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.” Bob clicked on another file and gave a low whistle.It was another Globe article.“Simon, look at this.”He was all FBI agent as he read the article over Bob’s shoulder about the deaths of Shauna Morrigan’s parents and brother in a car accident on their way to identify her body.Apparently they were so distraught, they missed a curve and drove off a cliff.“Another ‘tragedy,’” Simon said under his breath.Bob knew he had to take the laptop in.“Come with me to BPD headquarters,” he told Simon.“We’ll open up the files.I know this bastard Estabrook wants you dead, but you’re hard to kill.I figure I’m safe with you.”“No,” Simon said.“You go on.”Bob saw what Simon had in mind and shook his head.“You shouldn’t do this.”“I haven’t said what I’m going to do.”“Going solo will get you killed, Simon.”But Bob didn’t argue with him and instead walked back down the two flights of stairs and out into the summer night.He looked up at the dark sky and thought of Abigail last summer, tearing up the journals she’d kept for the seven long years after her husband’s death, burning them in the backyard charcoal grill.When he arrived at BPD headquarters, Bob avoided everyone and went into his office and pulled up the file on Shauna Morrigan Rush.She’d died in August, two months after Deirdre McCarthy’s body had finally washed ashore in Boston.It had been hard times in the city, particularly dark and violent days in South Boston.March’s work with the BPD to bring down the mob had helped catapult him to the position he now held.Where exactly did an Irishwoman married to a wealthy Boston Rush fit into March’s rise?Bob thought of his friend having a drink alone at Morrigan’s every August.He became aware of March in the doorway and looked up from his computer.“So, Johnny,” Bob said, settling back in his chair.“It’s time you told me all you know about Shauna Morrigan Rush and just how obsessed her daughter is with you.”Simon touched Keira’s colored pencils, her paintbrushes, the Irish lace at her windows, allowing them to bring her closer to him.But Owen called from Montana, breaking the spell.“We found Estabrook’s plane.He didn’t crash.He landed safely on a private airstrip on an isolated ranch owned by one of his hedge-fund investors.”“Where are you?”“Standing on the airstrip.No one else is around.Looks as if someone met him and drove him out of here.The FBI’s on the way.They can pick up the trail from here.” Owen’s voice was professional, but he took in a breath.“Estabrook had help, Simon.He had this thing planned.All he had to do was pull the trigger.”“That’s the way he does everything.He doesn’t tie his shoes in the morning without a plan.”“He could be anywhere by now.He has the money, the connections, apparently the will.”It wasn’t exhaustion Simon heard in his friend but barely suppressed fear and anger.“We were mindful of that when we launched the investigation into his activities last summer.I went deep for that reason.Norman wants John and me, Owen.Abigail’s his leverage.”“She’s been preoccupied the past couple weeks.I thought it was the serial killer case, but I’ve been out of town a lot lately.” He was silent a moment.“That can’t continue.It won’t continue.”“You and Ab will work that out when you’re back together.You two are lifers.” Simon wondered if it was Owen or himself he was trying to reassure.“None of us will rest until we find her.”After they hung up, Simon headed outside.The heat had gone out of the air with nightfall.Lucas Jones motioned to him from an unmarked car.Simon hesitated, then went over to the open window on the driver’s side.“Walter Bassette flew into Shannon Airport in Ireland two weeks ago,” Lucas said.“Get in, Simon.I know what you’re thinking, but taking off on your own right now won’t help anyone.You can do more good working with us.”“If that changes, I’m gone.”“If that changes, you can take the keys to my car.” Lucas managed a grin.“I made sure it’s got a full tank of gas before I came over here.”Everyone was in the big conference room at BPD headquarters when the call came to March’s personal cell phone a few minutes before 5:00 a.m.Simon watched the FBI director—his friend—follow Norman Estabrook’s orders and put the call on speakerphone.“You’ll never find her.” Norman’s voice was smug, but with a hint of nervousness, too, as if he knew he was talking to men and women who were better than he’d ever be.“Not unless I decide to give her back to you.”“Tell us what we can do for you,” March said, his voice clear, steady.“You can listen.Listen to your daughter.Here, Detective.Say hi to your daddy.”There was a pause before another voice came on the line.“This is Abigail Browning—”“Daddy,” Norman shouted in the background.“Say, ‘Hi, Daddy.’”As Simon stood across the table from March, listening to the exchange, he figured everyone in the room wanted to jump through the phone and kill Norman Estabrook.He knew he did.“Hi, Daddy,” Abigail said, toneless.“How—”The sound of a hard slap—Norman hitting her—cut her off.She sucked in a breath.“Bastard.”Norman hit her again.March’s hands tightened into fists.“All right.You’ve made your point.What can we do for you? Let’s talk.”Estabrook laughed.“What can you do for me? You can suffer, Director March.You can suffer and suffer and suffer.”He hit Abigail again, clearly a harder blow, and this time she screamed.“Beg him,” Norman ordered.“Beg your daddy to come save you.”Farther down the table, Tom Yarborough got out his jackknife and worked on his nails, the muscles in his jaw visibly tight.Next to him, Lucas Jones had tears in his eyes.Bob chewed gum.All of the dozen or so men and women in the room remained silent.On the other end of the connection, Abigail complied with her captor’s orders and sobbed and begged her father to come save her.John March leaned forward to the phone.“I’ll be there, sweetheart,” he said.“I won’t let you down.I’ll come now.Let me trade myself for you—”“There.” Estabrook spoke again, sniffling as he caught his breath.“My hand hurts.I’ve never hit anyone that hard before.It was exhilarating.”March’s eyes stayed focused on the telephone.“Tell us what you want.”“I want Simon Cahill.I want you.” Estabrook was smug again, not as winded.“I want your source.I know you have one.Who is it?”“I have no idea.Whoever it is wanted to remain anonymous.”“Liar.Lies, lies, lies.You tell so many you don’t know when to stop.You’ll want to hunt me to the ends of the earth by the time I’ve finished.”“How can we reach you?” March asked.“I’ll reach you.”March glanced at Simon, and he nodded, taking his cue, and spoke into the phone.“Hello, Norman.It’s been a while.We should talk.You and me.Face to face.”Estabrook snorted.“I want March alive and suffering, thinking about me every minute of every day, but you, Simon.Nothing’s changed.I want you dead.Dead, dead, dead.”He disconnected.The room was quiet.March said, “Abigail’s alive.We have the call on tape.”“The screams were tactical,” Lucas said.“Estabrook hurt her, but she played to it.She wanted him to think he’d gotten to her [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]