Blind Spot (12 page)

“Me too.” Sam closed his eyes and rested his head against the couch. He had many questions on the tip of his tongue, but he felt like he couldn’t ask any of them. “How’s Eric?”

“Oh, he’s Eric. He’s fine. But I’m… I’m starting to feel it.”

Sam knew what he meant. He would probably have the same problem if their situations were reversed, but it stung all the same. He eyed the half-drunk glass of whiskey and grimaced. “Yeah. I guess it’s pretty hard not… to participate.”

“That’s not what I meant. It’s the case wearing on me. I only want you. God, when I get home—”

A voice on the other end of the line interrupted Nathan. Sam could tell it was Eric speaking, but he couldn’t make out his words, only their emphatic tone.

“Shit,” Nathan murmured. Sam heard a few muffled exchanges. From the low growl in his throat, Nathan sounded like he was arguing.

“Let me guess—you have to go,” Sam said when Nathan returned to the call.

“Something’s come up. I’m sorry.”

Sorry was starting to feel like an empty word.

They disconnected, and Sam picked up his glass. The ice tinkled, and he hesitated and considered the amber liquid. A slow-spreading misery took hold of him. He was self-medicating. It wasn’t Nathan’s fault he had to work. The case took precedence, and Sam hated feeling so needy.

What had Nathan meant—the case was wearing on him? Sam knew Nathan’s work sometimes upset him, no matter the calm, rational exterior he presented to the rest of the world. Maybe the case was worse than expected. It was frustrating not to be able to hear the details and maybe offer some comfort. Then again Sam was barely holding it together himself, and the whiskey in his hand was proof.

He thought about reaching out to Alex and Rachel, but he didn’t. They were happy, and he didn’t want to drag them down. Yuri was busy mooning over his hot, young employee.

What would he do if Tim passed? Was it selfish to want his brother to continue living—if it could be called living—in his current limbo state? What if he was suffering, and Sam didn’t know? He’d been so young when his life was stolen. They’d never had the chance to discuss what-if scenarios. There had only been the future, overflowing with promise, but cruelly ephemeral. You should never have to wonder whether your brother would want to die.

“What are you staring at?” Shadow was still giving him a know-it-all look. She could judge away. He was going to finish his drink. And talking to his cat was a pretty sad substitute for human conversation. He was well on his way to becoming a drunk, crazy cat guy, if there was such a thing.

His cell rang again. He answered without bothering to look at the caller ID. “Look, Nathan. Really. It’s—”

“Hello? Is this Sam?” The voice was vaguely familiar, and it stopped Sam in his tracks. He set down his whiskey.

“Barney?”

“Yeah.”

“Holy shit. I went to your apartment the other day, but the cops said you’d left. Where are you?”

“I can’t tell you that, and I can’t talk for long. Listen. I don’t know who killed the mayor, but I might know
why
they did it.”

“Oh yeah?” Sam’s pulse started to race. He was on the precipice of something huge—something that might change his career entirely. All of his other worries vanished as Collins continued.

“The mayor was involved with the Voronkovs.”

“I knew it.” Sam slapped his knee and laughed in triumph. One of his first suspicions had been a mob link. “Is that why you took off?”

“Listen carefully. There’s a mailbox on the corner of Regent and South Street, a few blocks from my place. Taped to the underside, you’ll find a key to a safe-deposit box at the Union Trust, number 203. Be careful no one follows you.”

Sam didn’t need to be warned twice. A small, tight scar on the top of his head served as a continual reminder of his encounter with Bernhardt Hoff, one of the Voronkov’s henchmen. The injury could have been much worse, but he was lucky. He managed to escape with only a concussion and a few bruises, because Nathan got there in time to save him.

“And you knew about this?” Disappointment quickly replaced excitement. Barney had seemed like an okay guy, but he’d obviously been covering for the mayor. Then it dawned on Sam, and he could have kicked himself for being so stupid. The fancy watch, the nice car, those top-shelf martinis. “You were getting paid off. Weren’t you? You son of a bitch.”

“I’m not proud, but I did what I did.” Collins sounded a little too haughty for Sam’s liking.

“Who else?” Sam demanded. “The deputy mayor?”

