Cold Shot (17 page)

“I’m curious,” Griffin said, reclining slightly into the hard-backed chair. “How would that work?”

“What do you mean?”

“Perera, at least according to the latest news article I read on him, decided to retire in Cambodia when his ambassadorship was finished.”

“Yes.”

“So extradition would be required?” Declan said.

“Yes, which like I said, is what Marley was working with the ICE agent and Cambodian police to try and facilitate.”

Declan cocked his head. “But I didn’t see an ICE agent listed in Marley’s missing persons file. Do you have his or her name?”

“His. Last name was . . . Rosario or maybe Rodriquez. I’m sorry. That information was part of the files that were stolen.”

“Okay,” Declan said, leaning forward. “Let’s shift gears for a moment.”

Paul crossed his leg, smoothing out the crease in his trousers. “All right.”

“Any idea what Marley might have been doing up in Gettysburg the weekend she went missing?”

“What?” Paul frowned. “Why would you think . . . ?” His pale faced turned ashen. “Oh no. Was the body found at the battlefield Marley’s?”

Griffin nodded. “I’m afraid so.”

Paul braced his head in his hand. “I have no idea. Gettysburg is a completely different direction out of Baltimore than the eastern shore.” He looked up, fresh tears in his eyes. “Do you think he buried her there because of the military connection?”

“At this point we are just speculating, but Perera”—if he was their man—“served in ’Nam. A far stretch to a Civil War battlefield.”

“What about Marley?” Declan asked. “Any chance she was a history buff?”

Good thought. Maybe the lady had taken or planned on taking a mini-vacation.

“No.” Paul shook his head. “Not really her thing. I have no clue why she’d be up there.”

“Thanks for your time, Mr. Geller,” Declan said, standing. “I believe that’s it for now. We’ll see you at your place after work.”

“Fine.” His tone did nothing to mask his irritation at their perceived intrusion.

Declan tapped Griffin’s shoulder as they headed back out the way they’d entered. “We need to stop in Emily’s office and get that contact information.” He gestured to the door on the right.

They found her on the phone at her desk.

She waved them in and gestured for them to take a seat. Her office was compact, the walls bare, her desk covered with files, her shelves with books. Griffin surveyed some of the titles—
The Locust Effect
,
International Human Rights
, and a number of biblical commentaries.

“Yes,” Emily responded over the headset. “Have him call me as soon as he gets in. Thanks.” She hung up and looked at them. “So, how can I help?”

Declan began, “What can you tell us about Tanner Shaw?”

“As Paul mentioned, Tanner ran the aftercare program in conjunction with our Cambodian field office.”

“And she was assisting Marley with the Perera case?”

“They were both vital to it.”

“How so?”

“Working with his victims, Tanner saw the damage Perera caused firsthand. Tanner’s the one who prompted GJM to look into Perera. Helped them build a case. But for that she needed Marley’s expertise. The two worked together. Tanner on location and Marley here trying to convince ICE to press Cambodian authorities to extradite Perera to stand trial in the U.S.”

“Has anything like that ever happened before?” Seemed like a long shot. A very worthwhile one, but a long shot all the same.

“Yes, as a matter of fact. In 2007, a retired U.S. Marine captain, Michael Pepe, was successfully extradited to the U.S. He was tried and convicted for violent sexual assault of underage Cambodian girls and is currently serving 210 years in federal prison.”

“And no one has seen this Tanner Shaw since Marley’s disappearance?”

“Not that I’m aware of. Field agents investigated, but with no luck.”

“Any chance she fled of her own accord?” Griffin asked.

“It’s possible, but I doubt she’d just go into hiding and let the case she’d worked so hard on drop.”

“Unless she feared for her life,” Griffin said.

“Either way she’s missing, and so are the files.”

“Which brings us to Rachel Lester,” Declan said.

Emily’s brows pinched. “I don’t really understand the interest in Rachel.”

“Paul said she was so distraught over Marley’s disappearance, she left her internship.”

“That’s correct. She was no longer interested in working with GJM.”

“Any chance she took the missing Perera files with her when she left?”

Emily sat back, crossing her legs. “What exactly are you implying?”

“If Perera is behind Marley’s death and the stolen files, perhaps he had a mole in place. Someone to keep tabs on Marley and take the necessary information to prosecute him with her when she left.”

“I just don’t see it. Rachel was a sweet girl. She seemed genuinely upset at Marley’s disappearance.”

“Or perhaps she was scared too.” There were so many options, so many pieces to track down before they discovered the truth and how the puzzle all fit together.

“Perhaps.”

“Do you have that address for Rachel?” Declan asked.

She retrieved it from her computer, jotted it down, and handed them the paper. “Give me your card and I’ll have the head of the Cambodian field office get in touch when he’s able. He’s better equipped to answer your questions about Tanner.”

“Thanks.” Declan folded the slip of paper and tucked it in his pocket, handing Emily his card in exchange.

“One more thing before we go,” Griffin said, standing.

“Yes?”

“Paul and Marley?”

“I think I know where you’re going with this.”

“Oh?”

She indicated for him to shut the door. He did and turned to face her, curious where this was going.

“I wouldn’t want Paul’s feelings to be hurt, especially con
sidering . . .” She tapped her fingers on her desk. “Paul clearly had deep feelings for Marley.”

“And Marley?”

