When Lt. Everett T. Pope is notified of an explosion in downtown Denver close to the judicial buildings, his first instinct is gas leak. No such luck. As Incident Command and Pope's own Major Crimes unit move in, he discovers he knows the intended victims—an Assistant U. S. Attorney—and Pope's former partner, now a private investigator, has died shielding the injured AUSA with his body.
As ATF and the FBI take over investigating the bombing and unraveling motives behind the murder attempt, Pope is relegated to a peripheral role. But the injured AUSA's aunt is a United States senator used to getting results. She turns to the team that solved the Black Pearl Killer murders with a very big ask—find her answers and locate the bomber.
FBI Special Agent Brian DiPietro must recall his entire cold case team from their far-flung assignments knowing he's being asked to do the impossible. The senator, however, doesn't know the meaning of the word. All too soon, DiPietro finds his team working alongside ATF on a red-hot mission. One that uncovers a decades' old cold case.
Denver,
Colorado, 2017
Mark Rafferty had many
fantasies in life. Discovering an elderly woman chain-smoking against his car
wasn’t one of them.
Friday
night, with his wife visiting her aunt in D.C., his plans were simple. Stop for
a microbrew at his favorite spot and play poker with the guys till two in the
morning.
His
gaze fell to the collection of cigarette butts at the gray-haired lady’s feet.
Not this.
He
glanced right then left, recognizing yet another problem. They were standing in
the firm’s private underground parking garage. A confused annoyance took hold.
"May I help you, ma’am? Mind telling me who you are and why you’ve taken up
residence against my car?”
She
took a long drag. "Had to. You wouldn’t return my calls.”
"There’s
a guard at the gate. How’d you get in?”
"Some
guard.” She rolled her eyes and blew a whiff of smoke toward the concrete
structure’s ceiling. Her actions clouded the city-ordinance no-smoking sign.
"‘Pardon me, young man.’” She altered her gravelly voice to a quivering picture
of sweetness. "‘I’m meeting my very handsome grandson, Mark Rafferty. Could you
help me?’ That booth operator was such a dear. Even gave me your parking space
number.”
So
much for security. "What’s your name?”
She
pinned him with a look. "Doris. Doris Caruthers.” The rough edge to her
voice returned.
As
if that should mean something to him. "And?”
"You
wouldn’t talk to me. I kept getting your paralegal.”
Ah.
Now they were getting somewhere. Molly screened his calls. She was an expert at
vetting potential clients. If she hadn’t turned this woman over to Mark, Molly
had her reasons.
"Please,
Ms. Caruthers.” He looked at his watch. "I have an important meeting. I’m sorry
my assistant didn’t patch you through. If you call on Monday, I promise to
listen to whatever it is you have to say.”
"It’s
a matter of life and death.”
"So
you say. We’ll talk on Monday.”
"It’s
about your wife.”
And
just like that, thoughts of tact stalled in his head. A scammer had probably
paid this woman to approach him. The manipulator was out of luck. He
grabbed his cell out of his trouser pocket. "You have fifteen seconds to get
out of here before I call the police.”
"I
knew her mother.”
"So
do a lot of people, lady. You just used up five seconds.”
"Her
birth mother.”
Mark
moved his thumb over the phone. Another clue the joker hadn’t done his
homework. Theresa was one of those rare adoptees who couldn’t care less about
locating the people who’d given her up.
He
thumbed 9-1-1 into his phone and prepared to push send.
"I
met Adelaide Bailey through the system,” the woman rushed on. "I was her prison
guard. Nowadays they call the younger set correction officers. But that’s just
it, Addie didn’t need no correcting. I need you to prove her suicide was a
murder.”
This
woman exuded tragedy, and Mark hesitated. Still her approach was beyond
suspicious. Curious that Molly had never mentioned her calls. Probably thought
Caruthers’s story was better suited for the police than a law firm.
More
than a few had tried to get to Theresa through Mark. He hardened his heart.
"Sorry, Ms. Caruthers, if that’s your real name. Even if I believed you, this
doesn’t appear to be a legal matter.”
"But
I have proof—documentation.”
Her
desperation was almost convincing. "Documents can be forged.”
"Won’t
you at least look at them?”
"No.”
Pressing the remote to his Avalon, Mark slipped past her. "If you’re the real
deal, call me on Monday. I’ll give you ten minutes off the clock.” He turned to
give her a final warning about aligning herself with unscrupulous people, but
the woman was gone.
