The Trap (Agent Dallas 3) (13 page)

Dallas nodded. She was good with picks but not a pro. It all depended on the complexity of the system.

From the back seat, Aaron called out, “Get going. I need to focus.”

“Let me find their system before I take off. I’m faster than you are.” Cree reached over the seat and took Aaron’s laptop. Two minutes later, he announced, “I’m in,” and handed it back. “Let’s go, Tara. We have to get inside and find the door to the VIP parking.”

Dallas climbed out of the van, ready to stretch her legs. Patches of blue sky broke out between the clouds, and the Richmond downtown seemed clean and quaint. She spotted a police officer on the perimeter of the protest crowd, and the adrenaline started to flow. Cree hopped out behind her, zipped his jacket, and moved toward the street. Dallas hurried to get in step with him.

“Should we split up before we get there?” She wanted to get the meth out of her pocket. But if she did, would she be able to fake planting it in the glove box? Or would Cree be standing right there watching?

“Just walk ahead of me, until we get into the alley,” he urged.

She picked up her pace, glancing at the businesses and scanning for places to duck into later, if necessary. She crossed Marshall Street, noticed the growing crowd of protestors, and turned left. A half block later, she ducked into an alley, as they’d planned. They didn’t want to be seen together. Green trash bins dotted the narrow pass-through, begging her to ditch the meth. But Cree was right behind her, and there was no way to be subtle about dumping the drugs. It was probably too soon anyway. Cree might ask to see the packet at some point. She told herself it would be okay. The bureau would get her out of anything messy.

An employee leaned against the back door of a restaurant, smoking. Dallas nodded, pulled out her phone, and looked down at it as she passed. At the end, the alley intersected with another walkway that ran alongside the Convention Center property. Dallas went left again and crossed to the other side. She glanced around, didn’t see anyone, then quickly scaled the six-foot cinderblock wall. Dropping down on the other side, she landed on a soft strip of grass at the edge of a courtyard. The few outdoor tables were empty, and she dashed across the flagstone to the door leading into the building. She glanced up. No security camera, which wasn’t surprising. The meeting hall likely didn’t keep cash or valuables and wasn’t attractive to thieves. Bending over, she examined the lock. A combination keypad and standard keyhole. Most employees—if they ever came out here—probably keyed in a code, but the standard bolt lock ensured entry into the building if the power went out.

The tall concrete barrier around the courtyard gave her privacy, but as she pulled out her B&E tools, her pulse escalated. The meth in her pocket would get her more time in jail than breaking in. Fortunately, Tara Adams didn’t really exist.

Cree dropped over the wall with a light thud. Dallas glanced back at him, then started on the lock, choosing a tool with a sharp double bend. She visualized the internal mechanism, then worked the pick in a side-to-side motion, hoping to catch both prongs.

“How’s it going?” Cree was suddenly beside her, light on his feet for a man.

“I don’t know yet.

He stood right behind her, looking over her shoulder. “You have to hurry.”

“Give me a minute. Sometimes this is about patience and luck.”

She was rusty, and it took longer than she expected. In the afternoon sun, her sweater was too warm, and sweat broke out on her forehead. But the bolt finally retracted. She held open the door for Cree. “Lead the way.”

“You rock.” Another fist bump as he walked past and stepped inside.

The door opened into a small foyer with hallways leading in two directions. The sound of a heat pump came from a nearby room, but otherwise the back of the building was quiet. The muffled sound of a roomful of voices drifted down the hall to the right.

Cree stopped and checked the time on his cell phone. “The speech has started, and Aaron should be cutting into it any minute. Let’s move slowly until we hear the protestors trying to push through the front door. The police will try to stop them, and it will get loud. That will be our best opportunity.” He turned to the left. “This way.”

Dallas followed, worried about the meth in her pocket and whether she would have to leave it in an innocent man’s car just to keep her cover. She would inform Drager, and hopefully the bureau could take care of it. After another turn, they spotted a steel door. A security guard stood near it.

She froze and so did Cree. They both took a step back behind the blind corner. Once they were out of sight, they turned to hide their faces, but didn’t retreat.

