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Hans cut him off. “There was no trial. It was a plea agreement.” He slid over the file in front of him. “It’s sealed, not public. I made you a copy, but I don’t have to tell you how sensitive the information is. Morton was apprehended while Scott was still at-large. In exchange for leniency, Morton gave us information that helped lead us to Scott, which resulted in saving lives. In addition, he turned over all bank accounts and financial documentation from Scott’s money-laundering operation. The legal sex industry brings in a small fortune, but that doesn’t even touch the amount of money in the illegal sex trade.”
Noah opened the file on Morton, slipped the mug shot back in, and skimmed the summary page while Hans continued to bring him up to speed on the case. A name in the files jumped out at him.
“Kate Donovan.” He looked up from the papers. “It says here she wasn’t an agent, but she’s the e-crimes instructor, correct?”
“Donovan was suspended at the time of Morton’s arrest,” Hans said. “I have another agent flying in from her current assignment to help—she can fill you in on the details not in that file because she was part of the original investigation.”
“Pardon me for asking, but why would you bring in an agent when Donovan—who was also involved in the investigation—is local?” When Hans didn’t immediately say anything, Noah added, “Do you think Donovan is involved in Morton’s murder?”
“No,” Hans said quickly, “but I’m personal friends with Kate and her family. That’s why you are investigating the murder, not me. Morton could have been killed for a hundred different reasons. But—”
Noah finished his thought. “A bullet to the back of the head suggests execution. Punishment.”
“Exactly.”
Noah skimmed the M.E. report. “Was he tortured prior to death?”
“Broken nose, bruising on his right wrist. The medical examiner believes his nose was broken when the killer pushed his head into the ground. However, someone kicked him repeatedly in the groin area while he was prone. So violently that had he not been killed, he would have lost at least one of his testicles.”
Noah shifted in his seat and said, “Morton was a rapist; that sounds like revenge.”
“On the surface.”
More than on the surface, Noah thought, but he continued reading the file. “His last known address is in Denver. Do you know when he moved to D.C.?”
“We just got the case this morning,” Hans said. “We don’t know anything more than you do at this point, and what’s in Morton’s records. Rick Stockton wanted to speak with you directly, to explain the extreme sensitivity. He expects discreet due diligence. You will report directly to me, and I’ll keep Rick informed. Any clearances, anything you need from the U.S. Attorney—warrants, interviews, access—it’s yours. If you need to go to Denver to follow up, it’s approved. Anything you need, consider it approved. Just shoot me an email to CYA.”
“I understand what you need.” They had to believe someone in the Bureau was involved to go to such extreme lengths to avoid traditional channels. “Anything else?”
“You should know that one of Morton’s victims was Kate Donovan’s sister-in-law, Lucy Kincaid. She lives with Donovan and Donovan’s husband, Dr. Dillon Kincaid. Lucy wasn’t told of the plea agreement and as far as I know, she didn’t know Morton was out of prison.”
“Kincaid?” Noah stared pointedly at the assistant director. “The same Kincaid with the private security company Rogan-Caruso-Kincaid?”
“That would be Jack and Patrick, brothers of the victim. Kate is married to Dillon, a forensic psychiatrist and civilian consultant for the FBI.”
Hans leaned forward and eyed Noah. “You have a relationship with the Kincaids?”
Not the Kincaids. Face impassive, he said, “No, but I’ve followed the interesting career of the firm.” RCK was known to skirt the law and had access to information Noah suspected was in the darker gray shades of what a private security company should be able to access, which made him wonder just how many people inside federal law enforcement fed them intelligence.
While his initial assignment of the Morton investigation was sticky, RCK’s potential involvement made this muck as thick and foul-smelling as molasses. Specifically the Rogan part of RCK.
“Do you have any questions?” Hans asked.
“I need the investigator’s files, forensics, everything you have on Morton. Where he served his sentence, terms of his plea agreement and probation.” Noah paused. “And Kate Donovan’s personal contact information. I think it would be better if I went to her house. For the sake of discretion.” He glanced at Hans. “And it would be best if you avoid speaking with anyone involved until I have a chance to interview them.”
Hans agreed. “But don’t delay. While we took over the case, the Kincaids and RCK have a lot of friends in a lot of places. I’m sure no one knows yet—I would have gotten a call—but I’m waiting for the phone to ring.”
Lucy sat on the Metro train pretending to read a book. It wasn’t the writer’s fault that she wasn’t engaged in the story. Any other ride and Lucy would have been absolutely riveted by the action-packed plot, but tonight all she could think about was a rapist going back to prison. When the subway train slowed as it approached her stop at Foggy Bottom, she shoved her unread paperback in her satchel and snapped the buckle without thought—a habit from self-defense training.
Muggers go for the easy mark. Don’t be an easy mark.
She stood and maneuvered toward the doors, eager to meet her brother. Patrick was leaving tomorrow morning for two weeks at Stanford University, where he was working on a security system for their new laboratory. He’d been living in D.C. only a month, she was just getting used to his comforting presence in her life, and already he was going away again.
As soon as the doors slid open, Lucy exited amid the throng of commuters. Starting up the stairs, the back of her neck crawled with the all-too-familiar sensation of being watched. She unconsciously stiffened and stumbled, bumping into the businesswoman in front of her. “Excuse me,” she said automatically, but the woman never looked back. Painful tension started at the base of her skull, spreading rapidly, her heart racing as if she were running a marathon. By the time she reached the top of the stairs, she was fighting a full-fledged panic attack.
You’re in the damn Metro station! Of course people will see you.
But it was more than a casual perusal of her looks; someone’s eyes were focused on her. Dammit, hadn’t she just gone through this thirty minutes ago? When was it going to stop?
