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FISH SNATCHED ONE OF the cards from the table. Then another. “Driver’s licenses?”
Fozzie reached into his pocket again and brought out three passports. Fish grabbed one of those as well. Lexi arranged the licenses in a row. Different names, but the same picture.
She opened one of the passports. “I never saw him, but I’m assuming these are for the man living here as Nelson Riggs.”
“Affirmative,” Townsend said.
“Which is his real identity?” Fish turned his attention to the screen, focusing on Emi.
“His Nelson Riggs identity checks out,” Emi said, still typing. “There’s a twenty-seven point eight chance it’s also a false ID, but I haven’t found anything unusual in any of the background information for the Nelson Riggs identity.”
“So what was he doing with these different IDs?” Lexi asked. “Five driver’s licenses and three passports.”
“The passports match the driver’s licenses,” Fozzie said. “We’re looking at five identities, one of which we assume is genuine. So, four false ones.”
“Anyone thinking sleeper agent?” Rambler said.
“Not likely.” Emi looked up from her keyboard. “Most of the time, a mole has lived in the country for many years, taking jobs in agencies their own government wants to infiltrate. When they’re activated, they maintain the identity they’ve always used. There would be no need for multiple personas.”
“So, not a mole, but someone in an espionage-related field? Military or an alphabet agency?” Lexi said.
Fozzie grinned. “Or a private company, like ... let me think ... Blackthorne, Inc., perchance?”
Dalton scowled. “Not likely,” he said, echoing Emi’s words. “You have one emergency ID, not a drawer full of them.”
Fozzie chuckled. “Couldn’t resist ... Cowboy.”
Dalton’s scowl morphed into a semblance of a grin. “You watch it, Aussie, or your next assignment will entail frequent trips to the sixty-second floor of an office building. An old office building. With an old, tiny elevator.”
Fozzie raised his hands in surrender. “Touché.”
Lexi elbowed Fish in the ribs, head tilted, brows furrowed.
“Claustrophobia,” Fish whispered, then looked to Townsend. “What did Riggs do for a living?”
“According to his rental application, he worked for Galaxy Designs, an architectural firm, in their accounting department.”
The rapid-fire clicking as Emi’s fingers tapped her keyboard added a jazz percussion background to the discussion. Then, an abrupt silence.
“I missed it before. That company has ties—well-disguised ties, but ties nevertheless, to Merlin.” Emi stared into the camera. “This will take more research.”
“Do it,” Dalton said.
“I’ll report tomorrow morning.” Emi closed her laptop and left.
“So, Nelson Riggs was doing something that involved having several identities,” Rambler said. “Are we going to look into what? And why?”
Dalton scratched his head. “Unless it has a connection to what Ms. Becker hired us to do, it’ll be a job for the police, since they’ll be doing the death investigation.”
Which made sense. Blackthorne worked for clients. If nobody had a case involving the Falcon, why would they have bothered looking? The guy was an expert at hiding his enterprises.
Dalton went on. “Blackthorne has a good working relationship with law enforcement, and I’m sure we will be informed. After all, Mr. Wakelee is connected to Blackthorne since he works at this building.”
“Do you think this was one big, messy coincidence?” Manny said. “Riggs orders a pizza, some flunkie puts in the wrong cookies, Ken Noble has an allergic reaction, and when Townsend goes to ask questions, Riggs ends up dead and Wakelee in the hospital, critically injured, none of which has anything to do with his working for a company owned by Merlin?”
“I don’t like it, but it could have gone down that way,” Fozzie said. “Meanwhile, I’d like to take another look at Riggs’s apartment. If I can piece together a possible sequence of events, it might help us spin things before we notify the cops.”
“Agreed,” Dalton said. “Speaking of the cops.” Dalton focused on Townsend. “There were two gunshots fired, correct?”
The guard nodded.
“Did anyone else in the building hear them?”
“I’ll have to check with DeFries,” Townsend said. “She was on the desk, so calls would have come to her. These apartments are well soundproofed, and most of our residents work during the day.”
“Let’s not open a can of worms by calling attention to it,” Dalton said. “Mr. Mayhew—Fozzie—you and Rambler go to Mr. Riggs’s apartment. Don’t do anything to make the cops mad.”
“The medics were in there working on Wakelee. I don’t think I’ll be messing things up any worse than they did.”
Fozzie and Rambler strode for the door.