Cree checked his cell phone again and held up two fingers.

Two minutes? Dallas’ nerves were humming. She hadn’t expected a security guard. Now she just wanted to get the hell out.

Muffled shouting came from the front of the building. Officers yelled, “Get back!” and chanters shouted, “No prison for profit!” Nearby, footsteps pounded away from them.

Dallas peeked around the corner. The security guard had bolted toward the action.

She hurried to the metal door with Cree right on her heels. After examining the lock, she pulled out her picks and selected one with a zigzag head that she’d never used before. Dallas slipped it into the opening, pressed left, and jiggled it.

An alarm blared.

“Oh fuck!” Dallas spun around.

Cree was already running back the way they’d come, his pack bouncing. Dallas sprinted after him, heart pounding. Maybe with all the commotion of the hijacked sound system and protestors storming the entrance, no one would check the doors. Maybe they would think the alarm had been set purposefully as a distraction. She rounded the corner and spotted the courtyard door showing beyond the outline of Cree’s back. They just needed to get outside and over the wall.

The same security guard came barreling toward them. “Stop!”

Ahead of her, Cree grabbed the door handle, yanked it open, and sprinted through without looking back. The door started to close. Dallas lunged for it and missed. It slammed shut, and the guard grabbed her by the shoulder.

Tuesday, Oct. 7, 8:45 a.m.

Drager scooted through security and hurried to his workstation in the DC field office on 4th Street. A few blocks away, fellow agents worked at the bureau’s headquarters, handling national crises. As much as he’d always wanted to be part of the Critical Incident Operations Unit, he’d never put in the extra hours required to advance. Instead, he’d spent evenings and weekends with his son, and he had no regrets. But now Kyle was in college, his marriage seemed to be over, and he was free to dedicate as much time to his job as he was willing. Only now, he was tired and didn’t care if he got promoted. He loved his work, that wouldn’t change, but some cases were less interesting than others. This one, Freeman, had started slow, with the UC needing months to work her way in, but now it was rapidly picking up steam and could become a major takedown for him.

At his desk, he checked his email and voicemail. A message from Sergeant Murphy at the MPD homicide unit: “The Bidwell task force is meeting in an hour. I’ll send you a brief if you can’t make it.”

Yeah, right.
He would be there, and Murphy knew it. His desk phone rang, an internal call from the reception clerk. “Drager here.”

“I have Senator Pearlman on the line. He wants to report a cyber theft.”

What the heck?
He needed to talk to Pearlman anyway.

Before he could respond, the clerk continued, “I know it’s not your department, but he suspects an activist group, so I thought you’d want to know.”

“Put him through.”

“Agent Drager? This is Senator Ray Pearlman. I just learned that two hundred grand and change has been hijacked from my campaign account!”

“How?” Bank security was tighter than a duck’s ass.

“Someone impersonating a bank employee called my campaign manager, who then sent an email with passcode information to my assistant. The idiot.” Pearlman’s disgust was evident. “The scammers must have intercepted the email, because the money was transferred to a Swiss account this morning. My bank is investigating, but I want the FBI on this too.” The senator went back to being outraged. “I think it’s the same group that sabotaged Congressman Bletzo’s fundraiser last week. The pricks have also bombarded my email account and messed with my website. They have to be stopped!”

“We’re working on it. Send me an itinerary of your events, so we can get field officers out there.”

“I will. But what progress have you made? What about the hotel’s security cameras at the fundraiser? Did they catch anything?”

The congressman had called with the same questions earlier in the week, and Drager had placated him too. “The group has a talented hacker who took control of the cameras as well as the audio system, so we don’t have much to go on.”

“But who are they? You must have some idea.”

Drager couldn’t give him names, because Pearlman would push for an arrest. He needed to ease the senator into the idea of a sting with him, and possibly his wife, as bait. “We think they’re a splinter group of Justice Reform Now, and we may have identified the leader. So rest assured, we’re watching him, but we need solid evidence before we move.”

A loud sigh. “I understand. But can you get my money back? I’m in a tight re-election race.”

“You’ll need to talk to the cyber experts, but they’re good.” Drager decided it was time to get the senator involved. “Since the group is already targeting you, we’d like to get you on board an operation to take them down.”

