The Bureau Killer, page 6
Mason closed his eyes, forced a controlled breath, then dragged out the kitchen chair from under the table. He lowered himself into it slowly, feeling pain burn up his back. A ghost of the recent explosion he’d almost been in lately, he thought.
“You’re right,” Mason finally said. “Sorry. I’m just wound up, you know?”
“I know.”
“It’s not just Fray or Diane. It’s you. And Amy.”
Evie pulled out a seat across from him, but she didn’t speak.
“You’re here now, which is great. I love to see you, but—”
“But?” Evie asked.
“What took you so long?”
“I was busy working.”
“Too busy to attend my daughter’s funeral?”
Evie lowered her head. Hair swung in front of her eyes, concealing her reaction. “It’s not something I’m proud of. Sure, work was busy and I was on the opposite side of the country, but there was something else keeping me, too.”
“What’s that?”
“I just found it… hard. Amy and I were buddies. Aunt and niece—partners in crime. Going to her funeral would be like admitting she was gone, and I couldn’t bring myself to do it. That’s the whole reason I came to help out. Selfish, isn’t it?”
Mason nodded, absorbing this information.
“Like you, I needed the distraction. Is that so bad?”
“I guess not.”
“So can you forgive me for that? Even if it’s just so we can move forward?”
Mason gave it a long, hard think. He eventually came back with very little, because anything he had to say might come out wrong. Instead, he let his body do the talking by getting up and heading for the bedroom. Only one short sentence broke out.
“Pay her a visit sometime, won’t you? She deserves it.”
He slammed the door behind him.
THIRTY-TWO
Before sunup, Mason had barged his way into the FBI headquarters on Golden Gate Avenue. They had taken his name and arranged a meeting with Special Agent Hulls, who was apparently in a very early morning meeting.
It smelled like bullshit to Mason. The Feds had their hands full with the Educator, and Hulls had no intention of sharing information with a lowly private investigator. And where did that leave him? Sitting in an uncomfortable plastic chair for over an hour, staring at a missing persons’ board on the opposite wall. That’s where.
Through the fog of fatigue, Mason finally noticed something. He rushed out of the chair and approached the board, examining the pictures. There, in full color on a big sheet of paper, was the photo of a man in glasses. He had a receding hairline but looked to be no older than thirty. He had a long chin and short neck above round, dumpy shoulders. But it wasn’t his appearance that had caught Mason off guard.
It was the words beneath it:
HAVE YOU SEEN THIS MAN?
JARED CUNNINGHAM IS WANTED IN CONNECTION WITH KNOWN TERRORIST ‘THE EDUCATOR’.
CALL 555-9876 WITH INFO.
Mason pulled out his phone and snapped a photo of it for Evie’s sake. He read and reread the text, hoping against hope that this was an avenue they could pursue. Until now, they were a step behind everything. This was no different, but at least they weren’t completely lost anymore. At least they had something, no matter how small.
“Mr. Black?” a voice sounded from behind him, loud and authoritative.
Mason turned to see the man who’d let him into the building to begin with. He stood with his fingers laced together in front of him, his strong and professional posture giving off the false impression that he had come to help.
“Special Agent Hulls asked me to escort you from the building.”
Typical, Mason thought dully.
But at least he wasn’t leaving empty-handed.
THIRTY-THREE
The night had been filled with smoke and death. Fire and tears. The Educator slept so soundly that his usual insomnia hadn’t been a problem. In fact, for the first time in years, he had slept right through without so much as a frustrated turn in bed.
The dream was what had him grinning. He was addicted to death in that world just as he was in this one. He was sitting in a chair overlooking San Francisco. There was no wind, no rain, no clouds. Only the hot sun beating down on him like… well, like a fire.
In front of him was a long control board. It had buttons and switches and levers. It looked intimidating at a glance, but somehow he remembered what each and every one of them did. Dreams could be funny like that, and this was no exception.
The Educator began to fiddle with them all. Each button he pressed caused a deadly blast in the city. The explosions blew across the airwaves and brushed him back gently. At least, far more gently than the people down on the ground, who were now just dust. There was another explosion, and another, each one making his smile broader. San Francisco was his to devastate if he so chose, but if he rushed it, there would be nothing left to savor. Nothing left to—
“Daddy?”
The Educator turned to his right, following the sweet, melodic voice of a seven-year-old girl. The moment he laid eyes on the beautiful young blonde, his heart began to struggle under a spiking sensation. “Yes, honey?” he said, reaching out to her.
But the girl shrunk back, hiding behind a set of legs that had appeared out of thin air. The Educator’s gaze rolled up to another stunning female. This one looked almost identical to the young girl, only with fuller lips and a slightly less button-like nose. Ah, but she was the best-looking woman he’d ever seen.
If only she wasn’t scowling.
“You have to stop,” she warned him. “You’re scaring the girl.”