Dalton turned to Manny. “I want you to get in touch with the hospital. Find out if Wakelee regained consciousness, if he said anything, and when we can see him.”
“On it.” Manny pushed away from the table and disappeared from view.
“How does the man in the hat fit in?” Lexi asked. “Was he looking for me?”
“I can check,” Townsend said. “We put the guy into a rear office for safekeeping until the cops get here.”
“Do it,” Dalton said.
***
THE SCREEN WENT DARK, but Lexi kept staring at it, willing Dalton and Emi to come back with explanations. Ray Townsend excused himself to check with Ellyn DeFries.
“Will you let us know what you find out?” Lexi asked before he got to the door.
He gave an apologetic half-smile. “When I can.”
Once he was on his way, the sudden quiet sent a shiver down her spine. Marv must have sensed her feeling of helplessness, because he scooted closer and rubbed the back of her neck.
She allowed herself a few moments of pleasure before shaking loose. The gesture, while appreciated, merely added confusion. Neck rubs hadn’t been part of their partnership on the force. Was their current relationship partner to partner? Protector to protectee? Friend to friend? Or might it stretch into the friends with benefits territory? Could they have a relationship? Would she want one?
Too much to think about. “What now?” she asked.
“We wait for Fozzie and Rambler to come back.”
“They’re coming here? Who do people report to? I figured they’d report directly to Manny. Or Emi. Or Dalton.”
“Normally, first line of communication on an op is to the team on the ground—or in the helo, or wherever. If it requires a decision, it’s up to the team leader. There’s always someone at HQ in the loop, who feeds the information where it’s needed. Most of the time, the ground team is self-sufficient, but it’s good to know people are looking at a bigger picture, gathering intel and relaying it.”
“You’re not part of the ground team this time, though, are you? Do you feel out of the loop?”
Marv shrugged. “I suppose. On the other hand, given they’d let us know if they find a connection to you, being out of the loop could be considered a good thing.”
Lexi thought it was only a matter of time before Marv’s if turned into when.
She checked the time. After seven. Too early to go to bed, despite how long she’d been up today, how little sleep she’d had in the weeks leading to her trip.
She wandered into the kitchen, checked the pantry. Jars and cans, along with cereal, pasta, and power bars did nothing to entice her to refuel. Not even the assortment of candy bars. She perused the freezer’s offerings.
Jackpot.
“Marv,” she called out. “There’s a chocolate cheesecake in here. Interested?”
He came in, pulled out the box. “Sure, but swear you won’t tell Nana. She makes a killer cheesecake. She keeps telling me how easy her recipe is, but I’ve never been into making desserts.”
“You should ask for her recipes. Traditions shouldn’t be lost. Or does your mom have them?”
“Don’t know. She wasn’t big on cooking, except for holiday dinners.”
“All the more reason to make sure they don’t disappear.” She took the box from his hands. “So, do you want this or not?”
“Gotta keep our strength up. Should I turn on the oven?”
She couldn’t tell if he was serious or trying to keep her mind off the Falcon. “No, it’s cooked. Needs to thaw enough to get a fork into it, unless you don’t like your cheesecake frozen.” She checked the box. “In which case it’ll take three hours to thaw.”
“Frozen is good. Cheesecake ice cream.”
Lexi ripped the tear strip on the package. A knock at the door interrupted her highly skilled culinary efforts. She left the box on the counter and rushed for the door.
“I know, I know. Check the camera,” she called over her shoulder.
Marv barreled ahead of her, his Glock drawn. She chastised herself for leaving hers on the end table and detoured to grab it. This apartment felt too much like a home, and not enough like a safe house. She didn’t carry her weapon around her own home. She should ask Marv if there was a holster she could use. Especially after two people had been shot.
“It’s Fozzie,” the voice behind the door said.
“And Rambler.”
The security display confirmed it, and Marv opened the door.
The two men came inside. “This place gives new meaning to ‘You can’t get there from here.’ What it needs are elevators that move sideways,” Rambler said.
“Find anything?” Marv asked.
“I sent the pictures to Emi, as well as a tidbit she’ll find interesting.” Fozzie gestured to Rambler. “You can have the honors.”
Rambler reached into the pocket of his cargo pants and extracted a handgun in a plastic bag. “This is Wakelee’s weapon, confirmed by Ellyn DeFries. Although there were two shots—and we left the brass for the cops—it turns out this weapon hasn’t been fired.”