The Truant Officer (27 page)

“He wouldn’t even consider the possibility—lashed out at any talk of an affair. But he had no such reservations when it came to his belief that Viktor was the one behind her murder. It came to a head at Paula’s funeral, where they had a confrontation in front of about a hundred witnesses. Karl had to be physically restrained by his children—Nick and Sasha. Challenging Sarvydas in that manner was as good as a death sentence. Last April, Karl Zellen was found murdered at his Long Island mansion.”

“Sounds like you did a bang up job of protecting him. You knew Sarvydas would come after him, but did nothing. Are you also going to blame that one on the marshal?” Becks fired away.

Eicher looked irritated. He was getting taken to task by a stowaway teenager. “He declined our protection—I’ve never met a Russian who trusted the feds. There will be plenty of time to assess blame when the trial is over, right now my only concern is getting Nick back in one piece.”

Darren noticed that there was no mention of Lilly.

“The only way he’s going to testify, is if we get to him before Sarvydas does. But we have a big problem.”

“Parmalov? He claimed that he was trying to help Nick. Yeah right.”

“I actually don’t doubt that he is. With the don and his son incapacitated, it would be the perfect time for him to gain control of the operation, and in that regard, it’s to his advantage if Nick helped put Alexei away. I’m certain that Alexei killed Zellen, but I also think someone wanted to make sure that he was caught. But Nick has a much more pressing problem than Parmalov.”

He clicked a button on his computer, and a photo of Nick and Lilly entering a suburban looking home shot to the screen. Seeing them together felt like a gut punch for Darren.

“This is from a security camera at Tony Dantelli’s home in Henderson, Nevada yesterday. Tony was the lead investigator in the Karl Zellen case and scheduled to testify against Alexei. I’m not sure why Nick and Lilly went there, but I do know that Dantelli ended up dead shortly thereafter.”

A picture of Dantelli’s body floating in the pool came on the screen.

“She didn’t kill him,” Darren blindly defended.

The picture changed to a middle aged man in a business suit entering the same house.

“I know, Mr. McLaughlin—the man you’re looking at did. His name is Zubov and he is a killing machine. Problem is, everywhere Nick goes, Zubov is right behind. Someone is tipping Zubov off, and it will be your job to prove to me that it isn’t you or your wife providing those tips.”

“And how do you expect me to do that?”

Eicher glared at Darren. “You will be escorted back to Arizona by a team of federal agents. As we speak, your phones, email, and anything else we can think of in your home is being tapped so we can monitor your every move. Your life is now mine—when we find your wife, hopefully alive, then you can have it back. If you have any contact with your wife, we will be listening. It might be our only chance of getting her back alive.”

He then addressed Becks, “You, Miss Ryan, are getting on the next flight back to Phoenix. You will forget any of this ever happened and return to the life of a normal teenage girl—if there is such a thing. If you need a note from the Attorney General to make up your chemistry test, let me know.”

Eicher got up and headed for the door.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Becks asked.

“I’m going to court, where I can only pray that the judge doesn’t throw out my case on the grounds that all my witnesses are dead. You two have an hour to kill before heading back to the airport. If you want to grab some food, an agent will take you down to the cafeteria. I recommend the Caesar salad, but I might avoid the Russian dressing.”

Chapter 62

Dava arrived in Oklahoma City on Tuesday morning, met by Agent LaPoint of the FBI. He drove her the ninety miles west to Devol in his rented Chevy Blazer.

“I sent Darren McLaughlin to New York to meet with Eicher, so he can take over the babysitting duties,” LaPoint said.

“Do you think he’ll be safe there?”

“Eicher or McLaughlin?”

She shot him an annoyed look. “McLaughlin.”

“I sent a team of federal marshals with him, headed by Fitzpatrick, and he’ll be met by a team of FBI agents in New York.”

“Somehow the presence of Fitzpatrick doesn’t make me feel any better about the situation.”

“Everybody makes mistakes,” LaPoint replied, a little too defensively.

“Eicher has a theory that both the McLaughlins are in on Nick’s disappearance.”

He shrugged. “The woman is a possibility, but I’m not buying the husband.”

