by Drew Murray
It’s a good plan. It’s high-profile enough to show something is being done, but not so much of a barrier that it would stop the auction.
“Won’t this Chinese agent be spooked by uniformed cops everywhere?” asks Burke.
“No, sir,” says Decker. “In fact, it would be more suspicious if we didn’t do that. He’s not afraid of local cops. They’re looking for common criminals; they’re not spy catchers. No offense, Lopez.”
“None taken.”
“Okay, say for a minute I approve this. Wilmont’s going to have to sign off on it, too.” Burke’s softening. Cautiously entertaining the plan.
Having reached a state of calm after the initial shock of seeing Amanda Caplan’s photo, I can close this deal. Time to drop the mic.
“It’s all about the Fuku—the quantum computer,” I say. “That’s why the Chinese sent their hacker Dragoniis. That’s what Golovchenko’s soldiers are here for. That’s why the kidnappers took Caplan’s daughter. Right now, they all still believe that Caplan’s auction is on.”
“How is that possible with Caplan dead?” asks Burke.
“No one outside of law enforcement, and his killer, know Caplan’s dead. We’ve explained our presence by saying we’re investigating a robbery,” says Dana.
“Smart, Detective,” says Burke.
“It was Agent Parker’s idea,” she says.
“My analyst in LA has been monitoring Caplan’s accounts on the Dark Net,” I explain. “The bidders are all still active. If any one of them had the Unicorn, they would have left and gone silent. We keep the auction going, we keep the bidders active, and we have a chance of tracking them down and bringing them in.”
Something I respect about Burke: he doesn’t pussyfoot around when making a decision. I just hope it’s the right one. Decker, Dana, and I wait, holding our breath.
“Detective Lopez, I know you want Caplan’s killer, and Golovchenko. Decker, I know you want Dragoniis. Parker, I know you want this quantum computer. But the priority must be Caplan’s daughter. Life over limb.”
“I agree with that, but additional agents—” says Decker before Burke cuts him off.
“Hold on,” says Burke. “I worked my share of kidnapping for ransom. If one of the bidders is holding the Caplan girl and the auction is compromised, there’s a better than even chance they kill her as part of their exit strategy. Because why leave a witness? Too much Bureau profile will tell them the auction has been compromised.”
The three of us in the room let out sighs of relief. Decker flops back in his chair, and Dana closes her eyes, rubbing her forehead. I unclench the hands I realize were balled up into tight fists.
“But the FBI can’t fail to act,” Burke continues. “I’m sending you Griffon and Nassar. They’re experts on the Russian connection, and they have field experience. Two agents won’t be too obvious. And we still need to get Wilmont onboard.”
“I’ll take care of Wilmont, sir,” says Dana. “I’ll have him call you directly.”
“Let me be clear, for all of you,” Burke says, pausing to make sure he has our attention. In the background the faint sounds of an aria swell to a climax. “Amanda Caplan’s life comes first. She’s real. The rest of this is still theoretical.”
Storm Decker is looking pained again. More Agents. Having me here poking at his mission to catch Dragoniis was bad enough. Griffon’s ambitious and upwardly mobile. On the road to Supervisory Agent. Decker’s afraid he’s going to end up in the back seat.
Authority and I have a casual relationship pretty much all the time. But the clock is ticking. Having Decker look over my shoulder was irritating but manageable. Two more agents challenging what I’m doing could really slow me down.
“One more thing, Director,” I say and Decker shoots me a glare. Dana squints hard at me. We’re walking away with what we want, and it’s always a bad idea to sell what’s already been sold. “We’re on a time limit here. Caplan’s daughter is being held right now. Caplan was here for this Comic Con. The planned end-point of the auction would be sometime in the next …” I look at my smartwatch. “Forty-ish hours. Decker and I already have a good lay of the land. If we have to start over, we could lose it.”
Silence. Burke knows what I’m saying. We need to run this. Decker’s biting his lip and clenching his fists. I shrug. No sense in dancing around the issue.
“Director,” I say, slowly, without any trace of my usual antagonism. “You know why I joined the FBI. I know you do. No antics. This is the best way, I promise.”
“Fine,” he says, finally. “You and Decker take the lead. The objective remains the same: Amanda’s life over all else.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
There’s just time to make it back to the Comic Con before it closes for the day. Dana’s right, the Convention Center is a focal point of the case. The auction is still on. Caplan was killed there. Someone looped the video there. I don’t know if we’ll find all the answers, but I’m certain it’s the best place to start. We need to know more about what happened last night, and I’m certain that if we go back tonight, we’ll find someone who can tell us.
Our next best lead is the photo of Amanda Caplan. Before I go, I get Bradley to walk the photo over to the FBI’s lab. Kidnapping holds a special place in the Bureau’s DNA, and with a life at stake, it will go to the top of the pile.
Monsters like the serial killer Bruce Sterling can be almost impossible to find—that’s why the FBI needed my help when Kate Mason was taken. Their only contact with the outside world is entirely optional, beyond when they take their victims. Kidnapping for ransom is different. Amanda’s kidnappers have to communicate to negotiate payment. With every communication there’s a chance to figure out who and where they are. They’ve given me a lot with that picture already, but once the image techs have done their magic, I’ll have so much more.
