The next morning Brent was up early, having spent the night tossing and turning. Langdon had died because Forrester hadn’t wanted anybody to discover the CD. What made the damn thing worth killing for?

He opened the first file and stared at the contents. The letters and numbers had to be a code. But how could he decipher it without knowing the key?

His cell phone rang. It was Ian Alston, the agent who had given him the flash drive. “You were right to question that ballistics report. The two slugs that were tested weren’t the ones that came out of Sanderson.”

“How the hell could that happen?”

“Somebody at the lab screwed up.”

“So the team has spent weeks searching for the wrong caliber gun?”

“Afraid so.”

He swore. “Let me know when the new results are available.”

“You got it.”

“Has anybody figured out who No Neck is?” The nickname had shown up on Sanderson’s PDA.

“He was a homeless junkie,” Ian said.

“Was?”

“The guy died last week. Massive organ failure.”

Brent crossed out his “interview pending” notation.

“There’s something else you should know,” Ian said. “During the Eddie Hola investigation, Sanderson ran surveillance on a guy named David Cantrell. Sanderson caught Cantrell cheating on his wife on film.”

“How is that relevant?”

“Cantrell received copies of Sanderson’s photos in mid-April. Soon afterward, he withdrew seventy-five thousand dollars from his bank.”

“What are you saying? That Sanderson was blackmailing him?” The idea was ludicrous.

“Lots of agents had access to the Hola files,” Ian said in a conciliatory tone.

“Has anyone talked to Cantrell?”

“He’s dead. Shot at close range. The money’s missing. A team is coming from the Oklahoma office to investigate.”

“Who’s under suspicion?”

“I was given a gag order on the names, but I think you can guess one of them.”

“Forrester.” The agent who had paid eighty thousand cash for the Trans Am. The agent who had already killed a colleague and wounded another.

“I’ll call if I hear anything else,” Ian said, and disconnected.

Brent returned to staring at his laptop screen. Could the strings of gibberish relate to payoff amounts? Partway down his laptop screen, he saw one ending with 75. Ian had said that Cantrell had been blackmailed for that amount.

Could this be the key he had been looking for?

He wrote “David Cantrell” on a sheet of paper, circling the two Ds, two As and two Ls. Next he copied the letters from the string. NKFSNMKXDBOVV. The presence of two Ns, two Ks and two Vs confirmed his suspicion. Forrester had transcribed Cantrell’s name by replacing the D with an N, the A with a K, and so on.

He spent the next ten minutes unscrambling the names in the files. Then he came to one that looked familiar. Jim Sharratt. How did he know that name? It took him an hour to locate the name buried in a report. Sharratt and Sanderson had met for an hour in late May.

Why would a name on Forrester’s CD match with someone Sanderson had contacted shortly before his murder?

He phoned Ian. “I need you to run the name Jim Sharratt through our databases.”

Ian checked the spelling, and Brent stayed on the line while the other man completed the search.

“Okay, here’s what I found,” Ian said. “Last year, the Bureau was tracking visitors to child-porn Web sites. Sharratt was on the list.”

“What happened?”

“Only those suspected of direct involvement with minors were arrested. Sharratt wasn’t one of them.”

“Who were the investigators?”

There was a short pause and the sound of keystrokes. “Heydon, Mills and Forrester.”

No surprise there. “What kind of background info do we have on Sharratt?”

“Born in 1934,” Ian said. “U.S. citizen. Owned a dozen successful companies but retired a few years ago. He’s worth megabucks and had a squeaky clean record prior to the Internet porn operation.”

Internet Porn Operation.

IPO.

Brent exhaled in a rush as Forrester’s cryptic remark finally made sense. “Thanks,” he muttered, and hung up.

A rich old man like Sharratt could afford to pay to bury his indiscretions. Had Forrester accepted money to keep him from being charged? Then there was Sanderson’s meeting with Sharratt. How had that come about? Had the Bloodhound uncovered new information about the case and questioned him? To stop further digging, Sharratt could have arranged for Sanderson to be killed.

Brent rolled his shoulders, trying to work out the aches in his tight muscles. Conjecture was only a starting point. What he needed was evidence.

As he was shutting down his laptop, Claire appeared. “Any progress?” she asked.

