The Trap (Agent Dallas 3) (18 page)

“My family doesn’t think so.”

“Families never do.” She moved a pawn just to get the game rolling. “I hope there’s more tequila in the kitchen. Are you up for shots?”

“I have something better.” Cree pulled a small mint-candy container from the drawer and removed a joint. “You toke?” He lit up before she could answer.

A pungent aroma she hadn’t experienced in years. “No, it just makes me sleepy.” Dallas stood. “But I do need another beer.”

She brought the tequila too, just in case Luke came back and wanted to drink with her. Or Cree changed his mind. Getting people drunk had proved successful in learning their secrets. She could drink like a sailor and puke on cue to stay more sober than her target. Dallas settled into the couch again, a little closer to Cree. Physical proximity was effective too. “How did you get connected to Luke and the inner circle?”

“We met at a skydive a few years ago.” He took another drag of the joint.

“I remember now. We talked about it that first night we all hung out. I guess I’m curious about why you’re willing to take such risks for this cause. Considering your background.”

Cree gave her a wounded look. “That’s why I’m willing. I don’t want to be just another spoiled rich kid. I want my life to mean something.”

Dallas patted his leg. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be offensive. That’s why I joined too. I was just drifting before. It’s important to have purpose.”

Cree made a standard move, giving no hint of his chess strategy.

“What was your first mission with the group?” Dallas asked.

“A phony email campaign, supposedly sent by Congressman Bletzo to his constituents. Luke wrote the text, but I hacked his account and orchestrated the digital part.” Cree smiled with pride.

A piece of information she hadn’t known. “Was it effective?”

“We think so. Two weeks later, his state voted to legalize medical pot.” Cree took another hit from his joint. “A small victory, but that’s how we started, working to change drug laws.”

Dallas studied the board and moved her rook. Cree was either not that good at the game or was about to blow her away. “What’s next for the inner circle? Especially now that funding is a problem?”

“I don’t know.” He stiffened a little. “I’m worried about Abby. She’s becoming radicalized, and I’m afraid she’ll push Luke to do something regrettable, maybe even violent.”

An opening. “Is Luke capable of violence?”

“I don’t see him that way.” Cree’s voice dropped to almost a whisper. “But Luke told me once that everyone who spends that long in prison starts to see violence as just another behavior, almost a way of communicating.”

Dallas repressed a shiver. Considering the millions of people incarcerated, most of whom would be free someday, that was a lot of potential trouble. She made another move on the board, eager to be alone so she could leave the house and contact Drager. She would have to go for a long walk again to get out of the range of Aaron’s monitoring before she made the call.

Cree beat her in three more moves and was very gracious about it. Dallas excused herself. “I think I’m going out for some fresh air too. After I get my jacket.” She hurried upstairs. Contacting her team would be so much simpler if she could just use email. Dallas pulled on her running jacket, grabbed her cell phone, and headed back down. Outside, the air had cooled but the night was clear, and above her hundreds of stars sparkled, something she never saw in Phoenix or DC, where the city lights drowned out the night sky. Dallas started down the gravel driveway to the main road.

She hoped to run into Luke and offer him comfort. He seemed vulnerable at the moment and might reveal something important. The bureau needed to know more about their plans to sabotage prison supply trucks—in case the mission or the takedown didn’t go as planned Friday. Luke had been reluctant to talk about the subject.

At the road, she went left and jogged past the field to a turnout where it was safer to stand. She didn’t expect much traffic, but outside this little pocket of rural hideaway, the whole area was densely populated, at least compared to large chunks of land in the southwest and Midwest. Dallas pulled out her cell phone and punched in Drager’s number. Then she hesitated. Calling her contact from the Tara phone was still a risk. Aaron might be able to access her data once she was back in range. She’d only called Drager once last Sunday, but she’d been much farther away from the house. Cree and Aaron both had mad tech skills, and sometimes people like that spied on others just for fun. But Drager needed to know they were set for Friday. She remembered Drager’s backup plan to comment on the Real Food blog. That seemed safer.

