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“He…was…an accountant.”
“An accountant? For who?”
“I…I actually don’t know.” She took a breath, her voice growing stronger. “My mom didn’t like his boss. She called him a crook. Do you think…maybe…he literally was?”
I huffed a sharp, cynical laugh. “Who knows? But whoever the fuck he is, he doesn’t want to be ID’d. Shit, Sparrow…”
Her eyes glistened, her eyes wrapping around her waist. “I’m sorry. Hudson, I…”
I cut her off. “Don’t be sorry. You didn’t do this. We’ll find out who the fucker is. Your parents deserve to have their murderer locked up. You deserve to live without fear. You deserve safety.”
“You do, too, but…look what happened when I tried to do the right thing.”
My head shook while she spoke. “ Yeah, it happened, but now, there’s a lead. We’ll talk to the cops where you live. We’ll talk to the cops here. They can contact Chicago.”
I pulled her into his lap. “It’s gonna be okay. Let me make the phone calls and get the right ball rolling.”
* * *
I wasn’t sure it was actual protocol, but one of the officers who answered the call to my house knew my parents. After checking the area, and pointing out where someone had obviously inspected the perimeter of my house, looking for a place to bypass my security, Officer Quaid took our report. His brows pinched when I mentioned the break-in at Sparrow’s old apartment—old, because I damned well wasn’t letting her go back. His back went stock-straight and he reared back slightly, his head tilting with interest when I mentioned Chicago and Sparrow’s parents and how she’d recently contacted them about the case.
“Can you go take photos of the damage to the vehicles and the evidence around the house?” he told the younger officer with him. He’d waited until the guy left then looked at me.
“I have a friend I’m going to call. When all is said and done, this will be his jurisdiction anyway.
Forty-five minutes later, Sparrow and I were meeting with a local fed at the brewery, thanks to Jordie picking us up.
“Fuck,” he said at the sight of my car and truck, echoing my earlier assessment. On the way, I’d gotten the call from Officer Quaid, telling me to expect the agent. Now, Agent Truman Modine, dressed in jeans, dress shirt ad and blazer sat across from us with several files and an untouched Coke. Somehow, his office has taken over this whole case. They know more about Sparrow and her parents than I could have imagined in that short amount of time, which made me wonder if the feds had already been looking into matters.
Modine slid a black-and-white photo across the table. “Evan Maxwell. Does he look familiar.”
Her hand clenched around mine. With choppy breaths, her head shook—her whole body shook. Even her fingers felt as if they’d turned to ice.
“That’s him. I’m sure…it’s him. I’ll never, ever…forget. My mom only had…only a second…to shove me into that storage cabinet when…he was breaking in. I…I don’t even…know why it was empty.”
Modine’s fingers tapped on the tabletop as she gave the halting account and my eyes narrowed on him. His brow raised when he caught my glare. I shifted my glance to his fingers then back to his stare. “She wasn’t even talking yesterday. You have no idea how hard this is. I’m shocked she can even talk to you.”
“You…” she looked at me and blew out a harsh breath. “Keep me…safe.”
“Always,” I promised.
“Go on,” the agent urged, his voice softer than before.
Her voice wavering, her hands still clenched around mine, Sparrow described Maxwell breaking in. He’d thrown a knife at her father, taking him down. Then he’d grabbed her mother, demanding to know where Sparrow was, shaking her so hard her head was snapping back and forth. He’d thrown her to the side and she’d crashed onto a console table. Her father had tried to fight, but wouldn’t give up Sparrow’s whereabouts, either. Maxwell had stabbed him then in a rage, stabbed her mother.
“I didn’t move for hours. Even after it was dark. Then I called 911.”
Modine rubbed the center of his forehead. Then a moment later, he was one-hundred percent cold business again.
“Evan Maxwell is a suspected trafficker but we’ve never been able to pin him. Not with trafficking. Not with murder, even though there are others around him who’ve met the same fate as Mr. and Mrs. Rose. He doesn’t leave witnesses.” He met Sparrow’s eyes. “And you’re not only a lost commodity to him, but you’re a witness. He wants you silenced.”
“Killed?” she whispered.
“Likely.”
“So why didn’t he grab her ten years ago when she called the cops—clearly he has an inside guy or he wouldn’t know that Sparrow called him.”
Modine stared me down, his lips a firm line. “Not necessarily. While art can mimic reality, there aren’t dirty cops working for the mob in every police station. He could have a hack into their system—which need to be looked into. Or…you might be right. There might be an inside guy. But that night, the guy who pulled Maxwell over and hauled him into holding for going thirty over the speed limit in a residential area wasn’t someone in the know.” The agent looked over at Sparrow. “A traffic infraction saved your life. And maybe some purposely lost paperwork. I’ve been over all the files. There’s no record of you after the 911 call was made.”
