Authors: Allison Brennan
“You’ll have to put some names to those accusations,” Dillard said.
Sean shook his head. “Not yet.” He assessed Dillard as a straightshooter. “Are you familiar with the Swain family?”
Dillard nodded. “I was part of the joint task force that took down Paul Swain. Nine people went to prison. If I thought Swain was still running things in Spruce Lake, I would have called in the Feds. One thing I can say about that place—they take care of their own. Someone like me—I wouldn’t get anywhere.”
“You don’t think Swain is managing his trade from the prison?” Patrick asked. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”
“I’d never say never, but he’s closely watched. Two cops died during the operation—a meth lab exploded. Long story, screwups all around, but in the end we learned one of Swain’s people set it up. A booby trap.”
“How did you get the warrant in the first place?” Patrick asked.
“Someone turned state’s evidence.”
“Who?” Sean wondered if his theory about Bobbie Swain turning in her brother had merit.
“That information is above my pay grade. It’s not in any of the official reports.”
“An insider,” Sean said.
Dillard shrugged. “That would be my educated guess. Someone very close to Swain.”
“What if,” Sean said, “this C.I. who helped the task force take down Swain and his cronies turned around and set up his—or her—own criminal enterprise?”
“Anything’s possible,” Dillard said. “Or, someone saw the opportunity to fill a hole in the distribution chain. I’ll tap my contact with the DEA and see what he knows.”
“Discreetly,” Sean said.
Dillard frowned, and Patrick interjected, “My partner is concerned that there may be problems with some of the law enforcement. Especially after what’s happened with Deputy Weddle.”
“Weddle is a bad cop,” Sean said bluntly.
“Not all cops are like Weddle.” Dillard rubbed the back of his neck. “I pulled the GPS on Weddle’s assigned vehicle. Though he officially clocked out at four p.m. on Wednesday, the day you found the body, his vehicle was at the Kelley Mine from eight-fifteen until nine-forty-nine p.m.” He handed Sean a short stack of papers. “I shouldn’t be sharing this with you, but you might see something I’m missing. It goes back seventy-two hours. Weddle has been spending a lot of time at the mine this week.”
Sean scanned the GPS printout. It showed Weddle’s exact route by time and location. He’d spent a lot of time in Spruce Lake. He lived nearly thirty minutes away in Potsdam, where his car was now.
Dillard added, “This week has shown a definite change in pattern.”
Not only was Weddle at the mine Wednesday night—to remove Agent Sheffield’s body?—but he’d gone back Friday late in the afternoon. That was after Lucy had told him there was evidence in the mine.
Sean looked carefully at the stops Weddle made after Thursday morning, when he first met Sean and Lucy at the mine. He first went to the Lock & Barrel, then back to Potsdam. On Friday he was at the Hendricksons’ before noon—after Tim called about the sniper—then went to Reverend Browne’s church for more than an hour. At 3:30, the deputy was in Colton for nearly thirty minutes, then went back to the mine for over an hour before returning to his residence.
“Who lives at 1020 West Mountain Road?”
Dillard typed the address into his computer. “The house is owned by Butch and Katherine Swain.”
“He was there for nearly thirty minutes, then went back to the mine. That was after Lucy told him there was evidence down there. Which is probably gone now.”
Dillard looked as though he wanted to argue. After all, Sean was making a grave accusation about one of his cops, but he closed his mouth.
Patrick said, “When did Weddle arrive home on Friday?”
“Six-ten.”
“Where is he right now?” Patrick asked Dillard.
Dillard typed into his computer. “At his residence in Potsdam. At least his police unit is there. He has the day off. He could be using his personal vehicle.”
“Are you planning on paying him a visit?”
“I suppose I am.”
“How about a partner?” Sean said. Dillard hesitated. “Patrick here was a cop in San Diego for ten years. Does that help?”
Dillard gave him a half-smile. “A bit. You’re both welcome to join me. Let me take the lead.”
“We’ll follow you,” Sean said as they left the station.
There was no response to Dillard’s repeated knockings at the small, post–World War II house of Tyler Weddle.
Sean had a bad feeling. Weddle’s personal car was in the garage and his police unit in the driveway.
“I’m calling it in,” Dillard said. He informed dispatch that he was entering the locked house of Deputy Tyler Weddle on a well-being check. He went to his truck to retrieve a small, one-man metal battering ram.
