Deadly Dreams (51 page)

If the situation were different, he might feel a bit sorry for them.

“Thank you.” She squeezed his hand and sent him a watery smile. “For making the necessary calls. For getting the people out of here . . . God. I just couldn’t deal with that.”

“What about the kids?” he asked quietly. The couple had two sons, both blond like Jo, both in their teens. So far they were being shielded from the breaking news of their father’s death.

“They’re with my parents. They’ll keep the boys away from the TV until I can go and tell them in person.” Her chin quavered once, before she firmed it. “We discussed this. Byron and me. Given our professions, I always thought I’d be the likelier target. God knows I’ve had plenty of threats. Remember that Calentro drug cartel trial last year? Somehow the USMS managed to keep me safe through that, but Byron hasn’t had a serious threat in years. And still . . .”

Because there were no words, Adam released her hand to slip an arm around her shoulders. The passing minutes were filled with her soft weeping. Causing a growing desolation inside him. Helplessness. There was nothing he hated worse.

Moments later, she drew away, mopped her face. And he recognized the determined expression she wore. “You’ve told us often enough over the last couple months, but are you truly okay? Completely recovered?”

The non sequitur had him blinking. “The bullets caught me in the one area of the chest that wasn’t already scarred. I’m still a bit miffed about that, but otherwise I’m fine.”

Her gaze was intent. “Who will have jurisdiction on this? The bureau?”

“DCPD will have been first to the scene. Marshals will have sent backup. Then you have the FBI and Homeland Security, just for starters. It’ll depend on what’s discovered at the crime scene. At the location of . . .”

“Of the shooter,” she continued for him. Her tears had disappeared, as if she’d successfully willed them away. “With Byron a sitting justice, we’re likely to have every alphabet agency coming out of the woodwork trying to get a piece of this.” Her smile was fierce. “I’ve read the justice reports. Regardless of 9/11, the agencies still haven’t learned to share intelligence. I don’t want Bryon getting lost in a bureaucratic pissing match.”

He couldn’t refute her logic. Although he’d left the FBI years ago, Adam had been an agent long enough to recognize the potential pitfalls of the upcoming investigation. “What are you proposing?”

“They won’t keep me in the loop of the investigation.” She waved away anything he would have said. “I know they can’t. That’s not my forte anyway.” Her pause then was laden with expectancy. “But it is yours. And that of your agency.”

With certain regret he answered, “As good as we are at Raiker Forensics, there’s zero chance that the feds would invite us to consult on a case of this magnitude. They’d see it as a duplication of services, for one. And my relationship to Byron would be considered a conflict of interest.” Although given the man’s far-reaching career thus far, he was likely personally acquainted with several top officials in both the FBI and DHS.

“Perhaps under ordinary circumstances.” A small sound was heard in the hallway. Jo lowered her voice as she reached out to grip his hand. “I have a few hours to trade on the expressions of sympathy that will be coming my way. Having the sitting U.S. attorney general as a former boss is about to come in handy. And I fully expect the White House to call soon. President Jolson is responsible for Byron’s seat on the Supreme Court. I think he’ll grant his widow this one favor.”

Shock flickered. “Jo, if you accomplish that, I’d be working with the task force put together for this case. And given its sensitivity, I couldn’t—”

“—report directly to me? I know.” She leaned forward, her expression urgent. “But I trust you. Byron trusted you. And if you’re on this case, I won’t worry because I know you’ll cut through all the bureaucratic bullshit to get the answers.” Her voice grew thick with tears again, although there were none in her eyes. They gleamed with purpose. “I want my husband’s killer. And if things get messy, I want the real facts, not the sanitized version or whatever the feds deem publicly palatable.” Her grasp on his hand tightened. “Before I beg my former employer and the president for a favor, Adam, I’m requesting one from you.”

There was no reason for Jo’s words to have memory ambushing him. To evoke the image of another time years earlier, from another woman with similar entreaty in her eyes. In her voice. Turning away from that woman had been the right thing to do. He still believed it.