A slight hesitation. “Whatever you need.”

Drager couldn’t mention his UC or how his team would get their intel. “We think the group is planning something big, and when we know more, we’ll probably want to put agents in your home.”

“As long as you keep my family safe, I’ll do what I can to stop this bullshit. Just let me know.”

“Thanks. I’ll be in touch.” Drager gave him the number of an agent in the cyber-theft unit and hung up. Finding the money wasn’t his focus, thankfully. But if the tech guys were successful, and the cyber trail led to Luke Maddox and the inner circle, it was one more charge to nail them on. Which one of the group had the hacking skills to pull off that kind of cyber theft? It hadn’t really been a bank hack though, only a phone scam and email interception. A fairly low-tech phishing job. How many more politicians were at risk? Drager emailed their PR person, asking her to send out a warning. What next? He remembered the homicide meeting and jumped up. The drive to the District One building wasn’t far, but if traffic was bad, it could take a while.

The MPD’s homicide unit operated out of an old grade school across the street from tenement apartments, stretched out in a single level like army barracks. A group of young men in baggy pants watched him get out of his car and walk around to the front of the building. Inside, he approached the counter and showed the station clerk his badge. “I need to see Sergeant Murphy. He’s expecting me.”

“I think he’s in a meeting.” The uniformed clerk had a light southern accent.

“I know. I’m supposed to attend.”

“All right, then. Step over to that door, and I’ll let you in. The conference room is down a ways and on the right.”

Drager stepped through the security door and checked his watch. He was right on time. He hurried into the meeting. Five men in suits and one woman sat at a rectangular table. She looked up, and he flinched. Jocelyn, his ex-wife! Technically, they were still married, but the paperwork had been filed. He hadn’t known she was on Murphy’s homicide team, and seeing her rattled him. She looked startled too, with that tight-lipped expression he knew so well. He nodded at Jocelyn, then glanced around at the others. “Agent Ross Drager. Sorry I’m late.”

“You’re not. We started early.” Sergeant Murphy, at the end, looked tall even seated—and physically fit.

Drager sucked in his stomach. One of the reasons Jocelyn had lost interest in him was that he’d let himself go soft. But so had she, so it wasn’t fair. As soon as he eased into a chair, he let his stomach muscles relax. As the detectives introduced themselves, he turned to each one, but his blind spot kept him from really seeing the man on his left. Drager noted all their names, but didn’t tuck them away in his memory. All he needed was an update on the judge’s homicide. Did anyone here know he was Jocelyn’s ex-husband? She would probably tell her boss after the meeting, but it shouldn’t matter.

Murphy stood and went to the whiteboard. “This is the list of ex-cons Bidwell put away who have the highest probability of coming after him.” Ten names, none of which he could read at this distance.

“What criteria did you use?” he asked.

“History of violence, recent contact with the judge, and a record of making threats.” Murphy stared at him. “Anyone you want to add?”

Drager hesitated. This situation was tricky, but he owed them some honesty. “Luke Maddox. Bidwell sentenced him to ten years for marijuana distribution when he was only eighteen.”

The sergeant raised an eyebrow. “That describes a lot of people in prison. Has your suspect threatened the judge?”

“Indirectly. He’s an activist for judicial reform.” Drager couldn’t give them anything else without compromising his own operation.

Murphy added Maddox’s name to the list. “What else did we find?” The sergeant looked at the man to his left. Detective Harris.

“I finally talked to Bidwell’s wife. She says the judge parked in that garage every Wednesday evening, then walked across the street to a poker game at the DownLow. Anyone who knew him or his routine could have been waiting.”

“We need to question everyone who sat at the poker table with him.” Murphy pointed at Harris. “Follow up.” The sergeant called on the next man at the table. “Tell us about the autopsy.”

“Bludgeoned from behind with a tire iron. At least four blows, one likely made when he was on the ground.”

“What about the assailant?” Murphy sounded impatient.

The detective glanced at his notes. “Five eight or nine, about the same height as the victim. That’s about all the ME could infer. No defense wounds. No trace evidence.”