Convicted (9 page)

Snapping back to reality, the photo of the man on the wall screen registered, and Harry said, “Phillip Roach.”

“Excuse me?” SAC Williams asked.

“The man in those photos with Claire Nichols, his name is Phillip Roach. He’s a private investigator. I ran preliminary background checks on him. He has a military background and on multiple occasions he’s fallen off the grid. He did work for Rawlings. I don’t know why he’d be with Ms. Nichols now.”

“Well then, that’s on your list of things to learn.”

“Sir, why am I suddenly in Europe?”

SAC Williams smiled. “Welcome back, Agent.”

Doubt separates people. It is a poison that disintegrates friendships and breaks up pleasant relations. It is a thorn that irritates and hurts; it is a sword that kills
.

—Buddha

Brent tipped the Styrofoam cup upward attempting to garnish the last drops of caffeine, praying for a jumpstart to his exhausted body and mind. He’d been sitting and watching the feed from the hotel’s surveillance cameras for hours. Agent Jackson remained with him, but the second agent occasionally changed. The one who accompanied Jackson to the hotel was back; however, he’d left for a while and been replaced with another man, wearing the same customary black suit.

Regardless of who was within their room, they sat and watched the same loop over and over. It consisted of a hallway view of Tony and the two agents leaving the suite—the three men alone in the elevator—their walk through the lobby—and all of them entering a waiting black SUV. Brent wondered if Agent Jackson expected something to change, some new information. He wasn’t seeing it; at this point, he was pretty sure he’d see the same video in his dreams—if he ever had a full night’s sleep.

Without a doubt, Tony walked away willingly. There seemed to be little communication occurring between Tony and the agents; however, without audio, that couldn’t be confirmed. Watching his friend disappear from the camera’s view, Brent wondered,
was Tony being taken by the person Claire feared?
The FBI insinuated otherwise. Without coming out and saying it, Brent sensed that they thought Tony’s departure—like Claire’s—was
of his own free will
. Regardless of the reason, Brent saw no advantage to watching the same footage a thousand times.
Shouldn’t they be tracking down the SUV or something?
Suddenly, Agent Jackson’s voice refocused Brent’s thoughts. “There it is! That’s what I’ve been trying to see. I knew something seemed odd.” The other agent hit pause and backed up the video; soon they were all watching the footage again.

Finally, Brent asked the question he could no longer contain, “What do you see? All I see is the man on the left sending a text.”

Agent number two replied. Brent gave up trying to learn all the different names of the different agents. Most of them looked alike. That’s what made last night’s charade so believable. He didn’t really look at the men. He momentarily thought of the movie
Men in Black;
they had it right by naming their agents with letters.
J
and
K
were much easier to remember.

Number Two replied, “Look at that phone. What’s the time on the feed?”

Jackson read the bottom of the screen, “01:36:58”

Suddenly, Number Two was typing feverishly on a nearby keyboard.

“Is someone going to tell me what you’re thinking? Will this help find Tony?”

Exasperation showed in Jackson’s expression; he exhaled and said, “See his phone. That isn’t an FBI issued phone. It isn’t even a smart phone.”

Immediately, Brent recognized what Jackson was seeing. Looking at the phone in the agent’s hand upon the stilled image, he saw the same kind of phone Courtney used to use to communicate with Claire. Brent nodded, “Yes! It’s one of those throw away phones. Why would an agent have one of those? Or why would he use it?”

“Exactly—why indeed? While we may not be able to answer
why
with 100% certainty, but I can, with 100% certainty, say he isn’t texting the bureau.”

“Here it is!”

Brent and Jackson turned toward Number Two, who exclaimed, “At exactly 01:36:59 the nearest tower received and forwarded a text message!” He continued to type, then he added, “It originated from a disposable phone, purchased at a convenience store on the east side of Boston, from the coordinates of the hotel.”

“And it went to..?” Jackson asked.

Number Two exhaled. “Another disposable phone, purchased at the same store, same time, with cash.”

“Can you see the text receiver’s location?”

“Give me a minute.”

Brent sat back and lifted his cup again, trying to locate any remnants of coffee lingering in the depths of Styrofoam. He marveled at the FBI’s resources. Their impressive and intrusive technology gave him confidence they’d soon learn more about these fake agents. That both soothed and worried Brent. Despite the fact, he repeatedly told the story of the late night visit, each time emphasizing Tony’s surprise and agitation, they actually alluded to the possibility Tony arranged for the fake visit and his own disappearance.

As the two agents talked, Number Two typed and typed, and Brent’s thoughts went back to last night in the suite. He recalled Tony’s declaration, saying that he didn’t believe the FBI and feared Claire had been coerced to leave the country. Brent wanted to believe his friend. He wanted to believe that the Tony of 2010 was gone; nevertheless, the fact he once existed, lingered in Brent’s thoughts.

He knew Claire’s theory on why Tony chose her all those years ago—a lifelong vendetta having to do with their grandfathers. Regardless of the reason, in 2010 Tony risked everything—money, appearance,
everything
, to kidnap and have Claire Nichols. To the outsider, it didn’t make sense. Anthony Rawlings was incredibly wealthy and not bad looking. No one would believe he’d jeopardize all he’d worked to accomplish, to kidnap a woman from Atlanta, Georgia. As Brent’s thoughts came together, he felt the rush of understanding. Suddenly, the picture made sense. It was like watching cards fall just right to close an inside straight. If Tony had been willing to bet everything to take Claire—then surely he’d be willing to gamble it all—again, if he believed she needed rescued.

