It’s All Confidential Theresa
It’s All Confidential
Theresa
Theresa feels an unmistakable déjà vu as Drake parks in front of the FBI’s offices. The flagpole and edifice are lit up now. The evening sky is a deep cobalt, and the air is crisp and fresh. It feels like snow.
She wants to wrap this case and go home.
It’s time to think about her future. Whether she wants to move to Virginia to be closer to Drake is definitely something she needs to think about.
But she’s tired. Tired of the crime, the criminals, and the lack of respect for common decency and humanity.
The drugs, the thefts, the murders . . .
She wants a quieter life. If there’s anything this situation has brought her, it’s that realization.
One way or another, she’s going to solve this case and then hang up her spurs.
Putter around a garden. Learn to knit. Make elaborate dinners for Drake to come home to.
She’s at prime bird-watching age; it’s high time she does just that.
She’ll figure out her second act after a break from the chaos.
The tall SAC doesn’t meet them this time; it’s another agent who escorts them to the office Drake has been using.
Theresa grabs them a couple of Coke Zeros from the break room refrigerator and a handful of string cheeses and crackers.
She’s famished, and with luck, this will hold them both over for a while until they can get dinner.
In the small office, she passes the food and drink to Drake, who thanks her with a distracted air.
“Okay, I’ve pulled up Roman Thomas’s number. You ready?” At her nod, he dials the phone.
After three rings, a man answers. His voice is deep and gruff. “Brilliance Boutique. Can I help you?”
“Is this Roman Thomas?”
“Yes.”
“Sir, this is Agent Drake Sheehan with the FBI. I’m with Detective Theresa Lee. We’re calling about your daughter, Brooklyn.”
“She’s okay? Tell me she’s okay.”
The edge in his voice makes her lean forward.
“She is okay, sir. Our inquiry is about a situation from her past. She was in Thiviers, France, with Roger Bandolier, when he passed. Is that correct?”
“I . . . don’t have any comment about that.”
Drake grins at Theresa. Bingo.
“Sir, we understand that you’ve been convicted and served time for federal drug charges. We are putting together a timeline that includes your daughter’s time in France in relation to your convictions. Was she in receipt of any—”
“I know nothing of my daughter’s ties in France. I was in prison then, and sadly, we haven’t spoken in many years. Thank you for reaching out. Any further inquiries can be made through my attorney.” Click.
“He hung up on you.”
“He sure did,” Drake replies. “Guess that answers that. He knows something about Brooklyn’s situation in Thiviers.”
“Possibly so. Is there anything else in the database about it?”
He gnaws on a piece of cheese and types with one hand: “Brooklyn Thomas Roger Bandolier.”
The machine whirs and comes up blank. “Nope. We should call the police in Thiviers.”
She looks at her watch, calculates the time difference. “It’s probably too late. It’s midnight there.”
“It’s a police station. Someone should be there. Let’s give it a try.”
The website is in French, naturally, but the station’s phone number is at the bottom. Theresa dials it on her cell phone, puts it on speaker. The odd double ring that signals she’s calling Europe gives way to a harried female voice speaking extremely fast French.
“Uh, hello. Bonjour. Do you speak English?”
“Of course I do. Who is this, please?”
“Detective Theresa Lee and Agent Drake Sheehan. American FBI. We would like to inquire about a case. The overdose death of Roger Bandolier?”
“D’accord. You need to speak with the Gendarmerie nationale. The local Brigade de Thiviers responds to these calls. They would most likely bring in additional resources. Would you like their contact information?”
“Yes, thank you.”
The woman complies and bids them good night. Drake has been tapping away.
“I’m an idiot. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before.
I have Bandolier’s case here. The US embassy in Paris got involved.
This is their report. Because there were illegal drugs, the embassy was dealing with the public prosecutor in Périgueux.
They wanted to press charges, but there was no one on the crew who was in possession of any drugs.
There was a lawyer flown in who represented the staff of the show.
” He reads a little more. “Basically, the crew admitted that Bandolier was doing drugs, and he was not discreet about it. There were witnesses in Thiviers who backed that up, locals who saw him partying the week they were there for the shoot. He was not at the hotel for an extended period that afternoon. They assumed he was scoring. It wasn’t unusual for him to wander if there was free time. ”
“Anything about Brooklyn?”
“Only that her statement matches a lot of the others. She was at the hotel all afternoon with the crew. They had finished the shoot that morning, had lunch, and were all either relaxing in the hotel or exploring the town. Three witnesses attest that she was in the lobby with her laptop while he was gone, working on the photos she’d taken.
One said she was very quiet that day, but they were all exhausted.
The French police never made an arrest in the case, and no one was prosecuted for providing him with the drugs. ”
“Hmm. Well, this feels like something.”
“Yeah. Let’s keep looking. We can make a formal request for the entire case file. What else?”
“Anything on Brook and Andrew, perchance?”
He types again. “Brooklyn Thomas Andrew Locke.”
This time, the screen goes blank for a moment, then pops up a password box.
Drake drops his cheese and leans forward, intent on the screen. He types fast, and the password box disappears. Files start scrolling onto the screen. He clicks on the first one, then on another.
“What is this? What are you looking at?”
A scoffing laugh. “Something we didn’t get access to before. It seems someone has changed my security settings. Andrew Locke is in the system.”
“What? For what charges?”
“Not charges.” He whips his head around to stare at her. “He’s a fucking CI.”
“Wait, wait, wait. My Andrew Locke, a confidential informant for the FBI? How are we just finding this out?”
A knock on the door to the guest office makes them both jump. John Baldwin is standing there, filling up the space. His face is guarded. He looks around the office space as if realizing there’s not enough room for the three of them and shakes his head.
“You aren’t going to let this go, are you?”
Theresa can’t help the surprise. “Don’t know how we can, considering. I have murders to solve, and I’m hardly going to look away just because you want me to. So if you know something that will help us here, you should really tell us.”
“She’s right,” Drake growls. “What exactly is going on, SAC Baldwin? Locke is one of ours? You could have mentioned that before now. Might have helped.”
He blows out a long breath at Drake’s affronted tone and looks at Theresa. “I assume you have no issues signing an NDA?”
“Of course not.”
“Good. We should probably talk. Come with me.”
Theresa and Drake exchange a glance, then follow him down the hall to a larger conference room. Theresa is stopped at the door and handed a clipboard with an extensive stack of paperwork.
“Good grief. It will take me all night to read this.”
“You’re not FBI, and because of that, I need to get legal assurances that what you’re about to learn will not leave this room. I can’t have ten years of work compromised.”
She stops short. “Ten years? What?”
“Just sign it, Theresa,” Drake warns.
“Don’t think you’re getting away scot-free, Agent Sheehan. This is above your pay grade, too.” Another clipboard is handed over. Drake frowns but signs. Theresa follows suit.
They hand them back to Baldwin, who opens the door to the conference room.
A man is sitting with his back to them. He turns at the sound of the door, and Theresa sucks in a breath. He’s been beaten badly. He sports a black eye, a cast on his left arm, and a bandage around his right thigh.
“What the hell . . . Andrew?”