Fear No Evil (22 page)

“Don’t placate me, Dillon,” Kate snapped. “My mother was raped, okay? And I’m the end product. She went in twice to have an abortion but couldn’t go through with it. When she left me with my grandparents she told me, ‘I’m sorry, Katherine, I tried to love you but I can’t.’” Kate took a deep breath. “I must look like him, because I look nothing like my mother.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I don’t want your pity.”

“It’s not pity.”

“I can’t believe I said anything,” she mumbled and fidgeted with the controls. “Shit.”

“What?” Jack asked from the back.

“I don’t think we’re going to make Red Rock.”

“It was those headwinds outside of Phoenix,” Jack said. “They ate up the fuel. How long?”

“Fifty miles before I start getting really nervous.”

“That’s almost there.”

“Almost ain’t good enough.”

“It’ll have to be. I’d offer to jump and lighten the load, but you’d probably be shot down. My friends are a little sensitive.”

“Great.”

“Trust me, we’ll make it,” Jack said. “My license isn’t expired.”

Kate rolled her eyes.

“Nice friends.”

“I have a lot. Surprised?”

“It sure isn’t for your bedside manner.”

“Ouch,” Jack said. He leaned over and whispered in Kate’s ear, “Just because I’m for hire doesn’t mean the government doesn’t hire me.” He looked at the controls. “Ten degrees north, we’ll come at Red Rock from the east, which should help with the fuel. The wind will be behind us.”

“It’ll add another fifteen miles that we don’t have fuel for.”

“Trust me.”

“Right.”

Dillon had always assumed Jack was still in the military, one way or the other. “Who do you work for?” he asked his brother.

“Mostly the good guys,” Jack said, leaning back in the seat and closing his eyes again, but he wasn’t fooling Dillon.

“So you’re not in the military anymore?”

“What does it look like to you?”

“It looks like you won’t answer my damn questions.”

“Double ouch.”

And he didn’t answer Dillon’s questions.

Stonebridge Academy had a gated entrance, ivy-covered brick walls, and a huge, stately brick mansion in the middle of the grounds, flanked on either side by long, two-story buildings. In the center was a large grass area where young men were playing polo. Sports for the rich youth, not the urban hellhole Special Agent Abigail Resnick had grown up in.

During the two-hour drive, which she’d done on personal time, Abigail hoped Hans Vigo was right and she wouldn’t be answering to anyone for what she was doing. She didn’t mind breaking rules—she didn’t much care for rules anyway—but she didn’t want to get caught.

She took the circular drive up to the mansion, but before she could get out of the car, a tall, distinguished man—
butler,
she thought—came down the stairs and held her door open for her.

“Thanks,” she said and flashed him a smile that had melted icier men.

No dice. Heart of stone in this one.

“Who do you have an appointment with?”

She flashed her badge. “I need to speak to the headmaster. George Fleischer.”

The butler frowned almost imperceptibly. She’d done her homework while on the road—gotta love wireless Internet—and knew Fleischer had been the headmaster for the last twenty-eight years.

“Follow me.”

She did.

The inside of the mansion was even more opulent than she’d expected. She almost gawked. Her pathetic public school in the heart of Richmond, Virginia, was functional. Metal, wood, desks, graffiti. None of this Victorian furniture, oil paintings—which had to be real—or polished wood.

Instead of being embarrassed or intimidated, she grinned. “So, how much to send my kid here?”

“You have an applicant?”

“No. Just curious.”

He didn’t answer her. Maybe it wasn’t just money. A poor girl from the wrong side of the tracks in Richmond sure wouldn’t cut it here, nor would her kin.

She smiled wider. “Mr. Fleischer, please?”

“I will see if he’s available. Please be seated.”

She sat, watched where the butler went. Checked her watch. Ten minutes passed and she followed the same path. Almost immediately the butler emerged from down the hall.

“Ms. Resnick, I’m sorry, only students and employees are allowed beyond this point.”

“Special Agent Resnick,” she corrected, “and I need to speak with Mr. Fleischer now or I’ll be back this afternoon with a warrant. And I won’t be smiling.”

