CHAPTER EIGHT
ON THE WAY to HQ in the morning, Freddie grabbed a coffee and a copy of the Washington Star that had banner headlines proclaiming Second Family Taken Off the Grid Due to Threat.
Darren Tabor had written the story that was long on speculation and short on facts, stating that neither the vice president nor Lieutenant Holland had been seen in more than two days. The White House was refusing to confirm that Vice President Cappuano had returned from his trip to Iran, and conspiracy theorists were having a field day imagining what kind of threat could’ve led to such dramatic measures.
Freddie would’ve liked to know that himself. As he reached for his cell phone, Freddie had many questions for Special Agent in Charge Avery Hill. He pressed Send on the call and eased his battered Mustang into traffic. The car backfired, making a lady on the sidewalk jump. One of these days he needed to see about getting that fixed.
“Hill.”
“It’s Cruz. What do you know about this threat to Sam’s family?”
“Nowhere near as much as I’d like to. We’re working a lead now that I could use some help with. I was going to stop by HQ this morning.”
“What kind of lead?”
“Her ex-husband, Peter Gibson. What do you know about where he’s hanging out these days?”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Wish I was. You guys have eyes on him?”
“Nothing formal, but we keep tabs.”
“Where might I find him?”
“How about you take me along with you in exchange for that info?”
“That could be arranged. Meet you at HQ in thirty?”
“I’ll see you there.” Freddie ended the call and scooted the car between two trucks, earning a loud horn blast from the one now behind him. Sam had taught him to drive offensively rather than defensively in the District, and he’d learned the lesson well.
He was stunned Avery had mentioned Gibson as a possibility in the threat investigation. That Gibson would have the audacity to come at her again, after barely getting off on a technicality on the bombing... You’d think he’d be scared straight after that near miss, but in Freddie’s experience with Peter Gibson, the guy didn’t learn from his mistakes.
He arrived at HQ after fifteen minutes of battling traffic and walked into the middle of something in the pit.
“I’m sorry,” Will said to Jeannie, who was crying. “I know I promised you I’d wait until after the wedding, and I told Cruz I’d talk to Trulo before I did anything, but I can’t do even one more shift.” He handed his gun and badge to Gonzo, who looked on with a resigned expression on his face. “I’m really sorry, Sarge. I know it was worse for you—”
“It’s not a competition,” Gonzo snapped, his jaw twitching with tension.
“Of course it isn’t. I didn’t mean to imply otherwise.” Will struggled to maintain his composure. “It’s nothing to do with any of you. I hope you guys know that. I’ve never worked with or known a finer group of people, and I’ll miss you all. I really will.”
McBride, Carlucci and Dominguez looked to Gonzo, probably hoping the same thing Freddie did—that he’d think of something to say to stop Will from throwing away his career. But Gonzo didn’t say anything to stop Will from leaving. Rather, he turned and went into the office, taking the badge and gun with him.
“I’m... I’m really sorry, everyone.” Will squeezed Jeannie’s shoulder and walked out of the pit.
Freddie went into the office to confront Gonzo. “You’re not going to do anything?”
“What do you expect me to do? You heard him.”
“You can at least try to stop him from making a huge mistake!”
“How do I do that when I get where he’s coming from? How do I stop him when I’d like to do the same thing? How do I convince him to give the job one more day when he’s decided it’s not worth risking his life on a daily basis for people who don’t give a flying fuck about him?”
Freddie stared at him, stunned by Gonzo’s outburst.
Lowering his voice, Gonzo said, “The only difference between me and him is I have a family to support and don’t have the luxury of quitting my job.”
“Gonzo—”
He held up a hand to stop Freddie. “It is what it is, and we’ve got work to do. Dominguez and Carlucci found a couple of possibilities for our floater.” Gonzo handed over a printed report that Freddie perused with interest. The third-shift detectives had identified three young women who’d been reported missing in the greater metropolitan area who fit the general profile of the woman in the river.
“So I suppose we have to go to these people and tell them we may have found their daughter,” Freddie said, “but we don’t know for sure, and then ask for dental records.”
“Exactly.”
“Before we take care of that fun task, Hill is on his way over to get some help in tracking down Peter Gibson.”
“What the hell for?”
“Apparently, Sam made a connection between him and the threat that sent them into hiding.”
“You gotta be freaking kidding me.”
“Avery asked if we’ve got eyes on him, and I told him we do. Hope that was okay.”
