35
Kate greeted Parker and Avery as they entered Parker’s lab at CCI. It was weird because every other case Avery had worked with him had been at his old lab in the ME’s office. This one looked very similar and not at all like a lab. It was clean and professional, the walls painted a rich hunter green and the cabinetry a rich cherrywood. Inset track lighting lined most of the ceiling on either side of the at-times-required fluorescent light. It looked like Parker—masculine, unique, and a clear love for the outdoors in color choice and wood accents. The man had good taste.
“Good to see you guys,” Kate said from the doorway.
“You too. Got you some lunch. I set it in the kitchen. I was just taking a quick assessment of things before we eat,” Parker said.
“Awesome. Thanks. I’m starving and the kitchen’s bare except for peanut butter and pickles. Oh, and ingredients for chocolate chip cookies.”
“Cookies for lunch don’t sound so bad.” Avery smiled.
“Please. Kate bake something?” Parker laughed.
“I’d argue, but you’re right. So what’d you get me?”
“I love you.”
“I know. I’m just that lovable.”
Kate shook her head and moved for the kitchen.
“We better follow or she’ll get into ours,” Parker said.
They all grabbed their food and headed for the leather chairs in the lounge area.
Kate took a bite. “Yum.” She wiped her mouth with a napkin. “Hey, Avery, maybe after lunch, you could take a look at Luke’s photo.”
“Sure,” Avery said, praying she’d be able to give Kate some good news and not dash her hopes.
After lunch she studied the image file that had been e-mailed to Kate, searching for any signs that the image had been photoshopped or altered in any way, but she couldn’t find any trace of corruption.
Kate hadn’t stopped pacing since Avery sat down at the computer.
She pushed back from Kate’s desk.
“Well?” Kate finally paused her pacing.
“Well, I can’t say it’s Luke, as I’ve never met him, but I can say the image is legit. It hasn’t been altered or photoshopped in any way.”
“I knew it.” Kate’s smile beamed.
“Katie, it’s impossible to say that’s Luke for certain,” Parker said. “I’m not trying to quash your hope, but—”
“Funny. That seemed to be exactly what you were doing.”
“I’m sorry. I just want you to be careful.”
After they finished lunch and entered his lab, Avery closed the door behind them, giving them privacy and the freedom to speak without concern of hurting Kate’s feelings. “You seem so sure it’s a scam,” she said.
“No. I just hate to see her get her hopes so high on such a slim piece of evidence.”
“You don’t think it was Luke?” She lifted Skylar’s sweater, her gloves in place, trying to hold on to the little bit she had left of her friend.
“I think when people have been gone that long without a word, they aren’t coming back.” He turned and looked at her, his gaze shifting to Skylar’s sweater. “I’m so sorry.” He stepped toward her. “That was horribly insensitive of me to say given the circumstances.”
“No.” Tears stung her eyes. “You’re right. That’s always been my experience, and clearly from the video we saw, Skylar’s already gone. It’s just . . . I wish . . .”
He stepped to her side. “Wish what?”
She clutched the sweater tighter. “That I’d been able to reach her in time.”
“Reach her . . . for Jesus?”
She nodded, the gravity of her guilt in the situation pressing down on her again. “It’s my fault.”
“That she wasn’t a Christian?”
“Maybe if I’d tried harder, been there more . . . But actually, I was referring to leading her down the wrong path to begin with.”
Parker’s brows furrowed.
“I’m the one who pushed Skylar into committing her first crime when we were twelve. Twelve.” Her eyes stung with hot tears, but she fought them.
“I don’t know the exact circumstances of what happened,” Parker said. “But people make their own choices.”
“But she was younger than me, by a whole six months, but she still idolized me—why, I’ll never know . . .”
“Because you are so strong.”
He tilted his head and she froze. She needed to tell him, but the words wouldn’t form.
“Av?”
“The point is, Skylar followed me down that path because I pushed her into it, but I could never manage to pull her back off of it.” She went into detail, explaining the first trespassing, then shoplifting, then drugs, then using guys to numb the pain when in the end that only caused more pain.
She looked down, scared to see the judgment that had to be in Parker’s eyes.
“Love.” He tipped her chin up. “Skylar made those choices. No one can make you do anything. And no one can make you accept Jesus as your Savior. You can only share the good news with them.”
Good news. It was, and yet being surrounded by her past made her feel like a sheep among wolves.
Please, Father, protect me fully.
She’d never been in a more dangerous situation since she’d joined the criminal justice field as Parker’s crime-scene photographer.
“There’s more. I can read it on your face.”
Of course he could. Well, might as well go for broke. He’d either be the man she believed he was or he too would let her down, but it would be before things went any further in her heart.
“I—”
Parker’s phone rang, but he ignored it.
“Aren’t you going to answer it?”
“This . . . you”—he cupped her face—“are far more important.”
“But it could be a call about the case. Please answer it.”
He glanced at the number. “It’s Griffin.”
Reluctantly he did so and listened for a moment. “Okay,” he said. “Thanks.” He hung up.
“That was quick.”
“Griff said they are swinging back by Crystal’s place for one more try today.”