And still lived with the searing regret that lingered.

He looked down at their clasped hands. Her pale, smooth skin contrasted sharply with the furrowed scars crisscrossing the back of his palm. Some decisions, made for the best of reasons, left haunting remorse in their wake. This one didn’t even require a second thought.

“I’ll do everything I can.”

“The prudent thing to do—for all concerned—is to bow out gracefully.” FBI Executive Assistant Director Cleve Hedgelin looked at a point beyond Adam’s shoulder as he parroted the suggestion, which had no doubt stemmed from a loftier position in the agency’s hierarchy. But it was equally likely that Cleve shared the sentiment. He might have been Adam’s partner eight years ago, but he’d stayed on at the bureau. Had risen in its ranks to head of the Criminal Investigation Division. An agent didn’t do that without learning to toe the political line.

And after the spectacular ending of the last case they’d worked together, Cleve likely harbored his own reasons for keeping his distance from Adam. “There’s nothing that you can add to the case, and your involvement is a needless distraction.”

The office was outfitted more grandly than the cubicle Adam had been assigned when he’d worked in the J. Edgar Hoover Building. He settled more comfortably into the plush armchair and sent the man a bland smile. “Stop wasting time. Attorney General Gibbons has already approved my full inclusion on this investigation. The president himself assured Jo Reinbeck that her wishes in this matter would be heeded. The agency’s objections to my presence are expected and duly noted. Let’s move on, shall we?”

An unwilling smile pulled at the corners of Hedgelin’s mouth. “Same ol’ Adam. You never were much for small talk.”

“Is that what that was?” When his thigh began to cramp, he shifted position to stretch his leg out. “And here I thought it was the usual bureaucratic BS. Agency’s been painted into a corner with Gibbons and Jolson weighing in but still thought it was worth a shot to appeal to my more tender sensibilities.”

“You never had many.”

“And I haven’t developed any in the time since I left. Tell your superiors you gave it the college try and I’m not budging. So.” His hands clenched and unclenched on the knob of his cane, an outward sign of his flagging patience. “Catch me up.”

Cleve smoothed a hand over his short hair. It was more gray than brown now, but his pale brown eyes were covered by the same style gold wire-framed glasses he’d favored eight years ago. His build was still slim, but the intervening years had left their stamp on the man’s face. Adam didn’t want to consider what showed on his own.

“We’ve got more agencies than we can handle jockeying for position in this investigation.”

“I imagine that kind of juggling comes with the job.”

The assistant director grimaced. “You have no idea. But in this case it means doling out pieces of the case to teams comprised of agents, and members from DHS, USMS, the DC police department . . . and now you.”

“Nice to know I’m not crowding the field.” Adam wasn’t without sympathy for the man’s position. But the emotion didn’t run deeply enough to have him bowing out and making it easier for Hedgelin or the agency. He’d made a promise to Jo. She’d done her part. She’d gotten him placed on the investigation. He had no illusions; it would have been her connections—and Byron’s—that had landed him here. Despite his past in the agency—or perhaps because of it—his presence would make them uneasy. His last case for the FBI had nearly killed him. Although he didn’t care about such things, to some it had made him a hero. But because he’d chosen to cut his ties with his former job, the bureau might regard him much differently.

That part didn’t matter. The investigation did.

“You’ll be partnered with two of our seasoned agents. I believe you know both from your time here. And Lieutenant Frank Griega will be your liaison from the DCPD.” Hedgelin dropped into his high-backed leather desk chair and shot Adam a small smile. “Given that our best guys in the Behavioral Analysis Unit were actually instructed by you, we’d be interested in any profile of the offender you put together.”

Adam inclined his head. Since he hadn’t made a point to keep up with many from the bureau once he’d left it, he had no idea who was still left in the BAU. But Cleve was right. Profiling had been a specialty of his while he’d been an agent. Now it was his employees at Raiker Forensics who received his tutelage. “Of course.” His pause was laden with meaning. “But it’d help to get some background on the case first.”

