"You think it's likely she shot Ken? If so, a nationwide APB goes out in about two seconds," Massey said.
Reynolds shook her head. "My gut tells me she had nothing to do with it. But the fact is we don't know enough. We'll check the blood type and other residue. If it only matches Ken's, then we know she wasn't hit as well. We know Ken hadn't fired his gun. And he had on his vest. Something took a chunk out of his Glock, though."
Connie nodded. "The bullet that killed him. Through the back of the neck and out the front. He had his weapon out, probably eye-height, the slug hit and deflected off it." Connie swallowed with difficulty.
"The residue on Ken's pistol supports that conclusion."
Reynolds stared sadly at the man and continued the analysis. "So Ken might have been between Lockhart and the shooter?"
Connie slowly shook his head. "Human shield. I thought only the Secret Service did that crap."
Reynolds said, "I spoke with the ME. We won't know anything until the post and we can see the wound track, but I think it was most likely a rifle shot. Not the sort of weapon a woman ordinarily carries in her purse."
"So another person waiting for them?" Massey ventured.
"And why would that person kill and then go inside the house?" Connie asked.
"Maybe it was Newman and Lockhart who went in the house," Massey surmised.
Reynolds knew it had been years since Massey had worked a field investigation, but he was still her ADIC and she couldn't very well ignore him. She didn't have to agree with him, though.
Reynolds shook her head decisively. "If they had gone in the house, Ken wouldn't have been killed in the driveway. They'd still be in the house. We interview Lockhart for at least two hours each time. We got here a half hour after they would have, tops. And those weren't Ken's boots. But they are men's boots, about a size twelve. Odds are a big guy."
"If Newman and Lockhart didn't go in the house, and there are no signs of forced entry, then this third party had the pass-code to the alarm."
Massey's tone was clearly accusatory.
Reynolds looked miserable, but she had to keep going. "From where Ken fell, it looked like he had just gotten out of the car. Then something must have spooked Ken. He pulls his Glock and then takes the round."
Reynolds led them over to the driveway. "Look at the rut marks here.
The ground around here is reasonably dry, but the tires really gouged the dirt. I think somebody was getting out of here in a hurry. Hell, fast enough that he ran out of his boots."
"And Lockhart?"
"Maybe the shooter took her with him," Connie said.
Reynolds thought about this. "It's possible, but I don't see why.
They'd want her dead too."
"In the first place, how would a shooter know to come here?" Massey asked, and then answered his own question. "A leak?"
Reynolds had been considering this possibility from the moment she had seen Newman's body. "With all due respect, sir, I don't see how that could be the case."
Massey coldly ticked off the points on his fingers. "We've got one dead man, a missing woman and a pair of boots. Put it all together and I'm looking at a third party being involved. Tell me how that third party got here without inside information."
Reynolds spoke in a very low tone. "It could be a random thing. Lonely place, possible armed robbery. It happens." She took a quick breath.
"But if you're right and there is a leak, it's not complete." They all looked at her curiously. "The shooter obviously didn't know about our last-second change of plan. That Connie and I would be here tonight,"
Reynolds explained. "Ordinarily, I would've been with Faith, but I was working another case. It didn't pan out and I decided at the last minute to hook up with Connie and come out here."
Connie glanced over at the van. "You're right, no one could have known about that. Ken didn't even know."
"I tried to call Ken about twenty minutes before we got here. I didn't want to just suddenly appear. If he heard a car pull up to the safe house without prior warning, he might have gotten spooked, shot first and asked questions later. He must have already been dead when I tried to reach him."
Massey stepped toward her. "Agent Reynolds, I know you've been handling this investigation from the beginning. I know that your use of this safe house and the closed-circuit TV surveillance of Ms.
Lockhart were all approved by the appropriate parties. I understand your difficulties in pursuing this case and gaining this witness's trust." Massey paused for a moment, seeming to select his words with great care. Newman's death had stunned them all, although agents were often in harm's way. Still, there would be definite blame assessed in this case, and everyone knew it.
Massey continued, "However, your approach was hardly textbook. And the fact is, an agent is dead."
Reynolds plunged right in. "We had to do this very quietly. We couldn't exactly have surrounded Lockhart with agents. Buchanan would've been gone before we had enough evidence for prosecution." She took a long breath. "Sir, you asked for my observations. Here they are. I don't think Lockhart killed Ken. I think Buchanan is behind it. We have to find her. But we have to do it quietly. If we put out an APB, then Ken Newman has probably died in vain. And if Lockhart is alive, she won't be for long if we go public."
Reynolds looked over at the van just as its doors closed on Newman's body. If she had been escorting Faith Lockhart instead of Ken, the odds were that she would have lost her life tonight. For any FBI agent, death was always a possibility, however remote. If she were killed, would Brooklyn Dodgers Reynolds fade in her children's memory?
