“Our facial recognition software match Jessica's and the former girlfriend's face at sixty-two percent. There should be enough similarity between the two of them to seriously scare the shit out of her. I need you to convince her that she is in danger, that her husband is a murderer and that we can protect her, if she helps us bring him in. Can you do that?"
"I'm already more than halfway there. I'm going to feed her a few drinks, and a nice dinner. She's physically tough, but mentally, she's on the verge of a collapse. I'll have this wrapped up quickly. I'll let you know as soon as I have a lead on Petrovich."
"The pictures were taken in Serbia, sometime in the very late nineties. And keep this between the two of us. You pull this off, and I'll take care of you," said Sharpe, though Edwards wasn't exactly sure how much clout Sharpe would have within the FBI when the fallout settled.
"Send me the file, and I'll get started," he said.
"It's waiting in your inbox. Keep me posted," said Sharpe.
Edwards left the office, and found Jessica reading a copy of Smithsonian magazine in the tiny reception area. She had a white paper cup of water on the small, rectangular black table in front of her.
"Finally," she said.
"I have to show you something important. I think you might be in serious danger," he said, and proceeded to give her the watered down version of what happened outside of Stamford and inside the Pentagon.
He didn't want to hit her with the big punch before she had a chance to see the pictures of her husband embracing another woman. He wanted to deliver the big news after she started to generate some female anger and jealousy. He felt certain this would break her. A few minutes later, he had logged onto the guest computer station and accessed his email. The first image of her husband flashed onto the screen, and Edwards watched her face closely. She didn't react at first, and he was worried that she might pass out, but her face slowly contorted into a controlled look of anger. Her lips pressed together and tightened. He imagined how much fun she would be in bed later, trying to fuck the memory of this woman out of her head.
"What is this? Why are you showing me this?" she said, turning to look at him.
He could feel the tension emanating from her, and for a brief second worried about his own safety. Still, he had to deliver the knock down punch.
"Hey, I'm talking to you. Who the fuck is this?" she demanded, and he finally broke his intentional silence.
"Your husband hacked this woman's head off about five years ago in Serbia," he said, and she inhaled sharply.
"I always knew something wasn't right," she whispered, and added, "I really need a drink."
"I'm really sorry to have shown you this, but something went really wrong today with your husband's associates…and they're cleaning house. I don't think you're safe on the streets. We’ll have a quick dinner as promised, but then we're putting you into protective custody," he said.
"Danny would never hurt me," she protested weakly.
"I wonder how many other women thought the same thing. The best way for you to keep yourself safe, is to help us find him. He can't hurt you if we have him in custody. Until then, we need to keep you hidden. Come on, let's get you that drink. God knows you've earned it," he said, and escorted her out of the office.
Chapter Forty-One
"Agent Sharpe!"
The words startled him. The day had been full of surprises and chaos, filling the room with an insurmountable level of noise at times, but Agent O'Reilly's voice sounded distressed. He turned in her direction.
"Sir, you have to see this. Now," she urged, and he hurried over to her station.
"I was reviewing the photos of Petrovich when I came back across this one. It was an anomaly from the original batch. A picture of Daniel and Jessica together. 100 % match between Jessica Petrovich and Zorana Zekulic," she said hurriedly.
"This system always gives us outliers. That's why we enter as many pictures as possible," he said.
"I understand that, sir, but I thought these two first met at grad school in Boston? This is a picture of the two of them together at Navy Pier, in Chicago. She's wearing a Loyola sweatshirt. That's a school in Chicago. Daniel Petrovich attended Northwestern. They look really young in this picture. I think they've known each other for more than just five years," she stated.
"I don't know. We have to trust the system. How many photos of Jessica did you enter?"
"Almost thirty…"
"Shit, that's a lot of pictures."
"Hold on, sir. I'm running a search on another computer. There!" she yelled, and Sharpe stared at the screen with a sinking feeling.
The screen displayed a 1990 Loyola College student ID picture of Nicole Erak, a young woman vaguely resembling Jessica Petrovich, but not close enough to justify a match, even after factoring in a fifteen year age difference. Unless she had undergone plastic surgery. Now he was getting ridiculous. He considered calling Edwards, but shelved the idea for the moment. He wondered if Nicole Erak had been found decapitated in Chicago.
A hundred ideas ran wild through his head as O'Reilly finished typing another analysis request through the computer system. The system immediately gave them the results, and Special Agent Sharpe fired his hand into his pocket to retrieve his cell phone. The student ID picture of Nicole Erak matched Zorana Zekulic. 100 %.
"Call the Portland police immediately! Get them everything we have on this woman! They're somewhere eating dinner in the Old Port!" he yelled, auto-dialing Edwards.
Chapter Forty-Two
The elevator hummed as Special Agent Justin Edwards stood next to Jessica, who was rambling about nearly anything at this point. He could tell she was tired, drunk and emotionally spent. She wasn't stumbling, but her speech was slurring, and he couldn't shut her up. Three straight martinis in one hour would do that to anyone, especially a slim woman who had gone without food for nearly twelve hours. The first drink was finished before the bread arrived, and the second drink vanished as their entrees appeared. He had enjoyed an expensive glass of Cabernet, which he sipped over the course of the dinner, though he desperately wanted to match her drink for drink.
He got a little buzzed from the wine, but it wasn't enough. Their chemistry was a little off throughout the meal, as she steamed ahead with the martinis, and he didn't get the information he desperately sought during dinner. Still, he managed to convince her that she needed FBI protection until they figured out what was going on with her husband. She stopped denying that her husband might be involved, but stubbornly kept insisting that her husband would never hurt her, which was fine for now. He had made enough progress to get her into the hotel room, which he told her was the FBI's idea of a security precaution.
The elevator stopped on the fourth floor.
"What, we're not hiding out in one of the suites? The FBI must be going through some budget cuts," she said, in a silly manner that grated on Edward's nerves.
"We like to keep this as low profile as possible. If it were me travelling with someone like you, I'd go for the suite," he said, eager to gauge her response.
"Are you supposed to flirt with protected witnesses?" she said, and for a second Edwards saw a look that suggested he would be in business once they got comfortable in the hotel room.