“I don’t threaten easily, Special Agent Resnick.”

“And I don’t make idle threats.”

“What is this regarding?”

How to play it? Vigo had given her so little information, but apparently she had learned something juicy from Morton.

“Trevor Conrad.”

The cadaver of a butler paled, if that was possible. “Wait.”

He left again, but less than a minute later he returned and escorted her to a parlor. Not the headmaster’s office, but private. Progress.

George Fleischer entered by another door, younger than she expected. If he was sixty, she’d eat her badge. He had dark, graying hair, was impeccably dressed in a tailored suit, and his eyes were clear blue and focused.

For the first time she felt a tad nervous. She had no authority to be here. But if he even smelled that she was hesitant, she wouldn’t get the answers Vigo needed.

“Mr. Fleischer, thank you so much for taking the time out of your busy day to—”

“Stop the game. What’s going on?”

“I don’t—”

“You come in here and drop a name and expect us to jump through hoops? I demand an answer or I will call your superior.”

“Fine. Call him. I’ll wait.”

He hesitated. Call his bluff.

“Perhaps you don’t know that there is a warrant out for the arrest of one of your former students, Roger Morton.”

“I didn’t.”

Liar.

“And in the course of investigating his whereabouts, I learned that he may be in contact with some of his old friends from this school. I was speaking with Charles Morton and—”

Fleischer’s head shot up higher, if that was possible. “You spoke with Mr. Morton?”

“Yes, this morning. And he suggested that I come out here for answers. He’s still angry with what happened with his son.”

“His son was reinstated in school and graduated with his class. Mr. Morton has no cause—”

“He’s not upset with the school. He and his son are estranged. He told me his closest friends were Paul Ullman, Adam Scott, and Trevor Conrad.”

Fleischer nodded. “That would be my recollection.”

“You would have a recollection about friendships formed nearly two decades ago?”

“You don’t know Stonebridge Academy, do you? We are a premiere school for young men age five to eighteen. Our students go to the top universities; they are from the best families in the world—we have a prince from the Middle East among our students. The brightest and the wealthiest. I’ve been here for nearly thirty years. Roger Morton was nine when I took this post. I know him and his friends.”

“Do you know why the FBI is looking for Morton?”

“I’ve heard.”

“And we believe he’s working with one of his old pals. We know where Ullman is.”

“And you know Conrad died.”

“What I want to know is why did you reinstate Morton and Ullman, but not Adam Scott?”

Fleischer looked distinctly uncomfortable. She had him. “A witness indicated that Mr. Scott was the ring-leader. He was the oldest, and he claimed responsibility for the accident.”

“So it was an accident?” She raised an eyebrow to show that she didn’t believe him, and to give him a chance to explain. She didn’t know how Trevor Conrad had died.

“We had no reason to believe otherwise. A thorough investigation proved that the boys had been experimenting—yes, against school rules—and the laboratory exploded. An accident.”

“But it wasn’t reported to the authorities.”

“No need. We take care of these things internally.” That might explain why Conrad’s records had been expunged and therefore his name not on her original list.

“So because Scott was the instigator, he was kicked out.” She made notes. “I need his most recent picture.”

“I can’t give you that.”

“I’ll be back with a warrant in four hours.”

She turned.

“Wait. Just wait.”

He left. Ten minutes later he came back with a thin file. “Photo, last-known address, and parents. That’s all I can give you without a warrant, Ms. Resnick.”

“Thank you so much for your help, Mr. Fleischer. It’s been a real pleasure.”

TWENTY

Q
UINN
P
ETERSON SLAMMED
down the receiver after Hans Vigo called him about what he’d learned. As soon as they found Lucy Kincaid, someone was going to pay for the botched undercover operation.

What was Jeff Merritt thinking when he sent Mick Mallory deep undercover? Mick had been a damn good agent at one time, but when his wife was killed three years ago he’d developed a death wish. He was technically on psychiatric leave and Merritt had no business bringing him in on this case.

But more important than that, they now had a line on Trask’s real identity. The agent Vigo had tagged to quietly work the investigation had uncovered huge news.