“I do see the logic in Eicher’s point. She just happens to drop into his life and all hell breaks loose? She had access to Nick every day, and her husband’s job made him the perfect courier to New York and Brighton. Of course, this is all predicated on Sarvydas having found out Nick’s location.”

“You’ve seen how the Russians operate—they don’t tend to get cute with double-agent high school teachers. They usually just roll the heavy artillery in and start shooting.”

“Nick called Eicher. He thinks there’s a leak in our office, which he blames for Sarvydas locating him.”

“Like I said, if there was, Nick wouldn’t be calling anyone. I just think your case is shot to hell and he’s looking for excuses...no offense.”

“Then how do you explain Zubov’s presence? And if we want to play the blame game, we could start with the FBI and the US Marshals Office, who botched Nick’s protection.”

“Since you seem to be the all-knowing one, maybe you can enlighten me as to what happened.”

“I think Nick contacted his sister. Sarvydas was probably tracking her every move, but whatever the reason—sister, the potential arrest of his teacher, or a leak—the bottom line is that Nick felt the heat and ran. I really can’t blame him, and unlike my boss, I don’t believe that Lilly McLaughlin’s presence is sinister. In fact, I’m fairly certain that she had no idea what she got herself involved in.”

LaPoint nodded. “I don’t know what I believe anymore. But if we don’t come up with some good news today, then Alexei Sarvydas is going to be a free man very soon.”

“No kidding. He’ll be back running prostitution rings out of his strip clubs by sunset.”

“Speaking of which, what happened with the stripper’s mother last night?”

“No idea.”

LaPoint looked surprised. “I thought you had a meeting with her?”

“We were supposed to meet, but she never showed. I waited until well past midnight, before calling her husband in Wyoming. He hadn’t heard from her either. He said she usually called in from New York when she’s on one of her searches, so it was a little strange not to hear from her. I hope nothing happened to her.”

“With our luck, Sarvydas’ people probably got to her.”

“If he got to Wendy Grant, then I’m going to start to believe those leak theories.”

The hot midday sun hung over the Oklahoma Plains. Devol was so small that they almost missed it. There wasn’t much sightseeing to do—a diminutive main street with a local diner, a post office, and a movie theater that featured an old time marquee. They passed a one-room red schoolhouse that looked like something from the nineteenth century. It sat beside the church where Audrey Mays’ father preached. At the rear of the church, on farmland that stretched to the horizon, was the cemetery where today’s action would take place.

“So who do you think is buried in Grant’s tomb?” LaPoint asked.

“Do you mean who is buried in Audrey Mays’ grave?”

“I was just trying to add some morbid humor to the situation. You Russians are always so literal.”

“My heritage is Lithuanian, not Russian.”

“I rest my case. Besides, it’s just a matter of time until they invade you just like they did with Georgia and Chechnya. Then you’ll be Russian again.”

“Last I checked, I’m an American citizen, no different from yourself.”

“Again, literal.”

She sneered at him. He had no idea how lucky he was that she would let him live. Unfortunately, she needed him to pull this off.

LaPoint dropped her at the Mays’ home. Dava’s job was to get the family’s permission to exhume the body. LaPoint would head to the Cotton County courthouse in Walters, to lay the groundwork. He didn’t want any part of dealing with the grieving family. People relations weren’t his thing, especially when crying might be involved.

Dava walked into the home through an open door. Devol didn’t look like a place of high crime, but she got the idea that the door wasn’t left open due to the peaceful nature of the area. Or Reverend Mays’ faith in his fellow human beings. Someone had been here.

She immediately knew it was Nick—she could smell him. It made her think about the finish line. They would cross paths soon enough.

She did a sweep of the house, taking care of the business she came for. Then she called Eicher.

“It’s me, Dava. I’ve got some bad news—Reverend Mays and his wife are dead.”

Chapter 63

Jessi Stafford’s journalistic instincts had been screaming at her, telling her to get to New York. It would be the place where this all would come to a climax—both the story and her career.

The goodwill with Brandon ended about a half hour after the incident with Cortez, when he tried to leverage his hero status to get her back to his room for a “thank you.” She told him she was tired from the ordeal, but agreed to meet him later on at The Palms to have a drink at Ghost Bar. In the meantime, she planned her escape.

