Nick tucked away his pocket square and rose to his feet.
He rotated his head, trying to relieve some tension. He’d caught the red-eye to Portland this morning, and he’d spent most of the day in the passenger seat of Richards’s government-issued sedan. Although he was no stranger to long hours in cramped spaces, he was wound up pretty tight right now. He needed an extended session in the gym, a stiff drink and some sweaty, anonymous sex to take the edge off.
That last part was wishful thinking. He’d settle for a full night’s sleep. Actually, he’d prefer it, because he was exhausted. He knew he’d been working too much when going to bed early appealed to him more than getting lucky, even after a long drought.
Richards ordered a couple of pizzas while Samuels was in the bathroom. Nick’s visit with Ruth Garrison in Lorella had felt like a huge break. He’d almost given up on finding a former Haven member to interview. Now that he had one in his sights, he couldn’t afford to lose her, and his instincts told him he was on the verge.
Richards gave him an assessing glance as she set her phone aside. She was an experienced agent and a smart liaison. She’d let him take the lead all day, supervising rather than participating, and he liked that. He hadn’t needed her assistance—until now. He gestured for her to join him in the corner of the room for a quick conference.
“Was I too harsh?” he asked quietly.
“No. You were fine.”
“I think she’s holding back.”
“Let her.”
He crossed his arms over his chest. “What do you mean, let her?”
“If she’s not comfortable with personal questions, don’t ask them. You don’t need her to recount every painful experience.”
Nick wanted to know if someone had abused her, so he could prosecute the sick bastard. He wanted to take down Silva, his militia and the entire community of backwoods, brainwashed child molesters.
Richards put a hand on his forearm. “Slow down and focus on what you can get, which is general information about the commune and its members. Try treating her like a consultant, instead of a victim.”
Nick massaged the nape of his neck, nodding his agreement. Richards seemed confident in her assessment, and he believed in female intuition. Most FBI agents were men, and not all of them had the communication skills to be successful interviewers. The job required listening to subtext and interpreting body language. Women were often better at that. They could evaluate emotional responses and read facial expressions with greater accuracy. Nick still wasn’t sure where he’d gone wrong with Avery Samuels. She hadn’t been eager to talk about her past, obviously. Then the hospital photo had upset her. He’d thought the image would spark her memories, not shut them down.
Getting personal wasn’t working. Richards had that right.
He also had to admit he’d been rattled by the pretty psychologist from the start. When he’d grasped her elbow to prevent her from falling on the stairs, and she’d gazed up at him with trepidation, he’d been thunderstruck.
He didn’t understand his reaction. Her beauty hit him like a punch in the gut, but he’d seen beautiful women before. She was a blue-eyed blonde, pale-skinned and stylishly dressed, with a smattering of freckles across her nose. He didn’t favor blondes in particular. He liked nice curves, and she had those, but he’d hardly noticed her figure. He was too captivated by her rain-splattered face.
Good looks alone weren’t enough to send him into a stupor, so he figured there was something else at play. He’d felt a magnetic pull that went deeper than surface attraction. Which was odd, because she’d clearly been repelled by him, at first glance. He’d noted her stance. She’d been ready to fight him.
Richards had introduced them while he pulled himself together. It had taken several minutes to regulate his heartbeat. He’d tried not to stare, because it wasn’t professional to ogle an interviewee. It certainly wouldn’t win her trust or put her at ease.
Samuels returned to the living room now, her expression subdued. She’d put on a soft cardigan and black-framed reading glasses. She’d also exchanged her fashionable heels for a pair of fuzzy slippers. She looked adorable, if a bit miffed by his parting insinuation that she wasn’t telling him the whole story.
“I ordered a large pepperoni and a large veggie,” Richards said.
“Sounds good,” Samuels replied, avoiding Nick’s gaze. She seemed reluctant to sit down with him again.
Treat her like a consultant.
Nick picked up his file folder from the coffee table. He had aerial photos of the commune inside his briefcase, but he needed more space to display them. He approached the kitchen table. “Do you mind if I work here?”
“No.”
“Feel free to get caught up on whatever you need to do,” he said. “We can reconvene after the pizza’s delivered.”
