“Al, what’s the status with the task force and Armored Centurion? Do we know if our subjects had help there, or got access to routes and logs?”
Dimarco adjusted his bifocals, wet his index finger on his tongue and turned to his notebook.
“The company is cooperative as we continue to interview staff. As you know, every hire is prescreened, polygraphed, fingerprinted, criminal checks are made. So the list is fairly clean. We’ve got a lot of young security guards, retired cops, ex-military, the usual mix.”
“And support staff?”
“We’re working through all staff. We’re also looking at all former employees, anyone with a beef, anyone facing financial stress, the usual.”
“What about the routes? Did they print them out?”
“All documents were printed, given to the crews. When routes were completed, the data was entered into the company’s computer and the paper was shredded,” Dimarco said. “We’re building a pool of staff we’d like to reinterview. Some have already submitted to a polygraph. This afternoon we’ll have warrants for all phone records, computer records of all staff.”
“I’ll join you on the reinterviews, Al,” Morrow said.
“We’ve set them up for tomorrow.”
“Okay,” Morrow said. “That just about wraps it up, but before we break, I want to underscore that we have a lot of people helping on this case, but unauthorized release of information to the press will be regarded as obstruction. You all know that.” Morrow’s eyes went around the table and lingered on Dimarco just long enough for his point to be made.
As people began collecting their notes and phones, Glenda Stark interrupted them with an announcement.
“One last thing. The funeral for Special Agent Dutton will be held in Bridgeport, Connecticut. The director will be attending. The day and time is still being sorted. Everyone in law enforcement is welcome.”
It was late by the time Morrow got home.
He dropped his jacket on a chair and made his way to the kitchen. The lights were dimmed, but the counter and table were spotless. Not a dish or leftover in sight. Exhausted, he loosened his tie, glanced at the mail, then went to the living room. On his way, he met Beth, descending the stairs.
“How did it go today?” she asked.
“We got a break.”
“Good, I’m glad. We got pizza. There’s plenty left in the fridge.”
By his wife’s tone and the shine in her eyes, he knew all was not well as they went to the kitchen to talk.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Pepperoni.”
“No, what’s bothering you?”
“Jerrod told Hailey he likes someone else. She’s taking it hard. She’s in her room and won’t come out.”
“I’ll go talk to her.”
“No, she’s being consoled. Text support from her friends.”
Morrow accepted that there were places a father couldn’t go.
“Is she going to be okay?”
“She’s upset now, but she’ll be fine. It turns out they weren’t
“No, I’m not hungry. How was your day?”
“Crappy.”
“Want to talk about it?”
“Did you eat downtown?”
“No, I was working. I’m just not hungry, Beth. What is it?”
On the brink of saying something, Beth searched his face. Reconsidered, blinked several times and waved it all off. Morrow figured—
“I’m going to have a shower, then look at some reports,” he said.
Later, in the living room Morrow reviewed where they were on the case. He flipped through all the agencies that would be acting on the alert for the tattoo. It was a good lead. Dimarco was right, it was tempting to circulate the info through the press, but they needed time.
He scanned some of the agencies. Air force, Office of Special Investigations, army CID, U.S. Marshals, Homeland Security, the Defense Intelligence Agency, Marine Corps Intelligence and the Naval Criminal Investigative Service. On and on it went. Somebody would have to come through. Dimarco and the task force were going full bore on the armored car company. Piece by piece they were getting closer, Morrow could feel it. If they could get another break…
He would clear this case.
He had to.
“Frank?”
Beth stood before him.
“Tell me what’s going on,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“I was doing laundry and I found this in one of your shirts.”
It was a business card for Dr. Arthur Stein, oncology specialist.
“I want the truth, Frank.” Her chin crumpled. “I deserve to know.” She nodded upstairs. “We deserve to know.”
Morrow looked at his wife. His mind raced back to the moment he’d first set eyes on her; then to the moment they were married; then to the moment when Hailey was born.
“Tell me, Frank.”
Something caught in his throat. His Adam’s apple rose and fell before he found his voice.
“I’ve got cancer. It’s terminal. I’m sorry.”
“Cancer? What? No. No.”
“I’ve got just over a year.”
Beth shook her head.
“No.” She kept shaking her head. “No, there must be a mistake.”
“There’s no mistake.”
“There has to be, Frank! We’ll find another doctor. We’ll—”
He took Beth in his arms, holding her as she cried softly so Hailey wouldn’t hear.
Suddenly overwhelmed by the pain of leaving them, he closed his eyes hard.
Gannon sat alone in a booth of the Moonshade Cafe and gazed into his second mug of coffee until the sting of self-rebuke subsided.
It was coming up on an hour since his disastrous confrontation down the road at the service center with Agent Morrow’s group.
It was not Gannon’s best moment.
He’d been borderline rude in scrambling to read the situation. He hadn’t expected to come upon Morrow leaving the scene with a woman who appeared troubled.