“Yeah, it’s fine, but I hope Sam doesn’t find out.”
“You think she’d be surprised that we decided to keep an eye on him?”
“Probably not, but that doesn’t mean she’d be happy about it.”
Avery came to the doorway of the office. “You ready to roll?”
“You’re getting both of us.” Gonzo picked up Sam’s handheld radio off the desk and then went to talk to Jeannie, who was staring off into space. “Take some personal hours and get your head together.”
“I’m fine.”
“Wasn’t a request,” Gonzo said, squeezing her shoulder. “We’ll see you in the morning.”
“Is she okay?” Hill asked.
“She’s having a rough day,” Gonzo answered without offering details.
Hill led the way to the lobby. “Where’re we heading?”
Before they went outside, Gonzo stopped walking and turned to face Hill. “I’ll give you that info, but I want something from you in exchange.”
“What?”
“My son. There’s no reason for him to be held with Sam’s family. He’s not related to them. I want him brought out of wherever they are and returned to me. Today.”
Avery met Gonzo’s intense stare and didn’t say anything for so long that Freddie was certain he was going to say no. “I’ll see what I can do.” When Gonzo began to protest, Hill held up his hand to stop him. “It’s not my call, Gonzo. I said I’ll do what I can, and I will. You have my word on that.”
Gonzo stared him down for another long moment before he nodded in acknowledgment of Hill’s offer.
“Where’re we going?” Hill asked again.
“Capitol Hill,” Freddie said.
Avery’s eyes narrowed with displeasure. “He still lives in her neighborhood?”
“Yep,” Freddie said. “After they split, he moved two blocks over to Seventh, where he was until he moved to Sixth.”
“Does she know you’ve been watching him?”
“No,” Gonzo said, “and we’d prefer to keep it that way.”
“She won’t hear it from me. What does Gibson do for work?”
“Back in the day he worked in telecom marketing,” Freddie said, “but got laid off about six months before he and the LT split up. Since then, he’s had a variety of odd jobs, the most recent at a mattress store.”
“He ought to be getting a cot and three squares courtesy of the United States government,” Gonzo added, “but thanks to us he’s walking around free as a bird after trying to kill our colleague—and her husband.”
“Why do you say ‘thanks to us’?”
“After the bombing, we jumped a warrant because we were afraid of what he had in his apartment. Turned out we were right to be concerned. The place was full of enough bomb-making materials to level a city block.”
“So you saved lives by jumping the warrant.”
“And his lawyer got him off on a technicality when we had him on a slam dunk,” Freddie said bitterly. The incident still rankled more than a year and a half later.
“Can’t say I would’ve done it any differently knowing that many lives were at risk.”
“I know we did the right thing,” Gonzo said, “but I swear to God, if he’s come at her again, we’re doing this by the book. Down to the last letter.”
“Agreed,” Hill said.
In the parking lot, they split into two cars with Hill following Freddie and Gonzo to Gibson’s Sixth Street address.
“He’s in the basement,” Gonzo said when they met up with Hill on the sidewalk outside.
“Should we call for backup?” Freddie asked.
“I think we’re good with three of us,” Gonzo said. “If you don’t mind, Agent Hill, we’d like to take the lead on this.”
“I don’t mind if you let me take the lead on questioning him about where he’s been the last few weeks and what his latest beef is with his ex-wife and her husband.”
“I can live with that.” Gonzo took the lead going down the half set of stairs that led to the basement apartment. At the bottom of the stairs, he withdrew his weapon.
Freddie followed suit, preparing to cover Gonzo if need be.
Hill hung back behind them.
Gonzo pounded on the door. “MPD. Open up.” When there was no answer, he pounded again.
“Try the door,” Freddie said.
Gonzo twisted the knob and it clicked open. He glanced over his shoulder.
“Do it,” Hill said.
Gonzo raised his weapon to lead the way and stepped into the darkened apartment.
Freddie’s heart beat hard and a bead of sweat ran down his back. What if they were walking into an ambush?
Gonzo found a panel of switches on the wall and flipped on a light.
Freddie gasped at the sight of Peter Gibson tied to a chair in the middle of the living room. He was covered in blood and had obviously been tortured. Judging by the smell, he’d been dead for some time.
“I’ll call it in,” Gonzo said, returning his weapon to its holster.
