Blind Faith (10 page)

"His conviction is getting overturned on a technicality. We can't re-try him without Diamontes' testimony. And of course, we don't have that, seeing as Diamontes is dead."

"So Diamontes really is Sam Durandt."

"Sweetheart, of course he is. You ought to know—your old boss, Jack Logan is the one who worked that end of the case, got Diamontes into WITSEC eight years ago."

Caitlyn pursed her lips in a silent whistle. She'd tried contacting Logan but he was either unavailable or ducking her calls. She suspected the latter. "Guess he forgot to mention that when we worked the Durandt case."

"And I thought our office politics were bad. At least we only mess with the state and local prosecutors, we don't go around screwing ourselves."

"Keep it clean, Royal." Never knew who might be listening in. She didn't need Royal to get his ass in a sling because of her—or news of their conversation making its way back to Quantico or the brass. She hadn't officially opened a case file. Because as of yet she had no proof that any crime had been committed. Just a whole lot of ugly suspicions.

"S'all right. I'm on my cell. Jogging on the beach, in fact. Here, listen to the ocean." Static as he presumably held the phone out. Caitlyn smoothed her palms against her linen slacks, arched her back and stretched in her seat. Royal's voice soon returned. "Remember the time difference? It's not even six here, way too early for any bosses to be awake."

"Still, this is touchy. You might want to keep a low profile, not let anyone know you've been asking questions about Diamontes." Bad enough she was risking her career looking into this, no sense ruining Royal's as well.

"No worries. All anyone is talking about 'round here is Korsakov. You wouldn't believe some of the things that guy has done. I worked Organized Crime out of Jersey before I came here and it still makes my stomach turn. This is one seriously whacked out dude."

"His only convictions are for money laundering. They couldn't make the RICO charges stick." That much Caitlyn had gleaned from her Nexis/Lexis search last night.

"Only because the grand jury wouldn't convict solely on Diamontes' uncorroborated testimony."

"Let me guess. Any other witnesses were dead."

"Or missing. Those who were found, well let's just say they didn't go peacefully into the night. The autopsy reports read like a slasher movie script on steroids."

"Forensics?"

"Nope. Our Russian, Korsakov, is smarter than your average bear." The sound of his chuckling at his pun carried through the airwaves.

"Besides the trial transcripts, can you give me any info on Stan Diamontes?"

"I'll email you the only photo I could find. It's almost ten years old. He's thirty-five now, youngest of four kids, father a banker at Chase, mother a homemaker. A few run-ins with local PD's."

"He has a record?"

"Scarface this guy is not. He likes to surf—doesn't care who owns the beach. Half a dozen arrests for trespassing, no convictions. Went to Stanford, mediocre grades, BS in accounting. Oh yeah, he minored in musical composition of all things. I can try to run down former friends, relatives, see if anyone's heard from him if you'd like, but I have to tell you, if I had a freak like Korsakov gunning for me, I don't care how long of a sentence he got, I'd dig a hole to China and stay good and buried."

Caitlyn drummed her fingers along the steering wheel. Her headache was a low throb today, thanks to the double doses of drugs she'd taken. Ounce of prevention seemed a good idea after last night. She broke out in a sweat just thinking of the pain that had overwhelmed her.

"No. Email me the list and if need be, I'll follow up with them. I don't want you sticking your neck out more than necessary. And could you keep me posted on Korsakov's hearing?"

"Sure, whatever you want. Promise you'll tell me what this is all about once you're free and clear?"

"I will. Thanks, Royal."

"No prob. And hey, if you ever need a lawyer—"

"You'll be the last one I call. Take it easy."

"Don't I always?"

She hung up and reached for her Rand-McNally. A detour to Hartford would only take a few hours. And she'd gotten an early start. She shifted into gear. She'd call on Jack Logan in person, try to jar him into revealing something, and still make it to Hopewell by afternoon. As the pavement hummed beneath her tires, her right foot kept pushing down on the accelerator. Her instincts telling her that she was running out of time.

Sarah sucked her breath in, rolled onto her back, the sky opening up above her in a dizzying vista of cerulean. She focused on her breathing. It shouldn't be that hard, she'd done it all her life, but suddenly she couldn't force any air past the knot in her throat.

