him.
“Oh, and I’m sure you do not.” Lionel sounded more like a stereotypical southern preacher than a lawyer. The man had obviously missed his calling. “No, and I’m also sure that you all ask questions in accordance with the prisoner’s rights and all. But when your boss requested this interview with a high-profile prisoner like this one, he was informed that the presence of a member of the US Attorney’s Office would have to be in attendance. Did he not mention this fact to you?”
“Must have slipped his mind,” Noah said, annoyance grinding into his bones. “Counselor, I don’t think—”
The door on the other side of the conference room opened, and Kent Strickland entered. Chains bound his ankles and wrists to a strap he wore across his waist.
Strickland was led, not gently, to the table. They all waited as his hands were freed and relocked into the top of the table on the eyebolt set there for that very purpose. Noah noted with a certain satisfaction that the chains on his ankles were not removed.
Strickland looked from one to another of the three people in the room, a smarmy looking smirk playing on his lips. He sat back as much as he could under the restraint of the chains and waited. Wordless. Challenging.
“I’m Agent Dalton, and this is Agent Stafford.” Noah indicated Bree, who stayed back a step from the table. The introduction felt unnecessary. Maybe it was. How much did Strickland remember or understand regarding his case? Prisoners tended to become experts in the details of whatever got them convicted in the first place. Why should he be any different?
“Secret agents.” Strickland guffawed. “License to kill? Tell me, sweetheart,” he turned to Bree, “what are you licensed for? Do they give licenses for that?” His tongue swept a loop around his lip in an obscene manner, but instead of holding her eyes, he matched Noah’s stare. It was a move calculated to get under Noah’s skin, to get his ire up.
Far from angry, Noah was mystified at the action. It was senseless and ultimately useless. Bree was Noah’s partner, not his lover, and for her part, she was disgusted, not offended, and more than capable of taking care of herself. Strickland’s performance felt forced, a show of bravado for his own benefit. Maybe he was trying to bolster his courage, to convince himself he was in charge of the situation.
Making all of this irritating in the extreme. While Strickland was playing king of the exam room, people were in danger, or even dying. This whole interview was starting to feel like a waste of time.
“Lionel Mathews,” the big man said, reaching out his hand before remembering that Kent couldn’t reach. He pulled his hand back quickly, looking at the guard that stood behind Strickland. “Ah…US Attorney…”
Noah looked to Bree, who understood what he was thinking but was obviously not too happy about it. She took a deep breath and walked over to where the guard was standing and whispered in his ear. Bree was a very persuasive person when she had to be.
“Tell me about Jaime Peterson,” Noah began, leaning forward in his chair as he got straight to the point. There was still a chance, however slim, that Strickland would act in everyone’s best interest. As remote as that possibility was, he was determined to give the man every chance. On the other hand, he refused to leave empty-handed. This was too important. Too important to future victims, and most of all, too important to Winter.
“Jaime?” Kent seemed surprised by the line of questioning. “What about him?” Strickland’s eyes took on a speculative cast, like he was trying to find an angle in the question that would benefit him.
“Start with where he came from.”
Strickland blinked and considered this for a moment before he leaned back in his chair with an indifferent shrug. “Don’t know. Don’t care.”
“You were childhood friends,” Noah said, hoping a little verbal prodding would make Strickland more forthcoming. “You’re saying that you never asked him where he was born?”
“Why should I?” Strickland crossed his wrists and tilted his head to the side as if noticing Noah for the first time, and not quite sure how to classify him. “Don’t matter to me.”
“What about his grandfather?” Bree shot from behind Lionel’s chair. She’d been moving around the room as though restless while Noah questioned the man. The man from the US Attorney’s Office jumped. He apparently hadn’t heard her move, which was precisely why she’d done it in all likelihood. Noah kept his eyes locked on Strickland’s and stifled the smile that threatened to break the persona Noah was trying to project.