While Gonzo went to report the homicide, Freddie and Hill moved in for a closer look at Gibson. His face and upper torso were covered with deep cuts and burns that might’ve been made by the lit end of a cigar. The ends of his fingers were bloody from the removal of fingernails, and it looked as if he’d been thoroughly whipped with a cord of some sort. A puddle of blood surrounded the chair.
“Jesus,” Hill muttered. “Someone worked him over good.”
“And whoever did it left the door unlocked so we’d be sure to find him.”
“What do you think actually killed him?”
“I’d have to guess the blood loss, but Dr. McNamara will figure that out and give us an approximate time of death.”
“Someone needs to tell Sam.”
“I’d like to do that,” Freddie said.
“I don’t have authorization to bring you to the place where they’re being kept safe.”
“Then maybe it’s time to let her out of there so she can help us figure out why someone tortured her ex-husband to death.”
“That’s not my call.”
“Whose call is it?”
“The vice president’s.”
“Wow, that must be making for a peaceful incarceration.”
“The word I would use to describe them when I saw them last night is tense.”
Freddie shifted his gaze to Peter. Though he intensely disliked the guy and hated what he’d put Sam through, he wouldn’t wish the hell that’d been done to Peter on anyone. “She’ll want in on this.”
“It’s probably a conflict for her to be on this case.”
“Doesn’t mean she won’t want to be part of it.”
Gonzo returned. “Crime Scene and the ME are on the way.”
They waited in uneasy silence until they heard the sirens and went out to greet the others.
“Brace yourself,” Freddie said to Lindsey. “It’s bad.”
She patted his arm. “They’re all bad, Detective.”
“It’s Sam’s ex.”
“Oh dear.” She went down the stairs to Peter’s apartment.
Gonzo approached Freddie. “Let’s do a canvass and see if the neighbors heard anything.”
* * *
AFTER DINNER ON the third day underground, Sam tried to watch a movie with the others, but even though it was an action flick, it didn’t hold her attention. She was slowly losing her mind. Every minute in this concrete prison was making her feel more unhinged than the last. Until she’d been brought here, she’d never realized how much she took for granted being able to see the sky and the sun and to breathe fresh air.
It was wearing on the others too, especially Scotty, who was upset about missing the baseball camp he looked forward to all year.
Sam got up from the sofa where she’d been sitting between her sisters and went to find Nick, who was in their bedroom poring over a thick briefing book that had been delivered to him earlier in the day.
“Hey, babe. How’s the movie?”
“I can’t seem to follow the plot.”
He held out a hand to invite her to sit with him.
While she crossed the room to take him up on the invitation, he discreetly closed the book and put it on the beside table.
“What’s in there?”
“Secret stuff.”
“Like what?”
“National security briefings and a report from the Joint Chiefs on a covert mission happening overseas.”
He told her what he could without actually telling her anything.
Sam wrapped her hand around his and sat on the edge of the bed. “You have to let us out of here, Nick.” When he began to protest, she laid a finger over his lips. “We all understand the situation we’re in and armed with that knowledge, we can make careful choices for ourselves and our kids. You have to let us out.”
Judging by his mulish expression, he wasn’t swayed by her argument. She watched his gaze shift to the doorway. “What’s up, Brant?”
“Agent Hill is here to see you both.”
“We’ll be right there,” Nick said.
“Let’s hope he’s here to tell us they’ve figured it out and we’re free to go,” Sam said.
“Let’s hope so.”
He said what she wanted to hear but didn’t sound overly optimistic.
Sam took the hand he extended to her and followed him from their room, through the darkened common area and into the conference room where Avery, Brant and Captain Malone awaited them.
Seeing her captain there, Sam’s stomach dropped. What was this about? Please, not Freddie or any member of her squad... Please.
“What’s going on?” Nick asked.
Sam was grateful he voiced the question, because she couldn’t seem to catch her breath.
“Earlier tonight,” Hill said, “following up on the lead you gave us to investigate Peter Gibson, we entered his apartment and found him dead.”
Only Nick’s arm around her kept Sam from stumbling. He helped her into a chair and squatted next to her, providing comfort and support the way only he could.
“How?” Nick asked.
“He’d been tortured,” Hill replied. “We’re waiting for the ME to give us cause of death because it wasn’t immediately apparent to us.”
“T-tortured?” Sam asked, her mouth dry. “Someone tortured Peter?”
