“So what’s next?” she asked cautiously.
He shrugged. “I guess that’s up to you. You need to decide if your job is about justice or simply about following orders.” With the bullets removed, he dropped the clip into the bowl, then drew his own weapon before snapping the last of Irene’s bullets out of the chamber and closing the toilet lid. “I do have one last thing for you to think about, though.”
“I’m all ears.”
“I know you’ve been wondering why we came back here today, and I’ve done my best to explain that. We came for that dog skeleton, and it was a horrible miscalculation. Stupid reason, isn’t it? Made no sense. So how come you were expecting us?”
Without waiting for an answer, he slid down off the vanity and turned the doorknob to let himself out. “By the way,” he said with a grin. “I was hiding in the closet when you came in, and I have to agree. You’re not bad at all for forty-two.”
Sleep now was out of the question. Irene considered trying, anyway, if only in deference to the time of night, but even as her body screamed for a place to lie down, her mind spun like a top.
Donovan’s visit had left her stunned. All day long, she’d tried to think of a sound, logical reason for the couple to return to Arkansas. Cliches notwithstanding, smart criminals never returned to the scene of the crime. And after fourteen years on the Ten Most Wanted list, the Donovans had proved themselves to be very smart indeed.
After fishing the ammunition out of the toilet bowl-thankfully, she’d flushed after using it last-she’d strolled back into the bedroom, where she found her weapon in the middle of the king-size bed. She didn’t bother calling to alert anyone about Jake. He’d be long gone as it was, and the last thing she needed was another documented getaway.
Pulling on the lightweight flannel nightgown she always kept stuffed in her garment bag, she sat heavily in the hardback desk chair in front of the faux-wood desk. The Donovan file lay in her briefcase, just out of reach, but she didn’t want it right now. She wanted to reconstruct the case against them from memory.
What did the Bureau have, really? The note. Sixteen dead bodies. The fact of their survival and escape. What else?
Nothing. The thought made her gasp. What had seemed so ironclad-so obvious-only an hour ago now seemed pitifully superficial. Fragile almost. There was enough there, she supposed, to win a conviction in the hands of a skillful prosecutor; but suddenly, there seemed to be huge holes in the case. Holes big enough for a skilled defense attorney to drive a Mercedes through.
Maybe that’s what this was all about, she mused, resurrecting her natural cynicism. Maybe their return and the attendant shenanigans were merely stunts, designed to build a case for reasonable doubt in the minds of a future jury. Lord knew that the standard for acquittal was getting lower these days. Maybe this was just a high-stakes roll of the dice. They’d made their stand, and if they won, they’d be able to reenter society as full-fledged citizens. Was such a plan truly out of the question for people as intelligent as the Donovans? Especially if they had Harry Sinclair’s money behind them?
Certainly, it wasn’t as absurd as Jake’s assertion that Peter Frankel was involved in arms trafficking and murder.
So why did the Donovans return? Why didn’t they just disappear one more time? They’d made it, for heaven’s sake; they’d dropped completely off the radar screen after they snagged their kid from the school. Certainly, Sinclair would have helped them one more time. Why risk so much just for a jury stunt?
And why the hell would they just give up like that, after all this time on the run?
But they didn’t give up, did they? Their kid got hurt, and they sought medical attention. If that hadn’t happened, would they have disappeared, anyway? Dammit, why weren’t these questions in her head when Jake was in her bathroom?
Maybe hurting the kid was part of the plan. Certainly, that would garner more sympathy from the jury. Wouldn’t it be harder to send grieving parents up the river than it would a pair of hardened killers?
Perhaps. But she’d seen the pain on Carolyn’s face. And on Jake’s. As a sometimes-negligent parent herself, Irene easily recognized parental guilt in others, and the emotions she saw in the Donovans today were as genuine as any she’d ever seen. There was no faking that kind of pain.
What was Jake’s challenge to her? Is your job about justice or merely about following orders? She wondered bitterly if salvaging a career might be a noble third option.
So if the day finally came to testify against the Donovans in open court, could she sell a jury on the idea that all of this conspiracy crap was merely an absurd stunt to deflect attention away from their heinous crimes? Absolutely. And in so doing, did she believe in her heart of hearts that justice would be served? The answer to that one scared her.
But Frankel? Jesus.
Jake’s claims of hard evidence were a bluff, and she knew it. Clearly, lies were not his strong suit, even after so many years of living one. Still, even though she wished with all her heart that she could dismiss his theories as crazy, she had to admit that he made a lot of sense.
What was it he asked on his way out? The question she was supposed to ask herself? Ah, yes. Frankel was the one who told her that the Donovans were coming to Arkansas. Something about a computer geek at EPA. So what was the big deal there? They put triggers on computer files all the time. If someone tried to access it, then a warning..
Then she saw it. “God damn it,” she breathed. “He knew they’d go back, sooner or later.”
Her face flushed hot as the pieces fell into place. Oh, God, this is suicide.
Now it was just a matter of proving her case without detonating her career. Fact was, she found herself liking this criminal named Jake Donovan. Much as it sickened her to think it, he seemed far nicer-and far less likely to take another life-than Peter Frankel ever had.
Moving quickly to make the most of the few hours remaining before dawn, she opened her briefcase and slid her laptop out from under the Donovan file. Damn thing took forever to boot up, but once running, the rest was a breeze. The Internet was never busy at this hour.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Despite the sprawling opulence of the mansion-in-the-meadow-Jake had it pegged at about ten thousand square feet-they remained clustered in the tiny parlor. Never much of a brandy connoisseur, Jake had developed a taste for Armagnac in the hour since he returned from the Radford, made even more discerning by Thorne’s observation that the stuff sold for four hundred dollars a bottle.
Nick had crashed shortly after they’d returned, claiming the love seat as his own and leaving the two chairs for Jake and Thorne. Harry Sinclair’s right-hand man looked exhausted, yet he remained awake and attentive while Jake recounted all that went on in Irene’s hotel room. He seemed particularly intrigued by the part about finding the “FBI lady” naked. Under different circumstances, Jake might even have considered this little chat a bonding session, but he never doubted that Thorne’s single purpose was to report everything Jake said back to his boss.
“I think Rivers is pretty sharp,” Jake concluded. “I’m sure she’ll do the legwork we need to get done.” Did I just say that? He wondered if he wasn’t trying to convince himself. The fact was, the odds were even that she’d take his information straight to Frankel, at which point Jake was screwed. No, correction-they were all screwed. Possibly even the mighty Harry Sinclair, given Irene’s question about his involvement in all this-the one detail he’d omitted from his report to Thorne.