Someone’s watching me, and until I know who, it’s better not to be on my own. I don’t want Decker following me around, so I ask Dana to come with me, telling her it’s Bureau policy not to operate alone. I suggest that with the image analysis underway and a team of local detectives doing the grunt work of searching the city for signs of Golovchenko, she could be doing something more productive.
“Like what?” she asks.
“How about video games?” I answer, raising my eyebrows.
She squints at me again, the way that she does when she’s thinking, puzzling something out, and then agrees with a shrug.
There’s something that draws me to her like gravity. She’s confident and dedicated. She knows who she is and what she’s doing. I’ve spent my life focused and goal-oriented, so I know it when I see it. And I admire it.
When we get to her car, I realize immediately that this is a bad idea.
“What happened to you in there?” she asks, pulling out of the garage. “Something knocked you for a loop.”
“It was a disturbing ransom photo.”
“Uh-huh,” she says, turning a corner. “The thing is, the murder scene was disturbing, too. I watched you. You were repulsed by it. Almost woofed your cookies. That ransom photo is different. It frightened you. Why is that?”
“Just not something I’m used to seeing.”
“Right,” she says in a tone that tells me she doesn’t buy my answer at all, then she changes tactics. “How does an almost-billionaire end up in the FBI?”
“Same way as everybody else. Quantico.”
“That’s not what you said to Burke,” she says, shaking her head and pursing her lips. “You said, ‘You know why I joined the FBI. I know you do.’ It was deliberate, based on a specific reason that he’s aware of. What does he know?”
He knows that I helped him find Bruce Sterling, and that I watched Kate Mason die. But I’m not getting into that, so I deflect her questions with my own. “Webb’s alibi. Did it check out?”
“I talked to several other vendors,” she says, accelerating through an intersection. “They remember seei
ng him at the bar.”
“Where was it?”
“A place called Chico’s. Three blocks from the Convention Center. It’s odd. I couldn’t find anyone that spent the evening with him. But they definitely saw him.”
“That’s typical,” I say with a chuckle. “You’re not dealing with the most social demographic. It’s not unusual for someone to show up, parade their costume around, and then pose for people to admire, all without ever talking to anyone. Plenty of folks show up alone, drink alone, and leave alone.”
“Sounds fun,” says Dana wryly.
“It could be worse. Back in the Valley, socializing was a full contact sport. When you accepted an invitation to a party, you were emailed an attendance list with guest profiles.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I’m not. That way, when you got there, you knew who you needed to talk to, about what, and how to kick off the conversation.”
“‘Hey, how you doin’?’ didn’t work?” she says with a snicker.
“Says to me that you haven’t done your homework.” I shrug. “So you likely don’t have a goal for talking to me, and you definitely don’t have the WIIFM worked out.”
“The what?” she says, turning to face me, her cop frown on full display.
“What’s in it for me.”
“As in what you would get out of talking to me?”
“Exactly.”
“No way. You’re full of shit.” She laughs, the frown disappearing, her teeth flashing in the gloom.
“Wish I were.”
“Pardon me for saying it, but your parties don’t sound like a lot of fun.”
She goes silent as she concentrates, negotiating a side street partially blocked by a delivery truck. We’re almost at the Convention Center, and I think she’s dropped the interrogation until she asks, “Long way from the Valley to the FBI. How’d that happen?”
I dodge again, asking for the latest update on Miller because there’s no way she’ll redirect from that topic. I’m right, and the answer to that question brings us the rest of the way to the Con. He’s still touch and go, the doctors have done what they can, now all that’s left is to wait. A heavy police presence at the hospital guards his room, even though it’s unlikely Golovchenko would send anyone to finish him off. The objective was the Pelican case and the Fukushima Unicorn they thought was inside it, not Miller. He just happened to be holding it. And wouldn’t let go. If he had, maybe Petrov would have just taken it and left.
Leaving Dana’s car at the curb and approaching the building, I see the additional police presence is already in place, standing alongside the private security guards, who are now searching everyone before entry. The uniforms all know Dana and wave us through with a nod.
Once inside, I want us to fade into the crowd. As Farber pointed out earlier, I already look like one of the fans, but Dana sticks out like a sore thumb. Especially with a neat bullet hole surrounded by black burns in the center of her chest.
I stop at the giant tower of t-shirts.
“Large, right?” I say, reaching into one of the bins.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Your t-shirt size. We need to de-policify your look. I’m guessing a medium normally when it’s, you know, just you without the vest. But with the Kevlar, up one size, so large.”
I hold up a Wonder Woman t-shirt in front of her.
“You’re kidding, right?” she says, putting her hand on her hip and glaring at me.
“Okay. Superheroes are a little clichéd for a cop.” I scan the other bins. “Does anything here leap out at you? Lord of the Rings?”
“Is this really why we’re here?”
“Listen, your guys are screening everyone entering now, but people have been coming in here since this morning. There could be a bidder in here, and they could be armed. Since we don’t know who they are, it’s better if we blend in.”