“If you don’t mind,” Sean said and pulled out his lock pick set. He liked the ease and finesse of picking a lock, and didn’t understand why most cops went for the big guns, so to speak. In less than five seconds, he had the door unlocked.
“You two, go around back,” Dillard said, notably impressed. “At a count of ten I’ll announce myself and then enter. Do not enter until I give you the clear, though if he bolts—”
“Got it.” He and Patrick jogged around to the back, keeping low beneath the line of the windows. “If he bolts, you’ll have to chase him down.” Sean was usually faster than Patrick in a sprint, but with his bum leg he didn’t think he’d be any help.
At exactly ten seconds, they heard Dillard shout, “Weddle! It’s Detective Sergeant Kyle Dillard! I’m coming in!”
Sean positioned himself just outside the door to watch the knob. Patrick was five feet behind him, against the house, gun drawn, ready to give chase if necessary.
“Boys!” Dillard called. “It’s me.”
Sean lowered his gun. As soon as Dillard opened the door, Sean smelled it. Vomit, alcohol, blood. Dillard’s face was grim.
The back door opened into a small mudroom, then the kitchen. Dried vomit coated the sickly yellow counter and dripping sink. A bottle of JD had spilled on the table, soaking into a stack of junk mail and bills.
“I didn’t do a complete search yet,” Dillard said, “but I don’t think anyone’s alive in here.”
The living room was clear. There were two bedrooms and one bathroom. The bedrooms were clear.
The carpet in the narrow hall outside the bathroom was soaked in water. A light trickle of water sounded from behind the closed door.
Dillard motioned for Sean and Patrick to stand back, then opened the door.
Sean wasn’t sure what he thought he’d see, but he wasn’t expecting a bloodbath.
“Dear God,” Dillard said and glanced away.
“Glad I missed breakfast,” Patrick mumbled.
Blood had spattered across the entire white-tiled room. Darker red arcs covered the ceiling in what looked like a classic cast-off pattern. Because the room was damp from the running shower, the blood hadn’t completely dried. Some had dripped to the floor, drying in trickles of pink down the slick walls.
Weddle’s butchered naked body was slumped in the shower, blocking the drain, as the water dripped steadily over it. Almost all blood had been washed from his flesh. His face was turned away from the door, but Sean could tell that Weddle’s throat had been slit. He couldn’t tell if it was deep enough to kill him quickly, or if the cause of death was the multiple slash marks covering his skin. They weren’t simple in-and-out stab wounds, either. Whoever had killed Weddle used slicing motions—each cut shallow and methodical.
“Out,” Dillard ordered. “This is now a crime scene.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
As soon as Noah landed the Cessna, Lucy turned on her phone. She had a text message from Sean that gave her chills.
She said to Noah, “Deputy Weddle is dead. Murdered in his home.”
By the time Lucy managed to get Sean on the phone, she and Noah were in a taxi heading to FBI Headquarters in Albany. “We just landed,” Lucy told Sean. “I got your message about Weddle. I’m putting you on speaker so Noah can listen. What happened?”
“At first glance, it looked like he was attacked in the shower. But Patrick convinced Dillard to let him observe the on-scene investigation, and he’s been keeping me updated. There were no defensive cuts on his forearms. At one point, he was bound with duct tape to a chair in his bedroom. They have a potential witness. Weddle’s next-door neighbor saw a man and a woman walking away from Weddle’s house Friday evening. The only reason she noticed them was that they couldn’t keep their hands off each other. She thought it was tacky.”
“No description?”
“No—it was almost dark. They walked two doors down from Weddle’s and got into a dark truck.”
Noah asked, “Do they have an estimated time of death?”
“The deputy coroner is the same idiot Lucy and I dealt with at the mine. He’s not making any speculations. Patrick said the water messes with the timeline, but Weddle arrived home at six last night; he could have been killed anytime after.”
“What water?” Lucy asked.
“After being tortured, the killers moved Weddle to the shower, where they slit his throat.”
“To destroy evidence,” Lucy said. “If the killers suspect their hair or blood or saliva might have gotten on the victim, the best way to contaminate it would be to drench it in bleach or water.”
“The body looked like it was exsanguinated. There was blood all over the bathroom—ceiling and walls. Some had been washed away by the water. The floor and hall were drenched.”
Sean continued, “Dillard is tied up at Weddle’s house, and Patrick and I are about to head to the prison to talk to Swain.”
