Convicted - Romig Aleatha (читать книги полностью без сокращений .TXT) 📗
Finally, Brent asked the question he could no longer contain, “What do you see? All I see is the man on the left sending a text.”
Agent number two replied. Brent gave up trying to learn all the different names of the different agents. Most of them looked alike. That’s what made last night’s charade so believable. He didn’t really look at the men. He momentarily thought of the movie Men in Black; they had it right by naming their agents with letters. J and K were much easier to remember.
Number Two replied, “Look at that phone. What’s the time on the feed?”
Jackson read the bottom of the screen, “01:36:58”
Suddenly, Number Two was typing feverishly on a nearby keyboard.
“Is someone going to tell me what you’re thinking? Will this help find Tony?”
Exasperation showed in Jackson’s expression; he exhaled and said, “See his phone. That isn’t an FBI issued phone. It isn’t even a smart phone.”
Immediately, Brent recognized what Jackson was seeing. Looking at the phone in the agent’s hand upon the stilled image, he saw the same kind of phone Courtney used to use to communicate with Claire. Brent nodded, “Yes! It’s one of those throw away phones. Why would an agent have one of those? Or why would he use it?”
“Exactly—why indeed? While we may not be able to answer why with 100% certainty, but I can, with 100% certainty, say he isn’t texting the bureau.”
“Here it is!”
Brent and Jackson turned toward Number Two, who exclaimed, “At exactly 01:36:59 the nearest tower received and forwarded a text message!” He continued to type, then he added, “It originated from a disposable phone, purchased at a convenience store on the east side of Boston, from the coordinates of the hotel.”
“And it went to..?” Jackson asked.
Number Two exhaled. “Another disposable phone, purchased at the same store, same time, with cash.”
“Can you see the text receiver’s location?”
“Give me a minute.”
Brent sat back and lifted his cup again, trying to locate any remnants of coffee lingering in the depths of Styrofoam. He marveled at the FBI’s resources. Their impressive and intrusive technology gave him confidence they’d soon learn more about these fake agents. That both soothed and worried Brent. Despite the fact, he repeatedly told the story of the late night visit, each time emphasizing Tony’s surprise and agitation, they actually alluded to the possibility Tony arranged for the fake visit and his own disappearance.
As the two agents talked, Number Two typed and typed, and Brent’s thoughts went back to last night in the suite. He recalled Tony’s declaration, saying that he didn’t believe the FBI and feared Claire had been coerced to leave the country. Brent wanted to believe his friend. He wanted to believe that the Tony of 2010 was gone; nevertheless, the fact he once existed, lingered in Brent’s thoughts.
He knew Claire’s theory on why Tony chose her all those years ago—a lifelong vendetta having to do with their grandfathers. Regardless of the reason, in 2010 Tony risked everything—money, appearance, everything, to kidnap and have Claire Nichols. To the outsider, it didn’t make sense. Anthony Rawlings was incredibly wealthy and not bad looking. No one would believe he’d jeopardize all he’d worked to accomplish, to kidnap a woman from Atlanta, Georgia. As Brent’s thoughts came together, he felt the rush of understanding. Suddenly, the picture made sense. It was like watching cards fall just right to close an inside straight. If Tony had been willing to bet everything to take Claire—then surely he’d be willing to gamble it all—again, if he believed she needed rescued.
Closing his eyes and rubbing his temples, Brent allowed his thoughts to volley. One minute, he worried someone dangerous had taken Tony—the someone Claire told the FBI about. The next minute, he believed Tony arranged the escape, in an effort to find Claire on his own. If that were the case, his friend and his boss—Anthony Rawlings—was now a fugitive. If that were the case, Brent couldn’t have been prouder!
With the sleep deprived pounding behind Brent’s closed eyes, he made a decision. He wouldn’t quit, and he hadn’t been fired; however, without a doubt—he wasn’t getting paid enough to put up with this shit! He deserved a raise, and if Tony weren’t around, then damn, that was something Brent could facilitate on his own! This shit deserved more money!
Catherine answered the door to the estate, knowing who’d be on the other side. Large iron gates greatly reduced the odds of surprise visitors. When Marcus Evergreen checked in, security informed him that Mr. Rawlings wasn’t home. He asked to come up to the estate anyway. Without Anton home, Catherine reasoned, she was the one to handle whatever the prosecutor wanted to discuss.
“Hello, Mr. Evergreen, please come in.”
“Ms. London, I wanted to come out here personally. I hope you don’t mind the intrusion?”
Leading him into the sitting room, Catherine answered, “I don’t mind; however, I’m not sure what you want. Mr. Rawlings is still out of town. I haven’t heard from him since he left Friday.”
“Yes, that’s what I’m here to discuss.”
They sat, facing one another as Catherine replied, “Mr. Evergreen, perhaps you should talk to Mr. Rawlings’ assistant, Patricia. She’s usually much more abreast of his schedule than I. I’m sure if he’s supposed to meet with you, he will. There’s no reason he wouldn’t.” Catherine’s words flowed faster as she spoke.
“Mr. Rawlings has no family, does he?”
“No, sir. Why are you asking?”
“You’ve worked for him for a long time, isn’t that true?”
“Yes, I’ve known Mr. Rawlings for a long time. I’m sorry, but I don’t understand where you’re going with this.”
“Ms. London, I received a call from the Boston bureau of the FBI yesterday. They instructed me to not release any information until everything was confirmed. This morning, they called and informed me that the news media would soon be reporting the incident.”
Catherine’s anxiety grew with each passing second. She didn’t know what was about to be said, and the uncertainty made her inhale deeply. “Mr. Evergreen, what are you trying to say?”
“Mr. Rawlings chartered a private plane during the early hours of the morning, Sunday. That plane made an emergency landing in the Appalachian Mountains.” He quickly added, “It didn’t crash—it landed, and no one has been found.”
Unexpectedly, tears formed in Catherine’s gray eyes. Stoically, she pushed forward. “Why? How? That doesn’t make sense. He has his own plane and access to many more. Why would he charter a plane?”
“All I know is that the FBI had reason to believe Mr. Rawlings’ life was in danger.”
Catherine’s hand quickly moved to her throat. “In danger? By whom?”
“They haven’t revealed that information to me. They said they’re not making any declarations. Your employer is neither considered dead nor missing. They hope to locate him. Ms. London, if you hear from him, I’m imploring you, please contact my office immediately.”
Catherine nodded. “Yes, Mr. Evergreen, of course. So, they think he’s alive?”
“The FBI isn’t being very forthcoming. I’m sure this’ll result in all kinds of speculations.” The prosecutor stood. “I need to get back to the office. I wanted to do something and informing you seemed like the best option. I realize he was your employer; however, after so many years of devoted service, I felt you deserved to hear the information first hand.”
“Mr. Evergreen—the FBI? Does this also involve Ms. Nichols?”
“I wish I could tell you more. I wish I knew more. As of now, both Ms. Nichols and Mr. Rawlings are both officially—considered missing.”