She caught a break when Gutierrez dragged Brandon to the casino. She figured they’d lose what little money they had, and hit on cocktail waitresses they had no chance with, until the wee morning hours. It gave Jessi the opening she needed.

Before the sun rose above the Nevada desert, she was on her way to the McCarran. All the non-stops were booked, so she had to settle for changing planes in Chicago O’Hare with a ninety-minute layover. But the ninety minutes turned into three hours, when the connecting flight arriving from Dallas had been delayed.

After the flight finally took off, rising over Lake Michigan, Jessi’s attention gravitated to the laughter of an affectionate couple. They were seated three rows in front of her, on the opposite side of the aisle. The woman was beautiful and appeared to be in her thirties, while her boyfriend looked much younger, maybe early to mid twenties.

The woman abruptly got up and began walking to the back of the plane. Jessi couldn’t believe her eyes! She did a double-take just to be sure, but she had seen that face so much in the last thirty-six hours that it was engraved on her brain.

When Lilly McLaughlin disappeared into the lavatory, Jessi returned her scrutiny to the boyfriend. He rose to his feet and headed down the aisle, repeating the same path as Lilly. Sure enough, it was Brett Buckley.

They made eye contact as he strolled by, but luckily he didn’t recognize her. He followed Lilly into the lavatory. Jessi decided it would be a good time to freshen up. She would act like she was waiting in line for the restroom and then cut them off at the pass.

She put her ear up the door marked
Occupied
. She heard crashing sounds and muffled screams that she doubted were related to turbulence. The sound was familiar, but it had been so long she didn’t recognize it immediately. To be specific, it was her last boyfriend in New York—an actor named Jeremy, who decided to take the word of tabloid newspapers over her own in the Callahan scandal—over two years ago.

After about ten minutes, the door folded open, almost tearing off Jessi’s earring in the process. Nobody ever said journalism wasn’t a rough business. Out came Lilly McLaughlin, walking gingerly, a pleased smile on her face. Her hair was a mess and her T-shirt, that she wore casually with painted-on jeans, was on inside out, the tag exposed.
There must be a strong turbulence in the bathroom,
Jessi thought to herself with a smile.

She politely apologized to Jessi for almost bumping into her and returned to her seat. Jessi turned back to the lavatory door and watched as the sign clicked back to
Occupied
.

She thought to follow Lilly back to her seat and confront her. But she decided to wait for Brett. She had always done much better with men, and couldn’t remember ever having a female friend. Either way, nobody was getting off this plane without giving her an interview.

The door flashed
Vacant
and whipped open. With blinding speed, a hand reached out and grabbed her by her blonde mane and forcefully snatched her into the lavatory.

Jessi was staring straight into Brett Buckley’s intense eyes, their bodies pushed together and their faces just inches apart. He pulled the door shut.

Occupied.

Chapter 64

“Are you following us?” Brett asked sternly.

They were inches from each other in the crammed bathroom. For once, she was speechless, unprepared for the sneak attack.

“You’re that reporter, right? The one who outed Lilly and me.”

She extended her hand the best she could in such close quarters, and introduced herself, “Jessi Stafford—Channel-6 News—and yes, I am the one who broke the story about you and your teacher.”

A smile came over his face. “I can’t be this lucky.”

Jessi threw up her hands. “I don’t know what rumors you’ve be reading about me, but I don’t make a habit of making it with wanted fugitives.” Although, with his looks, she figured she could do much worse.

“The only thing I want to give you is the story of a lifetime.”

Jessi’s ears perked up. He really knew how to sweet-talk a girl. “I’m listening.”

His voice lowered to a whisper, “We have to be very careful because if she finds out that I know…”

“Who finds out what?”

Brett took a couple deep breaths as if he wasn’t sure he should continue. Jessi radiated her most comforting look, and urged, “Go on.”

He nodded. “Let me start from the beginning. My name isn’t Brett Buckley, it’s Nick Zellen. The reason for the name change was that I witnessed the murder of Karl Zellen.”