She grabbed her purse. “Let’s go.”
He rested a hand on hers. “Let’s finish talking first.”
“It can wait.”
“Are you sure? It seemed pretty important.”
“Positive.” It’d buy her more time.
“Okay, but whatever you have to tell me, please know nothing you could say could change my love for you—other than deepening it. The more I see and learn, the harder I fall. You’re a warrior, and that’s flat-out hot.”
She laughed. How on earth did he have the ability to make her laugh in such circumstances? “You’re a mess.”
“Ah, but now I’m your mess.” He placed a kiss on her lips. “And only yours.”
Still in shock, Declan entered the Merritt Athletic Club off Boston Street in Canton, not far from where Anajay Darmadi had come ashore. His mind was racing down a million possible angles, but taking this time out to meet with Moha was exactly what he needed.
The meet had been set, and after Jari’s murder—no doubt by his own people—Declan wanted to not only catch Anajay Darmadi but also bring down Dr. Khaled Ebeid and his supposed cultural institute for abetting an international terrorist.
He followed the meet drill, dropping his gym bag in a locker with the padlock both knew the combination to and heading for the treadmills. He climbed on the one at the end, the two machines to his right still available. Moha had been an informant—well, more of a consultant—for Declan for close to a year now, whenever matters grew heated in the Islamic community and intersected with a case Declan or one of his fellow agents was working.
Declan started running, keeping his pace slow and steady, knowing after their talk he’d finish a strong run. He craved a release of pent-up energy and frustration.
Why hadn’t he just left the Bureau and signed on with the private investigation firm Kate had founded after her own departure from the Bureau three years ago? It would distance him from the politics he hated. But when it came down to it, he loved his job with the Bureau. Loved his job but certainly didn’t love the bureaucracy or politics.
Moha entered and climbed on the treadmill beside him. He started slowly, walking and offering a nod in Declan’s direction.
Declan nodded back. The overhead TVs were loud, and nearly every man and woman in the place had headphones in their ears, no doubt listening to music or audiobooks.
Dr. Moha Natsheh, PhD, was the curator of Islamic Art and Armor at the Walter’s Art Gallery and an associate professor of history at Hopkins’s Krieger School for the Arts and Sciences, teaching courses in social and art history of the medieval Middle East. He was a brilliant man with amazing connections in the Islamic culture of the city and among the growing communities within it—Middle Eastern and Southeast Asian being the two primary areas of growth. Declan had no doubt that Moha had met Dr. Ebeid, PhD, as Dr. Ebeid held a particular interest in the arts and medieval Middle Eastern history. He hoped Moha could shed some much-needed light on the situation and, if at all possible, on the undercurrents and inner workings of the Institute.
“As always, everything I say is strictly confidential,” Declan began. They hadn’t alerted the public to Anajay Darmadi’s presence in the United States for one very simple yet important reason: They didn’t want panic to ensue. The chances of someone helping them find Darmadi based on his face being plastered all over the news were slim, and the massive panic such news would instill, sky-high.
“As always, I risk my life by talking to you, so I trust you will keep my name out of all communications.”
“Of course.” He’d given Moha his word many times. “We have a known terrorist in town. At least he entered Baltimore Saturday, and intel leads us to believe he’s still here.”
“Tim McVeigh or 9/11?” Moha asked, clearly working hard to keep his expression neutral.
“Foreign, highly dangerous. Responsible for several overseas bombings.”
“Any leads?”
“Actually, yes. Anajay Darmadi, the terrorist in question, phoned the Islamic Cultural Institute of the Mid-Atlantic upon his arrival, and they sent a car to pick him up.”
“You know this for certain?”
“Yes.”
“Did they try to explain their actions?”
“I was in the process of transporting the man who drove Darmadi to my office for interrogation when someone shot and killed him through my car window.”
Moha placed his feet on the sides of the treadmill, instantly stopping, and stared at him with concern. “You are okay?” He looked him over.
“I’m fine . . . but ticked. I’m going to find who did this, but I have a strong feeling I already know who ordered the hit.”
“Who?” Moha moved back to his run, scanning the crowd to see if anyone was watching them.
Moha shook his head as sweat drizzled down his neck. “Then you are in a very dangerous position, my friend.”
“You know Dr. Ebeid?”
“I’ve spoken with him on numerous occasions.”
“And?”
“He’s a well-spoken and highly educated man.”
“With ties to extremist groups.”
“So the rumor goes.”
“Has he ever discussed his affiliations with such groups with you?”
Moha chuckled and wiped his face with his running towel. “No. A man like that . . . he does not go about bragging and voicing his private business.”
“But there are rumors?” He knew there were. The agent undercover had told them as much.
“Yes. People talk.”
“About what specifically?”
“About how well connected and well financed Dr. Ebeid and his organization are.”
“Well protected too. Dr. Ebeid keeps his lawyer on the premises.”
“I’m not surprised.”
“What are your thoughts on Anajay’s motives for staying in the area?” If they were right that he was.
“If he hasn’t moved it’s either because he’s lying low until he can find a way to move without notice, he’s a sleeper, or Baltimore is his target.”