Caitlyn, and said, "You find my son. You find Josh and Sam. I will not let that monster keep them. I don't care what it takes, you find them."
At the time, Caitlyn had both admired and pitied the mother for her fortitude. She knew from experience that the grief following an act of violence often destroyed the loved ones left behind. The strongest seemed most prone to snap under the burden of their emotions.
Although Sarah had spoken to her, her words weren't for Caitlyn. They were for herself. Caitlyn couldn't have done anything to help the lady anyway. Her job was to catch a killer before he struck again, not body recovery. In any case, events had quickly swept her away from Snakehead Mountain, the town of Hopewell, and Sarah Durandt's public tragedy.
Now, somehow, they had brought her back.
The migraine's grip slipped a bit. She kept her thoughts focused on the new puzzles Clemens had delivered her today. A missing US Marshal, a missing man and his missing son, a helluva lot of blood from both men at a crime scene. What did it add up to?
To find the answer, she'd gone to Durandt's previous identity, Stanley Diamontes. His records, like Durandt's, had been totally erased from the system. It was only through doing a Lexis/Nexis search that she'd been able to find enough to piece together a scenario. Thank God for the Internet.
Seemed Stan was involved in a money-laundering scheme for a Russian named Korsakov. Stan, seeing the errors of his ways—or more likely to cover his ass and avoid prison—had come to the FBI with enough information to convict Korsakov. Then Stan had promptly vanished.
Which translated to witness protection. And where better to stash a Malibu surfer boy than the mountains of the Adirondacks? That would explain Richland's involvement. Maybe.
If not for the fact that Richland had never worked WITSEC. His short, undistinguished career with the Marshals had been limited to fugitive apprehension and security details.
Her fingers and toes finally unclenched as feeling returned. She spit out her makeshift gag.
If Durandt was in the witness protection program, someone had concealed all record of it. Caitlyn had been unable to find any record of Stan Diamontes except for the single DNA sample. Collected fifteen years ago during a Stanford bone marrow donor drive, it hadn't shown up in CODIS or any of the evidence files. It was only luck Clemens had found it at all. Every other trace of Diamontes had been erased. Even the guy's prints had been removed from AFIS.
She rolled over on her back, able to breathe, the headache now a mere pounding. As she opened her eyes and stared into the darkness, she thought about the men who would have the power and ability to erase classified DOJ records.
Could be some kind of intelligence thing. NSA, CIA, somewhere in alphabet land? Nah, they wouldn't have any need for a second rate bean counter like Diamontes. And why would Richland be involved?
Maybe Richland wasn't one of the good guys? Her research on the Marshal had revealed a mediocre record. Less than mediocre if you knew how to read between the lines of the bureaucratese wording of his fit-reps. And one curious item—he'd worked the Korsakov task force with her old boss, Jack Logan, back when they were both field agents.
She blinked and it barely hurt at all. Nothing a fistful of Toradol couldn't handle.
Caitlyn sat up, breathed out against the head rush until her vision cleared, then braced herself on the toilet and slowly climbed to her feet. She kept the lights off, feeling her way through the boxes of syringes and bottles of medicine until she had the right ones. Despite the doctor's warnings about using it too frequently, she'd shoot up with Imitrex again—couldn't risk the migraine returning.
Not now, not when she had work to do.
She used the auto-injector, the pain of the needle in her thigh was nothing compared to the remnants of the headache. Or the thought that this might be her last case for
At the time, Caitlyn had both admired and pitied the mother for her fortitude. She knew from experience that the grief following an act of violence often destroyed the loved ones left behind. The strongest seemed most prone to snap under the burden of their emotions.
Although Sarah had spoken to her, her words weren't for Caitlyn. They were for herself. Caitlyn couldn't have done anything to help the lady anyway. Her job was to catch a killer before he struck again, not body recovery. In any case, events had quickly swept her away from Snakehead Mountain, the town of Hopewell, and Sarah Durandt's public tragedy.
Now, somehow, they had brought her back.
The migraine's grip slipped a bit. She kept her thoughts focused on the new puzzles Clemens had delivered her today. A missing US Marshal, a missing man and his missing son, a helluva lot of blood from both men at a crime scene. What did it add up to?
To find the answer, she'd gone to Durandt's previous identity, Stanley Diamontes. His records, like Durandt's, had been totally erased from the system. It was only through doing a Lexis/Nexis search that she'd been able to find enough to piece together a scenario. Thank God for the Internet.
Seemed Stan was involved in a money-laundering scheme for a Russian named Korsakov. Stan, seeing the errors of his ways—or more likely to cover his ass and avoid prison—had come to the FBI with enough information to convict Korsakov. Then Stan had promptly vanished.
Which translated to witness protection. And where better to stash a Malibu surfer boy than the mountains of the Adirondacks? That would explain Richland's involvement. Maybe.
If not for the fact that Richland had never worked WITSEC. His short, undistinguished career with the Marshals had been limited to fugitive apprehension and security details.
Her fingers and toes finally unclenched as feeling returned. She spit out her makeshift gag.
If Durandt was in the witness protection program, someone had concealed all record of it. Caitlyn had been unable to find any record of Stan Diamontes except for the single DNA sample. Collected fifteen years ago during a Stanford bone marrow donor drive, it hadn't shown up in CODIS or any of the evidence files. It was only luck Clemens had found it at all. Every other trace of Diamontes had been erased. Even the guy's prints had been removed from AFIS.
She rolled over on her back, able to breathe, the headache now a mere pounding. As she opened her eyes and stared into the darkness, she thought about the men who would have the power and ability to erase classified DOJ records.
Could be some kind of intelligence thing. NSA, CIA, somewhere in alphabet land? Nah, they wouldn't have any need for a second rate bean counter like Diamontes. And why would Richland be involved?
Maybe Richland wasn't one of the good guys? Her research on the Marshal had revealed a mediocre record. Less than mediocre if you knew how to read between the lines of the bureaucratese wording of his fit-reps. And one curious item—he'd worked the Korsakov task force with her old boss, Jack Logan, back when they were both field agents.
She blinked and it barely hurt at all. Nothing a fistful of Toradol couldn't handle.
Caitlyn sat up, breathed out against the head rush until her vision cleared, then braced herself on the toilet and slowly climbed to her feet. She kept the lights off, feeling her way through the boxes of syringes and bottles of medicine until she had the right ones. Despite the doctor's warnings about using it too frequently, she'd shoot up with Imitrex again—couldn't risk the migraine returning.
Not now, not when she had work to do.
She used the auto-injector, the pain of the needle in her thigh was nothing compared to the remnants of the headache. Or the thought that this might be her last case for
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