Cold Snap, page 2
Grady snorted. “Everyone knows the case.”
Kane was a stain on humanity and the Bureau’s greatest failure and shame.
His sweat cooled on his skin. Deliberately, he sat next to the female agent rather than opposite, crowding her so that she narrowed her gaze at him in annoyance.
Welcome to the club.
Dobson locked the door, came over and sat down heavily.
Grady glanced at the cameras.
“They’re not recording. We’re the only people in the building.” Ropero didn’t look happy with him, and the feeling was entirely mutual.
He picked up the photo of Kane. “Why the theatrics?”
Ropero exchanged a look with her partner. Her mouth tightened. “We’re sorry about the necessity for that, but we need for everyone to believe you’ve been suspended from the FBI and essentially disgraced.”
Anger burned along his nerves. “So, you walk into a Hostage Rescue Team briefing and destroy my reputation in front of everyone I work with because there’s been another bogus sighting of a man who disappeared twenty-seven years ago? Do you have any idea how long and hard I trained to get into HRT?”
Her eyes flashed. “I know exactly how hard you worked. I know every damn thing there is to know about you. I told Agent Dobson this wasn’t going to work and that you wouldn’t be interested in putting the Bureau’s needs above your own.”
Anger morphed into resentment. The hell she judged him from nothing more than what was written in his personnel file—while simultaneously screwing up his life as if his desires and feelings meant nothing. But he had a feeling she was playing him, and he wasn’t that same youth who’d been so handy with his mouth and fists, not anymore. His training surpassed Ropero’s in spades. Didn’t make him a better agent necessarily, but he’d learned to leash his inner demons and use them to catch the bad guys.
“Wouldn’t be interested in what?” he asked calmly.
Her eyes flashed. “That’s privileged intel for agents assigned to this case.”
Grady pushed back his chair. “You are out of your goddamn minds if you think I’m gonna sign up for some bullshit secret mission at the cost of my career without any information—”
“Hear us out for five minutes.” Dobson took over, obviously sensing Grady was done with their games. “You probably know that over the years Eli Kane has been sighted all over the US and all over the world. Just last year, the Bureau sent a group of agents to the Australian Outback to surveil then detain a man fitting Kane’s description after a tip off. All the pieces fit. Age, height, eye color, facial characteristics. His basic life history. FBI thought they had their guy. We thought we had our guy. Unfortunately, we failed to get DNA no matter how hard we tried.”
“It isn’t easy hiding out in a town in the middle of nowhere with only a couple hundred people in it,” Ropero put in. “Where everyone knows one another.” She eyed him coolly.
He eyed her back.
“Australian cops eventually brought the suspect in for questioning at our request. He wasn’t talking, and so they let us have a crack at him. He wouldn’t budge. Then one of the local cops leaked who we were looking for to the press, and the back-of-beyond became a goddamn three-ring circus.” Dobson relaxed back into his chair. “The publicity turned out to be a blessing in the end. A photo of the suspect appeared in the newspaper and was enough for a woman in Sydney to recognize him as the assailant who’d raped her ten years prior. That provided probable cause for the locals to get a DNA sample and compare it to that collected in the woman’s unsolved case.”
“Needless to say, it wasn’t Kane.” Ropero took over. “It was a serial rapist who’d immigrated to Australia from the US twenty years ago who had a good reason not to wanna talk to the cops or give his DNA.”
Grady tapped his fingers on the tabletop. “This is all you guys do? Hunt Eli Kane?” He narrowed his eyes at these people who’d so cavalierly dragged him into their half-baked quest. “Twenty-seven years is a long time to be sitting on the FBI’s Most Wanted list. He’s probably dead in a ditch somewhere.”
“He might be. But we don’t think so.” Ropero blew out a long breath, clearly hesitant about sharing whatever information was stuck up her butt. She stared him in the eye. “What I’m about to tell you cannot be shared, not even if you refuse to help us.”
“I work with Top Secret information daily. I know the drill. But what exactly am I supposed to tell the guys? That this was all some stupid misunderstanding?”
“Tell him,” Dobson urged.
Ropero shot her partner a look. “Ten days ago, there was a bank robbery. A locally owned Savings and Loan in a small, tight-knit community in the US. While dusting for prints in the safe deposit room, local ERTs pulled fingerprints that they ran through IAFIS.”
The Integrated Automated Fingerprint Identification System was part of the FBI’s Next Generation Identification system that combined fingerprint identification with facial recognition technology and other biometric data.
“And?” Grady demanded impatiently.
“The print belonged to Eli Kane.”
Grady shifted in surprise.
Dobson took over. “The hit was flagged to us but sent back to the local cops as an unknown.”
“Did Kane rob the bank?” Grady asked.
“We don’t know the identity of the bank robber at this point, but we do know he wore gloves and appears to be slightly shorter and younger than Kane would be. Security footage only goes back a few days prior to the robbery. Analysts have been unable to identify Kane on it.”
“We assume he had surgery. No way he’d have remained at large for so long without some sort of facial reconstruction.” Dobson crossed his legs and tapped his finger slowly on the scarred table. “A two-million-dollar reward is enough reason for the general public to turn him in—if they could easily identify him.”
