The Redemption (30 page)

“Agent Sheffield, I’m begging you. Please don’t throw our report onto some pile—take a hard look at it right now. Let us explain everything to you, page by page. I guarantee you won’t regret it.”

Eric looks at his watch. I imagine he’s got a huge stack of background checks waiting for him.

“Henn,” Sarah interjects, “will you please play Special Agent Sheffield that voicemail we have cued up?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Henn presses a button on his computer and the Ukrainian Travolta’s gruff voice fills the room for about eight seconds.

When the voicemail ends, Sarah speaks calmly. “That was one of several voicemails our computer expert, Peter Hennessey, has retrieved from the cell phone of Maksim Belenko. He’s the brains behind The Club’s various operations. In that particular voicemail, a hitman named Yuri Navolska asks Mr. Belenko if he should go ahead and kill his intended target as previously instructed, or, instead, hold off due to newly discovered information.”

Special Agent Eric’s eyes widen. He’s most definitely intrigued.

“That’s what a certified Ukrainian translator will tell you in a sworn statement under penalty of perjury—and, of course, Mr. Hennessey will swear that voicemail came from Belenko’s cell phone.”

Henn nods curtly.

“And since Yuri Navolska was holding a knife to my throat in a bathroom at the University of Washington when he left that voicemail, I can personally vouch for its authenticity.”

She’s got his undivided attention now.

Sarah continues her assault. “About a minute after leaving that message, Yuri Navolska sliced the external jugular vein in my neck and stabbed me in the ribcage, causing me to fall back and crack my skull on a sink ledge.” She tilts her head to the side to display the scar on her neck. “If you need to see the scars on my head and torso, I’ll show you.”

Agent Eric inhales sharply. “No, that’s okay. I believe you.”

“Please,” Kat says, her voice brimming with genuine emotion. “These guys tried to kill my best friend.” All trace of Flirty Kat is gone—she’s Earnest Kat now. “Just give us a couple hours of your time.” Even I can see how stunningly beautiful Kat looks right now—vulnerability suits her.

“You’ve got more voicemails besides this one?” Eric asks.

“Several,” Henn says. “About all kinds of nasty stuff. Maksim Belenko’s a really bad dude—prostitution, weapons, drugs, money laundering.”

“This report outlines everything for you in meticulous detail,” Sarah says, grabbing the hefty document off the table and holding it in the air. “Every single allegation in here is true and supported with solid, incontrovertible evidence.” She lets the report fall back onto the table with a loud thud.

Agent Eric’s demeanor has done a complete one-eighty since we first walked through his door. “Okay,” he says, exhaling. “Let’s dig in. We’ll go through the report together, page by page, and if it’s everything you say it is, I’ll take this to my boss today.” He looks up at the ceiling. “But please, for the love of God, don’t bullshit me about a single goddamned thing. Okay?”

We all nod profusely.

“If I’m gonna stick my neck out, you’ve got to promise to tell me the God’s truth.”

“Thank you,” Kat says. “We promise.” She shoots him a look like she’s just promised him a blowjob, signaling the official retreat of Vulnerable Kat.

“Let’s do it,” Agent Eric says, getting comfortable in his chair. He looks directly at Kat. “I’m all yours.”

Jonas
 

We’ve been here almost three hours walking Special Agent Eric through Sarah’s report and accompanying exhibit log.
Throughout our discussion, Eric has looked variously excited, overwhelmed, anxious, and ecstatic—but always
convinced
.

“So what do you want me to do?” Agent Eric asks, thumbing through the exhibit log. He’s clearly trying to hide the fact that he’s shitting his pants right now.

“We want a meeting in D.C. within the next two days with power players at the FBI, CIA, and Secret Service,” I say.

Eric keeps a straight face, but I can tell he’s losing his shit. “I’m pretty sure I’ll be able to convince my boss about all this,” Eric says, motioning to the report. “But I doubt she’ll be able to pull in those other agencies.”

“We’re talking about the U.S. Secretary of Defense,” I say. “We don’t know who within the FBI might be in that guy’s pocket.”

Eric opens his mouth to protest, but I barrel ahead.

“It’s not that I mistrust anyone at the FBI
per se
—I’d say the same thing about power players at the CIA and Secret Service, too. It’s simple checks and balances—I’m just trying to increase my odds that this situation gets handled right.”

Agent Eric rubs his eyes. “All three agencies within two days?”

I nod.