“Was friendly with Paul, but in a kind, polite, friend-slash-co-worker way.”

So the affection wasn’t reciprocated, which made Paul having Marley’s things all the creepier.

“Did Marley have anyone else in her life? The missing persons file didn’t indicate anyone special.”

“She was really focused on her work. Consumed with the job, especially at the end. But . . . there was this one guy.”

“Yes?” Griffin pressed.

“I don’t know the level of relationship they had, but she lit up whenever she mentioned him.”

“This guy have a name?”

“Ben, I think.”

“Any chance you recall her mentioning his last name?”

“No. Sorry. But he lives in Ocean City.”

“Like her dad?”

“Yes. I think she spent time with him while she was down there on weekends visiting her dad.”

So there was another man in the picture. “Did Paul know about Ben?”

“I’m not sure. If he did, he didn’t let on.”

“Paul was borderline obsessed with Marley,” Declan said as he and Griff walked down the ramp of the Pier V garage.

Griffin slid his sunglasses on, a glare coming off the water. “Hold the borderline.”

“And Marley didn’t reciprocate his affection.”

“If he learned about Ben, it might have thrown him over the edge.” Griffin had seen people crack over far less back in his BPD days. Between 75 and 90 percent of hostage situations involved domestic violence. “Though I highly doubt Paul possesses the necessary sniper skills.”

“Yeah. Hardly appears the type.”

Griffin arched a brow.

“Trust me.” Declan unlocked the Expedition. “It was a compliment.”

They climbed inside, and Griffin buckled in. “He could have hired someone.”

“I’ll get a warrant to check his financials.”

“And in the meantime?”

“Let’s hit Marley’s last-known residence.”

22

P
atricia poked her head around the door of Finley’s office. “Special Agent Brad Lewis is on line one.”

Of course Brad would introduce himself as Special Agent. Like she wouldn’t know her ex-boyfriend by name. Fortunately they’d parted on good terms. He’d understood the traumatic event with Brent Howard had left scars, and she hadn’t been in any place to be in a serious relationship. She wondered when that had shifted. Now the thought of the possibility of her and Griffin in a relationship only brought interest, not fear of intimacy, of vulnerability. While she hated the helplessness she still felt when it came to Brent Howard, she didn’t fear it in Griffin’s presence, and that was a remarkable change.

Shifting her focus, she answered the phone. “Hey, Brad. Thanks for calling me back.” He was the first in a long line of calls she’d placed.

“Hey, Fin. Anything for you.”

“So you have some news?”

“Some, but . . .” He lowered his voice. “I gotta tell you, I generated a lot of irritation and called in a ton of favors on this one.”

“I can’t tell you how deeply I appreciate it.”

“The lawyer, Marley Trent, wasn’t exactly a friend to the Bureau.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean she was always butting heads with them, pushing them to get involved in one of her cases or threatening to sue if she felt a case was being overlooked.”

“Overseas cases?” The FBI had select and extremely specific international privileges.

“Yes.”

“Ever bring you guys a case on a former high-ranking general?”

“I never got that far. Walls came down faster than I could get past a serious chew out. Sorry, Fin. I did the best I could.”

“Thanks for trying.”

“Word of advice?”

“Sure.”

“This doesn’t sound like the type of case you should be digging into. I mean, after . . .” He hesitated. “I just worry about you.”

The thought of this case turning into another situation like Brent Howard . . .

She swallowed the fear that invoked.

Marley’s last apartment was a small studio over Beatrice Wilkinson’s garage on the Severn River in Severna Park south of Baltimore—less than a half-hour from their hometown of
Chesapeake Harbor. Being near home brought so many memories to the surface for Griffin. He visited fairly often, and every time he did, it was impossible to escape the past—at least as far as Jenna and Parker were concerned.

“We appreciate you letting us take a look,” Declan said to Marley’s landlady, climbing the stairs in front of Griffin.

“No trouble at all,” Beatrice said with a smile over her shoulder.

“How long did Marley live here?”

“Four years.”

Griffin looked over the property situated on a small hill overlooking the Severn River, tall weeping willows, devoid of leaves, lining the space between Beatrice’s place and the next property over.

Marley’s front porch overlooked the water, and a weathered blue Adirondack chair sat in the corner. Griffin pictured her sitting there, enjoying the sunset before her life had been cut short.

Please, Father, let us find her killer. Don’t let this become another shelved cold case.

As they entered the apartment, the sun’s rays streamed through the colorful cross suncatcher in the front bay window, casting beams of green, blue, and purple across the cream carpet.

“And no one has rented it since Marley?” Declan asked.

Beatrice clutched her floral housecoat over her chest. “I just haven’t had the heart to rent it out yet.”

“You and Marley were close?” Griffin ventured.

“I wouldn’t say close. She used to go to my church before she needed to start spending weekends with her dad. But I liked her.”

Griffin strolled through the small space—twenty-by-twenty all told, he’d wager. A galley kitchen flanked the south wall, a bed the north, with a silver curtain rod with seashell-patterned
curtains in shades of jade and turquoise separating the bedroom from the living space.

“I don’t need the income from renting,” Beatrice said, looking around. “I just do it when I think someone can really use the space. Marley was a good girl. I liked having her around. When she was here, that is. That girl was work, work, work.”

Declan looked around. “Is the furniture yours?”