Dallas deleted the number and jogged back toward the house. As she approached the driveway, headlights appeared. Someone was leaving the farmhouse. The van barely stopped before it entered the road with Abby driving. What was she doing? It seemed late to be making another trip into town. Was she buying more meth to try again with the governor? Dallas was glad this case would be over Friday. She didn’t want to face another ordeal like that again. She slowed to a walk down the driveway but didn’t see Luke anywhere.

The common areas of the house were empty, and she hustled upstairs without running into anyone. This assignment was so different from the last two she’d done. It had taken a lot longer to get inside her target group this time, but once she’d been accepted, she’d had a lot more direct involvement with their activities, so there had been less need for spying. Her testimony—plus Luke’s downloaded files—might be all the bureau needed to prosecute the inner circle for sabotage and vandalism. But the cyber crimes would be harder to prove. Drager knew that and wanted a big bust and long sentences. The irony of it was almost painful. Thinking about Luke in prison for twenty years made her stomach clench. Unless he had killed the judge. But if Bidwell had sold hundreds of people to an undeserving life of incarceration, his death didn’t need any justice. This case was fucked up and she wanted out. Cameron was in Arizona, pining for her. She couldn’t wait to get home and screw his brains out.

Up in her room, Dallas retrieved her laptop from between the mattresses and logged into the Real Food website. The newest blog was about fasting for short periods and how to do it safely. Dallas skimmed the article for something to respond to and scrolled down to the Comments section. It would be challenging to use Drager’s code words, plus weave in the day and time of the sting, while trying to post something intelligent. After a minute of thinking, she logged in and wrote:
I’m sure humans fasted for periods of time as hunter/gatherers, but not eating on certain days seems silly. Like Catholics not eating meat on Friday. What’s that about? It’s just one of many peculiar human food issues. When you go to the religious texts, the inconsistencies make the directives about when not to eat certain foods meaningless. It’s better to target a daily caloric intake and eat whatever real food pleases you.

Good enough.
Hunter, Friday, one, go
and
target
should give Drager everything he needed. He probably wouldn’t see the comment tonight, but he still had plenty of time to set up. She clicked Post and switched over to watch dance videos on YouTube. She’d give Drager an hour to respond, then check again in the morning. Her phone made a funny beep, and she looked over at it. Time to update her settings. She plugged the cell into her computer and went to brush her teeth. Thirty-six more hours and it would be over.

Thursday, Oct. 9, 6:17 a.m.

Drager woke with a throbbing pain in his left eye. He rubbed it for a minute before getting up. A morning ritual now. The medication he took for the tumor wasn’t working any more, and the surgery was risky. He was putting it off until the bureau forced him to retire at age fifty-seven. Jocelyn had pushed for the surgery, and that issue had become another wedge between them. She’d also nagged him to eat healthier and take the statins his doctor prescribed. God, he missed her.

He took a twenty-minute walk just so he could tell her he’d started exercising, then ate a banana and some beef jerky for breakfast. That was healthy, right? He couldn’t stop thinking about Joce. Would he see her again on the Bidwell case? If not, he would call and ask her to lunch. He could use their son Kyle as an excuse. Drager strapped on his service weapon, grabbed his briefcase, and headed out of his new condo rental. He was closer to work now that they’d separated, but he hating living alone. Jocelyn hadn’t put their house on the market yet, so maybe she was subconsciously waiting, hoping he would come back. He realized now he wanted that more than anything.

He bought a tall cup of decaf at the coffee shop near the field office and hurried through the security process. His eye ached, and he was still hungry, but he felt more upbeat than he had in months. At his desk, Drager sipped his still-too-hot coffee and called the Virginia Power Cooperative. The utility company serviced the farmhouse where the inner circle was based. A customer-service rep asked how she could help him. “Agent Drager, FBI. I need to talk to your supervisor.” He knew better than to waste time with people who didn’t know anything or weren’t authorized to share what they did know.

Another woman, older and more assertive, came on the line. “This is Angela Milton. How can I help you?”

Drager introduced himself again, giving his badge number this time. “I need to know if Luke Maddox pays the bill at 1577 Wolf Run Road. He’s wanted for murder, and we’re trying to find him.” The request was a long shot, and the manager would probably protect her customer.

“Oh my. Let me get back to you.” She put him on hold with country music playing. Drager muted his phone.

