Frank Rickter wasn’t a real person. He was a fictional character from a popular novel about a rogue FBI agent who brought down an entire field office because of his corrupt behavior. Even though the fictional agent acted alone, the entire division lost their jobs. Every agent Meltzer ever knew was familiar with the book, and Meltzer was banking on the fact this agent would understand the reference.
If Turkle was as corrupt as Meltzer thought, his partner had to be in on it. Or at the very least have his suspicions. If he got the message, he’d want to know what Meltzer knew. It put Meltzer’s neck on the line, but he needed to do something drastic.
The receptionist tapped a button on the side of her headset and looked up at Meltzer with a touch of surprise in her eyes.
“He’ll see you,” she said, standing and ripping a small card from a printer next to her. She placed his ID badge inside a plastic sheath attached to a band to wear around his neck.
“Here,” she said. Then she gave him directions to Backman’s office. Meltzer knew by the color of the badge that it was a restricted card, allowing him access to just a few corridors. Should he veer from his route in the slightest, an alarm would sound and his location would be flagged immediately.
Meltzer didn’t want to stray. He picked up steam as he marched toward the field agent’s office, thinking of the proper strategy to get the maximum amount of information possible. In Meltzer’s line of work information was a valued currency. Maybe the most valued currency. But prying it from a trained professional like an FBI agent would require great skill.
He found a bullpen of cubicles in the center of a series of offices. When he approached one with a friendly face behind it he didn’t need to ask a thing. The man pointed to an office with all-window walls, where a man sat behind a desk, waving for Meltzer to come.
When Meltzer finally entered Agent Backman’s office, the guy was standing and reaching out a hand to greet him.
“Good to meet you, Detective,” Backman said, pointing to a leather chair in front of his desk. “Have a seat.”
Meltzer sat while Backman pointed a remote control at the TV and turned it off. Then he dropped the remote on his desk and sat down.
Backman gestured toward the dark TV screen. “Lots of crazy stuff going on out there right now,” Backman said.
Meltzer nodded.
“Is there something I should know about?” the agent said.
That was good, Meltzer thought. In the tug of war for information, the man just tugged first.
“Actually,” Meltzer said, “I was hoping you could help me out.”
“Sure,” Backman said, lifting one end of the remote, then placing it back down as if the unit were doing pushups.
“I need to know how close you are with your partner, Ron Turkle.”
Backman openly frowned. He slid the remote away from him, then leaned back in his reclining chair and stared at the ceiling. “What did he do now?” Backman asked.
Meltzer told him. Leaving out his speculations and sticking to the facts. When he was done, Backman didn’t hide his disgust with the situation and Meltzer felt the emotion was real and not there for show.
Backman got up and closed his office door. He sat on a chair next to Meltzer and leaned toward the detective. He spoke in a low voice. “Ron’s been through a lot over the past few months.”
Meltzer nodded, not sure where this was going, but glad to hear the submissive tone.
“I mean,” Backman continued, “he’s just never been the same ever since his heart attack.” Backman shrugged with a sad grin. “You’d think a brush with death like that would change a person for the better, maybe allow him to appreciate the little things.”
Meltzer knew enough to shut up and get out of the way.
“Anyhow,” Backman said, “the guy’s developed this unhealthy obsession with that Margo girl. He seems to accuse her for everything from rainclouds over the valley to the Middle East crisis.”
Backman shot a glance over his shoulder at the bullpen and the bustling support staff who were oblivious to the conversation. When he turned back and looked out the window, his mind seemed far away. “Ron missed a mandatory meeting this morning with the SAC. I know for a fact the SAC was going to suspend him for at least two months.”
Meltzer waited.
“After hearing this,” Backman said with open palms, “I don’t see how he recovers from it.”
“So where is he?”
Backman let out a sigh. “We don’t know. He never made it home last night.” Backman began tapping his right foot double-time. “Listen, any chance you can let us handle this in-house? It would spare the Bureau at lot of ugliness and I’d give it my full attention.”
Meltzer shook his head. “Sorry, but no. Dr. Bryant just lost his family this year, and as far as I can tell, this girl is the only thing keeping him alive. I can’t afford to have anything happen to her.”