Mark
slid behind the wheel, shaking his head. He’d been about to say, "Don’t get
your hopes up; either talk to the police or, at a minimum, a criminal lawyer.”
He
moved his hand toward the keyless ignition when his vision was obscured by a
business-size envelope tucked between the wipers and windshield.
Mark
sighed. Clearly, Doris Caruthers had no intention of waiting till Monday.
Chapter One
Denver, Colorado, two
years later
Jarvis Merrill accepted
the news the way he accepted a denied motion handed down from the bench. He
leveled his most nonjudgmental stare, when what he wanted to do was skewer the
cock-sure millennial to whom he paid top industry wages.
Ordinarily,
Dawson was so overconfident in his IT knowledge, he dropped into a chair when
he requested a meeting. Tonight, he remained standing as sweat beaded his upper
lip.
Jarvis
checked his anger before asking the crucial question. "Have they asked for a
ransom, Dawson?”
"No,
sir.” Dawson’s gaze traveled from Jarvis’s to the skyscrapers illuminating the
dark night beyond his sixth-floor window. "It appears to be a data-gathering
hack only. Whoever penetrated the law firm’s network was after a specific
individual, in my opinion.”
A
longtime fan of wrestling, Jarvis pictured his faceless adversary pinning him
to the mat in a headlock. His law firm, one he’d established over a
forty-year legal career. Jarvis Merrill’s name appeared first on Merrill,
Henninger, Kaufman and Associates. A firm he and his partners had held to a
staff of twenty as larger legal entities were prone to cyberattacks, not a
general practice firm, specializing in civil litigation and family law.
"Find
out which files were accessed and what numbskull let this happen. He’s about to
find himself out of a job.”
Dawson’s
gaze broke free of the window. He ran a hand through his shaggy blond hair.
"Uh, Mr. Merrill . . . the attack came from your computer.”
"Are
you out of your mind?”
The
IT manager folded his arms tightly across his chest. "Ever heard of a
restaurant called Best of Vienna?”
"Of
course. It’s right next door.”
"And
did you click on a link that included a customer satisfaction survey that
advertised a free meal?”
Jarvis
fought to swallow. He’d done precisely that. In fact, when he discovered the
offer in his mailbox, he didn’t just click on it; he’d leapt at the opportunity
and never gave it a second thought. "Are you saying a restaurant workerinfected my computer? I’m one of Vienna’s best customers. Why would they?”
"Theywouldn’t, Mr. Merrill. You clicked on a link my ninety-five-year-old
grandmother knows not to do. Best of Vienna doesn’t send out surveys. I
checked. Someone’s been tracking your movements. Best guess? Someone’s after
dirt on somebody.”
Jarvis’s
face grew hot. After all the countless reminders and lectures to his partners
and staff about fiduciary duty, this fiasco fell on him. He felt gutted at the
thought of class action lawsuits, clients leaving, censure by the bar for
negligence. "Was the intruder after my clients?”
"No.
The IOC. . . .” Dawson shook his head. "The indicator of compromise led to
Rafferty’s computer.”
Encountering
a second shock in under three minutes, Jarvis was glad he had a strong heart. "Rafferty?
You know as well as I do—”
"Yeah,
I know. Mark Rafferty’s dead.”
"Two
years dead. His files were still tied to the network?”
"Mr.
Kaufman directed me to leave them in place so the newly assigned attorneys
would know where to look. Mark Rafferty had several open cases at the time of
his death.”
Key
cases Jarvis had reviewed. His partner’s decision to keep the files on the
server made sense. But now? Rafferty, an experienced trial attorney who’d come
from a competing law firm had been hired as a non-equity partner. He’d been
well on his way to full equity when the air bag deployed in his vehicle in
heavy traffic and at a high rate of speed.
The
FBI’s criminal investigation unit, as part of its product liability department,
paid a visit afterward, demanding access to Mark Rafferty’s computer files.
Jarvis
had fought the federal subpoenas and warrants vehemently, winning in court
every time.
Jarvis
threaded his fingers, the conspiracy theories in his brain exploding like
popcorn kernels. "Any chance the Feds are in on this?”
Dawson,
who’d been studying his shoes, yanked his head up. His mouth twisted sideways,
and he squinted a get-serious look. "To my knowledge the FBI doesn’t engage in
phishing expeditions.”