“Prints on metal potentially last for years,” Grady pointed out. “You’ve no idea when that fingerprint was laid down.”
“We’re aware of that.” Everything about Ropero was tight and gritted.
Which certainly made him feel better. The iron around his chest had loosened further.
His life hadn’t been destroyed.
These bozos could find someone else to work with, someone who specialized in undercover work—not an elite tactical operator. He’d worked too hard to destroy his career, but he was curious about the case. Kane was part of the Bureau’s imperfect history. Like Waco and Ruby Ridge, like Hanssen and Stone.
Today they strived to do better, but mistakes were still made. And Kane deserved to be punished for his heinous crimes.
Dobson frowned at Ropero. “The bank claims the outside metal of the boxes is polished on a regular basis which suggests the fingerprint arrived sometime in the past few months.” He sighed. “As embarrassing as it was, Australia taught us an important lesson. The chances of us sneaking into a small town and asking questions without catching Kane’s attention and him immediately disappearing are next to none.”
“You guys don’t exactly blend in.” The agents looked like G-men. Even in casual clothes their demeanor and behavior screamed law enforcement. “He probably left as soon as he heard about the bank robbery.” Grady spoke with a slice of maliciousness he wasn’t proud of. But they’d dragged him into this whether he liked it or not. He wasn’t going to roll over and let them rub his belly and say all was forgiven. Grady wasn’t the forgiving type.
“We realize that, too,” Dobson said patiently.
“Why’d the evidence tech run prints in the first place if the robber wore gloves?”
A smile curved Dobson’s lips. “Damned if I know. A slow day? Or serendipity finally bending toward justice?”
Grady ran his nail along a scratch in the table, giving himself time to think. The information was intriguing.
“What does any of this have to do with me?” Anyone in HRT would be pleased to take down the former agent who’d cold-bloodedly murdered his wife and two young boys before disappearing, but Grady wasn’t sure why these agents were talking to him alone, nor why they’d marched him out of the team briefing like a common criminal.
Another silent exchange between the two field agents as they decided whether or not to trust him with their precious intel.
Dobson spoke. “The bank that was robbed…was located in Deception Cove, Maine.”
Grady stilled.
Blinked.
Swore.
“According to our records,” Dobson held his gaze, “you not only grew up in the town, but you also have an account at the bank with a safe deposit box in that building, and you own property and have family there.”
Grady closed his eyes and stared up at the ceiling tiles. To clarify, he gritted out, “You don’t think I have something to do with this asshole, do you?”
Dobson shook his head. “No, but you know people. You’re a local.”
Grady pushed to his feet. “I hate to break it to you, but I don’t know shit about the people in that town. I haven’t lived there in nearly fifteen years and haven’t visited in eight.” The last time had been for a funeral.
“You have family there and local knowledge. You can collect data and evidence…”
Grady scowled. He had a sister. She hated him. “For how long exactly?”
Ropero bristled. “As long as it takes.”
“Fuck you. You storm into my life with a half-assed plan and expect me to give up the rest of my career for your crusade—”
“You go where the FBI sends you,” Ropero snapped with a mean twist to her mouth.
“The fuck I do,” Grady snarled back.
Dobson’s shoulders slumped.
Grady looked at them. “This was the best plan you could come up with? Me returning alone to my hometown with my tail between my legs after I’d been thrown out of the Bureau for vehicular homicide, in the hopes that someone would magically reveal a secret that Kane has spent nearly three decades successfully concealing?”
Ropero shrugged. “We thought that if you understood the seriousness of the situation—”
“I understand the seriousness all too well.” He struggled not to raise his voice. “It’s you two clowns who seem to be struggling.”
Ropero threw up her hands, thrust to her feet, and stalked away in disgust.
“Fine.” Dobson leaned forward. “What do you suggest?”
3
Winter
Special Agent Eli Kane sat in a paper-thin gown on a doctor’s examination table. He wasn’t Eli Kane today though. He was using one of the many aliases he’d set up for his undercover work.
Some the FBI knew about.
Some they didn’t.
No way in hell did he want this getting back to his ASAC.
Getting an STD at his age was mortifying. He needed to tell his wife, but he was working a case that meant he wouldn’t be home for at least another week, and he didn’t want to tell her over the phone. He’d tell her when he got back. Suggest it might be a good idea for her to go for a checkup, just in case she hadn’t had any symptoms. He’d watch the boys.
That last party had been wild.
His fingers shook a little as he pressed them into his thighs.
Too wild.
Unnerving flickers of memory flashed through his mind. Pain that had quickly morphed into something different.
He swallowed tightly.
Yeah. Way too wild.
Better not to think about it.
He’d been at an orgy, for Pete’s sake. What had he expected? Sobriety tests and hand-written invitations?
He’d worn a condom most of the time, but not for blowjobs and…well, he wasn’t sure about every time.
It was irresponsible with AIDS going around. He knew better.
But it’d been hard to think straight when there’d been so much booze, drugs, and pussy floating around like some debauched Roman feast. And how he had feasted, especially after trying an experimental pill that had promised to have his dick hard for hours. Boy, had that ever worked.