A pause. “It’s all in the files.”

“Shit.” Sam was up on his feet, pacing around the room. His mind whirled in a thousand different directions, fueled by an adrenaline rush. Not only had White been involved with the mob, his successor was crooked too. “Why are you telling me this now? Why incriminate yourself?”

“I guess you could say I had a crisis of conscience. I’m leaving the country now, and I won’t be back. Do whatever you want with the evidence. But I suggest you burn it. It’s dangerous. I’ve got to get going—”

Sam cut him off before he could hang up. “Wait. So you don’t have any idea who did it?”

Collins sighed. “It could have been anyone. Rodger was using more heavily after what happened last October. I tried to stop him, but he wouldn’t listen. He thought he had everything under control.”

“He was getting sloppy?” Sam spun on his heel and headed to the coffee table to grab his keys. If the mayor had ceased to be useful and become a liability, it made sense that others, who wanted to retain power, might have killed him, especially if the deputy mayor was involved.

“Yes. And I was working my ass off to keep him out of sight. Anyway you seem like a good guy, Sam. Don’t… trust anyone. Okay?”

Sam was already heading toward the elevator when Collins hung up. He pocketed his phone and stood facing the doors as they closed and left him in the quiet, enclosed space. He was clearheaded. The minor buzz he had before the phone call was gone.

He wasn’t surprised by Barney’s revelation. According to a recent report, drug arrests had begun to decline over the past few months. The mayor’s office had spun it as a result of the increased effectiveness of the new programs, but Sam had his doubts. It was common knowledge Stonebridge remained a major gateway for trafficking between New York and the rest of the Northeast. Just because there hadn’t been any major busts recently didn’t mean drugs were no longer coming into the city. In fact it could simply mean the trafficking was continuing unchecked. After all the Voronkovs had many members working throughout the area, like tiny spiders skittering around on one large, complex web. If one thread broke, they would simply build another.

The elevator dinged when he reached the ground floor. Sam gave his surroundings a sweep as he made his way to his parking space and climbed into his truck. There were a few people on the street, but no one paid him any attention as the engine roared to life.

Other questions ran through Sam’s mind as he reversed and headed toward the address Collins had relayed. Was he being stupid for trusting his word? What if he was walking into a trap?

He hesitated at a red light with his hands on the wheel.

If Collins was telling the truth, Sam was about to gain possession of information that would make him a target if the wrong people found out he had it. He thought for a second about calling Chief Howard and telling her. But could he trust her? And Nathan was out of reach at the moment.

He made the final turn and curbed his truck a block away from the mailbox. After a cursory rummage in the glove compartment, he found an old blank envelope—his cover in case someone had eyes on the area.

He fingered the folded paper. “Cautious” wasn’t an adjective anyone had ever used to describe him, but was he bordering on reckless? Ever since seeing Tim seize up, he’d been thinking about how fleeting life was. With Nathan gone, it felt like he was on hold. But he had always wanted to make a difference, and he wouldn’t get there by sitting on his hands.

His blood hummed with excitement as he hopped out of the truck, started to whistle, and made his way toward the dark blue shape of the mailbox. Collins had chosen wisely. The street was quiet. After he slipped the empty envelope into the box, he purposefully dropped his keys, cursed, and kneeled down to find them. Running his fingers gingerly along the underside of the cool metal box, he encountered cobwebs, rusty metal, and then a smooth bump of plastic tape.

The key.

He removed it and gripped it tightly in his palm. As he retraced his steps to his truck, it seemed to get even hotter, until it was searing a brand in his skin. The night stretched long before him. He thought about the bottle of whiskey waiting at home. Tomorrow he’d find out what was inside the safe-deposit box.

UNION NATIONAL
Trust was a small brick structure with an even smaller parking lot. When Sam entered with the key in his pocket, there were only a few pensioners in the lobby and a bored teller at the long, faux mahogany desk. A security guard gave him a disinterested glance and then continued pacing the scuffed marble floor. Beyond him a narrow hallway led to what looked like the vault.