Jarvis
sighed. "It was worth a shot. Sit down, Dawson. You’re making me nervous.”
"I’m
making you nervous.” The thirtysomething computer nerd slumped into a
chair. "When I walked in here, I thought I was out of a job.”
"This
is my blunder, not yours. I’ll have to call an emergency meeting with the
partners. I was ready to fire somebody over this. I’ll have to take my lumps as
well.” Lowering his head, he hesitated. "Back to my original question, did you
determine what files he was after?”
"Well,
yeah, sort of. I mean, I did, but it didn’t make sense.”
"How
so?”
"From
what I saw, he wasn’t interested in the client files. He was after Rafferty’s
personal files, somebody named Theresa O’Neil.”
Theresa. Jarvis
grew light-headed. Mark Rafferty’s wife. If the spousal relationship wasn’t
important enough, add former Denver assistant district attorney, and, for the
last few years, add Department of Justice to the woman’s credentials.
Why
wait two years to go through a dead man’s files to get to Theresa? Or had he
been trying, and Jarvis stupidly opened the door?
"Mr.
Merrill? You okay?”
Jarvis
regrouped, then nodded. "What was in the folder, Dawson?”
He
hefted a shoulder. "Nothing.”
"Nothing?”
"Either
the folder was empty, and the hacker went away disappointed. Or he got what he
wanted and deleted whatever was in there.”
"How
long will you need to make this right?” Jarvis asked.
Dawson’s
hands became animated extensions as he leaned forward. "I’ll have to take the
network off-line,” he added, using terms like firewall, virus scan,full-disk image, and speaking a language Jarvis would never learn on
Rosetta Stone.
He
listened for a good thirty seconds, then displayed a palm. "How long,
Dawson?”
"One
to two days if you approve overtime.”
Jarvis
transferred his gaze to the ceiling. He picked up the phone. "Whatever you
need. Just do it, and fast.”
"Gotcha.”
Dawson’s gaze trekked first to the phone, then back to Jarvis. "You calling the
partners?”
"I
am. Right after I call Theresa O’Neil and fall on my sword.”
Alone,
Jarvis started to tap in the number to the District of Colorado’s U.S. attorney’s
office, noted the time, and set down the receiver. He’d never get through after
hours, and didn’t have Theresa’s private number. Given today’s debacle, he also
suspected he didn’t have time to wait.
Insides
churning, Jarvis rose from his desk and wandered through the open door of his
private conference room.
Until
this moment, he’d never fully appreciated his wife’s photography as he scanned
the walls. In truth, he’d always found her hobby annoying, the way Carolyn
pressured the firm into little photographic huddles during office
celebrations—the December holiday party, the company picnic, the winning
verdict of a crucial case . . . Mark Rafferty’s wake.
Jarvis
circled the expansive room, inhaling the scent of cherry wood and lemon polish
and homed in on those images. The Rafferty residence had been packed two years
ago with friends, family, and some highly influential figures that day.
Unlike
the more festive events, Carolyn had surreptitiously captured a picture of a
mourning Theresa beside her aunt, a U.S. senator from Colorado, and near her,
Theresa’s boss, the Colorado U.S. attorney. Next to these two powerhouses, the
honey-blond litigator looked war-torn.
In
the next photo, however, she appeared as though someone had thrown her a life
preserver. Jarvis observed the two individuals who’d accompanied her to her
husband’s funeral. On her left stood a formidable-looking black man that
somebody later mentioned was a high-ranking cop in the Denver PD. To her right
was none other than Harley Bryant, a one-time D.A. investigator who’d gone out
on his own and built a thriving PI agency.
In
that second, it was as though the fates had tossed Jarvis his own lifeline.
Harley Bryant worked for his firm on occasion.
Jarvis
returned to his desk, started to log on to his computer to send Harley an
email, then opted for his cell phone until Dawson gave the all clear.
Harley
answered immediately, and after Jarvis’s unpleasant news, expressed justifiable
concern. Theresa O’Neil was not only a colleague but a close personal friend.
He did acquiesce enough, however, to contact her and play intermediary.
Five
minutes later, Harley called back. "Theresa’s at a function and couldn’t hear
very well. She’s in court all day tomorrow, so we’re meeting beforehand at
Isabella’s.”
"I’d
like to join you. Apologize in person,” Jarvis said.
"That,”
Harley replied, "is probably a very bad idea.”