Backman looked ready for that. “Sure, I understand.”
“But here’s my deal,” Meltzer said. “We work together until this guy comes in, and I’ll make sure not one word gets leaked to the press.”
Backman nodded with a hint of a grin, acting like he’d accomplished something with the meeting. He stood and held out his hand. Meltzer stood and shook it.
They both ended up looking out the window as if they were outlining the first steps in their alliance together.
“So what do you make of the sunspots?” Meltzer said, throwing the agent a softball.
“I have an astronomer friend who works at Kitt Peak just outside of Tucson,” Backman said, staring at the mixture of clouds. “You know they have the world’s largest solar telescope down there.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Anyway, I called him just after the National Weather Service labeled those things sunspots. He told me he had no idea what was happening over the skies of Arizona. But one thing he was absolutely certain of . . .” Backman turned to face Meltzer. “They definitely weren’t sunspots.”
Chapter 22
Bryant and Margo sat across from each other in a booth at an upscale diner in Scottsdale. Since it was in Scottsdale, the land was so valuable the décor needed to be trendy to survive. The interior was surrounded with chrome railings and flush with gleaming, white-tiled floors. They both stared out the crystal window next to them, watching the sun go down behind the growing cloud cover.
“He’s going to find us,” Margo said absently.
“I know,” Bryant said, wondering if Margo knew something he didn’t.
“He’s not going to stop,” Margo said, facing him. “Ever.”
Bryant’s left hand gripped a cup of coffee while his right hand pushed the last piece of strawberry cheesecake toward Margo. “I know,” he said. “But why?”
Margo ignored the gesture, instead she slurped a spoonful of her hot chocolate and shrugged. “Somehow, you scare him.”
“I do?”
“We both do.”
They remained inside their thoughts, stirring and sipping their drinks. Finally, in a small voice, Margo said, “Doctor Bryant, you never told me your theory on why I can’t die?”
Bryant looked down at his drink and came out with his best explanation. “Neuroplasticity,” he said.
“Which is?”
“It’s basically the ability for the brain to heal itself. And in your case, your brain
is so well developed, it’s actually able to heal other parts of your body as well.”
Margo seemed to brighten. “So you think I’m just . . . um . . .”
“Special,” Bryant finished for her. “I think you’re a normal kid with a special brain. It’s the reason you can hear other people’s thoughts. If we get the time, I could prove it.”
“Why don’t we have the time?”
Bryant looked out the window at the parking lot, the two of them looking for the same thing.
“Because,” Bryant said, “I don’t think your friend is going to allow us the time to get our answers.”
“What does your detective friend say?”
“He wants us to come back to his office so he can protect us.”
“Maybe that’s what we should do.”
“Maybe,” Bryant said. He considered telling Margo the truth. He looked over at her and wondered if she was reading his mind.
“What?” she said.
“I’m hoping you’re keeping your promise about my thoughts.”
Margo swirled her spoon in her cup; she watched the blended brown mixture like a chemist waiting for a reaction to occur.
“I’m trying,” she said. “Sometimes I’ll get a whiff of something I shouldn’t have, but it’s not on purpose, I promise.”
Bryant let it go. He glanced at the clock on the wall, then pulled his cell phone from his pocket. He turned it on.
“What are you doing?” Margo asked.
“I’m expecting a call in one minute.”
“But why was your phone off?”
He smiled. “You weren’t reading my mind, were you?”
She tilted her head, confused.
“Because, your friend is with the FBI and he has the ability to track my cell phone if I leave it on too long.”
A moment later his phone vibrated. “Hey, Scott,” Bryant said.
“What’s up, Michael?” Dr. Scott Lipson said. “Haven’t heard from you in years. How are you?”
“Listen, I only have a minute. Are you still doing research on neuroplasticity?”
“I am.”
“Good,” Bryant said looking directly at Margo, “because I have a patient who can accelerate your progress by a decade or two. She’s extremely special.”
Margo frowned, then folded her arms.
Lipson was quiet for a moment. “You serious?”
“More than you know.”
“Bring her over.”
“Right now?”
“Michael, you have someone special to show me, but you expect me to wait?”
“You still working at the lab on Third Street?”
“You bet.”
