Lifeguard - James Patterson [75]
And by whom? Cole crumpled a piece of paper tightly in his fist. By the father of the original suspect!
Oh, he was going down! ADIC Cole clenched his teeth. The press was going to have a field day. There’d have to be an internal investigation. The Bureau would tear flesh out of his throat. Cole felt a pain in his chest, thought maybe it was a heart attack. A heart attack . . . I should be so lucky.
“Assistant Director Cole?”
Cole turned away from the window and back to the meeting in his office.
Sitting around his conference table were James Harpering, the Bureau’s chief local counsel; Mary Rappaport, Palm Beach County DA; and Art Ficke, the new agent in charge.
As well as his own private, career torpedoer herself, Special Agent Ellie Shurtleff.
“So, what do we have,” Cole tried to ask calmly, “to back up Special Agent Shurtleff’s allegations against Moretti?”
“There’s the gun trace,” Ficke proposed. “And Moretti’s prior connection to Earl Anson. Adds up to some good detective work.” He nodded to Ellie Shurtleff. “But all about as circumstantial as you can get.”
“There’s Frank Kelly’s testimony,” Ellie said.
“The admission of a career felon? With a grudge against the deceased?” Harpering, the lawyer, shrugged. “It could stand up, if we could establish a prior connection between the two.”
“We have about forty-eight hours,” Cole sniffed, “before someone from Washington takes over. So giving some credence to Special Agent Shurtleff’s claim, how do we stand on Stratton? Can we tie him to Moretti in any way?”
“Contact between Moretti and Stratton would have been understandable,” Harpering injected. “He was the agent in charge on his case.”
“What about prior to the art being stolen?”
“Moretti was a pro, sir,” Ficke said.
“Goddammit.” Cole pushed back his chair. “If Moretti was dirty, I want it out. Stratton, too. So, for the sake of this group, Special Agent Shurtleff”—he looked at Ellie—“and your career, would you please tell us again how Special Agent in Charge Moretti happened to end up at your house?”
Chapter 93
ELLIE CLEARED HER THROAT. She was nervous. No, nervous didn’t even begin to describe how she felt. She told them again about Ned’s coming back from his brother’s funeral and what his father had said. What Liz Stratton had told them, too. How she and Ned had set up Moretti after she traced the gun.
Crazy as it was, she felt they believed her. Sort of, anyway.
“And just how long have you and this Kelly character been . . . cooperating on this case?” ADIC Cole asked.
“Since he turned himself in,” Ellie answered, swallowing. She dropped her head. “Maybe a little before.”
“Maybe a little before.” Cole tightened his jaw and glanced around the table as if for some kind of explanation.
Ellie cleared her throat. “I can bring him down,” she said apprehensively. “Stratton.”
“You’re on such incredibly thin ice already, Special Agent Shurtleff, your knees must be freezing cold.” Cole glared at her.
“I can bring him down, sir,” she said, more firmly.
Cole narrowed his gaze at her. She checked Harpering and Ficke to see if they were smirking. They weren’t.
“All right,” the ADIC sighed, “how?”
“He thinks we have something he wants,” Ellie said.
“This painting,” Cole said, nodding. “The . . . Gaume? What is it about this thing?”
“I don’t know yet,” Ellie said, “but Stratton doesn’t know we don’t know, either.”
Cole looked at Harpering and Ficke. There was stiff, evaluating silence around the table.
“You’re trained as an art investigator, aren’t you, Special Agent Shurtleff?” Cole inquired.
“Yes, sir.” Ellie nodded. He knew she was.
“So, you would think”—Cole placed his palms together—“knowing that, I’d have to be pretty much suicidal to let you run something like this after what you’ve done. We screw this up, you could basically sweep whatever’s left