In her dealings with the FBI, she had learned that agents were meticulous record-keepers. Everything was documented, categorized, and kept in detailed order. This was certainly standard procedure and critical for the prosecution phase of the investigation. So where would they keep Pete’s notebook?
She remembered the plastic evidence bag that held Dutch’s gun. A row of file cabinets lined the back wall. There was also a locked cabinet to her left, against the back wall. To her right, the photographs of suspects along with notes scribbled underneath were organized in a web on a giant white board. She recognized Saxon’s picture and Bo’s, but the rest were strangers. No Preston Ford or Officer Nash or his security team.
Anxiety fizzled through her as she stepped to the file cabinets. She pulled the pair of nail clippers from her bag and unfolded the filing tool from the end, then inserted it curved tip down. Applying the steps from her YouTube tutorial, she had the lock open in a matter of seconds. Slowly, she slid open the drawer and peered inside, finding a box. She opened the lid to see the shape of Dutch’s gun. After sliding the drawer closed with care, she moved on.
The next drawer refused to open, however. She tried repeating the steps from the beginning, but the mechanism felt jammed. She opened the next two without finding the notebook. Inside the remaining six drawers were manila files containing papers that in the near-dark, were a blur. She remembered Preston Ford’s demand for more information. She wondered if she should copy some of these files, but knew she didn’t have time. A glance at the clock told her she had already been gone too long.
Cursing, she hurried to the long filing cabinet to her left. This lock was more substantial and took her longer to work, but finally, in one last desperate jerk upward, it clicked open. Inside, a dozen rifles and shotguns were lined up along the bottom. Boxes of ammunition and a Pelican box were stacked on the shelves above. Unable to hold back her gasp, Cassidy stared. For what would the agents possibly need so much firepower? Did they think the building would come under attack?
Making sure to close the metal doors quietly, she spun to face the room, realizing the only place left to look was the file cabinet with the resistant lock. It was in there, or they kept evidence in some other location, possibly downtown. Or would Bruce have it in his possession? She imagined him illuminated under a single lamp poring over Pete’s notes, a beer at his side.
The point is you have an in, Dr. Kincaid. It would be a shame not to put it to use.
She faced off against the stubborn lock, her fingers shaking. Any minute they would come looking for her, and if they found her in here, Quinn was dead.
She inserted the file all the way in, then jiggled it up and down, feeling the pins move inside the lock. She tried twisting to the right, but it stuck. She tried again, using more force to move the pins. Finally, she felt something give. The lock turned and the locking mechanism clicked.
Inside was the notebook.
An achy flutter turned her stomach upside down. Quickly, she removed the blue book, spinning to the table where she slid it from its plastic sleeve. She flipped through the worn pages, wondering where Preston Ford’s precious secret lay, then tucked it in her bag.
Her breath rattled inside her chest. This moment changed everything. How long until they discovered the notebook’s absence? And by the time they did, what would be the status of the investigation? Would Preston Ford have used his influence and the clues inside this book to destroy the case?
A searing ache tightened inside her when she thought of Bruce. He would never forgive her for this.
Suddenly, she heard a door closing from somewhere. She shut the drawer then hurried to the door.
They were coming for her.
With her pulse hot and firm in her ears, she peered into the hallway. But she didn’t see Bruce or Special Agent Harris striding toward her. Instead, the security guard shuffled towards the bathroom. Cassidy breathed a sigh of relief, but it was short lived because a door opened—the meeting room, its tall square of light shining into the dark hallway, and she heard voices. Panic dumped into her bloodstream as she slipped from the door and closed it behind her.
Then she heard Bruce’s voice. “Cassidy?”
Twenty-Five
Cassidy met Bruce halfway. Had he seen her come out of the conference room? Would he know right away something was wrong by the terrified look on her face?
“You okay?” he asked, his gaze darting from the bathroom door to where she had come from, as if trying to piece together her actions.
“Yeah, I…just stepped out for some air.” She had never been a good liar, even as a kid. Quinn was the charismatic storyteller and had been able to get away with much, much more because of it.
Bruce frowned, and it was like she could see his mind working. Why would she go out the front door instead of the side one that was closer to the meeting room and offered more privacy? One question to the security guard would reveal her lie. A search of her bag would reveal her deception.
Cassidy waited, her face frozen. The security guard exited the bathroom and shuffled by them.
“Huh, well, we’ve got another long night ahead of us,” Bruce said with a sigh. “Want me to take you home?”
“No, I can call a ride.”
“You sure?” he asked, peering at her.
“Yeah, you’re needed here.”
He nodded. “Is Quinn going to be at Drift tonight?”
Her face erupted with a prickly, painful heat. “No,” she managed to say. “He has the night off.”
Bruce smiled softly. “Good. You two can hang out. It’s been a crazy few days.”
Cassidy
