Mortal Crimes: 7 Novels of Suspense (64 page)

Stop it!

She hadn’t realized she’d spoken aloud, but she must have. The car’s sole other occupant stood up and moved to the other end of the car in the time-honored Metro passenger’s response to sharing space with the mentally imbalanced. He stood there watching her warily.

The train lurched to a stop.

She shoved the paper into her coat pocket, stood, and flashed the man, who was still eying her, a reassuring smile that she hoped radiated sanity and then exited the train.

She hurried through the station and out into the cold night.

Five, the man had no honor. Frankly, her short career as a prosecutor had already convinced her that honor among thieves was a myth. Most criminal conspiracies fell apart fast once one player was nabbed. Oaths of silence, gang loyalty, even the Mafia’s omertà crumbled in the face of hard prison time. Criminals almost always acted in their own self-interest. Brother elbowed brother out of a drug territory; a wife skimmed off the top when she laundered her husband’s books, a thief shot his boyhood friend and accomplice to increase his own cut of the pilfered goods. Whatever the crime, whomever the participants, everyone looked out for themselves. Why should this mystery man be any different?

It didn’t surprise her in the least that the man had double-crossed Franklin. But Franklin was still outraged and bewildered that the man hadn’t let his mother go as promised. The takeaway there, she mused, as she trotted across the street against the light, was that Franklin had
believed
the man would keep his word. The man, whoever he was, came across as someone of substance and some measure of integrity, at least according to Franklin.

She stopped in front of a gorgeous Dupont Circle mansion that had been carved into apartments, tucked the thought away, and took a deep breath before hitting the buzzer for Apartment 602.

Before she could smooth her windblown hair out of her eyes, Mitchell’s voice sounded through the speaker.

“Hello?”

She swallowed. “Mitch, it’s Aroostine. I’m sorry to just show up like this. I … need your help.”

There was a pause—not a long one, but not exactly a short one. She had time to regret what she’d done.

“Now, that wasn’t so hard, asking for help, was it? Come on up.”

The buzzer sounded and the door unlocked, saving her from formulating an answer.

As she walked through the vestibule she froze and wondered if Franklin was monitoring this building, too. She shook it off and started moving again. If he was watching, so be it. She had to trust him. Just as she had to involve Mitchell. She had no choice.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Franklin was beyond exhausted. He hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep since the night his mom disappeared. His stomach was sour and his brain was coated in fur, but anxiety and adrenaline had prevented him from resting. When he tried to sleep, his whirring mind took over and his heart began to race.

Tonight, though, he could just
feel
that sleep was in his reach. Talking to Aroostine, enlisting her help, had eased his overloaded central nervous system. He’d returned home feeling almost hopeful. He didn’t know what she planned to do, but she projected such a competent air that he believed she could somehow get him out of this mess. She reminded him of his mother—and if there was one word that described his mom, it was ‘capable.’

So when his dry eyes grew heavy, he turned out the lights, climbed into bed, and burrowed under his blankets.

The covers were warm and heavy. The room was quiet. His mind was still. He closed his eyes.

He was drifting between sleep and consciousness when the cell phone chirped to let him know he’d received a text. His brain rejected the sound.

Ignore it. Sleep.

He kept his eyes shut tight, but his pulse ticked up.

It’s him. You can’t make him wait. Remember what he did last time.

The pain in his mother’s voice after the man had broken her fingers echoed in his ears. His opened his eyes and groped around his bedside table until his hand brushed up against the phone.

He pushed himself up to sitting and braced himself for the text message.

It was a video this time.

Please, God. Please let her be okay.

He was too afraid to hit play, terrified it would be a recording of his mother being tortured. He froze, his finger hovering over the arrow displayed on the screen.

I can’t do it.

He reached over and flicked on the lamp, unable or unwilling to watch whatever it was in darkness.

Do it, already. Don’t waste time,
he ordered himself. He exhaled shakily and played the video.

And he began to tremble with relief. A shape appeared in frame, but it wasn’t his mother, it was Joe Jackman. A ragged, pale Joe Jackman, staring sullenly into the camera.

For a second, defiance sparked in his eyes, so briefly, Franklin thought he’d imagined it. Jackman’s expression flattened into resignation and he began to speak tonelessly:

Aroostine, listen carefully. I am unharmed. You need to dismiss the charges in the case. You know which one. If you do, I will walk out of here alive. If you do not, I will not. The same applies to the woman. Please take this seriously.