What Strickland thought of Bree’s maneuvering Noah didn’t know. His tone was neutral, even bored as he asked, “What about him?”
“Nice guy? Real friendly?”
Strickland shook his head. “No, he wasn’t. I guess you would say he was a real bastard. But he kept it hidden. Everyone loved him.” As if startled that he’d answered that question honestly, Strickland shot a lecherous look at Bree. “I bet you would have too, sweetheart.” He blew a kiss at her and laughed when she didn’t react. Noah looked up at the guard, but he stared straight ahead, making no move to silence the man.
Which meant he wouldn’t put a stop to most anything; that could be good or bad.
“Tell me about Jaime!” Noah growled, sick of the whole thing. He imagined Winter’s pale face, freaking out over the idea that Justin was not only alive, but actually adopted by a psychopathic serial killer. He couldn’t begin to imagine how any person adapted to that kind of information. For that matter, it would be too much for anyone to take in, wouldn’t it? And here Strickland was, holding the key, the information Noah needed to put an end to this farce. But instead of helping, it seemed the mass murderer was intent on only playing games.
Noah bit back a growl, reminding himself he was a professional and that this wasn’t personal, even though everything about this case had been feeling that way for a while now. He leaned across the table, until he was practically nose to nose with the man. The rules were you couldn’t touch a prisoner, but getting into Strickland’s personal space was a gray area.
Strickland’s eyes widened for a moment, and incredibly, he laughed instead of rearing back. If anything, he leaned in, as though ready to share a secret. “Oh, wow. Jaime’s being a problem, isn’t he? Got you all flustered and bothered? What did he do? What did he do? You can tell me. It’s hard to get news in here, you know?”
Noah stared at him, for all the world at a loss for words.
Thankfully, Bree wasn’t. “Where was Peterson from?” she asked sharply as Noah pushed himself away from the table, giving himself some much needed space.
“Who cares?” Strickland yelled back.
Noah whirled and slammed his hand on the desk. Lionel jumped. “You do. If you let one more person die, I swear I will do everything in my power to get the judge to add their deaths to your sentence.”
“I’m a lifer, jackass.” The sneer was still in place, but there was just a hint of fear in those eyes.
“Yeah.” Bree’s usual affable smile was gone. She closed the distance to Noah’s side, her calm unhurried speech a frozen counterpoint to his heat. “Life sentence. Maybe, with good behavior, you could be eligible for parole in twenty years. What about two or three life sentences? What age will you be when you see the light of day once more? You’ll die in here.”
“Agents…” Lionel fidgeted in his seat, clearly not happy with the tone of the interview.
Strickland laughed in her face. “Like I give a damn what happens to me now. Guard!” He lifted his hands as far as the chain allowed, indicating he was ready to go back to his cell. “This has been a lot of fun, but I think I’m done now. I’m going back to my comfy cell. There’s a program on I want to watch. Besides, it’s fried chicken tonight.” He flashed them both an ingratiating grin.
Noah straightened and looked to Bree, who shook her head minutely. Noah turned his gaze to the guar
d. For a moment, the four of them were a frozen tableau, save Strickland, who looked between each of them with a sort of vicious delight.
The guard sighed and checked his watch. “Five minutes.” He gave Noah a hard look and left the room.
“What…what’s…five minutes?” Lionel asked, looking between the two agents wildly, his eyes widening in alarm.
Noah ignored him and slammed his hands down on Strickland’s forearms, causing his wrists to leave the table, a move made impossible by the short links binding his arms there. Strickland screamed and cursed. “What the—”
“Agent Dalton!” Lionel half rose from his seat. The look on his face was complete outrage. Bree set a gentle hand on Lionel’s shoulder, using an iron grip that Noah knew well. Bree forced him back into the chair.
“You’re going to tell me about Jaime.” Noah said each word distinctly, making every syllable a threat.
Strickland ground his teeth and swore again. “I don’t know!”
