AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“That’s the only way,” Delgado said, with absolutely no uncertainty on his face.
Macklin just shook his head. “Even without one tiny clue, tip, or hint—even when it goes against what our profilers have said—you want to take off on some goddamn odyssey to find the real Riley Wolfe. Because you’re dead certain that’s the way to catch him.”
Delgado moved his head up and down about half an inch. “There’s not the slightest doubt.”
“No,” Macklin said. “Without any kind of evidence to back it up? No. I can’t justify the man-hours, or the expense.”
Delgado still showed no expression. He simply looked back at Macklin for an uncomfortably long time. Then he nodded and stood up. “I understand,” he said.
“Good, thank you, Frank,” Macklin said, surprised and relieved.
“I have six weeks’ accumulated vacation time,” Delgado said. “I’m taking it, starting tomorrow.” And he turned to go.
“What? Wait! Goddamn it, Frank!” Macklin said. But his office door was already closed, and Delgado was gone.
Macklin shook his head, sighed deeply. “Goddamn it,” he said again. Then he pulled the next folder from his in-tray and went back to work.
* * *
—
Dawn the next morning was gray, and a fine drizzle fell over suburban Virginia. Frank Delga
do didn’t really notice. He was up well before the sun, and by the time the first soggy gray gleams of light showed in the sky, he’d showered, shaved, and had his breakfast. And then he made one small gesture to his heritage and drank a second cup of Cuban coffee before he headed out the door.
He walked briskly down the front walk and threw his luggage into the back seat of his personal vehicle, an eight-year-old Yukon. There wasn’t much, just a small suitcase, a laptop, and a briefcase. He closed the door and climbed into the front behind the wheel. On the seat beside him he placed the file folder. It was a copy, but still technically a breach of regulations since he was on private time. It was exactly the kind of rule he tended to break routinely, and he wasn’t worried about the consequences. If he was successful, anything up to shooting the AD would be forgiven. Especially since Riley had apparently killed that billionaire Big Pharma guy in Chicago, and big money always makes big waves.
He flipped open the folder and studied the top page again. That arrest for B&E, the first official record of Riley Wolfe’s existence, had taken place in Syracuse, New York. Delgado knew the town slightly. He didn’t like it much. But that was his starting point. And he had a feeling he wouldn’t be in Syracuse very long. His instincts told him that Riley Wolfe had gone to Syracuse for a specific prize, and his trail would very quickly lead out of town to a more relevant locale, maybe even Riley’s hometown.
He could have made a phone call to the Syracuse cops, or sent an email. But Delgado was after more than bare facts. He wanted to put his nose down on the ground Riley had walked on. He wanted to get a true scent of this elusive criminal. He needed to poke around in the places that had formed Riley Wolfe. That meant going to those places, finding people who knew him, talking to them face-to-face. That was the only way to get an accurate picture of Riley and what made him tick.
So he would go to Syracuse, even though he didn’t like it. Finding the key to unlock this master criminal’s psychology was what mattered. Delgado would go anywhere to do that. And he had six weeks to get it done.
Special Agent Frank Delgado nodded. He knew what he was good at, and patiently tracking down a lead was part of it. Six weeks was enough time. He flipped the folder closed and started his car. Then he headed out the driveway and down the road to find Riley Wolfe.
CHAPTER
8
Michael Hobson was one of the top corporate attorneys in New York City. He had a practice that demanded a minimum of twelve hours a day. On top of that, like most rich and important men, Michael was also on a lot of corporate boards. So there were meetings, conferences, briefs to read—it all kept him very busy indeed. So busy that he seldom seemed to have time for distractions of any kind, which included, in his mind, his wife. So he was understandably peeved when his secretary buzzed him to say that a Mr. Fitzer, from the SEC, was here to see him. Michael spent a full three seconds looking out the large glass window that made up the entire back wall of his fifty-second-floor, mahogany-paneled office, and wondering if he should tell the man to make an appointment and come back later.
Three seconds was all it took. A man like Michael Hobson didn’t need a problem with the SEC. Besides, their officials were professional, smart, and competent and wouldn’t waste his time. So he said, “Send him in,” to his secretary and then swiveled his chair to face the door.
The man who came in a moment later was the very picture of a young and hungry attorney. He was average height, fit-looking, with medium-length brown hair and a hearing aid in his left ear. He wore rimless glasses and a fashionable stubble of beard, and his suit was good without being ostentatious. He walked in briskly and offered Michael his hand. “Mr. Hobson? I’m Bill Fitzer, from the SEC Division of Enforcement.”
His grip was strong but not overbearing, and Michael motioned him to a chair. “I didn’t realize you were from Enforcement, Bill,” he said.
“That’s right,” Fitzer said with a polite smile. “I’m afraid crime is something of a ruling passion.”
“A private practice would pay a lot better,” Hobson said, probing just a little. “And it would certainly give you more than enough exposure to crime.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” Fitzer said. “In fact, that’s what I want to talk to you about.”
Hobson was instantly on guard. “Really,” he said. “Is there some kind of problem with . . . one of my clients?”
Fitzer smiled, a brief professional expression that meant nothing. “I’m sure it’s nothing, Mr. Hobson. Probably an excess of caution. But if I might have a few moments of your time, I would like to ask a few questions about Elmore Fitch.”
“Elmore Fitch is not actually my client.”