Sam had spent the morning wondering if he should go to the bank or wait to talk it over with Nathan. After a few hours of internal debate, his disobedient streak won out. With Nathan out of state, it was easier to ignore his inevitable objection. Still, with every step he took, he could feel Nathan’s disapproval. A shrink would probably say he was courting trouble on purpose.

Sam peeked into one of the cubicle offices flanking the wall of the bank. He’d never rented a safe-deposit box, and he wasn’t sure how the process worked. Would he need a photo ID or something, even though he had a key? What if they denied him entry?

He didn’t have much time to wonder. A woman wearing thick horn-rimmed glasses looked up from her computer. He smiled at her as sweat started to bead on his forehead. He’d worn a blazer to conceal his holster, and the room was warm. Coupled with the state of his nerves, he was sweltering.

“Hi,” he said, giving her his most winning smile. “I need to retrieve something from my safe-deposit box.” He raised Nathan’s black work briefcase, the one he used for his teaching trips. Sam had found it in the closet while rooting around for something professional to wear. It seemed the perfect solution to stow whatever was in Barney’s box, assuming it didn’t contain something large or cumbersome… like a severed head. That thought had been enough to encourage him to investigate the gun safe. It felt strange to be carrying a concealed weapon, but it was the one concession he made to the list of Nathan’s imagined objections. Once he got home, he’d lock up Barney’s evidence.

She blinked owlishly. “Key?”

He held it out.

“ID?” She typed something on the computer.

Sam held his breath.
Shit.
The woman slowly blinked again, like his hesitation was paining her. He had to make a decision.

“Sam Flynn.” He fished out his license and handed it to her, and his heart hammered as she typed out his name. He should have asked Collins what name the thing was under. He should have—

“Right this way, please,” said the woman.

—given the guy a little more credit.

The deposit vault smelled musty, like dust and a thousand old possessions left behind. The woman procured a key from a ring on her belt, slipped it into one of the two keyholes, and motioned for Sam to do the same. She pulled out the small rectangular box and set it on the sole metal table in the center of the room.

“Ring the bell when you’re finished.”

Once she’d gone, Sam opened up the hinged box and peered inside. There was a manila envelope filled with receipts and tax documents dating back years. A quick flip through them suggested the mayor’s accountant had been creative with his returns. The only other object was a small red flash drive. Sam slipped both items into his briefcase and rang the bell.

THE CAR
wasn’t turning.

Sam glanced in the rearview mirror at the silver sedan that had been following him for the past several minutes. He hadn’t noticed it in the bank parking lot, though, and he told himself he was being paranoid. But at the next light, when he turned left and the car continued to trail him, his stomach dropped uncomfortably. He couldn’t see the driver through the car’s tinted windows.
Shit.

He’d loaded a few rounds into his gun before he left the apartment. Even so he hadn’t honestly considered the possibility of a confrontation. What would Nathan do if he were here? Thinking quickly, Sam slowed to well below the thirty-mile-per-hour speed limit, and instead of passing him, the sedan slowed too.
Double shit.

He sped up, and the sedan sped up. Whoever was driving didn’t appear to be making any attempt to conceal the fact they were following him. His hands slipped against the wheel as he made the first left turn he could. The sedan turned too.

Sam glanced into his rearview as adrenaline revved up his fight-or-flight instinct. Even though the sedan was close behind, he couldn’t make out the driver—only a vague shadow of a genderless person who appeared to be wearing sunglasses. The car didn’t have a front plate either, so he couldn’t tell whether it was from out of state or local. And Sam had made a tactical error. The road he’d chosen was becoming more and more rural by the second. Why had he turned left, away from downtown? Cursing himself for his stupidity, he pressed the gas pedal, and the engine roared. The speedometer read fifty, then fifty-five.

The road was relatively straight, with only an occasional house on either side, and soon Sam realized he was heading toward the old Stonebridge airfield. The corrugated metal roof of the old hangar was barely visible through the thick growth of trees, but he remembered it well. He’d had his first driving lessons there as a teenager. His father took him onto the abandoned tarmac in order to avoid traffic and to give him a chance to make mistakes. His father’s stern but patient face flashed before him.
Ease up on the gas, bud. Turn the wheel with both hands. Keep them at ten and two. Remember to use your mirrors to check for traffic.