“Agent Dalton!” Lionel’s cheeks puffed red with the effort to get up. Bree gave him a steely look, and never so much as wavered.
Noah leaned forward, putting more weight on the arms, not liking the tactic, but damned if he was going to let go now when he was so close…
“Fine!” Strickland gasped, and threw the word at him like it was a weapon. “Fine, you want to know about Jaime? I don’t know, and that’s the truth. But he told me once of a big house and a sister of some sort. I told him that there wasn’t a use for sisters.”
“Why not?” Bree added, her long fingers lost in the folds of the coat Lionel wore. For his part, the man was sputtering and turning red in the face.
“Because of his grandfather. Damn it, get off me!” Strickland tried to shake himself loose.
“Where was he from?” Noah growled, not letting up so much as an ounce of pressure.
“I don’t know! His grandpa took him, that’s all I know!”
It was very likely all he would get. The man really didn’t seem to know. Noah stood back abruptly, disgusted with both himself and Strickland. The bastard. Strickland shot him a look of pure hate as the guard re-entered the room and began unhooking Strickland from the table and rejoining his bonds to the belt.
“You won’t find him,” Strickland muttered, rubbing his wrists. “Jaime’s smarter than all of you.” He followed that prophecy with a long list of curses that faded behind him as he was unceremoniously dragged from the room.
“Your superiors will hear of this…treatment!” Lionel sputtered, rising from his seat quickly enough that Bree had to step aside. Noah watched him go, knowing they’d both be called on the carpet for this, and honestly not caring a whole heck of a lot right now.
“That…” Bree exhaled noisily, “is not going to look good when our attorney friend there makes his report.”
Noah turned to her, his eyes weary and hard. Being the bad guy felt new to him. What he’d just done left a bitter and strange taste in his mouth. He swallowed hard, trying to make it go away. “This is Winter’s brother. I don’t think there’s any doubt now.”
Bree shook her head. “No. No doubt.”
“Winter is more important than the job. More important than anything.”
He hadn’t intended to say that out loud, but being in this place, after doing what he’d just done…? He shook his head. This wasn’t him. He had no idea who he was anymore.
Bree slipped a hand around his elbow and gently led him to the other exit, behind Lionel. “I like her too, you know,” she said, and he found himself smiling despite himself, grateful for her friendship.
“I know.” He took a shaky breath. “But you’re kind of in this with me too, now. I should have thought before taking things that far.”
“Well…” Bree said as they headed down the hall to pick up their weapons, “the good news is that Max likes her too. Maybe what we did here will get buried. Paperwork has a way of getting lost on his desk all the time.”
Noah snorted. “One can only hope.”
5
Winter leaned against the cupboard door and stared down at the steam rising from the tea. Four minutes. The bag had to soak for four minutes before the tea was drinkable, and four minutes were a lifetime when she should be doing more important things.
Certainly more important than waiting for the tea to steep.
Noah was doing important things. He and Bree were doing important stuff like talking to Kent Strickland, getting more information, getting useful information, getting stuff done. Looking for her brother. This was her search…her failure all those years ago.
And here I am making tea…
She dunked the bag again, forcing it under the water with the flat of the teaspoon. It tried to rise, tried to escape and float to the surface, and she caught it, playing a game of drown-the-teabag.
Two minutes left. Traffic sounded outside the window, cars filled with people that hurried from one place to another, jostling each other and cursing each other for getting in the way of things they were doing. Important things. Actually doing things, not just standing in a kitchen that had been cleaned within an inch of its life, trying to kill a teabag in a watery grave.
Close enough. Maybe there was another minute left. Maybe not. Did it matter? The teabag was sufficiently waterlogged, there was no point in holding its head under any longer. She scooped it out with the spoon and wrapped the string around it, binding the bag to the spoon and strangling the rest of the flavor from it before dropping it into the trash.