“Yes, but first I want to tell you that I made a bad decision yesterday. I should have gone with Langdon to open the unit.”

She looked horrified. “Why?”

“I might have noticed the lock had been tampered with.” Then he could have stopped Langdon, and the guy would still be alive.

“But if you’d missed it, the explosion could have killed you, too.”

She had a point. And if he died, he couldn’t protect her from Forrester.

“It just doesn’t make sense to me,” she said.

“What? Mickey’s death?”

“No, the bomb.”

“Looks cut-and-dried to me. Forrester didn’t want anybody to find the CD.”

“Then why not choose a different hiding place for it?” She moved to sit on the couch. “According to his neighbors, that car was Forrester’s pride and joy. Why would he risk destroying it? Especially when he paid a small fortune for it?”

“Okay, maybe the CD wasn’t his only concern,” Brent said. “Maybe he couldn’t tolerate others gaining access to his Trans Am. So he rigged the unit to explode if it was opened.”

“That’s a really extreme thing to do.”

“Fits with his other actions. Arson. Murder—”

“We can’t prove he did anything except escape from Ridsdale,” she pointed out.

“He’s the only logical suspect.” Claire’s reluctance to accept Forrester’s guilt irked him—as did the agent’s skill at covering his tracks. “This time he got sloppy. The bomb squad reported there was enough explosive material to blow up the whole storage facility and a chunk of the parking lot, but the bomb wasn’t properly rigged.”

“Does Forrester have explosives experience?”

“Yes, he took special training last year. But remember the manager said he saw someone take off when spotted. Maybe Forrester botched the job because he was rushed.”

“Or maybe it wasn’t Forrester. Maybe someone wanted to kill him and got Mickey instead.”

“That theory is a tough sell without corroborating evidence.”

She was silent for a long moment. “You said you’d made some progress.”

“I’ve figured out what IPO means,” he said, “and I have a suspect for Sanderson’s murder.”

 

CLAIRE LISTENED intently as Brent explained the files on the CD related to suspects in an FBI Internet porn operation.

“Forrester was part of the IPO team,” Brent added, “so he could have manipulated evidence to keep certain individuals from being prosecuted. I’m convinced he did that—for a payoff, of course.”

“But how does that relate to Sanderson’s murder?”

“One of the suspects, Jim Sharratt, met with Sanderson a few days before his murder.”

“I still don’t see the connection.”

“Sanderson must have sniffed out something and contacted Sharratt. Alarmed by what Sanderson knew or might figure out, Sharratt had him killed.”

“By Forrester?” she asked.

“That’s a definite possibility. Forrester wouldn’t have wanted his payoffs to be exposed.” He pulled out his cell phone and punched in numbers.

“Who are you calling?”

“Sharratt.”

“Wouldn’t your colleagues have talked to him already?”

“I know they have,” he agreed. “But the agents who interviewed him didn’t know about his tie to the Internet porn case or Forrester.”

He paced in front of the window, then spoke into the phone.

She heard him arrange to meet with Sharratt the next day. And although she knew she should feel optimistic about this new development, Forrester’s whereabouts were still unknown. That meant spending more days—and nights—with Brent.

She should be indifferent to his presence. He appeared to have no trouble shutting her out. Even if that changed, a relationship with him—no matter how exciting and thrilling—would ultimately lead to a dead end. Her awareness of these facts should act as armor, making her immune to his appeal.

And yet…

In spite of every argument her logical mind brought forward, she still wanted to be with him.

Explain that, doc.

 

JIM SHARRATT’S country estate included a sprawling stone house with elaborate gardens in the front and a swimming pool and tennis court around the back. Most people dreamed about retiring like this, Brent thought as he waited with Claire on the multitiered deck for their host to return with drinks. Still, most people would think twice about switching places with the guy if they knew he was an FBI suspect.

“I hope you don’t mind cranberry juice,” Sharratt said, as he emerged from the back of the house holding a tray. “I seem to be out of sodas.”

“Cranberry juice is fine,” Claire said, shading her eyes against the sun.