Sam was down there. Which meant he was dead, really dead. And if he was gone, then so was Josh.

She'd known it. But had never actually believed, truly believed, until this moment. She squeezed her eyes shut against the too-cheerful sunlight and the sting of her tears.

Maybe it wasn't Sam. Who could tell from this distance?

Logic told her not to be a fool, to surrender to the truth. Sam was the only adult reported missing on Snakehead and still unaccounted for in recent years. Sarah sat up, her vision clearing. She dropped the binoculars and grabbed the two-way radio Hal had lent her.

"Hal? This is Sarah, does anyone copy?" she spoke into the small handset.

Static answered her for a few long moments. Then Hal's voice cut through it, reassuring and calm. "You okay, Sarah?"

"I'm fine. I, uh, I found something up here you need to know about."

Another long pause. There was a clatter of silverware and men's laughter in the background. He was probably at the Rockslide, having breakfast. "What's up, Sarah?"

"I'm at the top of Snakebelly. There's a man down below."

"You want I should call search and rescue?" His voice sounded light-hearted, a bit distracted. He hadn't recognized the implications of what she said.

She swallowed hard. This might be Sam they were talking about. She hoped the Colonel was out of earshot. "No. I think you'd better call the coroner."

The speaker stuttered as if he'd started to say something then removed his finger from the trigger. Finally his voice returned. Slower, grimmer. The background noise had vanished. "I'm on my way."

She put the radio down on top of her pack and sat back on her heels. Gerald Merton, the eldest son and reigning heir to the Merton Funeral Home down in Merrill, was the current county coroner. He'd do a preliminary exam at his funeral home, package the remains for the State Police to take to their lab where a real medical examiner would perform a complete autopsy.

It would take Hal a good hour or more to pick up Gerald and drive up Snakehead. From there it would be another hour or so before they would reach her location if they hiked up the trail. Faster if Hal pulled off Rattlesnake Pike and left his truck on the side of the road. Then it would be a mere ten-twenty minute hike in, but it would mean bushwhacking through some dense forest and undergrowth.

No problem for Hal, he was used to it. But Gerald was a pasty-faced, overweight forty-something with a beer belly that made him look more like Santa Claus than an undertaker. And they'd have their hands full of gear—a stretcher, ropes, body bags, etc.

Either way, she had a wait on her hands. Sarah never was very good at waiting.

She sidled to the edge of the gorge and craned her head over it, assessing the damage the spring thaw and rockslides had done to the rock face. Not too bad. Definitely doable. She could rappel down, get the body—or what was left of it—ready to move, save them some time.

She'd done it before. Most every able-bodied adult in Hopewell was a member of the search and rescue team. Too many uncharted trails, inviting granite walls and unmapped caves on Snakehead. They were called out a few times every year to search for lost hunters, hikers, climbers and spelunkers.

Last time she'd done a body recovery had been right here. Last body she'd helped to bring out of Snakebelly was Lily, Hal's wife. Two years ago, almost to the day.

That made up her mind for her. Better to do everything she could to keep Hal's time in the gorge to a minimum. She could spare him those painful memories, at least.

Besides, she needed to know if it was Sam down there or not.

Sarah quickly secured her climbing rope, a 11 mm dry rope, to a boulder and stepped into her harness. She didn't have her usual SAR gear—no protective gloves or Vicks to deaden the smell of decay. But from what she'd seen so far, didn't look like there was a whole lot left to smell on this body.

She emptied her pack, leaving only her camera, ground cloth, duct tape, flashlight, and an assortment of plastic bags. She strapped her knife and climbing gear to her harness. No helmet. The Colonel would have a cow about that, it was against regs.

The thought made Sarah smile. Breaking regs was one of her favorite past times. It was what had brought her and Sam together to start with.

The sun was now bright and warm, radiating off the granite rock face. Sarah positioned herself, double-checked her anchor, and stepped off into space.

Thursday June 20, 2007: Hartford, Connecticut

Less than two hours later, Caitlyn arrived at Jack Logan's new workplace: a shiny high-rise tower that promised a magnificent view of downtown Hartford. Logan's position as a security consultant for a multi-national insurance company definitely paid better than the federal government, she decided as she took in his glass walled corner office adorned with vanity shots of Logan shaking hands or playing golf with a variety of celebrities. Stars whose life he had saved, no doubt.