Nick got busy arranging his images. She sat down at a computer desk and started typing. Richards gave him a nod of encouragement. He was on the right track. He couldn’t force Ms. Samuels to answer his questions, but he could give her some breathing room. He hoped she’d cooperate, because she was his only source of information. He wished he had several days to work on her, instead of one night.
The pizza came while he organized his photos and jotted down a new list of questions. Samuels offered him a glass of agua mineral, which he accepted. The pizza boxes had been placed on the kitchen counter. He grabbed a paper plate and inhaled a couple of slices where he stood. Samuels’s apartment was cozy and spotless. It looked like an Instagram layout, with perfectly coordinated furniture and warm accent colors. There were several framed photos hanging on the wall. One of Ruth in the garden. Two of a fluffy tabby that he hadn’t seen any evidence of. A fourth of Samuels standing on a beach with a stunning dark-skinned woman. They were both smiling. It said Best Friends across the top.
There were no men in the pictures. No men in her life?
Samuels noticed him snooping, so he gestured toward the wall. “You have a cat?”
“Smoke died last month. Old age.”
“Sorry to hear that,” he said, and meant it. Nick hadn’t expressed condolences about her mother’s death, but he’d been in interview mode, and the incident was twenty years in the past. He’d also sensed that she didn’t want to get too emotional. He could relate. He glanced around the apartment again, contemplative. There was an emptiness to it, despite the pleasant decor. Perhaps the cat had filled the space.
Samuels moved toward the dining table. She wanted to get this over with.
Nick was ready. He finished his last bite of pizza, wiped his mouth with a napkin and tossed his paper plate in the trash. They gathered in the kitchen area, which felt more casual than the living room. He took a seat across from Samuels and set his phone to Record while Richards lurked in the periphery.
“I’m interested in the daily operations of the commune,” he said. “Can you identify any of these buildings, and tell me what they’re used for?”
Samuels had no problem with this task. She pointed out the church, school and cafeteria. It was set up like a summer camp, with family cabins and communal areas. There was a playground, sports field and acres of farmland.
So far, so good.
“This building wasn’t there before,” she said, indicating Silva’s compound. Her nails were short and painted with midnight-blue polish that accentuated her pale skin. The style struck him as sexy and modern, if a bit witchy.
“That’s where Silva lives.”
She flinched at the mention of the cult leader. “It looks like a fortress.”
“Yes.”
Frowning, she moved her fingertip to a cluster of cabins in the center of the commune. “He used to live here, near the church.”
He wondered which cabin she’d lived in. “According to our intel, Jeff Silva stays in a separate compound with his wives and children. He visits The Haven, but he’s not involved in its daily operations. He’s become fixated on building his militia, and hatching terrorist plots, while Jonah manages the commune.”
If she found the arrangement odd, she didn’t comment. “What are you going to do with this information?”
He leaned back in his chair, weighing his response.
“If you had enough evidence to make an arrest, you wouldn’t be here,” she pointed out. “How does studying the commune help your investigation?”
“We tried getting to Silva by approaching him as an ally to his antigovernment cause. That ended in the death of an experienced undercover agent.”
“A colleague of yours?”
“I knew him, yes.”
“So now you’re considering, what? Trying to infiltrate the cult?”
It was exactly what he intended, but he couldn’t talk about the details. Also, he had no idea how he’d accomplish the task, or if he could get clearance for another undercover operation. “I’m just collecting intel,” he said, keeping it vague. “The Haven doesn’t have a website. They don’t use technology. They’re completely isolated. Which is why I need to collaborate with someone who’s been inside.”
She seemed to like this word, collaborate. It played to her strengths as a problem-solver. He didn’t have photos of any individual members, other than Jeff and his sons. He asked her for the names of Silva’s top followers. She recited at least a dozen before drawing a blank.
“Do you remember who did the farming?” he asked.
“The young men, mostly. They worked in the fields every summer.”
“Who was in charge of the crops?”
“Brother Michael,” she said, after a moment. “He was the head farmer.”
Nick examined the fields again. Upon closer inspection, the crops didn’t appear healthy or well-maintained. That could be a serious issue for a community that lived on food they grew themselves. He wrote down the name and circled it, pleased with their progress. Richards’s advice had been spot-on.