“I’m afraid so, Sam,” Malone said, his expression grim. “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but someone put him through hell before they killed him.”
“I—I think... Going to be sick.” Nick lunged for the trash can in the corner and brought it to her in time for her to heave the contents of her stomach into the bin.
He held back her hair. “Can you give us a minute, please?”
“Of course,” Malone said, answering for the others.
They filed out of the room and closed the door behind them.
“Babe, take a deep breath.” Nick grabbed a bottle of water from the middle of the table and cracked it open. Holding it up to her lips, he said, “Have some.”
Sam forced herself to take one sip and then another.
“Talk to me. Tell me what you’re thinking.”
“I... I don’t know what to think. Who would’ve done such a thing to him?”
“It’s hard to say. He’d made his share of enemies, and who knows what he’s been up to recently.”
“You don’t think it’s related to the threat?”
“Anything is possible.”
“I have to be part of this investigation, Nick. You have to let me out of here. I can’t sit on the sidelines when someone has tortured a man who I was once married to.” Her stomach turned again when scenes from her checkered past with Peter flew through her mind—from living as platonic roommates to him “comforting” her when Nick didn’t call, to friendship evolving into romance and marriage to suffering numerous miscarriages to him trying to control her every move and every thought and objecting to the time she was spending caring for her injured father.
And now he was dead. Tortured to death. Dear God. Her hands were shaking, and the sick feeling in her stomach continued, unabated by the vomiting.
“Please,” she whispered, her throat raw from being sick, “please let me out of here, Nick.”
“Only if I go with you.”
“Can you do that?”
“Give me a few minutes to figure it out with Brant, but you’re not going to face this by yourself. No fucking way, Samantha.”
Under normal circumstances, Sam might object to him telling her what she was and wasn’t going to do, but she wanted him with her right now too badly to object.
She nodded in agreement. “Will you... Angela and Tracy...”
“I’ll get them, baby.” He kissed her forehead. “Whatever you need. You just tell me, and I’ll get it for you.”
Sam reached for him and he drew her up from her chair and into his fierce embrace. “After everything he put me through, why do I feel so shattered?”
“Because you’re a compassionate person, and at one time you loved the guy. As much as you wanted him to go away and leave you alone, you’d never have wanted this for him.”
“No. Never.” She shuddered imagining what he’d endured and immediately felt sick again.
Nick anticipated that and had the bucket ready when a second wave of vomiting hit her, leaving her feeling weak and shaky. He kept his arm around her and whispered soft words of comfort.
Sam allowed herself to lean on him as she absorbed this latest blow. Her emotions were all over the place—sadness and anger and grief mixed in with a tiny bit of relief that she’d never have to deal with him again. Of course, that made her feel even worse after hearing how he’d died.
“Let me get your sisters,” Nick said after waiting for her to catch her breath. “I’ll be right back.” He took the trash can with him. Sam hoped she wouldn’t need it again while he was gone.
Sitting alone in the brightly lit conference room, Sam forced herself to breathe through the nausea that burned her throat. She wiped her mouth and discovered her cheeks were wet with tears. She had to get it together so she could help her team figure out what’d happened to Peter and who was threatening her family. They also had a floater to identify. There were things to be done, and focusing on them would keep her from totally losing it.
Angela came rushing in, wearing pajamas, her hair standing on end and her eyes red from exhaustion. Tracy was right behind her.
“What’s wrong?” Angela asked. “Nick said something happened to Peter.”
Tracy took the seat on the other side of Sam.
“He was found dead in his apartment.”
“Oh my God,” Angela whispered.
“They said...” Sam took a deep breath. “They said he’d been tortured.”
Tracy gasped. “Oh no. Oh, Sam.”
“After everything he put me through, I should probably be glad he’s dead, but I can’t... Not like this...”
“Of course you wouldn’t want that,” Tracy said.
“What if...”
“What, honey?” Angela asked.
“What if they tortured him because of me?”
“Is that what the FBI thinks?” Tracy asked.
“They didn’t say that, but what if that’s why he was killed?”
“Take it one step at a time, Sam,” Tracy said, stroking Sam’s hair. “Anyone who went after him would know you haven’t had anything to do with him in ages. Who knows what else he was into lately? It could’ve been for a hundred different reasons.”
Sam clung to Tracy’s reassurances, but she had a sick feeling that his homicide would lead directly back to her. And if it did, how would she live with that information?