“Ever been arrested, brought in for questioning?”
“No, but I’m routinely checked by clients before contract. Due to the sensitive nature of the work, and my fee, my documents and references are thoroughly checked by any new client.”
“That’s good.” Satisfied, he nodded. “That’s good to know. My concern, and it’s just a concern at this point, is this Babbett wouldn’t be working for a client wanting to hire you, but one looking for dirt, for something he can use to discredit you or threaten you.”
“He’d have to be very skilled, and very determined.”
“Maybe we’ll take some precautions.”
“You could intimidate him. You have authority, and weapons. You could confront him, intimidate him and make him leave.”
“Maybe I could, but that’s the sort of thing that would tend to make him more curious once he’s gone. Unless I have a lever.”
“I don’t want to leave.”
“We’re not going to let that happen.”
She hated this new stress, this additional complication that had nothing,
“If I’d stayed in the house, not answered the door, or simply given him directions—”
“I don’t think that would’ve made much difference. He’s doing a job. What we’ll do—or you will, as I expect you’re better and quicker—is find out what we can about him. See what kind of man we’re up against here. Meanwhile … I’m going to want to borrow some of your cameras.”
“Why?”
“That precaution. Is it okay if the Bickford Police Department borrows some of your equipment for a day or two?”
“Yes.” She took a key ring out of her pocket. “Borrow what you want.”
“Thanks. I’ll have Ash or Boyd run out and get it, if that’s okay. I need to make a couple calls to set up that precaution.”
“All right. I have to finish the meal.” Hopefully it would settle her nerves. “I don’t want to overcook the vegetables.”
She had to do something, keep doing something, so the panic couldn’t push through. If she performed normal tasks—add fresh thyme and butter to the green beans, drizzle the wine sauce over the chicken, plate them with the roasted potatoes—she could cling to the illusion of normality.
She’d prepared and presented the meal very well, but she could barely force down a few bites.
She had a contingency plan. She always did. All the documents she needed for the next identity were inside her safe room, locked away. Waiting.
But she didn’t want to use them, didn’t want to become someone else again. That meant she’d have to fight to protect who she was now. What she had now.
“If this investigator is very skilled and very determined, it will still take time for him to discredit my documents and history,” she began. “I need more time to plan and organize any sort of contact with Special Agent Garrison.”
“She’s in Chicago?”
“I wanted someone in Chicago, where the Volkovs are based. She would have more incentive, and more access. Her response time would be quicker, once she learned to trust my information.”
“Good thinking.”
“But unless I can formulate an alternative, if I make direct contact, she’d be duty-bound to detain me. If that happens, I don’t believe I’ll have the time or opportunity to clear myself before I’m eliminated.”
He reached over, took both her hands. “You’re not going to be detained, and you’re sure as hell not going to be eliminated. Look at me. Whatever it takes. And I’ve given some thought on alternatives and methods.”
“I’ve considered sending Special Agent Garrison an e-mail on her personal account, telling her who I am, relating the entire story, all the details. I can route it as I do the data I send her, and it wouldn’t be possible to track. But it could leak. If the information I give her gets in the wrong hands, the Volkovs will know I’m not only still alive—”
“Ilya Volkov saw you. They know you’re alive.”
“They knew I was alive five years ago in New York. I might have had an accident or contracted a terminal illness.”
“Okay, slim, but point taken.”
“They’ll also know I’ve accessed their accounts, their electronics, and have given information to the FBI. Naturally, they’d take steps to block me from the access, which would cost me time and effort. They’d also be much more careful about what they put in e-mails and e-files. But more, it would make them very angry, and increase their effort to locate and eliminate me.
“They have very skilled techs. Part of their income is from computer fraud, scams, from identity theft.”
“You’re better than their techs.”
“Yes, I am, but I’ve also had considerable time to study and program, to break through firewalls, elude alerts. It would take time to do that again, with newer, stronger security in place. In their position, I’d lay traps. If I made a mistake, they might track me. Time, again, is important. If and when I contact the FBI, the process of taking Keegan and Cosgrove, identifying other moles, arresting Korotkii, Ilya—all of that would have to happen quickly.”
“Like dominoes falling,” he suggested.
“Yes, along those lines. Bureaucracies don’t, in general, operate in a timely fashion. And before the process can begin, the agent, her superiors, would have to believe me.”
“They will.”
“The word of a fugitive, suspected at least by some of killing or certainly causing the deaths of two U.S. Marshals. Against the word of two other marshals, one of whom has been decorated and promoted.”
He covered her restless hand with his. “The word of a woman who at sixteen handed them a top-level Mafia assassin on a damn platter. They’re the ones who screwed up.”
“You’re biased because you love me.”
“I love you, but I also have good instincts. You think the FBI, the marshals, the CPD wouldn’t bend and twist to break the back of the Volkov organization? They’ll deal with you, Abigail.”
It took an effort not to pull her hand from his. “Are you asking me to trust them to protect me?”
“No. I’m asking you to trust yourself, and me, to do that.”
“I think I could.”
“Then what we need is, first, a conduit.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Someone to speak for you, to make contact and open the door to negotiations.”
“You can’t—”
“No,” he agreed, before she’d finished. “I can’t. I’m too close to you, emotionally and geographically. They’ll check out the conduit. But they’d have no reason to connect me—or you—to my former captain on the Little Rock PD.”
“I don’t know him.”
“I do. Just hear me out. Captain Joseph Anson. You can research him. He’s a solid cop, decorated, a twenty-five-year man. He’s got a wife—first and only—two kids. He’s a good boss, a smart cop. By the book, but not so much that he can’t skip a page if it’s the right thing to do. He’s trusted and respected in the department because he’s trustworthy and respectable. And he’s got balls.”
She got up, walked to the window to think it through. A conduit made good sense, would lay a reasonable buffer down. But …
“Why would he believe me?”
“He’ll believe me.”
“Even if he did, why would Special Agent Garrison believe him?”
“Because of his record, his service, because he’s clean. Because he’d have no reason to lie. He’s a handful of years away from his thirty, away from retirement. Why would he risk that by lying to the feds?”