Merritt walked into the task force room without knocking. “What is so damn important that you demanded I drop a conference call with Virginia?”

Quinn knew he had to tread lightly. Merritt had his emotions involved and that was never good. Quinn knew that from firsthand experience.

“I have a line on Trask’s identity.”

Merritt couldn’t keep the shock off his face. “And?”

“We think he’s a friend of Roger Morton from grade school. Morton went to an elite boarding school in Connecticut. His father is a big shot, old money—”

“I know all about Morton. I interviewed the father myself. He has no idea who his son is running with. He disowned him, and our people know Roger Morton has never been home.”

Quinn took a deep breath. “Did you ever interview the headmaster from the boarding school?”

“Why? He graduated nearly twenty years ago. Paige was killed five years ago.”

“Dillon Kincaid read over all the files and he—”

“You mean the doctor I’m
this
close to getting an arrest warrant for?”

“What?”

“He’s aiding and abetting a known criminal.”

“Are you talking about Kate?”

“Do I need to pull you off this case?”

Quinn stared at Merritt. “Take a step back, Merritt. You’re doing yourself a disservice.”

“Don’t talk to me.”

For the first time, Quinn saw how pained Jeff Merritt was. His hair was out of place, his eyes had bags under them, and his clothes had been worn for well over twenty-four hours. Merritt lost the woman he loved to a sadistic killer. Quinn had almost been in those shoes. To think he nearly lost Miranda twice to a killer…but the fact that she survived didn’t mean he couldn’t understand what Merritt was going through.

“Jeff,” Quinn said quietly, “I’ve been where you are.”

“You know nothing.”

“Guilt that you couldn’t stop Paige from disobeying orders. Anger that she put her life on the line. Remorse that you didn’t tell her you loved her the last time she walked out your door.”

Quinn saw that he had hit the nail on the head with the last point.

“Dr. Kincaid is a consultant for the San Diego Police Department. This is what he does for a living. He figured out Roger’s connection to Trask.”

“And the Bureau is filled with incompetent fools? I’ll tell that to your pal Vigo.”

“The Bureau is overworked and understaffed, and you know as well as I do that as soon as Trask’s trail dried up, we worked other cases. You know how it is.”

“I’ve never stopped working Paige’s murder.”

“I know. And that’s why you’re too close. What were you thinking sending Mick Mallory in?”

“Mallory is the best damn undercover agent in the Bureau.”

“Was,”
Quinn corrected. “Until his wife was murdered. He’s mentally unstable and you know it. And how could he have let Lucy be raped?”

Merritt frowned. “He must have been in a position where he couldn’t have helped her without blowing his cover. Last time he checked in there were six people, including him and Trask. Five men, one woman. He was waiting for the right time—”

“Right time for what?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

“You sent Mallory to assassinate Trask.” Quinn shook his head. It all made sense now.

“It’s not supposed to be a suicide mission.”

“Since when do you have the authority to send in an assassin? Not to mention a man who isn’t trained for it?”

“What makes you think I don’t have the authority?”

He might, though if the operation blew up around them Merritt would be the scapegoat. Quinn had seen it happen before. But this time? Quinn highly doubted Merritt had any sanction for Mallory’s assignment.

“I’m going to play it straight with you, Merritt, and I want you to be straight with me. Okay?”

“What?”

“Kincaid believes Roger is working closely with someone he went to school with. Trask Enterprises began five years after he graduated from high school, but Roger Morton had no job, no college, no friends. Kincaid got the list of every student at Stonebridge Academy who had been at the school with Roger. His father identified three who had been Morton’s closest friends. One is dead. One is a stockbroker in New York. The other was expelled. I learned he’s on the board of directors of six legitimate companies, but can’t get a recent picture of him. My contact says that he owns stock in all the companies, sends his proxy to the meetings, and no one claims to have seen him. I have one old picture of him when he was sixteen, right before he was expelled.”

Quinn slid over the picture of a blond teenager with icy blue eyes. “Kate is the only person who has seen him and is still alive. I’m going to get this to her.”

“You’re working with her.” But Merritt couldn’t take his eyes off the photograph.

“I want you to drop all charges against her.”

“No.”