Hans wrote something down. “He thought it might have been a possibility?”
“I got the sense that he was simply concerned about Peter himself. With the media reports on Weber’s death, it might drag up old feelings about his past.”
“That’s stretching. More likely, Tony thought the boy may have grown up with deep resentment. He was a child when his sister was killed, a teenager when Weber’s book came out. Now he’s an adult. He could have been planning revenge for a long time.”
It was definitely possible. She said, “I asked Sean to look for him, find out where he lived and what he was doing. We knew he had been living in Florida with his grandmother, and may have taken her surname. Sean was able to trace him to Syracuse University, but lost him there. He seems to have disappeared.”
“No one disappears.”
“That’s pretty much what Sean said.”
Hans leaned back and looked at the ceiling. “Tony’s instincts are sharp, but like a lot of psychologists, sometimes he knows or senses things that he can’t quite articulate. Gut instinct. Do you think McMahon was involved in Weber’s murder?”
Lucy hesitated, then said, “Sean brought it up as a possibility. But I couldn’t possibly make that determination without knowing more about Peter McMahon.”
“Can you re-create your notes?”
“Yes.”
“E-mail me the file when you’re done.” He smiled sadly. “Get some sleep, Lucy. It’s been a long twenty-four hours.”
“How did Tony die? Heart attack?”
“That’s the preliminary diagnosis. He’d had elevated blood pressure for years, but was controlling it primarily through diet and exercise and a very mild drug, according to his doctor.”
“Please let me know. If I did anything wrong when I found him-”
“You did everything you could. Go; have dinner; rest. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
After Lucy left, Hans considered what she’d said and, knowing Tony, what he might have been thinking or working on before he died. Hans had told her about Tony’s instincts, but his own were humming right along. He immediately began looking around the office for the McMahon file Lucy had left here yesterday.
“Tony, what were you thinking?” Tony was brilliant, but he rarely brainstormed with his colleagues. He mulled thoughts and ideas in his head until they came together; then when he spoke he was almost always right. Knowing what he might be thinking was nearly impossible.
But Hans had known Tony for twenty-five years. Hans knew how he reasoned out a case. His notes would help, but Hans searched everywhere and didn’t find the McMahon file.
Lucy thought someone had stolen her notes from her room. And it appeared someone had taken Tony’s files from his office.
Hans stared at Tony’s personal effects, which he’d already boxed up to bring to Tony’s widow, Shannon. The box included a Glenlivit bottle that was only a quarter filled. Tony wasn’t a heavy drinker, but he liked his shot of Scotch at night. When they worked together two decades ago, they’d often shared a Scotch after hours.
The bottle had been on his desk, an empty glass nearby.
Hans didn’t think that there was any foul play in Tony’s death.
But.
He opened the bottle, and all he could smell was Scotch. He closed it and called the FBI Laboratory. The head of toxicology, Dr. Trisha Morrison, was a longtime colleague and friend.
“Hans, it’s been a while.”
“A lot of travel, but mostly just excuses on my part.”
“How can I help you?”
“I need you to come to Quantico tomorrow and gather evidence from Agent Presidio’s office.”
“The instructor who had a heart attack?”
“Yes. I want to make sure that there’s nothing in here that might have caused him to go into cardiac arrest.”
Trisha didn’t say anything for a moment. Then, “Are you saying he could have been murdered?”
“No.” Then he stated carefully, “I’m saying I want to make sure there’s nothing in his office that might have caused him to go into cardiac arrest.” If Tony was murdered, that put the murderer at Quantico. As soon as Hans put this in a report, it would be part of the system. Even if they classified it, if someone had killed Tony, they would wonder why his file was classified. “I need someone who can be discreet.”
Trisha said, “I’ll be out tonight.”
“I appreciate it.”
Hans hung up and then dialed Sean Rogan.
“Hello, Dr. Vigo,” Sean said. “I suppose I don’t need to guess why you’re calling.”
“You’re a smart boy,” Hans said. He liked Sean quite a bit but worried about some of his activities. It was no secret that Sean had had trouble in his youth, but Hans suspected it went a lot deeper than even he knew. Hans felt oddly protective of him, maybe because he’d captured Lucy’s heart and Hans wanted to make sure Sean didn’t make an illegal detour that would break it.
Still, Hans wanted answers and Sean could get them. “I know you’re digging around in this and that.”
“You may have to define what you mean by this and that.”
“Peter McMahon.”
“I’m trying to find him.”
“Call me if you do.”
“Why?”
Hans became irritated. He was an assistant director in the FBI and no one challenged his authority. He had to remind himself that not only was Sean not his employee, but also Sean challenged everyone.
“It’s relevant to the Rosemary Weber murder. Lucy filled you in?”
“She did. Do you think he’s guilty?”
“I think he needs to be found.”
“All right. I’ll let you know. Now I have a question for you. Do you know a cop named Bob Stokes? He was a rookie during the McMahon case, became a detective pretty quick. Weber dedicated her first book to him.”
“I remember the name.”
“I thought he’d be a good place to start, but Patrick found out he died. Six weeks ago.”
“What happened?”
“Heart attack.”
Hans frowned. “How old was he?”
“Forty-one.”
“Was there anything suspicious about his death?”
“No, but they might not have been looking for anything suspicious.”
“And you are.”
“I’m curious. Just want to answer these nagging questions.”
Hans didn’t believe in coincidences, yet causing someone to go into cardiac arrest wasn’t easy. The killer would need both knowledge of poisons and access to the victim. And there was no guarantee that the victim would die. Such a premeditated murder would need planning and foresight. And there wasn’t any connection between Detective Stokes and Tony except a fifteen-year-old case.
“Doc, you there?”
“Let me know what you learn as soon as you learn it, especially if you locate McMahon.”
He hung up and pinched the bridge of his nose.
Tony, you knew something. What was it? Did it get you killed? Did it have anything to do with Rosemary Weber?
CHAPTER TWENTY
Nine Years Ago
I kept to myself my freshman year of high school.
I was smart, but that didn’t make me popular. I wasn’t an athlete because I was too short and, when I was younger, Grams didn’t have the energy to take me to practices or games. I had told her I didn’t care about playing soccer or football or lacrosse, even though I kind of did. But she needed me and I wasn’t going to let Grams down. And then she died and I was back where it all began, and hiding behind Grams’s last name no longer helped.
Being smart has its advantages, and I kept telling myself if I could just get through four years of high school I could go to any college I wanted, far away. I didn’t make many friends. Maybe because I didn’t try and use Rachel as an excuse. I was, after all, the kid whose sister had been murdered by a pervert who went to his parents’ sex parties. It didn’t matter that my parents divorced, my father moved across the country, or I hated my mother. I was the freak. People either felt sorry for me or thought my misfortunes would rub off on them. I don’t know. Maybe it was just because of me.