She gave a small snort. The job suited Logan. As did the office. Big fat bunch of lies. Strip away the facade and Logan was nothing more than a glorified travel agent and hand-holder.

She'd bet he was counting the minutes, waiting until she had time to be sufficiently impressed by his new digs. Sure enough, exactly five minutes after his secretary ushered her into Logan's inner sanctum, he burst through the door, puffed up with self-importance as he rushed to his desk, too harried to spare her a glance.

"Caitlyn, good to see you. Sorry I was tied up. Arab oil sheik wanted a new security review for his family holdings in Paris, Geneva, and Milan." He dumped an ostrich skin briefcase onto his desk and finally raised his head to look at her. "Well, you're looking good. Guess desk duty at Quantico suits you. I always figured you weren't cut out for field work."

Caitlyn wouldn't call her promotion and assignment to teach at Quantico as "desk duty." Logan might be an ass, but he knew the drill. Get your shots in first, put your mark on the defensive quick, make them react without thinking. Classic old school style of interview manipulation.

Too bad for Logan, Caitlyn was new school. Despite his bluster, he couldn't hide the sheen of sweat on his upper lip or the twitch of his eyes when he mentioned Quantico. She strolled over to his immense metal and glass topped desk and settled herself in one of the uncomfortable tubular steel chairs before it. Stretching her legs out, she crossed them at the ankle. She'd worn her cornflower blue pantsuit, it matched her eyes, and a sleeveless silk blouse that buttoned in the back, allowing the material to fit smoothly against her curves. She'd changed shoes in the car, substituting sling-back heels for her more sensible Rockports. The heels revealed just the right amount of ankle and leg.

Legs that Logan was now gazing at, slowly working his way up her body. Caitlyn smiled. Talk about old school, her distraction was as old as Mata Hari. She remained silent, waiting for him to dig himself in deeper.

He settled on the corner of the desk directly before her, swinging his foot in an arc guaranteed to bring it closer and closer to her calf. "So. What brings you here? Need help with a case? I still do consulting for the Bureau, but it will cost you, of course." He chuckled, straightening his silk tie and twisting his diamond studded watch so that the sunlight reflected off it.

"Just wanted to give you a heads up," she said, deciding it was time to put him on the defensive. If she knew Logan, he'd be more likely to make a mistake trying to cover his tracks if he thought she was on to something. "I'm re-opening the Durandt case."

His ankle twitched, jerked against the desk leg. "Really?" His voice was bland. "I thought we put that one to bed. Didn't they execute someone already, what was his name?"

"Damian Wright," Caitlyn supplied helpfully. "A few things have come up. New evidence. Wright may be innocent of the Hopewell murders."

"What kind of new evidence?" Logan asked, his gaze settled on a point past her shoulder as if he were bored and only asking to be polite.

Caitlyn smiled. "Sorry, Jack. You know the rules."

He focused on her face, mirrored her smile. "You didn't drive all the way up here simply to inform me that an old case was being re-opened. You want something from me. What's the game, Caitlyn?"

She remained silent, watching him carefully. His voice had tightened, taken on a new edge. The small wrinkles near his eyes Botox hadn't totally erased had deepened. Definitely hit a sore spot.

If what she suspected was true, she wasn't surprised.

"I can't help you without more information," he continued in a genial voice. The well-versed mentor showing the newbie the ropes. Roles that suited neither of them anymore.

Hadn't in a long time. Not since two and a half years ago when he'd almost gotten her killed.

He gazed out the window at the late morning sun, his ankle circling once more. "Let's see. Hopewell. Ahh, I remember now. The night you got sick on the drive down. Then you antagonized the local police chief and almost made the vic's mother collapse with a nervous breakdown." He slanted another smile in her direction. "Not your finest moment, Caitlyn."

Unlike the moment when he'd sent her backup team to the wrong location, leaving Caitlyn and her partner alone in the fight of their lives. A vision of glass breaking, the look of terror on Santore's face as they both plummeted out the window, the stomach lurching feeling of free fall, the pain when she'd hit the ground—these all raced through her mind at whiplash speed. She kept her face and her voice neutral, meeting his gaze effortlessly. "Maybe that's why I'm anxious to set the record straight."