He shakes his head. “That’s gonna be a tough sell.”

“Tell me how we can make that happen.”

“Deliver the money.”

“Done,” Sarah says. “A printout of all The Club’s bank accounts is at Tab D of the exhibit log. The account numbers are blacked out on that version, but—”

“No, deliver the
actual
money—not a printout. You want the FBI, CIA
and
Secret Service to jump when you say jump? Then make this a turnkey operation for them.”

“But we can’t do that,” Sarah says. “Those accounts require—”

“Yeah, we can,” Henn cuts in.

Sarah shoots Henn a “what the fuck?” look, and I’m right there with her. Henn told us the bank accounts require in-person signatures for large transfers.

“We can do it,” Henn insists.

“Okay,” Sarah says slowly, looking at Henn quizzically. “Even if that’s true, we have a problem. If we move the money before law enforcement is ready to pounce, Belenko will immediately guess who screwed him over and come after Jonas and me—and who knows what else they might do?”

“She’s right,” I say. “We can’t move the money to convince you guys to take action—it’s got to be the other way around.”

Eric sighs and looks up at the ceiling. “You’re not bullshitting me? You can do it?”

Everyone looks at Henn.

“We can do it.”

“Then I’ll vouch for you with my boss,” Eric says. “I’ll do everything in my power.”

Everyone sighs with relief.

“Hey, Agent Sheffield,” Sarah says. “I’ve got a favor to ask of you.”

The entire room looks at Sarah in surprise. This isn’t something we talked about in advance. What the fuck is she talking about?

Eric purses his lips, apparently waiting to hear her request.

“You do background checks, right?” Sarah asks.

“Yeah,” Eric replies. “Every day.”

“I’d like you to find two people for me.”

Agent Eric raises his eyebrows and so do I. What is she talking about?

“This isn’t a demand. It’s just a personal favor. But it’s really important.”

My heart is racing.

“Who are the two people?” Eric asks.

“The first is a woman named Mariela from Venezuela.”

I’m instantly short of breath.

Sarah doesn’t look at me. “I don’t know her last name, but she worked for Joseph and Grace Faraday in Seattle during the years from I’m guessing 1984 to around 1991.”

I glance at Josh. His mouth is hanging open. I put my hands over my face, trying to look like I’m deep in thought, or tired, or fighting off a headache. But the truth is, I’m stuffing down tears.

“In 1991, Grace Faraday was murdered in her home, and the man who was convicted of the killing turned out to be the boyfriend of Mariela’s sister. You should be able to figure out Mariela’s last name by tracing back from the convicted murderer to his girlfriend—and then to her sister, Mariela. Maybe the sister visited the killer in prison? Maybe she was interviewed or gave a statement in the investigation or at trial? Surely, there’s some record of the girlfriend somewhere, and that should lead you to Mariela’s full name.”

I let out a shaky breath and Sarah grabs my thigh under the table. I peek at Josh. His face is in his hands. I can’t breathe.

“Hang on,” Eric says, taking notes. “Could you repeat all that?”

Sarah repeats everything again slowly, her hand now gently rubbing my thigh. “We need you to find Mariela—and if she’s not alive, then her children.”

That last part stabs me in the heart. Could Mariela be dead? I do a quick calculation in my head. How old was she when Josh and I were seven? Late twenties? I had no concept of age at the time—everyone was uniformly just an adult to me—but I bet she was younger than I am right now. So how old would she be now? In her fifties, probably?

Eric looks up from his notepad. “Okay. That sounds doable.”

My stomach flips over. This kid’s going to find my Mariela? I look at Josh and he shakes his head at me, like he’s in total shock. I shoot him a look that says, “I’m just as shocked as you are, man.”

“Awesome, Eric,” Sarah says. “Thank you. And there’s one more woman, too. I don’t know her first name—but her maiden name was Westbrook.”

Holy shit. Josh and I exchange a look of astonishment. Miss Westbrook, too? What the fuck is Sarah doing?

“Miss Westbrook was a teacher in Seattle in probably 1992 and then she married a guy in the Navy named Santorini who was stationed in San Diego.”

“What do these two women have to do with The Club?” Eric asks.

“Absolutely nothing,” Sarah says. She glances at me with sparkling eyes. “This would be a personal favor to me. I don’t have the resources to find these ladies by myself without having their full names, but I think you can do it.”