Noah said, “Can you send me Dillard’s contact information? I’m going to want to talk to him.”
“Sending it to your phone.”
“Anything on Jimmy Benson?” Lucy asked. “Did they find his body?”
“No word yet,” Sean said. “Weddle’s murder is the big news, but I’ll remind Dillard to call when he hears back from the divers.”
Noah said, “Ask if he pulled Benson’s cell phone records yet.”
“Damn, I should have thought of it.”
“That’s why they pay me the big bucks,” Noah said, making Sean laugh.
Lucy relaxed. She had hoped that Noah and Sean could become, if not best buddies, at least friendly. Sometimes she felt as though she was walking on eggshells between her boyfriend and her trainer.
“How’s my plane?” Sean asked.
“Still working. Keep me in the loop.”
“You do the same.” Sean hung up.
Noah drove into FBI Headquarters, showed the security guard his credentials, then parked. When they entered the building, they were greeted by ASAC Brian Candela himself.
Candela was in his midforties, with a conservative haircut and impeccable dark gray suit, even though it was Saturday. Lucy felt underdressed in her jeans and thin white sweater, even though she wore a blazer with it. Noah wasn’t in a suit and tie, though he still looked sharp in khakis and a button-down shirt.
“Noah Armstrong?” Candela extended his hand. “Good to finally meet you.”
“Finally?” Noah shook Candela’s hand.
“You’re Noah Armstrong, lieutenant, one of the original Ravens.”
“You did your homework.”
Candela shook his head. “My son is a Raven. Just finished training at Fort Dix. You’re a legend among the recruits.”
Noah laughed. Lucy glanced at him, startled. Had she heard Noah laugh before? She grinned.
“I doubt that, but I did write one of the manuals they’re forced to study.” He introduced Lucy. “Lucy Kincaid, agent-in-training. She’s working with me until she heads to Quantico in August.”
Candela sobered immediately. “Ms. Kincaid, thank you for coming. As I’m sure you know, learning Agent Sheffield is dead has been tough on all of us, even though we didn’t expect to find her alive.” He gestured for them to follow. “Everyone is in the conference room.”
Lucy hesitated. “Mr. Candela, I need to show you something first.” She handed him the photograph of Jon Callahan and the blonde who may in fact be Agent Sheffield.
“Where did you get this?”
“The uncle of Jon Callahan,” she gestured to the man in the picture, “gave it to Sean Rogan, the private investigator. We think the woman he’s with is Agent Sheffield, but since it’s only her in profile, we weren’t certain.”
“Who is this Callahan?”
Noah said, “He’s an attorney in Montreal who lives in Spruce Lake and owns a lot property in and around town. He may have been involved with Paul Swain’s criminal activity, though when I ran him, he came up clean.”
“Have you spoken to him about Victoria?”
“No,” Lucy said. “The situation in Spruce Lake is a bit difficult right now.”
Candela nodded. “I’ll let you tell the entire group. Wait here a second, I’m going to run this to the computer lab and get them started on facial recognition. I’m fairly certain it’s her, but I need to confirm it. Then I can get a warrant to interview Callahan.”
He walked down the hall. Noah said to Lucy, “Why are you nervous?”
She hadn’t realized her nerves were showing. “I haven’t briefed a room of FBI agents before. And the situation is tragic.”
“You’ve held your own many times in far tenser situations. You’re going to do fine.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.” She hoped he was right.
Candela returned. “We should have a confirmation shortly,” he said. “Follow me, please.” He led them down a long, gray corridor livened up by large posters of the scenic areas in the region.
Lucy had prepared herself for being questioned, but she wasn’t quite prepared for the dozen people sitting around the high-gloss wood table. Some had Starbucks coffee cups, others small Styrofoam cups or water bottles. A young agent sat in the back with an elaborate computer system that would make Sean salivate, and a man and woman stood in the back talking quietly. When Candela stepped in, the woman approached.
Candela said, “This is Elizabeth Hart, our SAC. Ms. Hart, Noah Armstrong and Lucy Kincaid from D.C.”
“Thank you both for coming. This is a highly sensitive situation, as you’re aware, and I’m hoping that you have information that will help us find out what happened to Agent Sheffield.” Hart motioned for Lucy and Noah to sit near the front of the conference room, where a projection screen had been pulled down in front of half a white board.