The spoon went to the sink, a solitary soiled spot in the basin that had been scrubbed mercilessly because it had felt important to do so.
So far there’d been no word, no indications, no further information. The question was, was it because there was nothing to say, or because there was nothing anyone was willing to talk about?
The case file from her parents’ deaths over thirteen years ago had been officially reopened, the investigation was “proceeding”, but no one would tell her anything more than that. She’d been staring at the kettle all afternoon, watching water boil and quietly going mad.
Winter sipped her tea and made a face. That had been roughly four minutes. Now what? What does one do when waiting for her boyfriend to come home and give her details on her long-lost brother? There was no training, no amount of exercise that covered waiting with nothing to do.
She walked into the living room, cup in hand, and stared at the black screen of the TV. Turning it on, flipping channels…it all seemed too much work to watch ridiculous dramas she had no interest in watching. She shifted her gaze to the CD player, but Noah’s collection of 90s grunge music didn’t hold much appeal, nor did a country music serenade. She thought about digging out a piece of jazz or even a favorite album from long ago, a thought that lasted all of a minute. In the end, she sat in a chair against the far wall and sipped her tea while the sounds of the city ebbed and flowed around her, an oasis in a constant storm.
Oasis? It’s more of an isolation chamber.
Her mind had become one of those isolation/suspension devices where you’d go mad if you stay too long. A place without sight or sound or taste or touch, just alone with a panicked brain so desperately starved for input that it created its own. One that fed her a constant supply of waking nightmares that defied the conscious, rational mind.
Strickland. What would he say? What could he say? What terrible secrets could he reveal that Noah and Bree and Max and Aiden and everyone else will know and process and discuss LONG before any tidbits of it fell to one Winter Black.
Yes, that was professionalism. Yes, it was proof that she shouldn’t be involved. But didn’t she have a right? This was her brother! Justin. In her mind’s eye, he wasn’t an almost twenty-year-old man. He was still that charming endearing little snot-nosed spoiler of fun she remembered.
He stood before her in her mind’s eye, his pajamas baggy and ill-fitting as though they stayed up only from divine intervention. He carried that stupid giraff
e with him, the animal’s neck clearly broken and lolling in the child’s pudgy fist.
Winter set her tea down to concentrate on the spectral image in her mind. Sad-faced, one finger trying hard to not seek the mouth. It had been so hard to train him to not suck his thumb. Her parents had all but given up on that task. She hadn’t, though. She’d hung in there.
Be real, Winter. You called him ‘stupid’ and tried to shame him out of it. When have you ever been a good sister?
Her phone beeped. The noise seemed apologetic, as if the phone was afraid of adding to her stress. Winter slapped the table, capturing the device in her hand. If one more person or electronic device tiptoes around me, I will throw him/her/it against the wall. She gripped the phone hard for a moment and forced her fingers to open, prying the phone from her palm and ignoring the marks it made in her flesh.
It was an automated notice. There was a new entry on the forum, the dark web creep show for people who got off on watching and discussing murder. This message was marked “WINTER.” As the general public neither knew nor cared about her or her missing brother, it shouldn’t be another cautiously worded sympathy message.
She moved to the couch and opened the laptop on the coffee table, logging in and picking the tea back up as the computer fired up and searched for the internet.
There was a new message, though the username was one she’d never heard of, one with a video attachment. It was cleared by the server, so there was no virus threat. That didn’t necessarily save her from the content.
This better not be the equivalent of a dick pic…
After a moment’s hesitation, she doubled-clicked on the file. And with that movement, the world ended.
No. Her world ended. As a video began to play, a young man in deep shadow faced the camera, a smirk playing on his lips.
The remains of the tea spread over the coffee table unnoticed and unstopped. The cup didn’t break, but a small chip had appeared in the rim. Winter wondered why her brain wanted to focus on that tiny flaw. Protection. Her brain was trying to distract her, take her mind away from what was in front of her.