A judge had finally signed the subpoena to check Luke Maddox’s credit card and phone records for the window time surrounding Bidwell’s murder, but it turned out the activist didn’t have any services in his name. No financial accounts, no cell phone service, no rental agreements. A dead end. Based on Dallas’ intel report of Wolf Run and “the seventh driveway past Butt’s Corner,” Drager had been able to pinpoint the house and its address. The owner turned out to be a real estate company with an address in Japan. So far, he’d learned nothing about the connection between the company and the inner circle, and no money exchange had surfaced. Maddox was careful about hiding his tracks.

The utility manager came back on line. “The account is held by Hana Kasumi. She’s had service at the address for eighteen years.”

Another dead end. Or maybe not. “How is the bill paid?”

“It’s on autopay with a credit card.”

“Will you give me the number?”

“I can’t do that. Not without a court order.”

“I’ll get one. What’s your fax number?”

Drager noted it on his yellow tablet—a disposable piece of information. He’d learned to categorize, so the paper pileup in his office didn’t overwhelm him. By the time he got the subpoena for the utility payment number and waited for the credit card company to send him records, it would be next week. He sent a quick email to Chuck Surry, in the White Collar unit:
How are you coming on the bank accounts for the inner circle?
Surry, who had contacts in the financial world, was checking into Abby Gleeson and Cree Songchild—plus his real name of Drake Morrison— to see if they had bank accounts or credit cards.

Maybe it was time to check the Real Food blog again to see if Dallas had posted anything. UC agents were often lax about checking in, but in this case, Dallas was being monitored by her targets, and it made him nervous to not hear from her. He opened the blog from a bookmark and scrolled through the comments. There she was. Tara Adams had posted a rambling comment about food choices, but he read the message loud and clear. The inner circle would be at Senator Pearlman’s home on Friday at one, so he could get his people in place for a takedown.
Excellent!
That was fast. Agent Dallas had a reputation for speed and manipulation, and he was impressed. The activists had also been ripe for stepping up their game. But this was happening almost too fast. He had to call Senator Pearlman and prep him and his wife for Friday, then get out to their house and map the layout. Plus pull in more agents for the operation.

Before he could do any of that, two emails landed at the same time. The first was from the Agent Surry:
Songchild has a credit card that is paid automatically by an account connected to the American Tradition Foundation, a private charity. But no large transfers of cash. Sorry.
That was disappointing. Where and how did the inner circle access their money? Drager was impatient to find the source.

The second email was from the manager at the Grand Roosevelt Hotel, and it had an attachment:
This file was recorded by one of the guests at the fundraiser for Senator Pearlman. It has the voiceover the activists used. Can you compare it to known criminals?

Drager smiled to himself. Yes, the bureau had recordings of some criminals, and now banks were capturing thousands more of potential criminals. But the issue wasn’t about identifying the perps—they knew who they were. It was a matter of collecting all the evidence they could to convict them. The recording would help. He wondered which one of the inner circle had made it. They would know soon enough.

Agent Wunn stepped into his workspace. Open doors were the policy in this field office.

“I found something that could be important.” Her typically expressionless face held a tremor of nervousness.

“What have you got?”

“I’ve been running the activists’ names into every database I could think of, hoping to find other aliases they might have used.” She paused and sat down. “There’s an Aaron Foster in the witness protection program.”

Thursday, Oct. 9, 10:49 a.m.

Luke pulled off his sweaty biking clothes and stood in a hot shower. He’d ridden twenty-five miles, trying to burn up the stress, his brain racing as fast as his legs. He couldn’t stop thinking about the mission tomorrow. The decriminalization vote was critical, and none of the other efforts they’d tried with Pearlman had worked. The senator’s announcement, claiming that the more he was targeted, the more intractable he would become, had infuriated him. So the dog-napping/blackmail tactic was critical to finally getting some forward momentum. The mission seemed simple to execute, and Luke wanted to be optimistic. Cree was out there in the senator’s neighborhood now, watching the house to see if they’d beefed up security. Cree had texted earlier to report no sign of anything new and would be on his way home soon. Everything indicated a green light for the mission. Yet, uneasiness plagued Luke.