Of course, there’s also whoever’s been following me. The hair stands up on my neck, but I don’t turn around. If they’re watching, I don’t want them to know I’m looking for them.
Dana nods, reluctantly.
“Star Trek?” I ask.
“Oh, please.”
“Doctor Who?”
“Who?”
“Exactly.”
“No.”
Taking a step back, I look further. While I realize that it doesn’t matter what shirt she wears, as long as it’s fandom something, it would be better if there was something here that she was into. I tell myself that’s because she’ll be more comfortable, and not because I’d like to know if we have something in common.
“Do you like Harry Potter?”
“Who doesn’t?”
“Ah, Deathly Hallows then.” I walk over to the bin with the familiar symbol combining a triangle and a circle, bisected by a straight line. It’s printed in white, on a plain black t-shirt.
We’re the last people around inside the towering temporary structure when I buy her the shirt, handing it to her in a plain white plastic bag. She hands me her blazer and starts unbuttoning her blouse.
“You’re putting it on right now?”
“You said I need to stop looking like a cop, right? I assume you didn’t mean later.”
It’s not exactly private here. When she takes her blouse off, I turn away.
“Thanks, but no need,” she says.
Out of the corner of my eye I see black body armor, covering her chest and back. Right. A padded bandage wraps around her torso underneath. Raising her hands over her head to put the Deathly Hallows t-shirt on, she winces, biting her lip.
“Better?” she asks.
“You look perfect,” I answer, turning around just in time to see her conceal her weapon, hanging the bottom of the shirt loosely over the top.
“Well, thank you for the shirt, Will,” she says, smiling.
She tosses her old blouse in the trash by the register. Catching my surprise, she says, “You may have noticed, it has a hole in it.”
With a bit of time before closing, I lead us to the food court I saw earlier. We’re in luck, discovering a sandwich booth still open. They’re packing up for the day, but they have leftover bagels, and coffee in a thermal carafe, which they agree to leave for us. When they made it is anyone’s guess, but it’s better than nothing.
“I’m guessing we didn’t come here for stale coffee,” Dana says, putting a cap on her cup. Black. No sugar. I’m impressed.
“No, we didn’t. We came here to find a witness.”
“A witness? The security guard said they didn’t see anyone.”
“Let’s count who was here last night. Caplan. Whoever killed him. And a thief. That’s at least three,” I say, marking them off on my fingers. “I wouldn’t put too much faith in the security guard.”
“A fair point,” she says.
She pauses, a silence stretching out between us as I fold back the hatch in the coffee cup lid and take a sip.
When she breaks the silence, her voice is gentle but firm. “I need you to tell me why you joined the FBI.”
The sip of coffee tastes bitter. But it’s here, it’s hot, and it’s got caffeine so I swallow it anyway.
I sigh. “Why does it matter?”
She takes a moment before she speaks, considering her answer. She’s not squinting or frowning at me. This is a different side of Dana. Not the cop side, constantly questioning and challenging. This is her as a person.
“This isn’t your run-of-the-mill homicide investigation anymore. When I woke up this morning, I had a visitor to the city who got his head smashed in. Tragic, but that’s all. Now I’ve got a priceless, and radioactive, piece of technology plus the spies, hackers, Russian mafia, and kidnappers, who are after it. Oh, and two FBI agents who aren’t being completely honest with me.”
When you put it like that, it does sound bad.
“Listen,” she continues after taking a sip of coffee, “I grew up in a not-nice part of Miami. Surrounded by gangs. When
I became a cop, I went back and worked the street there. I’ve been around some seriously dangerous people. But this case makes me nervous.”
“You’d be crazy not to be,” I answer, nodding.
“What makes me nervous is what I don’t know. Too much is hidden. Like you. Why does someone give up the life of a king for the life of a cop? You changed your entire life for a reason. That’s a big reason. And it has to be part of who you are. If I don’t know what that is, I don’t know you. If I don’t know you, how can I trust that you have my back?”
I look away. In fact, I didn’t have her back. I let her carry the Pelican case out in the open, which got her shot and Miller just about killed. I owe her for that. But how much? What she’s asking, I’ve never told anyone, because it means talking about the night of the tsunami. Except when I was interviewed by the Bureau, but even then, I left out the mistake that gave Bruce Sterling the chance to kill Kate Mason.
“I came here with you tonight because you’re smart,” she says, leaning over, to put her face in front of mine. “You’re a pretty remarkable investigator, and I can tell you’re on to something. But there are hidden threats all around us.”
She’s more right than she knows. I think of the message from Caplan’s phone. Is my follower still in the building, or did he or she leave with the public?
“Like it or not, we’re in this together. I can’t spend time second guessing you, when I need to be on guard. That puts my life in danger,” she says, subconsciously putting her arm over her chest where the bullet hole used to be.
In this moment, as memories of the tsunami swirl around me, there’s one face that emerges: Jack. We were in it together too, until I shut him out, and look at how that ended. In the short time I’ve known Dana, I’ve already managed to get her shot. If she wasn’t wearing that vest, she’d be gone, just like Jack. Jack deserved better. Dana deserves better. Am I really going to make that mistake again too?