When Gordon’s phone rang late Saturday night, he knew it wasn’t good news. When he saw Detective Hart’s name on the readout, he considered not answering, but he knew that wasn’t an option.
“Yeah?” he answered. “Gordon here.”
“Agent,” Hart said. “Sorry to call you so late, but I have news.”
“No problem. I’m still awake. What do you have?”
“The lab just called. I guess they got their paperwork mixed up and didn’t realize I was no longer in charge of the investigation. They were able to unfold that piece of paper from Kiely’s casket. It’s a letter.”
Gordon’s judge had come through with the exhumation order, effectively putting the FBI in charge of that part of the investigation, and before dawn Friday morning, Kiely’s remains had been on their way to Frankfort for a second autopsy.
When the casket was opened, a folded piece of paper was discovered inside. After ten years of being sealed in with a decomposing body, it was in bad shape. Moisture had caused the paper’s flaps to weld together, but the lab techs in Frankfort had thought they could do something with it.
“So they were able to tell that much?” Gordon asked.
“Oh, yeah. It was in better shape inside than they thought it would be. You aren’t going to like it,” Hart said. “It’s a game changer for your boy. Are you close to a computer?”
Gordon threw back the bedcovers and headed for his home office. In a minute, he was in front of his computer. “I am.”
“I’ve e-mailed a scan of the letter to you. It’s an apology letter, pretty brief. I’ll let you read it, and you can tell me what you think.”
The excitement in the detective’s voice worried Gordon, and when he opened the e-mail to read the letter, he cursed.
I’m sorry. I never meant for things to end this way, with you lying dead. I could have stopped this, but I waited too late. I love you, Kiely, despite everything I said. I’ll never stop. God forgive me for what I’ve done to you because I can’t forgive myself.
Gordon knew they were royally screwed as soon as he read the spidery words, faded and stained from being in the grave. “Damn it. Damn it to hell.”
“Yeah, I thought you’d have that reaction. Well, Agent? Guess your string-pulling can’t protect him now. I’m heading to Leroy tomorrow to talk to him.”
“Detective Hart, let me remind you that I am still the agent of record on this case. Furthermore, you have to have either permission or an arrest warrant or both to do jack diddly in Indiana. You don’t have jurisdiction across state lines.”
The man snickered. “Well, as it happens, I do have a warrant for his DNA, and as to the question of jurisdiction, that’s why you’re going to be there too, Special Agent. See, I called in a few favors of my own. My boss has talked to your boss, and your boss just got off the phone with Wyatt Dixon. They’re expecting us tomorrow morning.”
Gordon was on the verge of verbally ripping into the other man when a beep on his line stopped him as he opened his mouth. Swearing ripely, he looked at the phone and saw that it was Fran. “I have another call. You watch yourself, Detective.”
He hung up before Hart could respond. Switching over, he answered the other call. “Fran, what the hell is going on?”
“Who’d you hear from, Hart or Wyatt Dixon?”
Gordon growled. “Hart. But I suspect Wyatt will be calling shortly. What happened?”
She scoffed. “Those connections we suspected Hart of having? He used them. Truthfully, we do need to get Hudson’s DNA and have him answer some questions about that letter. I assume you’ve seen it?”
“Yes. I’m going over it now.” He fell silent, his mind racing as he tried to figure out how to get ahead of Hart in the game.
“I tried to stop him. I didn’t have any luck. I think you’re absolutely correct about what you told me the other day, and I think you need to do whatever you can to block him,” she said quietly. “Thing is, Galen, I don’t know if I can protect you if you go above and beyond. You catch my drift?”
“I do.” He closed his eyes. That she had used his first name alarmed him almost more than Hart’s obvious glee.
“I’ll do whatever I can to prevent the string-pulling, but I’m telling you now—I don’t think it will be enough. You need to think long and hard about whether or not your friendship with Chase Hudson is worth losing your career over.”
“I understand. When did you talk to Wyatt? I don’t want to call him if he’s asleep.”
“Oh, I’d say he isn’t asleep. I talked to him not ten minutes ago, and he sounded hopping mad. Apparently he’s close to the Hudsons and as ready as you are to do battle for them, which might be a blessing.” She cleared her throat. “Good luck tomorrow, and keep me updated. Okay?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
He ended the call and made his way through the empty house to the kitchen, where he pulled down a bottle of whiskey and a glass. After pouring himself two fingers of the amber liquid, he downed it. Carefully, he recapped the bottle and put it back in the cabinet.
With the alcohol burning a hole in his gut, he stared out the window at the sparkling city in the distance. More and more since he’d started investigating this case, he’d felt his disillusionment grow, and the weight of loneliness was sitting particularly heavy on his shoulders tonight.
When he and Mallory had first gotten married, the job had been looming on the horizon, and it had seemed so promising. Then she’d gotten sick, and everything changed. After she died, the job had become his refuge. Now, it simply didn’t mean to him what it had before.
Instead of making a difference, he was mired in paperwork and procedures. Every time he turned around, policies were changing, and it was all he could do to keep up. Added to that, after 9/11, the focus of the FBI’s resources had changed. The Bureau of today wasn’t the same one he had idealized. Drop the rampant ladder-climbing politics associated with the work into the mix, and Gordon was well past the honeymoon.
So Fran’s question about choosing his friendship with Chase over his career really wasn’t difficult to answer. He knew exactly what his choice was, no questions asked, no doubts.
With a harsh growl, he picked up his phone and pulled up Wyatt Dixon’s number. He might as well start getting things out of the way now. If he was going to throw his career away, he had to make sure the throw counted.