She was certain her six-year-old daughter would always remember
"Mommy." She had doubts about three-year-old David, though. If she were killed, would David, years from now, only refer to Reynolds as his
"birth" mother? The thought itself was nearly paralyzing.
One day she had actually taken the ridiculous step of having her palm read. The palm reader had warmly welcomed Reynolds, given her a cup of herbal tea and chatted with her, asking her questions that tried to sound casual. These queries, Reynolds knew, were designed to gather background information to which the woman could add appropriate mumbo-jumbo as she "saw" into Reynolds's past, as well as her future.
After examining Reynolds's hand, the palm reader had told her that her life line was short. Significantly so, in fact. The worst she'd ever seen. The woman said this as she stared at a scar on Reynolds's palm.
Reynolds knew it was the result of falling on a broken Coke bottle in her backyard when she was eight.
The reader had picked up her cup of tea, apparently waiting for Reynolds to plead for more information, presumably at an appropriate premium over the initial fee. Reynolds had informed her that she was strong as a horse with years in between even a simple bout of flu.
Death needn't be by natural causes, the palm reader had replied, her painted eyebrows rising to emphasize the obvious point.
On that, Reynolds had paid her five dollars and walked out the door.
Now she wondered.
Connie scuffed the dirt with his toe. "If Buchanan is behind this, he's probably long gone by now anyway."
"I don't think so," Reynolds replied. "If he runs right after this, then he's as good as admitting guilt. No, he'll play it cool."
"I don't like this," Massey said. "I say we APB Lockhart and bring her in, assuming she's still living."
"Sir," Reynolds said, her voice tight, edgy, "we can't name her as a subject in a homicide when we have reason to believe she wasn't involved in the murder, but may well be a victim herself. That opens the Bureau to a whole civil-action can of worms if she does turn up.
You know that."
"Material witness, then. She damn well qualifies for that," said Massey.
Reynolds looked directly at him. "An APB is not the answer. It's going to do more harm than good. For everybody involved."
"Buchanan has no reason to keep her alive
."
"Lockhart is a smart woman," Reynolds said. "I spent time with her, got to know her. She's a survivor. If she can hang on for a few days, we have a shot. Buchanan can't possibly know what she's been telling us. But we do an APB naming her as a material witness, we just sign her death notice."
They were all silent for a bit. "All right, I see your point," Massey finally said. "You really think you can find her on the Q.T.?"
"Yes." What else could she say?
"Is that your gut talking, or your brain?"
"Both."
Massey studied her for a long moment. "For now, Agent Reynolds, you focus on finding Lockhart. The VCU people will investigate Newman's murder."
"I'd have them lockstep the yard looking for the slug that killed Ken.
Then I'd search the woods," Reynolds said.
"Why the woods? The boots were on the stoop."
She glanced over at the tree line. "If I were here to ambush someone, that"-she pointed toward the woods-"would be my first tactical choice.
Good cover, excellent line of fire and a hidden escape route. Car waiting, gun disposed of, a quick trip to Dulles Airport. In an hour the shooter's in another time zone. The shot that killed Ken entered the back of his neck. He's facing away from the woods. Ken must not have seen his attacker, or else he wouldn't have turned his back." She eyed the thick woods. "It all points there."
Another car pulled up and the director of the FBI himself climbed out.
Massey and his aides hurried over, leaving Connie and Reynolds alone.
"So what's our plan of action?" Connie asked.
"Maybe I'll try to match those boots to my Cinderella," Reynolds said as she watched Massey talking to the director. The director was a former field agent who, Reynolds knew, would take this catastrophe extremely personally. Everybody and everything associated with it would be subject to intense scrutiny.
"We'll cover all the usual bases." She tapped her finger against the tape. "But this is really all we have. Whoever's on this tape we hit hard, like there's no tomorrow."
"Depending on how this turns out, we might not have many tomorrows left, Brooke," said Connie.
CHAPTER 8
LEE GRIPPED THE STEERING WHEEL SO HARD his fingers were turning white As the police car, lights blazing, raced past him going in the opposite direction, he let out an enormous breath and then pushed hard on the accelerator. They were in Lee's car after having ditched the other. He had scrubbed down the inside of the dead man's car, but he could have easily missed something. And nowadays equipment existed that could find things completely invisible to the naked eye. Not good.
As Faith watched the swirling lights disappear into the darkness, she wondered if the police were heading to the cottage. Did Ken Newman have a wife and kids? she wondered. There had been no wedding band on his finger. Like many women, Faith had the habit of making that quick observation. Yet he'd seemed like the fatherly type.
As Lee maneuvered the car through the back roads, Faith's hand moved up, down and then drew a vertical line across her chest as she finished crossing herself. The near-automatic movement conveyed a subtle sense of surprise to her. She added a silent prayer for the dead man. She whispered another prayer for any family he might have. "I'm so sorry you're dead," she said out loud, to help assuage her mounting feelings of guilt for simply having survived.
Lee looked over at her. "Friend of yours?"
She shook her head. "He was killed because of me. Isn't that
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