Closing his eyes and rubbing his temples, Brent allowed his thoughts to volley. One minute, he worried someone dangerous had taken Tony—the
someone
Claire told the FBI about. The next minute, he believed Tony arranged the escape, in an effort to find Claire on his own. If that were the case, his friend and his boss—Anthony Rawlings—was now a fugitive. If that were the case, Brent couldn’t have been prouder!

With the sleep deprived pounding behind Brent’s closed eyes, he made a decision. He wouldn’t quit, and he hadn’t been fired; however,
without a doubt—he wasn’t getting paid enough to put up with this shit! He deserved a raise, and if Tony weren’t around, then damn, that was something Brent could facilitate on his own! This shit deserved more money!

Catherine answered the door to the estate, knowing who’d be on the other side. Large iron gates greatly reduced the odds of surprise visitors. When Marcus Evergreen checked in, security informed him that Mr. Rawlings wasn’t home. He asked to come up to the estate anyway. Without Anton home, Catherine reasoned, she was the one to handle whatever the prosecutor wanted to discuss.

“Hello, Mr. Evergreen, please come in.”

“Ms. London, I wanted to come out here personally. I hope you don’t mind the intrusion?”

Leading him into the sitting room, Catherine answered, “I don’t mind; however, I’m not sure what you want. Mr. Rawlings is still out of town. I haven’t heard from him since he left Friday.”

“Yes, that’s what I’m here to discuss.”

They sat, facing one another as Catherine replied, “Mr. Evergreen, perhaps you should talk to Mr. Rawlings’ assistant, Patricia. She’s usually much more abreast of his schedule than I. I’m sure if he’s supposed to meet with you, he will. There’s no reason he wouldn’t.” Catherine’s words flowed faster as she spoke.

“Mr. Rawlings has no family, does he?”

“No, sir. Why are you asking?”

“You’ve worked for him for a long time, isn’t that true?”

“Yes, I’ve known Mr. Rawlings for a long time. I’m sorry, but I don’t understand where you’re going with this.”

“Ms. London, I received a call from the Boston bureau of the FBI yesterday. They instructed me to not release any information until everything was confirmed. This morning, they called and informed me that the news media would soon be reporting the incident.”

Catherine’s anxiety grew with each passing second. She didn’t know what was about to be said, and the uncertainty made her inhale deeply. “Mr. Evergreen, what are you trying to say?”

“Mr. Rawlings chartered a private plane during the early hours of the morning, Sunday. That plane made an emergency landing in the Appalachian Mountains.” He quickly added, “It didn’t crash—it landed, and no one has been found.”

Unexpectedly, tears formed in Catherine’s gray eyes. Stoically, she pushed forward. “Why? How? That doesn’t make sense. He has his own plane and access to many more. Why would he charter a plane?”

“All I know is that the FBI had reason to believe Mr. Rawlings’ life was in danger.”

Catherine’s hand quickly moved to her throat. “In danger? By whom?”

“They haven’t revealed that information to me. They said they’re not making any declarations. Your employer is neither considered dead nor missing. They hope to locate him. Ms. London, if you hear from him, I’m imploring you, please contact my office immediately.”

Catherine nodded. “Yes, Mr. Evergreen, of course. So, they think he’s alive?”

“The FBI isn’t being very forthcoming. I’m sure this’ll result in all kinds of speculations.” The prosecutor stood. “I need to get back to the office. I wanted to do something and informing you seemed like the best option. I realize he was your employer; however, after so many years of devoted service, I felt you deserved to hear the information first hand.”

“Mr. Evergreen—the FBI? Does this also involve Ms. Nichols?”

“I wish I could tell you more. I wish I knew more. As of now, both Ms. Nichols and Mr. Rawlings are both officially—considered missing.”

Keeping her eyes downcast, Catherine led her visitor back toward the door. “Thank you, Mr. Evergreen. I appreciate the personal message. I’ll contact your office if I hear anything.”

“One more thing, Mr. Rawlings’ driver, Eric Hensley?”

“Yes, that’s his name.”

“Is he here?”

“Yes,” Catherine replied. “He left with Mr. Rawlings Friday evening, but returned on Saturday alone. We haven’t spoken; I’m not sure why he came home alone.”

“You haven’t spoken?”

“Mr. Evergreen, this is a large home and estate. We all have our duties and when we have the chance for some uninterrupted time, we take it.”

Marcus nodded.

It was true the prosecutor made a decent salary, but the way of life in the world of the extremely wealthy was a mystery to those who didn’t live it. Catherine believed her answer made sense, and Mr. Evergreen had no reason to doubt her.

He added, “Thank you, Ms. London. I, too, will let you know of any new developments which I am privy to share. Would you like me to be the one to inform Mr. Hensley?”

“If you feel the need to speak to him personally—by all means.”

“No, if you want to break the news to him, I won’t intrude. Once again, I’m sorry to be the one to inform you of this disturbing news.”

“Thank you, for taking the time.” Catherine closed the door and leaned against it. Taking in the grand stairs and large glistening foyer, a smile crept upon her face. She’d give this some time. Although, she wasn’t sure what that amount of time should be; nevertheless, when that acceptable mourning time was over, she’d meet with Mr. Simmons or Mr. Miller. Catherine remembered the legal documents she’d signed years ago naming her the executor of Anton’s estate. They would have been null-and-void if Anton had family—a wife or children, but he didn’t. He was divorced, and Claire was also missing, as was the child she claimed was his. That all worked together to make those documents now valid.