“Where were you born?” Samuels asked him.
“Venezuela.” Nick glanced up from his notebook. “Why?”
“I thought I heard an accent.”
His brows rose in surprise. Most people didn’t notice his accent, which was almost indiscernible these days. It tended to show up when he was exhausted, tongue-tied…or in the throes of passion. He couldn’t remember the last time a woman had commented on it. “You have a good ear.”
She studied him with interest. “How long have you lived here?”
“Twenty-five years.”
“You came with your parents?”
“No.”
She didn’t press for the backstory, so he kept it to himself. He wasn’t here for a personal analysis, though he wouldn’t say no to a session on her couch. In his fantasy scenario, she didn’t ask intrusive questions. They didn’t talk at all.
He frowned at the direction of his thoughts. Imagining Ms. Samuels in a compromising position wasn’t appropriate. She was examining his mouth, as if still pondering his accent. Her gaze lowered to his right hand, lightly gripping a pencil. When she moistened her lips, his pulse jumped with excitement.
Santa Maria.
He set aside his notebook, his neck hot. He needed to get a hold of himself. Actually, he needed to get out of here. According to his phone, two hours had elapsed since they’d had pizza. It was late, and he was losing focus.
“Can I email you the rest of my questions?” he asked. “I have to wrap this up.”
“Sure,” she said, seeming relieved. There were dark circles under her eyes. She looked like she needed a good night’s sleep as much as he did, not a hot time in bed. He felt a stab of guilt for letting his imagination run wild.
He scrawled down her personal email and gathered his photos. The interview had gone well, despite the rough spots. He’d gained a wealth of information. He was reluctant to leave because there was so much more to learn. They’d barely scraped the surface. Instead of dwelling on what he was missing, he organized his files and put them away. Samuels stood by the door to see them out. They exchanged a polite handshake. Then he grabbed his jacket and stepped into the rainy night.
Richards walked toward her car, which was parked on the street nearby. He lifted his face to the sky and let the moisture cool his overheated skin. His neck muscles were still sore, his eyes grainy with fatigue. But he felt revitalized, rather than drained. He felt electric.
“You want me to take an Uber?” he asked, following Richards.
“Where’s your hotel?”
He consulted his phone. “It’s a mile from the field office.”
“I’ll drop you off. It’s no trouble.”
Shrugging, he climbed in the passenger seat. “Thanks for your help today.”
“Just doing my job,” she said.
“How did you know that would work? Treating her like a consultant?”
“I interviewed a detective once who’d been the victim of a home invasion robbery. It was difficult to get a detailed statement from him. He couldn’t stand being on the other side of an investigation.”
Nick mulled that over in silence. Some victims refused to talk, for a variety of reasons. Others were eager to make a statement. They wanted to be heard. They wanted justice. Samuels spent her days listening to troubled kids, helping them overcome trauma. She clearly preferred that to telling her own story.
“Are you thinking about going under?” Richards asked.
“Yes.”
“How will you get in?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “They don’t actively recruit, and my SAC might refuse to green-light another undercover op, considering how the other ended. But I’d like to submit a proposal and see what happens.”
“Have you done that kind of work before?”
“Only short assignments. Nothing deep.”
She was quiet for a moment. “You should be careful about approaching Samuels for a follow-up.”
“Why is that?”
“She liked you.”
He tried to look casually disinterested, while his heart was pumping out of his chest. “You think so?”
“Yes, and it could be a problem, especially if her feelings are reciprocated.” She gave Nick a sideways glance that said she knew damned well this was the case. “You don’t want to muddy the waters by getting involved with a contact.”
He didn’t bother saying that he couldn’t get involved with Samuels from a distance. There were many ways to engage in sexual misconduct online. “Thanks for the advice,” he said, meaning mind your own business.
She smiled at his glib response. “You’re funny, Diaz. How close were you to the colleague you lost?”
“He was like a brother to me.”
“Is this a revenge mission?”
Nick moved his gaze to the rain-slick street, blurred red from brake lights. Then he gave an answer straight from the FBI handbook: “The best revenge is justice.”