“Give me forty-five minutes.” Bryant shut off his phone and put it back in his pocket.
“We’ve got to go,” he said, dropping a couple of singles on the table and glancing at the parking lot.
“I thought you didn’t want people testing me,” she said, disappointment in her tone.
“This is different,” Bryant said, grabbing Margo’s arm and gently leading her out the door. “I need to prove something to you.”
* * *
As soon as Meltzer entered the church, the incense hit him hard. He found Father
Joe sitting in the second pew, cradling the Bible like he was holding an infant.
“Joe?” Meltzer said, sliding next to the priest. “Are you okay?”
Father Joe nodded, but said nothing.
“What’s going on?”
The priest put a hand to his forehead. “It’s been a day of miracles,” he said. “But I fear for Margo’s life.”
“Why?”
“A man,” Father Joe pointed over his right shoulder without looking. “He came into the confessional and . . . well . . .”
“It’s okay,” Meltzer said. “You can tell me. I’m never going to repeat it.”
The priest turned to face Meltzer. “Someone is going to kill Margo. A man came to confess his sin before he killed a friend of mine. He said she deserves it for what she’s doing with the aliens.”
“Who was it?”
“I don’t know. I couldn’t see his face.”
“Where is Michael now?”
Father Joe flipped the back of his hand. “He went off with Margo somewhere. That FBI agent was chasing them.”
Meltzer froze. “What do you mean with Margo? Isn’t she in the hospital?”
Father Joe’s eyes brightened. “It’s a miracle, Sam. She’s all healed.”
Meltzer stared off at Christ on the cross, looking down at him from behind the altar. He nodded at Jesus, “You having fun with me down here?”
“Huh?” Father Joe asked.
Meltzer thought about the rescue worker who shot Margo and his prediction she would be healed by the end of the day. Then another thought came to him. He took out his phone and pressed Michael Bryant’s contact button.
“He’s not answering his calls,” Father Joe said, smoothing out the Bible’s cover in his lap. “I get the feeling that FBI agent hired someone to kill her.”
Once Meltzer got Bryant’s voicemail, he snapped his phone shut. “Listen, Joe, I need to find him. Do you have any idea where he went?”
“He said, he’s going to see a friend. Something about proving a point. But he wouldn’t tell me anything more.”
Meltzer stood and took a couple of steps, then returned. “If you hear from that FBI agent, Turkle, call me. He’s a rogue cop. The FBI is trying to track him as well.”
Father Joe squeezed Meltzer’s arm. “Please, Sam, find them.”
“I will,” Meltzer said, his fists clenched. But he was beginning to feel a little overwhelmed. He genuflected next to the pew and made the sign of the cross as he looked up at Christ. “I could use a little help,” he whispered.
Chapter 23
Bryant slowed his car to a crawl as he searched for the dirt path alley which intersected Third Street. It had been a few years, but not much had changed in this part of downtown Phoenix. He turned into a side street, guessing a little as his headlights revealed an alley with high block walls on each side with large trash cans every twenty yards. The narrow corridor was just wide enough for one car.
As he rolled forward, a large metal gate slid open and a thin man with a long golden ponytail waved at Bryant to pull in.
“Is that him?” Margo asked.
“That’s him,” Bryant said, parking the car next to the back door.
Dr. Scott Lipson slid the gate shut and came over to greet his guests.
“Hey,” Bryant said with a sheepish grin. “How’s it going, Scott?”
“Good, buddy,” Lipson said, shaking his hand and looking at Margo. “And?”
“This is Margo,” Bryant said. “She’s the girl I was speaking about.”
Lipson couldn’t keep the smile from his face. “Yeah, hey, nice to meet you.” He ushered his guests toward the back door. “I figured you would know to come around back. This isn’t the best part of town.”
“You still running the sleep clinic?” Bryant asked.
“I am,” Lipson said, pushing numbers into a keypad installed on the block wall next to the back door. “I have a patient coming much later. I want them really tired before I hook them up.”
Lipson’s clinic was no more than a renovated one-story house, probably built in the fifties, with block construction, worn fascia boards, and wood trim around the windows. They stood under the patio cover—a lone incandescent bulb hung on the wall and illuminated the back entrance—while Lipson opened the door for them.