Allison Brennan - Silenced

“Yes,” Lucy said. “Without a doubt. But it can’t be heavy-handed. He has sharp instincts.”

“I’ll talk to Stockton and Hans and see what they want to do with that. In the meantime, Kate-I’m pulling you in for the next day or two. Slater said I can use anyone I need, and considering that you’re the top cyber crimes guru that the FBI has…” He shot a glance at Sean with a hint of a smile, almost daring him to contradict him. Lucy was relieved. The tension began to dissipate.

“You’ve got me,” Kate said.

Noah asked, “Where’s Dillon? I’d like him to run a forensic psych profile.” Dillon often served as a civilian consultant to the FBI and other law enforcement agencies. His specialty, forensic psychiatry, was in great demand.

Sean said, “Lucy just gave you one.”

“I can dig deeper, write up an official report, get validation from Behavioral Sciences,” Lucy said. She wanted to do it-and she was good at it. Her background in criminal psychology was enhanced by her experience-the good and the bad.

“I’m not talking about the killer,” Noah said. “You’re not unbiased, Lucy, and I need someone I can trust to give me an honest assessment on Hannah Edmonds.”

The tension skyrocketed as fast as Sean jumped up. “Is that a requirement to be a cop? That you have to be unbiased? Because none of you guys fit the bill.”

“And I know a lot more about this case than you do, Rogan, so back off.”

“What haven’t you told me?” Lucy asked.

“It’s all here,” Noah said. “Get yourself up to speed because Rick Stockton wants you in the office first thing in the morning.”

“I have an appointment,” Sean said. He kissed Lucy, hard and fast, and said, “I’ll stop by on my way home.”

He walked out, slamming the door.

Noah pinched the bridge of his nose. “It’s been a long day. I apologize if you think I don’t trust your judgment. But this is my case, and I have to live with every decision I make. And right now, I need experience over eagerness.”

Kate said, “Dillon is out of town at least until Monday night. He was called up to Philadelphia today to assess a guy who went on a two-day killing spree and says he can’t remember anything.”

“I’ll talk to Hans,” Noah said. He looked at his phone. “DC police found Jocelyn Taylor’s car parked in a Metro station lot. I have to go.”

“I’ll walk you out,” Kate said.

Lucy didn’t relax until she heard the door shut. Then she leaned back and closed her eyes.

She was so embarrassed. Maybe she had hit her head harder than she thought, because she didn’t know why that conversation had gotten so out of hand, or what she’d said to make Noah think she was so biased that she couldn’t work up an accurate psychological assessment of Ivy Harris. She didn’t know that anyone could, based solely on what they knew.

Kate walked back into the room. “Don’t let it get to you.”

“I’m not.”

“Yes you are. Here.”

Lucy opened her eyes. “The rental agreement?”

“I found it on the fax. Anything interesting?”

Lucy scanned the document. “It’s all standard-but she does have a Social Security number here; we should find out if that’s false as well as her name. There’s also a reference.” She frowned.

“What?”

“Under personal references it lists Paul Harris, her father.”

Kate blanched. “Could she have assumed the identity of a real person?”

“Identity theft? Anything’s possible. No address, but a phone number.”

“I’ll call it in and get the address, run a background on the guy. Good catch, Lucy.”

But it didn’t make her feel any better.

Brian loved his younger brother, but he wanted to pummel him for his stupidity.

“You shot at a fucking cop ?”

Ned glared at him. “I didn’t know she was a cop-why would that bitch get in a car with a cop?”

“Maybe because we’re trying to kill her?”

Shooting at cops escalated police involvement. If it was just a couple of dead hookers, no one would care after a while and the crimes would disappear from the radar, but a cop?

“It’s not like she’s dead, ” Ned said. He pulled a matchbook from his pocket and took out a match. “The news said she was stable. That means she’s fine. Probably a scratch.”

Ned lit the match, watched the flame flare, the smell of phosphorous hanging in the still air. The matchstick burned down, he pinched out the flame, and lit another.

Brian ignored his brother and flipped through news stations trying to get more information. If anyone saw his brother or found any damn fingerprints, Brian’d shoot him. Ned was in the system. That would be just fucking awesome for the feds to match his prints and find out Theodore Adam “Ned” Abernathy had spent three years in prison for extortion and fraud.

“I took the plates off the van,” Ned explained. He lit another match, watched, pinched it out.

“You think they can’t trace the van off the paint you left all over the city? You rammed their car. They have paint samples, glass, who knows what else. You are such an idiot!”

Brian couldn’t find anything that said there was a composite sketch. According to the news, the police were “investigating.” Good. But a witness could come forward, the police might trace the van to Ned’s next-door neighbor. And while they had paid off the lowlife drug addict, he would squeal if he was put under any pressure.

Brian didn’t enjoy killing people, and he especially didn’t enjoy killing people because his brother screwed up. He’d been looking after Ned ever since they were kids. Ned was the baby of the family, the one who could do no wrong, the one who could charm the habit off a nun, as their dad said before he croaked. For years, Brian had been cleaning up after him. The extortion gig happened when Brian had done his own thing for a while, in Hawaii, where girls wore bikinis under a hot sun and no one was stressed, everyone relaxed all the time.

He should never have left.

But you can’t pick your family, right?

His mother had flown to Hawaii after Ned was arrested, begging Brian to come back to DC and help her fix it. But Ned had been arrested before, and they’d always fixed it. Now he was stuck. “Maybe a few years in prison will toughen him up,” Brian had told her. “Make him less stupid.”

That infuriated his mother. She’d always thought Ned, who got straight As in school and was voted Most Popular and was the quarterback of the damn football team was smart. Smarter than Brian, who barely graduated high school and never went to college.

Brian would take common sense over book smart any day. Not that people like his mother valued the ability to stay out of trouble.

Twice she came to Hawaii, begging him to come home. The second time was when Ned was up for parole, and his lawyer said he’d be getting out. Brian wanted to know how he knew. It wasn’t just conjecture, his mother came to him and said, “Ned is getting out of prison next week and I need you to watch over him. You’re his big brother. It’s your responsibility.”

“Ned got five to ten, why do you think he’s getting out in three?”

“Good behavior,” she’d told him.

Now Brian knew the truth. Information is power. He wondered how different his life would have been today if his mother hadn’t married the lawyer. He wondered if Ned would be back in prison because he was an idiot, and if he, Brian, would still be in Hawaii enjoying the scenery and the sun.

Brian turned off the news when he was satisfied that the police had nothing on Ned being the shooter. Ned turned the TV back on and flipped to a baseball game.