Sharratt set the drinks on a glass table, then lowered himself gingerly into a deck chair. “Ten years ago, I was strictly a Scotch man, but my doctor kept harping at me to take better care of my health. When I retired, I cut out booze, started eating right, and now I play tennis five times a week, although my knees have been giving me trouble lately.” He gave Brent an apologetic look. “But you didn’t come to hear me grumble about the hassles of getting older. You came to talk to me about Pete Sanderson.”

Brent nodded. “You told the other agents that you met with him May twenty-seventh.”

“That’s right. We shared ideas for reducing costs at the Last Resort Food Bank.”

“Did you discuss anything else?”

Sharratt frowned. “Like what?”

“Like sex videos?”

Two bright spots appeared high on Sharratt’s cheeks. “What are you talking about?”

Brent leaned forward and stabbed the table with his finger. “Do the words ‘Internet porn’ clarify matters for you?”

“No, they do not.” Sharratt’s tone was indignant, his gnarled hands gripping the arms of his deck chair.

“What about bribes? The ones you paid to keep from being prosecuted?”

“Bribes?” he repeated. “I don’t know where you’re getting your information, but you are dead wrong.”

“Speaking of dead,” Brent said, “who did you hire to kill Sanderson?”

Distress showed clearly on the older man’s face. “Stop right there. I considered Pete Sanderson my friend.”

“Well, I’m thinking any friendship you had with him ended when he threatened to expose your cozy arrangement with Forrester.”

“I don’t know anybody named Forrester.” Sharratt rose to his feet with difficulty. “Get the hell out of here.”

“Not just yet,” Brent said, remaining in his seat. “I have more questions for you.”

“I don’t care how many more questions you have. I’m not talking to you again without my attorney present.” He shuffled toward the patio door, looking noticeably older than when he’d come outside.

“It doesn’t matter how many high-priced sharks you hire,” Brent said, pushing back from the table. “The truth will come out.”

Sharratt stopped just inside the opening to the house. “You say that as if you know the truth,” he stated quietly. “But your wild accusations prove that you don’t.”

Brent straightened to his full height. “Well, you’re in my sights now. I’ll be gunning for you.”

He left one of his cards on the table, weighted down by an empty tumbler. “If you decide to cooperate, call me. Because I won’t stop until you’re held accountable for every one of your crimes.”

 

BRENT’S CELL PHONE rang two hours later, as they drove along the expressway heading out of the city.

It was Sharratt requesting another meeting immediately. Surprised by the man’s urgent tone, Brent agreed and turned the Mustang around. This time, Sharratt didn’t offer them drinks or make small talk. He appeared subdued, shaken. “I’ve changed my mind about talking to you.”

“I’m listening,” Brent said.

“My wife died last year.”

Brent didn’t see how the man’s loss was relevant, but he remained silent, waiting.

“I didn’t know what to do with myself. So my son got me a computer, set me up with an e-mail address and access to the Internet. Within a few days, I was getting all this porn stuff in my e-mail box.”

Obviously, his son hadn’t installed a decent spam blocker. And for a man in his seventies, the concept of porn delivered to the home via personal computer was probably a strange—and titillating—experience.

“At first, I didn’t even know what the subject lines meant, and I was shocked when I opened the first message. I immediately deleted it, of course, and so many others. But then…” His voice trailed off.

“But then what?”

Sharratt licked his lips. “I got curious.”

Did the guy expect him to believe that he was only guilty of sneaking a few peeks? “So you checked out those smutty e-mails, right?”

“They came to me. I didn’t go looking for this stuff.” He glanced away. “At least, not at first.”

Brent only raised his eyebrows.

Claire leaned forward, her expression sympathetic. “Then they invited you to check out some Web sites,” she guessed.

He nodded. “And I did. Then I joined a chat room. I just wanted to look at some pictures, talk to some people.”

“I doubt that would make you a suspect in an FBI investigation,” Brent said.

Sharratt grimaced. “Well, I did a little more than that.”

“Define ‘more’ for me.”

“I ordered some movies.”

“Kiddie porn,” Brent said, unable to keep the disgust from his voice.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” the old man said. “Little girls being slapped around and forced to have sex.” He shuddered.

“You understand that by ordering those movies, you encouraged the brutal exploitation of those children.”

Sharratt flinched as if he’d been struck. When he spoke again, his voice wavered. “I swear, I didn’t know. In fact, I was so horrified by what I saw that I threw the movies in the trash.