He’d fucked and been sucked off so often he’d been sore.
But the women he’d had…
The men he’d let screw his beautiful wife…
They’d been lining up to have her. She was so freaking gorgeous.
Two kids and she still had the body of a goddess. Smile of a siren.
Thinking about watching her have sex with another guy, even sitting in this cold sterile environment which was about as sexy as a refrigerator, gave him a semi.
One big, good-looking guy had taken her twice, once on the dining room table laid out amongst the food like a succulent roast. Then, later, up the ass over the arm of the couch.
Lisa never let him do that to her, but he figured she’d been as high as a kite the same as him. She certainly looked as if she’d enjoyed it. She’d caught his gaze during the first act. Smiled as if he was the only one in the room. Until the guy had rammed hard enough to move the table and brought her attention back to him.
They’d looked magnificent together, Eli could admit. As if they’d both walked out of a porn movie to entertain the rest of the mortals in attendance.
After watching her come like a rocket the second time, he’d gone and followed a little blonde to a bedroom and done to her what his wife wouldn’t let him do to her. The blonde had been young and sweet, but not too young—they wouldn’t have allowed her into the party if she hadn’t been of age. The organizers were very strict with their admission policy.
The woman had enjoyed it, too. She’d screamed with pleasure as she’d come and urged him to keep going, to hurt her. He’d slapped her ass until it was red, and she’d loved every fucking second.
And if the Bureau ever found out he was toast.
He wiped the sweat from his brow.
Getting turned on from fucking other women and watching his wife fuck other men was his dirty little secret.
Christ.
Lisa was so prim and proper most of the time. Didn’t even swear. It made him laugh thinking about it. Thinking about her. He loved her. He loved her to the point of insanity even when she spent all their money on things they didn’t need and couldn’t afford.
Fuck.
He wiped his brow.
He might need to start moonlighting or urge Lisa to go out and get that job she’d been talking about. Maybe if she was working, she wouldn’t be spending cash they didn’t have.
But he liked to indulge her.
The parties had been her idea, and he’d balked at first because the suggestion was both so unexpected and so fucking tempting. But he’d used his expertise, so he wasn’t too worried about their identities being revealed.
The first one he’d gone to he’d recognized a judge, a millionaire, and a senator. If they could do it, why shouldn’t he and Lisa?
Who the hell had the right to tell him what to do? As long as he wasn’t breaking any laws.
During this last party, the judge’s wife had let him come between her breasts and then she’d lapped him clean like a goddamn dog.
She was the one who’d shared a line of cocaine with him. He’d never done coke before. It had fucked him up good, but, at the time, he hadn’t felt as if he could say no. After that things had become a little hazy.
Those memories flickered again… Weight. Pressure. Pain. Pleasure.
Heat burned his cheeks as the doctor walked into the room.
His heart hammered and his hands shook as the doctor asked him to move the gown higher so he could examine the encrusted tip of Eli’s sore penis. The doctor stared intently and then indicated Eli could pull the gown back into place.
Thank God.
“I have good news and bad news. The results are back on the sample you brought in last week, Mr. Fullam. They confirmed Chlamydia.”
Shit.
The doctor pursed his lips. “You’re single, correct?”
Eli scratched his brow, hoping the doctor wasn’t going to go all puritanical on him about having sex outside marriage. “Yeah.”
He and Lisa probably shouldn’t go to another party, or maybe just one more, knowing it was the last time and make the most of it.
The parties were too big a risk. He loved his job. Needed his job. Being a G-man was everything to him. But the sex… Man, the sex was unbelievable. Better than cocaine.
“The good news is that I think the antibiotics are working, but we’ll extend the course by another ten days.”
Eli laughed awkwardly. “And the bad news?”
The doctor pursed his lips. Stared down at his notes. “You have a very low sperm count.”
Shock rushed through Eli. What did that mean? “Because of the Chlamydia?”
The doctor shook his bald, shiny head. “I don’t believe so. I suspect your sperm count has always been low. It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” the doctor reassured him. “A medical condition like any other.”
The words buzzed around Eli’s brain pinging off his skull.
“Perhaps advancements in modern medicine might someday allow you to father a child. And there is always adoption to consider…”
Eli just sat there. He laughed then, a little confused. “What if I told you I already had children?”
“I’m afraid I’d say that is very unlikely. Very unlikely indeed.” The look on the doctor’s face wasn’t disapproval. It was pity. He climbed to his feet. “But miracles happen every day. Pick up the prescription from the desk. Good day to you, sir.”
4
Present day
It was 10 p.m. on a Saturday as Grady pulled into the driveway of the achingly familiar clapboard house that had once belonged to his grandparents and was now, technically, his.
It looked in good shape. Better than it had when they’d been growing up.
His sister and her husband had grudgingly kept an eye on it for him and took care of repairs and maintenance. And, he’d discovered, they were making the most of it.
Grady climbed out of the Jeep he’d borrowed from Grace Monteith and stretched out his limbs after hours of sitting. The air was damp and cold. Snow lay piled into mounds where the sun didn’t reach this time of year. Ice coated the driveway and wooden steps, although they’d been treated with sand.
