Money. For people like Morton, it was always about the money. Revenge took too much planning, setup, and hatred. He’d violate his probation for money, not revenge. Reading Morton’s rap sheet made it clear he cared most about money, getting laid, and demeaning women.
Sean suspected he was heading into dangerous territory. He was attracted to Lucy, and he feared his feelings would taint the evidence he had before him. Would he see what was important? He wasn’t a cop; he couldn’t be that fair. He didn’t want to weigh the scales of right and wrong, giving criminals more rights than victims. To him, people like Roger Morton were scum and didn’t deserve the rights they took for granted. Why was it that in the system, the criminals had all the rights? Where was justice?
He didn’t understand what Lucy Kincaid saw in the FBI, or why she wanted to be a cop in the first place, being forced to work within stringent rules that protected the bad guys more than they protected the innocent. But she wanted it—and there was nothing he admired more than deep passion.
He’d been enamored with Lucy Kincaid from the night Patrick first introduced them, a month ago when they flew out to sign papers on the new RCK East house and close escrow. The three of them had eaten pizza on the floor of the empty kitchen. Perhaps it went farther back than that. To the first time he’d seen her, when she came to visit Patrick and Jack in Sacramento more than a year ago. He’d watched her through his window, the way she moved, the way the jeans she wore hugged her long, lean legs.
Of course the first thing that attracted him was her looks. Neither tall nor short—he’d peg her at five foot seven, but with legs that made her seem taller—physically, she was just his type. An hourglass figure, curvy in the right places. Athletic. And when she relaxed, Lucy had the most beautiful smile. But it wasn’t just a perfectly proportional body that enticed Sean, it was the whole package: her long black hair, her large brown eyes, and her brains. Her intelligence, passion for justice, and determination put Lucy Kincaid in a league all her own.
He knew about her past, of course. What Patrick hadn’t told him he’d learned through his own research. Nothing that wasn’t public—he wouldn’t do that to Lucy. And how she persevered after going through Hell showed the world she would never act the victim or martyr.
Looks, brains, and commitment. Lucy was dedicated to the future she was making for herself—of seeking justice for those who couldn’t do it for themselves. He admired her drive.
Focus was one thing that Sean lacked. At least, that’s what Duke always told him. That he’d tried everything in college because he didn’t know what he wanted to do. Which was partly true. He understood Lucy’s need to learn new and different things, her moving from the sheriff’s department to Congress to the morgue.
He only wondered if she would grow bored with the FBI, hampered by its slow process, the excruciating paperwork, and all those rules. Sean wouldn’t survive under such conditions. Lucy—maybe. And while he understood her motivation and he admired her dedication, he would have loved to have recruited her for RCK. She would be such an asset to the company.
But more than anything, Sean wanted to make her smile. He wanted to show her that there was more to life than 24/7 work. That those who worked hard should play hard, that she deserved to have fun.
But she wouldn’t have fun until the situation with Morton was settled.
Sean continued reading the files Jayne had sent, and began to plan.
NINE
Only minutes after Lucy Kincaid left the FBI office and Noah went back to his desk, Abigail exclaimed, “Eureka!”
“Gold?” Noah asked.
“If you’re looking for a sleazy, flea-infested motel, then yeah, gold. The Triple Tree, outside Dulles. The manager said a guy matching Morton’s description paid cash for three nights on Thursday. He signed in as Cliff Skinner—Morton’s cousin—and never checked out.” Abigail grabbed her keys. “I’m going to check it out, get a confirmation on the ID, see if he left any belongings in the room, last sighting, the works.”
Noah glanced at his messages. “The SSA in Denver called while we were in with Kincaid. I’ll see what she’s found. Call when you’re done and we’ll compare notes.”
“You should have the full list—names and current contact info—on Morton’s associates before the end of the day. I dropped Rick Stockton’s name when staff balked at the amount of work needed to make the file current. Worked wonders.”
“Good—I want to clear this as soon as possible.”
Abigail leaned against the side of his cubicle. “You know, I might not be all that sad if we didn’t close it.”
Noah stared at his new partner. He didn’t like the direction of this conversation. “Morton was a scumbag, but we need to know who killed him. Punishment is up to the U.S. Attorney and the court system, not us.”
“We’ve done what Stockton wanted—cleared an active FBI agent, Kate Donovan. We know she didn’t do it, and nothing in her finances suggests she paid a hit man.”
“Not all hits are for money.”
“You’re going dark side here. Donovan doesn’t work in the field; she can’t let someone off in exchange for a hit, or screw with an undercover op.”
“All I’m saying is that there are a lot of unanswered questions. Morton was up to something—there’s no other reason he would come to D.C. in violation of his probation unless there was something big going down. We need to know what that is. There’s more here than a simple murder.”
“You got me there. Maybe he left a diabolical master plan for world domination in his motel room.” She winked.
“Let me know if you find it.”
After Abigail left, Noah picked up the phone and called SSA Monica Guardino.
Guardino answered the phone brusquely, and it was obvious by the background noise that she was in the field.
“Armstrong in D.C. returning your call.”
“Your dead guy was a prick, just want you to know.”
“I know. What did you find?”
“Morton was re-creating his old enterprise,” Guardino said. “His cousin Mr. Skinner, being cooperative after I pointed out he could be considered an accessory, said Morton maintained a studio apartment his probation officer didn’t know about. We popped the lock, found a high-end computer and dozens of boxes of pornography—DVDs and photographs mostly—including some photos that I’d wager my pension are of underage girls. But the kicker is, our e-crimes expert says Morton was downloading the DVDs and preparing them for Internet file sharing. Something about minimizing file sizes for bandwidth issues. The whole how-tos and why-fors are a bit over my head, but I trust my guy. I can hook you up with him—”
While Noah was technically competent, high-end cybercrimes were beyond his scope. “If you could box up everything and send it to me, I’ll have our cybercrimes team go through the files with a fine-toothed comb.”
“Already started boxing the files.”
“Excellent. Any chance you can get it on a military transport today?”
“Where’s the urgency? Isn’t this a low-life scumbag murder? Hardly a top priority.”
“It’s top priority for Assistant Director Rick Stockton,” Noah said.
“Well, shit, Armstrong, you didn’t say the director’s office was involved.”
“I appreciate your help,” he said. “I owe you.”
“I may take you up on that. But I have more,” Guardino continued. “Morton was broke. We went through his finances—he had less than three hundred dollars in his bank account. His cousin paid him for working in his autobody shop, but not much more than minimum wage, and all his money is accounted for. Nothing in or out that is suspicious.”