“I wish I’d never got involved. And that’s what I told Pete.”

“Let’s back up,” Brent suggested. “Did you know you were a suspect in an Internet porn operation?”

“Nobody ever questioned me about it.”

If Sharratt’s story was true, Forrester wouldn’t have needed to manipulate or expunge evidence from his file. The Bureau had targeted dangerous predators, not porn viewers. “Tell me about your meeting with Sanderson. Who set it up?”

“I did.”

“Why?”

The man’s gaze shifted to the thick area rug in the center of the living room floor. “I was scared.”

“Of what?”

Sharratt lifted his head, his eyes filled with anxiety. “The man who threatened to kill my granddaughter if I refused to pay.”

 

CLAIRE DARTED A LOOK at Brent, whose only outward sign of surprise was a flicker of his eyes. He must be one heck of a good poker player. But then, she already knew what a challenge it was to read him. He had alternately intrigued and frustrated her.

“Who’s blackmailing you?” Brent demanded.

“I don’t know. I’ve never seen him. I just leave the money where I’m told. Last time it was a hundred grand.”

Brent looked at Claire.

She wondered if he was remembering her insistence that Forrester would need a big financial payoff to risk prison. A single payment of a hundred thousand dollars would certainly fit her definition of big.

“At first, he only threatened to expose my secret,” Sharratt said. “I just couldn’t bear losing the respect of my children, my friends and the members of my church. After several sleepless nights, I sold off some investments and paid, hoping that would be the end of it.”

“But it wasn’t,” Brent stated flatly.

Sharratt grimaced. “He phoned two weeks later, demanding more money. When I balked at paying, he threatened to murder my granddaughter. That’s when I called Pete.”

She saw a muscle in Brent’s jaw clench before he asked, “Why Sanderson?”

“We’ve worked together on various charities over the years. And I figured as an FBI agent, he’d know how to handle a situation like this.”

“What did he advise?”

“He urged me to report everything, but I told him I couldn’t risk the consequences and I begged him to respect my decision. Eventually he gave up trying to change my mind and asked if I knew why the blackmailer had picked me to shake down.”

“And did you?”

“No, but I certainly wondered about it. So the second time he called, I asked him straight out. He just laughed and said, ‘Research is the key.’ I still have no idea what he meant, but Pete seemed shocked.”

Claire shivered. Anybody who had spent time with Forrester would recognize that expression as one of his favorites.

Sharratt spoke in a sad monotone. “Pete said he had a hunch he wanted to follow up. That was the last I heard from him.”

Claire shot Brent a quick look, but nothing about him betrayed personal involvement. He had his feelings under complete control.

The old man passed a shaky hand over his face. “When the FBI contacted me, they said they were talking to everybody who had seen Pete recently. There was no mention of blackmail, so I figured no one knew what Pete and I had discussed. And I wasn’t about to tell them.”

Sharratt had no way of knowing his blackmailer was an FBI agent who would kill Sanderson rather than be forced to give up his “sweet deal.”

“Did you pay the second time?” Brent asked.

“Yes, three weeks ago.”

“Then what happened?”

“I heard nothing, and I hoped he’d forgotten about me. But he phoned today after you left, demanding another hundred thousand,” Sharratt told them.

“When are you supposed to deliver the money?”

“He wanted it tomorrow, but I told him I couldn’t liquidate my assets that fast, so he’s given me three days to come up with the cash. He’ll tell me the location later.”

“How will you deliver it?” Brent said.

“He said to put the money in a black canvas bag. The bills are not to be sequentially numbered.”

Forrester had made sure neither the money nor its container was unique enough to be identified at a later date.

Brent drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair, and Claire understood his frustration. Eventually, Forrester would be picked up. However, without Sharratt’s positive ID of him or large amounts of unexplained cash, blackmail would be tough to prove. And the same was true of Sanderson’s murder. To build a case against him, Brent needed evidence.

“If he contacts you again,” Brent said, “call me immediately.”

“You’ll try to stop him?”

“I will stop him,” he said, his jaw tight. “In the meantime, do whatever is necessary to get the money together. It’s the bait we’ll use to hook him.”