Eric shrugs like that’s an obvious statement. He’s the FBI, after all. “Shouldn’t be a problem.” He smiles at her.

“Thank you. I’m gonna need this information as soon as possible, please.”

“I’ll do my best.”

My entire body tingles with anxiety and excitement and a whole bunch of other emotions I can’t pin down. What’s Sarah planning? I look at Josh again and he’s looking at me like I’m an alien, clearly shocked as hell I’ve told Sarah about Mariela and Miss Westbrook.

“Oh,” Sarah says. “I almost forgot. The second woman, Westbrook Santorini, has a son named Jonas—and he’s probably . . . ” She looks up at the ceiling, calculating. “About seventeen years old by now. Maybe that’ll help you somehow.”

My heart skips a beat. Holy shit.
Jonas Santorini.
I never thought about Miss Westbrook’s baby actually
existing
, and definitely not as a
teenager.
To me, he’s always been a baby bump, frozen in time.

“Got it,” Eric says, making a note on his pad.

“What’s the name of the school where Miss Westbrook worked in Seattle, Jonas?” Sarah asks. “That might be helpful for Eric to know for his search.”

My cheeks feel hot. I open my mouth but nothing comes out.

“St. Francis Academy,” Josh says.

I look at Josh and he smiles broadly at me. Just like old times.

Sarah puts her arm around my back and squeezes me.

“Okay. I’ll do my best,” Eric says.

“Thank you,” Sarah says.

“Shouldn’t be too hard.” Eric pushes his pad aside, brimming with excitement. “Okay. I think I’ve got everything I need.” He’s trying to play it cool, but he’s geeking out. “Now, just to be clear, you’re promising to give us full access to everything, right? No limitations? No exceptions? Their operating systems, membership lists, voicemails, code—and the money, too?”

Everyone looks at Henn. He’s the only one in this room who knows if we can deliver on a promise that big.

“Yep,” Henn says. “Everything.”

“But we’ll only hand it over to senior level reps from the FBI, CIA and Secret Service. And I want you there, too, Eric—tell your boss we said your presence is a non-negotiable condition of the deal. Tell her I’ll pay your way to D.C. if need be, but you’ve got to be there.”

Eric’s face lights up. I imagine he hasn’t been involved in too many high-powered meetings in his nascent career.

“Okay,” Agent Eric says, steeling himself for battle. “I’ll go talk to my boss right now. I’ll give you guys a call later.” He nods at Kat, reassuring her in particular. “I promise I’ll give it my all.”

“I know you will, Eric,” Kat purrs. “I have full faith in you.”

Sarah
 

“Henn, pass the ketchup,” Josh says.

The five of us are eating like gluttons in the Americana restaurant in our hotel. It’s burgers, fries, and beers all around—even Jonas is eating a bacon cheeseburger and French fries, two things I’ve never seen him eat—and we’re enthusiastically rehashing our meeting with Special Agent Eric like we’re dissecting every play of a Seahawks’ game. The general consensus, of course, is that Kat was our quarterback today—and she crushed it.

Henn passes the ketchup to Josh, but he’s looking at Kat. “Who’s the fucking genius now?” Henn says. “Damn, girl.” He fist bumps her.

Kat beams.

“To Kat,” I say, raising my beer. All three guys hold up their beers in Kat’s honor, too. “You’re the reason Eric started taking us seriously,” I say. “No doubt about it.”

“Aw, thanks,” Kat says. “But it was definitely a team effort.”

We all raise our glasses again and drink to “the team.”

“So how are we gonna get the money, Henn?” Josh asks. “I thought you said most of those accounts are set up for in-person transfer only.”

“They are,” Henn says. “Which, obviously, means we’re going to transfer the money in-person.”

We’re all silent, not catching his meaning.

Henn looks pointedly at Kat. “Hello, Oksana Belenko.”

Kat looks like Henn just said she’s been selected to sing the national anthem at the Super Bowl.

“You’ll be fine,” Henn says. “I’ll set you up with a passport and a driver’s license—”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Kat says, sputtering. “I don’t know if I can—”

“You
can
,” Henn says soothingly. “Today proved that. Indubitably.” He smiles broadly. “Don’t worry, Kitty Kat.” He touches the top of her hand. “I’ll hack into each account and shave thirty years off Oksana’s age—they won’t even question you’re her for a second. And then I’ll walk into each and every bank with you, right by your side.” Henn smiles at Kat reassuringly. Oh, that boy absolutely adores her.