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“I’m hoping he will. If he’s truly going back to his old ways, he’ll keep doing what worked for him in the past. Possession of a date-rape drug would be hard even for some loony, feel-good judge to overlook. At the very least, Prenter will be spending one night in jail.”
“Small consolation.”
Cody stopped walking, and Lucy turned to look at him. He seemed angry. “I’ll do everything I can to make sure he finishes the full five years, Lucy. I promise.”
“I know—” She frowned, worried about her friend. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Frustrated. I had a domestic violence case earlier that really got to me.” He looked over her shoulder, off in his world, more pain than frustration in his eyes.
“Cody?”
He shook his head, not wanting to talk about it.
She said, “Remember what you told me when I couldn’t stop that teenager from meeting with her online boyfriend?” Lucy had befriended a thirteen-year-old in cyberspace, though WCF strongly discouraged it. Lucy did everything she could to stop the girl from making the same mistakes Lucy had made six years ago. She had failed.
Cody turned to her, gazing deep into her eyes as she spoke.
“You said, ‘We can’t save everyone, so we have to do what we can when we can.’ That changed my life, gave me something to have faith in again. We’re doing what we can. At WCF and on the job.”
His intense stare began to make Lucy feel uncomfortable. Maybe she should have let Cody be angry and frustrated, not tried to talk to him about it. She didn’t want to lead him on, give him any ideas that she wanted to restart their relationship. She smiled, squeezed his hand, then dropped it and started walking. “I’m going to be late meeting Patrick,” she said.
“I’m going to cut through Rock Creek Park to get home.”
She stopped walking and looked back at him. “You sure?”
“It’s only a couple more blocks to Clyde’s. I wanted to make sure you were okay with this Prenter thing, and of course you are. You’re an amazing woman, Lucy.” He stepped forward and kissed her cheek. “See you Saturday at the WCF fund-raiser.”
Cody turned down the pathway through Rock Creek Park and raised his hand in farewell before disappearing from view. She walked briskly toward Clyde’s, already late.
Lucy still had that creepy feeling someone was staring at her. She glanced over her shoulder, but no one even remotely suspicious was there. She stopped, looking in every direction, the street lamps providing ample illumination. The only people not walking stood on the corner waiting for the light to change. No one seemed to be watching her specifically.
She breathed in deeply, the icy air clearing her lungs and her mind. She willed the feeling away, as she’d learned to do six years ago when the sense of being watched by unseen eyes never left her, day or night, in public or locked in her bedroom.
It worked. She smiled to herself and continued toward the restaurant, where her brother was most likely irritated that she’d made him wait.
THREE
Noah Armstrong had been assigned Roger Morton’s homicide less than twenty-four hours ago, and every answer he received led to twice as many questions.
True to his word, Hans Vigo had provided Noah with all of Morton’s files. Morton pled on two counts of felony rape and one count attempted murder of a federal agent, but mandatory sentencing guidelines had been tossed out the window. Scott had been killed while evading authorities, and all they’d had was Morton’s word that he’d turned over everything. And while Noah understood the necessity of plea arrangements, this one seemed grossly circumspect. Six years? Hardly enough time for what he’d copped to doing—and there were dozens of other charges that had been dismissed. Lives had been on the line, but it seemed that the investigators had been desperate. And desperation breeds mistakes.
Morton had been released from federal custody and put on probation, the federal system’s concept of parole. The terms of his probation were rigid: he could not leave the state of Colorado, where he had secured a job with a cousin who owned an auto body shop outside Denver. He could not possess a firearm, enter any adult businesses such as strip clubs or sex shops, engage in any of his previous activities in legal or illegal pornography, and could not communicate with any of his former associates or attempt to contact any of his victims. Any violation would have sent him straight back to prison.
Noah’s new partner on the case was Special Agent Abigail Resnick, a ten-year veteran of the Bureau who’d started in Washington but transferred to Atlanta five years ago. Abigail was in her mid-thirties, efficient, and moved into the cubicle next to Noah’s with authority. She seemed pleased to be back in D.C. She had a slight accent, but Noah didn’t think it was Southern—it had more of a hint of Boston.
Abigail hung up the phone at her temporary desk, where she’d already spread out, and spun around in her chair before leaning back with a wide grin. “So Morton flew from Denver International on the last flight out on January fifth, arriving at Dulles at five-forty a.m. the next day. According to his probation officer, Morton was required to meet every first and third Wednesday of the month and submit to inspections. The last time probation saw him was on the fifth at four-thirty in the afternoon.” She glanced up from her notes, her eyes sparkling. “My guess is he left the meeting and headed straight to the airport. He bought the ticket online same day using his cousin’s ID and credit card. The cousin swears he didn’t give Morton permission to do it.”
Noah shook his head. “Hard to prove he did, but we should send a pair of agents to shake the cousin and see what else falls out of his pockets.”
Abigail made a note. “Monica Guardino heads the white-collar crimes squad in Denver. She’s familiar with Morton’s probation and is headed now to his apartment.”
“Did Morton have a return flight?”
“Nada. One-way ticket, Denver to Dulles. No other reservations under his name or his cousin’s name. He could have picked up a fake ID here or in Denver.”
Had Morton planned on returning to Denver? Or was he planning to go underground? Why was he in D.C. in the first place? A temporary stop before leaving the country? Though he’d ostensibly turned over all his offshore accounts to the government, they’d have no surefire way of knowing. But why now and not when he was first released? Why wait six months?
“Hello?” Abigail said, knocking on her desktop. “You there, Armstrong?”