Jackman finished reciting the lines and gave a baleful look to someone off camera. Then he glanced back and spoke directly to Franklin:

Your mother is fi—

The screen went black. Franklin sobbed. He could tell that Jackman had been ad libbing at the end, and he prayed that the man hadn’t made him, or Franklin’s mom, pay for that bit of insubordination. At the same time, he was grateful beyond measure to know that, at least when the video had been made, his mom had been okay.

The phone sounded in his hand. Another text:

Forward to the lawyer.

Franklin began to shake again—this time, from fear. Forwarding this video to Aroostine might break her resolve. And if she decided not to go after the man, where would that leave him?

He walked out into the kitchen and flicked on the overhead lights. So much for sleep.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Mitchell put a kettle on for tea, while Aroostine marveled at the fact that he owned a teakettle and at his sleek, modern apartment. In stark contrast to the historic building that housed it, his place was all blond wood and geometric lines.

He peered at her through the pass-through that connected the kitchen to his living area.

“Earl Grey or chamomile?”

“Chamomile would be great, thanks.”

She warmed her hands over the hissing radiator while he rattled around in the cabinets, getting cups and saucers, spoons and sugar. He came into view holding a tray of cookies.

“Want one while the water heats?”

She shook her head.

“Double chocolate chunk,” he wheedled. “And they’re homemade.” He pushed the tray toward her.

“You made them?”

“I’m a man of many talents.”

She reached for a cookie. “Impressive.”

“So, what’s going on?”

He rested the tray on an end table and leaned forward with an expectant, serious expression.

She broke off a corner of the cookie and nibbled at it while she considered how much to tell him. She hadn’t really planned this part. She knew she needed help. She didn’t want to involve Rosie in a scheme that could prove to be career-limiting. Mitchell had been around longer; he’d developed a reputation and a network. If this blew up in their faces, his career would survive. She hoped.

She abandoned the cookie and studied his face.

“Well, for one, I think you and Rosie are on the right track with the corporate structure stuff.”

“How so?”

“Apparently, SystemSource received an infusion of cash from a private investment group right around the time that the Mexican bribery attempt took place. From what I understand, that transaction may not have been reported—I don’t know the details, so it may not have been something they were required to report as a material change—but it was certainly material inside the company.”

“Because of its size, you mean?”

He leaned forward, eager and excited, like a greyhound with a rabbit in its sights.

“Not exactly. It’s more that the investors had a particular interest in one aspect of the company’s business, and that put pressure on certain departments.”

He twisted his mouth into a knot of exasperation. “Don’t be coy.”

“I’m not trying to be. It’s just … I have someone inside the company helping me. I don’t want that person to be exposed.”

He seemed to bristle at the secrecy, sitting up straighter, but said, “Okay. Go on.”

“The investors were most excited about SystemSource’s ability to monitor and modify its systems remotely.”

“You mean the customer’s ability to monitor and modify their systems remotely,” he corrected her.

“No. I mean what I said.”

She waited while comprehension filled his eyes.

“You mean—?”

“Yes. SystemSource’s software contains a critical vulnerability. And I think the investor bought into the company specifically so he, or they, or whoever, could exploit it at will.”

He blanched. She recognized the queasy expression on his face from her own reaction when Franklin had told her.

She forged ahead. “Somewhere, somehow, the FCPA case must expose that.”

“Is it in the motion
in limine
?”

She nodded, impressed by how quickly he was piecing it together.

“I think so—either in the motion or our opposition. And I know what I have to do, but I can’t involve Rosie. She’s my direct subordinate, and it’s too big a risk. But please don’t feel like you have to do it, though, okay?”

He sighed. “Aroostine, I told you. I want to help you. What’s the favor?”

“Okay, I swear it’s not witness tampering, but what I need goes way beyond a favor into, um, possibly sanctionable conduct.” She paused to let that statement sink in.

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

He tilted his head and looked at a point over her shoulder for a moment, considering what she’d said.

Then he snapped his eyes back to hers. “Okay.”

“Okay? Just like that—okay?”

He nodded and opened his mouth to speak but the shriek of the kettle releasing steam sounded from the kitchen.

“Hang on. I’ll be right back.”

She trailed him out into the spotless galley kitchen and leaned against the refrigerator while he poured the water and fixed the tea. She watched his precise, economical movements and wondered if he could possibly be serious about taking the risk she was about to ask him to take.

He turned, balancing a saucer in each hand, and started when he saw her standing there.

“Oh, hey, here,” he passed her a blue Fiestaware mug on an orange saucer.

“Thanks.”

“Let’s go sit,” he nodded his head toward the living area and waited for her to lead the way back.