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“Come on, Special Agent Packard. You’d be a hero if you sniffed out this story before it made it to the mainstream. You’d be credited with helping the president avoid a potentially embarrassing nomination that would sully his reputation and give his adversaries ammunition leading into the election next year. I can see the political hit-job commercials now. How can the American public trust a president who put his faith in Larry Chadwick, a judge whose morals are so skewed that he raised a son to be a rapist?”
Alex watched Annette carefully and knew that she had planted a realistic scenario.
“I’ll need proof,” Annette said. “About Duncan and the date-rape drug and his connection to the girl who was raped. I can’t just go to the president with accusations.”
“Laura’s story has proof. Or, like I said, strong confirmations.”
“How strong?”
“Strong enough that once Laura’s story is out there, the authorities will get involved. The girl already filed a police report. After Laura’s story goes mainstream, Duncan will be named as her rapist. The police will investigate, and I’m certain that with the other information Laura uncovered Duncan will be charged. There’s a rape kit, and they’ll take a sample of Duncan’s DNA to see if it’s a match.”
“And the proof, what Laura uncovered, you’ll give me?”
“Yes. I created a series of briefs for my boss at Lancaster and Jordan. I can give you those, as well as let you listen to the episode Laura was about to drop before I make it public. Even in the extraordinary event that the Chadwick family can flex its political muscle to dodge this bullet and avoid Duncan being arrested or charged, his name will forever be tied to Laura McAllister and to rape at McCormack University.”
Annette nodded. “Okay. You don’t need to sell it any more than you have. I need this information, and I need it soon. So I guess we’ve reached the quid pro quo part of this conversation. What are you asking in exchange?”
Alex took a deep breath. “You ran my prints, which means you know my history. That’s what I need help with.”
“Your history? Meaning what happened when you were a teenager?”
“Meaning what happened to my family.”
Alex had spent the last few days organizing this deal in her mind. The truth was that the search for her family’s killer had reached a dead end years ago when Garrett rescued her from Cambridge and brought her home. Since then—since her discovery of mysterious bank statements hidden in her attic, her trip to the Sparhafen Bank in Zurich, and her discovery of a link between her parents and a sex-trafficking businessman named Roland Glazer—Alex had made no real progress in the search for her parents’ killer. But the vague similarity between her parents’ crime scene and Byron Zell’s—in which photos of victims were left by the killer—had stirred the embers that still smoldered inside her. The rousing had been enough to reignite the desire to continue her search.
Alex knew this bold attempt was likely her last hurrah. She understood that stirring those last remaining ashes might finally extinguish them for good. But she also knew that with someone like Annette Packard holding the fire iron and poking those dying coals, they might finally combust in a way Alex could never manage on her own.
“Alex,” Annette said. “I told you before. I ran your prints because I planned to tap you as a source and needed to make sure you had no priors or other red flags that would make you unreliable.”
“Being accused of killing my family might make me unreliable in the eyes of some.”
“You’re legally Alex Armstrong now. Your past doesn’t matter to me.”
“Either way, you won’t be getting Laura’s story from me. Technically, you will be, but you’ll be able to plausibly claim it came from a reliable source.”
“I don’t follow you.”
“I’ll give you the details once I have everything squared away. Before I do, though, I want to know if you’ll help me.”
“Help you with what, exactly?”
“Figuring out who killed my family.”
Alex saw the apprehension in her eyes.
“How can I help with that?”
“You told me that you have the entire justice system at your fingertips.”
“I have access and liberties pertaining to my specialty. Your family, and what happened to them, that’s not what I specialize in.”
“No. You specialize in digging and investigating and uncovering the truth. You find the right people who can get you what you need. Just like I do for my job. But I’ve used every bit of skill I’ve ever learned and every instinct I’ve developed to try to understand why my family was killed. I’ve made no progress. I need help. And you’re the only person who’s come along in the last decade who might actually be able to provide that help.”
“Listen, Alex, I looked into your background and I remember your family’s case. I think what happened to you was terrible. I’d love to tell you I can help, but I don’t know what I’d be getting into or what I’d be agreeing to do. I need the information you have about Duncan Chadwick, and I need it badly. But I don’t want to take that information and promise you something in return that I can’t deliver.”
Alex reached across the table, took Annette’s Americano, and dumped it, along with her own, into the trash can next to the table.
“The coffee here is terrible,” Alex said. “Come back to my place. I’ll brew you some real coffee and I’ll also show you exactly what you’re getting into.”