The agent leaned forward and stabbed at a button on his desk phone with the stump that remained of his right index finger. Adam wasn’t the only one who bore old injuries from the last case they’d worked. He rarely considered his own. When it came to human nature, it was only the scars on the inside that were worth noting.

Moments later the door to the office opened and a man and woman entered. With a glance, Adam determined that Cleve was right. He did know the agents. His gut clenched tightly once before he shoved the response aside with sheer force of will. He’d had recent dealings with Special Agent Tom Shepherd, as well as knowing him slightly when they’d both been with the bureau.

But his reaction had nothing to do with Shepherd.

“You recall Special Agents Shepherd and Marlowe?”

“Of course.” He gave them a curt nod.

Shepherd’s broad smile complemented his aging Hollywood golden-boy looks. “You’re looking a sight better than you did a few months ago in the Philly CCU. I’ve been hearing the doctors took to calling you the miracle man.”

Her voice and face devoid of expression, Jaid Marlowe raised a brow at him. “Just a word of advice—you aren’t actually bulletproof. Next time you have an assassin after you, try Kevlar.”

“Now that I’ve discovered bullets don’t bounce off me, I may have to.” His tone was as mild as her own. No one would suspect that only a few short months ago Jaid had sat at his bedside clutching his hand, silent and pale, her wide brown eyes drenched in tears. In a medicated fog at the time, he might have thought she was an image produced by his subconscious. She’d taken up permanent residence there eight years ago, like a determined ghost refusing to be banished.

Cleve stood, taking three oversized brown folders from a pile on his desk and leaning across the desk to pass them out. Flipping his open, Adam saw it contained copies of the case file. Regardless of the minutes wasted trying to convince him to bow out, a file had already been prepared for him just in case. Which made him wonder if his response to Hedgelin’s persuasive tactics had been predicted from the start, or whether the extra file had been prepared for the absent DCPD lieutenant.

The thought vanished when he focused on the pictures contained in the first manila folder inside. There was a clutch in his chest when he recognized his friend crumpled on top of the stained, broken plywood, bright yellow roses crushed beneath him. The depth of emotion blindsided him. He took a moment to acknowledge the feeling before tucking it away. Subjectivity crippled an investigator. Turning those feelings into purpose was the only way to help Byron Reinbeck.

With that intent in mind he riffled through the pictures, plucking out a few to arrange on his lap atop the open folder, side by side. After studying them for a moment he looked up. “The shooter was on a rooftop across the street?” His gaze lowered again. “The building was at least five stories. Rooftop most likely. Or top floor, although being inside the building would increase his risk of being identified.”

“The roof,” Cleve affirmed. “Seven-story building. The second folder has the scenes shot there.”

There was a note in the man’s voice that alerted Adam. He went to the next folder and shuffled through the photos there. There was little to see in the images. No evidence of a rifle or scope. No tripod. No shell casings. The shooter had coolly taken the time to pick up before fleeing the scene. There was nothing except . . . He squinted his one good eye at a photo of what looked like an ordinary five-by-eight white index card encased in a plastic Ziploc. On it was scrawled one word in what looked to be red marker.

Wrath
.

As if reading his thoughts, Jaid said, “Wrath? The shooter was angry at the victim?”

Riffling through the rest of the photos in that file, he stopped at one that showed the card before it’d been disturbed. “Oh, he wanted this to be found, didn’t he?” Adam murmured. He’d first thought the bag protecting the card was one used by the crime scene technicians, but now he realized the shooter had left it that way. Encased in plastic, with a fist-sized piece of broken concrete holding it in place on the pebbled flat roof of the building. “Wrath. One of the seven deadly sins.” Feeling the others’ eyes on him, he looked up. “Not that I’m all that well versed in the tenets of Catholicism, but I had some exposure in my youth.”