The Educator tilted his head and looked at the girl again, only now she was gone. A handful of dust spread across the air and was carried off by the breeze. The Educator rushed forward, leaving his post at the control panel, and then the woman vanished, too.
“No” was all he could get out.
San Francisco continued to boom on his left. He turned his attention toward it and found puffs of black smoke emanating from the shortest buildings. The skyscrapers began to topple. The pain of the vanishing woman and girl was suddenly no longer important, for he had a new focus. The people of the city were suffering, just like he had. They would cry at the loss of loved ones, just as he had. And now their lives were in his merciless hands.
That dream played out on repeat all night, while the Educator rested blissfully.
THIRTY-FOUR
Maybe we’re onto something, Mason thought with a sincere persuasion of hope. He had sent the photo to Evie as soon as he’d left the FBI building, and she’d immediately gotten all the details on Jared Cunningham from behind a computer.
Including his address.
Mason arrived at a small terraced house in no time. The curtains were shut even in broad daylight. The hanging plants beside it were wilted, starved of water and love. Mason knocked in spite of these telltale signs, gave it a minute, then tried to break in. The door was stubborn at first. It croaked the second time but didn’t open. Mason took one big step back for a final attempt, thought very briefly of Amy, and then used that anger to throw all his weight into the wood, his strength somehow doubling as self-loathing took control of him.
The door swung open and caught on a pile of mail. It had built into a tiny mountain by his feet. Mason scooped it to one side and then pushed the door to a close, in case anyone decided to take a stroll inside and catch him red-handed.
He went from room to room, looking for signs of a struggle. There was leftover crime scene tape on the walls, which told Mason only one thing: however Jared had gone missing, the police obviously thought it was important enough to document. Was that because he was an important person or because of the circumstances surrounding his disappearance?
That was down to Evie to find out. Mason was on ground duty, scouring each room one at a time, wandering around the vacant house like a ghost. Each room was more dismal than the last, turning up nothing until he entered the kitchen.
“Finally,” he mumbled to himself.
Mason crossed the small, dank kitchen, where a table had been broken in two. There was blood on the floor between the two broken panels, like someone had been thrown through it. Mason’s money was on Jared Cunningham, whose photo sat on the countertop, arm in arm with a stunning brunette who could easily have been a girlfriend.
It was all of interest to Mason, but none of it was really useful. He stood in the dark, wondering what to do next, when he realized there was really nothing he could do until Evie got back to him with more information. He dropped her a text to let her know, then exited the same way he’d come in: through the broken door with his anger dialed up to eleven.
THIRTY-FIVE
The sun was going down, and Evie had gone quiet on him. Mason was a little worried she had taken his words to heart. Maybe she had gone to see Amy’s grave after all, and if that was the case, he wanted to leave her to it. She obviously needed to work it out of her system, and who was he to stand in her way? Hell, he wanted this.
Besides, he had some demons of his own to address. Whenever he wasn’t knee-deep in the Fray case, his thoughts drifted toward Diane. Toward little MJ’s words as he’d innocently reported that Diane had a new male friend.
Can that be true?
There was only one way to find out.
Mason made his way over there, taking a slow, steady drive in the black Shelby Mustang he’d so recently been re-acquainted with. There was a cocktail of feelings about having his vehicle back: it made him feel like he was a lonely, angry PI again, just like he was when Sandra had left him. Before he’d met Diane. But there was a pleasant memory attached to it, too, and it took him back to his days of freedom. When he was a lot more energetic. When Amy was—
“Stop it,” he told himself, stomping up the driveway and pounding on Diane’s door. He waited in the glow of the spotlight that blinked on, swaying back and forth on nervous legs. Only a woman could make him feel that way.
It wasn’t long before the door opened. Mason started to speak, but when he saw the new and unrecognizable face staring back at him, he cut himself short. A man had opened it—tall, thin, and wearing a faded Back to the Future shirt above lounge pants.
“Can I help you?” he asked.
“You can get Diane.” It took everything he had not to swing for the guy.
“And you are?”
“Her husband.”
The man’s eyes widened, and he shrunk back behind the door, biting his lip. Seconds later, Diane appeared in his place. She was also wearing lounge pants, but they looked better on her than they had on Mason’s replacement.
“This year’s model?” he asked.
Diane rolled her eyes. “You don’t need to worry about him.”
“No? Because MJ tells me he’s spending a lot of time here.”
“That’s none of your business.”
“Hey, I have a right to know what kind of person is in the house with my…” He almost mentioned that MJ was his only child, and the old pain flared up again. “I have a right to know.”
Diane’s eyes narrowed into an angry squint. She put a hand up against the doorjamb, a clear signal that he wasn’t welcome here. She set her jaw, and he’d never seen her like this before. “Is there a good reason you came here, or did you just want to inject yourself into my life? Because we’re trying to watch a movie here.”
Mason immediately pictured the two of them snuggling on the couch with his son sitting giddily between them. The thought stung, piercing his heart in a hundred different places. “Just tell me you’re not doing this to spite me,” he said.
