Page 119 of You Know Why

The money. He’d given money to whoever had come for me in Argentina to go away.

What if they’ve come back?

What if he’s been paying them off all this time?

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?”