“Until Morgan,” Riley agreed. “I looked closer at the supervisor too. He made two payments to a controlled LLC, six months apart. Both cleared the week a case went quiet.”
“He’s not the top of it though.”
“No. He’s like a branch manager. The organization runs well above him, and spans multiple states, minimum.” He could hear her tapping away at her keyboard. “We’re beyond county and state here. This is federal jurisdiction.”
“Send me everything.”
“Already on it.”
He hung up and sat for a moment, his anger simmering just below the surface. This was what Morgan had unknowingly stumbled into after four years of exemplary work. This was what they didn’t want her to find. And they were willing to destroy her career—destroy her—to keep her quiet.
He was going to enjoy taking this apart, piece by piece.
33
PIECES COMING TOGETHER
MORGAN
Instead of heading straight backto Frank’s, Morgan drove around for a while, taking in the scenery. Autumn was on its way out, but the approaching starkness had its own kind of beauty. She lowered the window and breathed in the scents of crisp air and fallen leaves, pine and frosty earth.
She could understand why Patrick wanted to stay here. It was lovely and fresh, solid and enduring. This was where his family was.
And hers, she realized with a sudden clarity.
The land, purchased by her great-grandfather and bequeathed to his sons. The campground, built and maintained by the great-uncle she’d never met. Frank’s parcel, a protected haven off the beaten path. She’d been referring to the land as Sullivan land for weeks, but for the first time, shefeltit.
Driving past the turnoff for Frank’s, she kept going until she reached the campground. She parked and got out, ducking under the gate. Tucking her hands in her pocket, she began walking, her steps clearly audible on the gravel and fallen leaves.
Sullivanland. She thought about Thomas and wondered what he was like. Was he anything like Frank? Had they gotten along?
What would Frank do with the campground now, assuming it would pass to him? Did he even want it?
She walked the gravel coated road, imagining the excitement and anticipation of vacationers as they pulled campers behind big V8 trucks and set up tents or headed to rented cabins. She looked between the trees at the lake, mirror-still, reflecting the sky and the mountains that rose up on the other side. Felt a pang of sadness for the crumbling fire rings and the cast iron grills that were no longer making memories.
When she drew close to the cabin where Anthony Varro’s body had been found, she slowed, looking at it again with fresh eyes. Who had killed him, if not Frank? Who knew the area well enough to know not only the campground, but the logging trail? Who had CIA-operator skills?
Most importantly, who would go to such lengths to protecther?
She thought about her stepfather. Did Constantine have the means and connections to make someone quietly disappear? Absolutely. But the method was wrong. The people in his world didn’t use neurotoxins administered via frozen darts, and they didn’t leave bodies behind—unless they were sending a message.
Besides, if something happened to her, Constantine certainly wouldn’t be shedding any tears.
No, him sending Varro seemed far more likely. And it certainly would simplify things for him.
She sighed and turned back the way she came.
The sun had risen fullyby the time she pulled into Frank’s driveway and parked beside Donna’s car.
She let herself in and found Frank at the table with his coffee and the newspaper, and Donna at the range, frying bacon and flipping pancakes. Shadow’s tail thumped in greeting from his place at Donna’s feet, where Morgan suspected bits of bacon were occasionally dropped.
Frank looked up when she came in, his eyes searching.
She’d expected judgment and got concern instead.
You okay?His gaze asked without saying anything.
She looked back at him, holding his gaze, her chin level.I’m good.