“I’m not.”
“You sound unconvincing.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Do you want me to spend a couple years at theatre school and get back to you with that?” Diane moved her hand to jerk a finger in his face. “You have no right to come over here, much less tell me how to live my life.”
Mason reeled back, huffing into the open air. Anger built up inside him—a little because of this new man, but mostly because he knew she was right. “I’m sorry,” he said, finally. “I just don’t want to feel like I’m being shut out anymore.”
“Then consider a change of personality.”
That was all Diane said before she slammed the door. Mason stood out there by himself, feeling like the fool he was for interfering in matters that didn’t belong to him. As long as this new man was treating MJ right—and he considered Diane a good judge of character—he guessed he really didn’t have a right to be here.
But that didn’t make this easier to digest. After all, Diane was still his wife, and deep down inside, there was still a part of him that wished—hoped—they could patch things up and make it work.
Even if it was a faraway dream.
THIRTY-SIX
It was starting to hurt her head.
Evie had received the text from Mason earlier that day and immediately gone on a search with all her computer gear. She had turned up dozens of files on Jared Cunningham: mortgage information, tax history. Even the purchases he’d made at online bookstores.
The real challenge was piecing it together. People often assumed she could tap a few keys and gain immediate access to a whole network of information. That was true to an extent, but the comparison she usually made was that it was like finding every little piece of a car. She still had to figure out what the hell went where and then put it together.
It gave her a roaring headache to do this, especially for long periods. She took a break after sending Mason the home address, heading out for a walk in the crisp air. She let her mind wander, thinking back to her more recent years in New York, where her career had got a kick-start before plummeting. She had the internet age to blame for that. There were also thoughts of Amy swimming around in her head. Why couldn’t she just go and visit her grave? It would be tough, but it would provide a little closure. Wasn’t that worth it?
By the time she got back, she was ready to go. She made herself a cup of Mason’s cheap coffee and sat at her desk until she found something worth finding. It was an email exchange between Jared Cunningham and a man who called himself Robert Green. They spoke of meeting times, threats about his family, and more. Evie read with great interest, her face drawing closer and closer to the screen with each passing minute, devouring the information.
That was when she saw it.
In a single email from a dummy account, Green had mentioned the FBI three times. Cunningham followed up in his emails by ignoring the mention of them completely. There was something up between these two, and the aggressive undertones were undeniable.
The final email was an invitation from Green to Cunningham, and the trail ended there. Evie’s heart pounded as she dug deeper, running a brand-new search on this Robert Green character. Unfortunately for her, it was a crazy popular name, but there was one listed that caught her eye. It made her stop, raising a hand to her mouth.
Because he worked for the FBI.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Mason tore through the city in his Mustang, zipping between lanes and driving like an excited teenager. He didn’t care if he lived or died. It looked like MJ wouldn’t grow up without a father if that happened—Mason’s replacement was already standing in line.
But he couldn’t think like that. Just the concept of someone else raising his child drove him crazy. He eased off the gas just as his phone started to ring, then pulled onto the side of the street, killed the engine, and took the call.
“Tell me you got something,” he said.
“I got something.”
Evie’s voice was always a pleasant sound, but when she came with news like that, he couldn’t help smiling. News of a killer’s whereabouts was a perfect remedy for whatever this was he was feeling, and Mason accepted it gratefully.
“Ping the address over to me, won’t you?”
“Sure,” Evie said. “Want me to call the cops?”
Mason thought about that, leaning over the front seat to take his Beretta from the glove compartment. He checked it was loaded, then slid it into his shoulder holster. “Probably best not to involve the SFPD.”
“Is this about Bill?”
“A little.”
A sigh breezed through the phone. “This is bigger than you and Bill. Whatever argument you have going on with him, it’s time to put it aside and think of the big picture.”
Mason knew she was right, but what it came down to was that he simply didn’t trust Bill anymore. He had needed him only a few short months ago, and Bill had let him down so hard that it had ultimately cost Amy her life. Did he blame Bill for Amy’s death? A little, yeah, because Bill’s cooperation could have gone a long way.
“All right,” he said. “But call the FBI, not the cops.”
“Why?”
“If Green is the Educator, and if he’s one of them, the bureau will take it more seriously. They’ll be there within a couple minutes of taking your call.” Mason brought the engine to life and pulled out of his spot on the street. “Send me that address, will you?
Evie went silent, then said, “Will do. And Mason?”
“Yeah?”
“I’ll give it a couple minutes before I call the Feds.”
Perfect, Mason thought and hung up. It felt like they were on the same page again. He knew what he wanted to come out of tonight, and from her final comment, it sounded like she had exactly the same idea as he did: that if he was about to meet the Educator, he wanted some time alone with the sick son of a bitch first.
THIRTY-EIGHT
The Educator stood over his target. He wanted to get up close, unlike all those other men. This one had been directly involved in the event that had destroyed his life. That was if he hadn’t single-handedly engineered the tragedy.
