Blinding Fear (11 page)

“Nice watch, Agent Ludlow,” Beckett said with a not-so tiny trace of ‘Gotcha!’

“I inherited it from my great grandfather when I was in college,” he replied easily without breaking Beckett’s gaze. “Remember! I expect everything to be ready by 1900.”

As Ludlow turned to leave, Beckett wanted to tell him that that particular Rolex model had been introduced in 1989, so it was very unlikely it had ever belonged to his relative.

But now he knew. Ludlow was much more than an in-charge FBI special agent. What the man was he didn’t know, but he was 100% certain Ludlow wasn’t going to be of any help getting to the bottom of the mysterious explosion. It was up to him and his local team. He would start by re-examining all the crime-scene evidence from the explosion.

He watched as Ludlow purposefully strode back out of the restricted zone. He continued to watch in fascination as not one media member made any attempt to approach the agent—widely spreading out to let him pass as if he were Moses parting the Red Sea.

Chapter 16

Three hours later Beckett stood in his luxurious sixth-floor hotel room trying to make sense of a pattern that seemed to be developing. Reams of reports, documents, photos, plastic baggies of every size filled with a myriad of forensic evidence, DVDs and other investigation paraphernalia were arrayed around the bedroom portion of the three-room, executive suite.

He’d spent an hour making copies of everything he could at an Office Depot not far away. The originals were carefully packaged and stacked near the door leading to the hallway, ready for pick up by the FBI courier he was expecting within the hour. The copies were neatly arranged around the bedroom on every available horizontal, flat surface.

There were two pieces of evidence that upon further inspection seemed to clear up the mystery. Microscopic photo analysis of a section of a valve on one of the hydrogen tanks seemed to show evidence of tampering. He picked up one of the photos to scrutinize it further. Exactly where the FBI had said the initial gigantic g-force loads had caused the valve to break, there were what looked like score marks in the metal. They said the marks were probably made post-explosion as the debris collided with each other at high velocity. He didn’t believe it.

He also looked at a 50X magnification photo of the engine compartment gasoline hose that the FBI said had cracked open. It had allowed gas to mist out, to be apparently detonated by the hot engine. In the photo he could clearly see what looked like a tiny nick near the rupture point; almost certainly caused by a sharp instrument. Again, the FBI investigators said the mark was caused by post-explosion shrapnel. That he didn’t believe either.

Why? Why would the FBI lie? A man had died. 37 other innocent people had been injured, some severely, by flying glass and falling debris. In addition to the astrophysics building, property for miles around had been destroyed or damaged. Was the FBI complicit in a criminal conspiracy? And if so......

Why?!

At that moment he heard an authoritative knock on his door. He quickly left the bedroom, closing the door as he did to hide the copies from view. He went to the main door, looked through the peephole, only to see nothing except an FBI ID badge. Opening it he was silently greeted by a severe-looking woman wearing the usual official jacket. She had a small, two-wheeled hand cart; obviously expecting more materials than she could carry.

“Special Agent Ludlow sent me to pick up all evidence your team has accumulated,” she said impassively.

“It’s ready.” He held the door open for her and pointed to the two stacks of envelopes and boxes near a pullout sofa. “Right over there. Do you need some help?”

“No thank you. I can handle it.” She moved passed him pushing the cart in front of her. She quickly put everything on the cart, looked around to see if there was anything else and left without further comment or looking at him.

As he closed the door behind the courier, Beckett realized he’d committed a felony by copying all the evidence without proper clearance. Although he planned to destroy everything he had within the next few days, it still bothered him that he’d been forced to take such drastic action, especially when it could cost him 5 to 10 in a Federal prison.

Suddenly he realized he’d not had anything to eat or drink since breakfast. He’d been so engrossed in the investigation he’d completely forgotten how hungry and thirsty he was. He grabbed his room key and headed out the door.

Chapter 17

Thirty-five minutes later, in the chic Concord Bridge Restaurant just off the hotel lobby, Austen sat at the upscale bar finishing off what had turned out to be a great burger. He was also draining his second, $11.00 Moscow Mule martini, a delectable mix of vodka, ginger beer and lime. He’d also had two, small-brewery beers while waiting for his burger and was beginning to feel much more relaxed about all things in general. He decided he might have another drink or two—maybe even get totally smashed—go back to the room and do exactly what he’d told his team to do: forget about the investigation for the evening but hit it hard in the morning.

He looked around the dining room and saw that he was one of the few people left this Sunday evening. The only other person was a woman at the far end of the bar. She was slumped over, head on her arms, a nearly empty bottle of wine in front of her. It almost looked as if she was crying. He could see her shoulders gently heaving. She was dressed in a sleek, elegant and obviously expensive evening gown. Her blond hair looked like it’d been recently and very carefully coiffed but was now coming undone.

He signaled the bartender. “Who’s the lady?”

“Beats me. Asked her if there was anything I could do. She just shook her head.”

“Think she’d mind if I tried to talked to her?”

“Be my guest. Couldn’t hurt I suppose.”

He could hear his late wife jokingly chastising him for daring to approach another woman. Her beautiful melodic voice echoed inside his mind. ‘My goodness Austen! I’ve been gone for less than a year and you’re already on the prowl!’

‘Man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do, honey,’ he responded as he got up and headed for the other end of the bar.

He settled onto the stool next to her, waited for a few seconds and spoke gently without looking at her. “I’m sorry, but I couldn’t help but notice you seem to be upset about something. Is there anything I can do to help?”

She turned slowly to look at him and he could immediately see that she had indeed been crying. Her mascara was running along with her nose. Her eyes were bloodshot and one false eyelash was seriously drooping. In spite of the emotional and physical trauma to her face and makeup he could see she was a strikingly attractive woman. He guessed she was probably in her mid forties.

“Why?” she responded blankly, laying her head back down.

“ I guess I just hate to see a woman cry.”

“Why?”

He laughed softly. “I guess that’s how my mother raised me. You know, a woman in distress and all that.”

She snorted without looking up. “A regular Prince Charming coming to my rescue.”

He waited a beat then touched her shoulder and extended his hand. “Austen Beckett, at your service.”

She peeked out of the corner of one eye, saw his hand and whispered, “Sorry. I’d shake your hand but I’m too tired.”

“No problem. I guess emotional stuff can really take it out you. Been there myself a few times.”

She said nothing for a few seconds, then surprisingly straightened up, took a deep breath, smiled slightly and extended her hand toward him. “I suppose I shouldn’t be rude. I’m Sabrina Fairchild.” She suddenly rocked back in her chair before he could take her hand, obviously unsteady. “Whoa there!”

Instinctively he reached out to keep her from falling off her stool, grabbing her upper arm, steadying her. “Look out! No falls allowed.”

She straightened again. “You really
are
a Prince Charming, Austen Beckett. Guess this Cinderelly has had a little too much wine.”

“Maybe you should call it an evening,” he offered. “My guess is that whatever is bothering you will seem a lot more manageable in the morning. Can I call you a cab?”

“I’ve already got a room here. I’m in 622.”

He laughed. “What a coincidence! I’m in 623.” He was beginning to hope something might come of this.

“Practically roommates!” She tried to slide off the chair but nearly fell again. He grabbed her arm again. “I’m really glad you’re here Mr. Beckett.”

“Please, call me Austen.”

“All right...Austen. I guess I should get some sleep but I think I’d better let you lead the way. Not sure I’ll be able to find my way back.”

With his hand guiding her by the arm they started out of the bar. Abruptly she staggered again. This time Beckett quickly put his arm around her waist to provide additional support.

She giggled. “This is about as drunk as I’ve been in a long time.”

Beckett was very pleased how he felt holding a beautiful woman again.

Together they made it to the elevator and up to the sixth floor without further incident. As they got off she didn’t seem to know which way to turn in the hallway. “Could be left. Maybe it’s right. Do you know Austen?”

“Right,” he said, guiding her with gentle pressure to her trim waist. At the same moment he couldn’t help but notice the other pleasing curves of her figure.

As they got to her room she fumbled in her small clutch, trying to find her key. After a few moments she began to grow frustrated. “Damn! I can’t do anything right! Now I’ve lost my key! I’ve got to go down to the desk to get a duplicate.” She turned to return to the elevator but he held in place.

“No, no, no. Don’t think you or I would make it without one of us breaking a leg. If you don’t mind, why don’t we just go into my room. I’ll get you comfortable on my sofa and I’ll go down to get your key.”

She looked at him with deep blue eyes, her head tipping slowly from side to side. “You really are a dear!”

They crossed the hall where he opened the door to his room, led her in and gently lowered her down on to the sofa-bed. As he stood over her she sprawled out, laid her head back, closed her eyes and dropped her clutch to the floor. Without opening her eyes she mumbled, “If I ever get my hands on him, he’s dead!”

Beckett felt somewhat embarrassed; as if he were illicitly listening to some sort of confession. Not knowing exactly what to say he simply asked, “Who’s that?

She tilted her head back up to look at him through drooping eyelids. “My husband, or who will shortly be my ex-husband. Caught him in a back room with one of the bridesmaids at my niece’s wedding. Happened this evening. Wasn’t the first time, though! Oh, no! Was actually the third—at least that I know of! Oh, you should have heard me scream! 300 guests and every one of them probably heard every last word of my obscenity-laced tirade!”

“I’m really sorry, Sabrina.”

“Don’t be. Our marriage has been 22 years of hell! I’m glad it’s coming to an end!”

Distracted for a moment by her story he suddenly remembered why they were in his room. He walked to the small night stand next to the sofa-bed that had the phone on it. “I’ll call the front desk but give you the phone. Tell whoever answers I’ll be down in a minute to get a new key for your room.” He pressed “0,” listened for the ring tone, then gave the receiver to Sabrina.

“Hi there, sweetie!’ she burbled into the phone. “It’s Sabrina Fairchild in 622. I lost my key. Is it okay if I send down my friend to pick up a duplicate?.....Great! You’re such a doll! Bye!”

Beckett hung up the phone for her and started toward the door but before he got there she cheerily called out, “When you get back, why don’t we celebrate my new-found freedom! They’ve got some pretty good mini-bottles of champagne in these fridges.”

He hesitated, slightly flustered and confused by the entire situation. “Okay. Sure. Why not! Pour us a couple of glasses. When I get back we’ll toast your new life!” He opened the door and quickly made his way to the front desk where the clerk was waiting for him. Key in hand, and with even greater speed, he got back to his room.

Inside, Sabrina had opened a quarter bottle of Laurent-Perrier champagne and poured two glasses. She offered him one as he sat down. “To my hero!”

Blushing slightly he took the cup. “Thanks, I guess. Let’s toast new beginnings.” He held out his glass for her to clink gently with her own.

“New beginnings!” they said together.

They took a sip. Beckett could immediately tell Sabrina was right: the champagne was excellent. Feeling very good about himself, how he had come to Sabrina’s “rescue” and with the prospects for the coming night looking better and better, he took a larger slug.

Over the next few minutes they exchanged small talk while draining their glasses. With little warning he began to feel woozy and light-headed. After another minute or so he felt very, very tired; disconnected to reality.

“Whoa! Now it’s my turn!” He crumpled backwards on the sofa as grayness overcame him.