any identification around here that might match the name Frank
Andrews?”
The tears welled in the stricken woman’s eyes and Reynolds truly felt
for her.
“You mean with Ken’s picture on it? Showing that he was this Frank
Andrews person?”
“Yes, that’s what I mean,” Reynolds said softly.
Anne Newman put her hand in her robe and pulled out a Virginia driver’s
license. The name on it was Frank Andrews. The license number, which
in Virginia was the person’s Social Security number, was on there. And
in the small accompanying photo Ken Newman was staring back at her.
“I thought about going to open the safe-deposit box myself, but then I
realized they wouldn’t let me. I’m not on the account. And I wouldn’t
be able to explain that it was my husband, but just under a fake
name.”
“I know, Anne. I know. You were right to bring me in. Now, where
exactly did you find the fake ID?”
“In another one of the photo albums. They weren’t family albums, of
course. I keep those, been through them a zillion times. These albums
were pictures of Ken and his hunting and fishing buddies. They took
trips every year. Ken was good about taking pictures. I never knew he
kept them in albums. I wasn’t all that interested in looking at those
pictures, you see.” She stared wistfully at the far wall. “Sometimes
it seemed Ken was happier with his buddies shooting at ducks or at his
coin and card shows than he was at home.” She caught a quick breath,
put a hand over her mouth and looked down.
Reynolds could sense Anne had never meant to share that personal bit of
information with her, a semi-stranger. She said nothing. Experience
told her to allow Anne Newman to work her way through this. A minute
later the woman started speaking again.
“I never would have found it, I suppose, unless .. . what happened to
Ken .. . you know. I guess life is funny sometimes.”
Or terribly cruel. “Anne, I need to check this out. I’m going to take
these items, and I don’t want you to mention it to anyone. Not
friends, family .. .” She paused, choosing her words as carefully as
she could. “Or anyone else at the Bureau. Not until I dig a little
bit.”
Anne Newman looked up at her with frightened eyes. “What do you think
Ken was involved in, Brooke?”
“I don’t know yet. Let’s not jump to conclusions on this. The
safe-deposit box might be empty. Ken might have leased it a long time
ago and then forgotten about it.”
“And the fake ID?”
Reynolds licked her dry lips. “Ken worked some undercover over the
years. This might be a souvenir of those days.” Reynolds knew this
was a lie, and Anne Newman probably did too, she thought. The license
had a recent issue date on it. And those working undercover in the FBI
didn’t usually take home the props with their secret identities on them
once their tasks were completed. The fake license, she was fairly
certain, was unrelated to his FBI duties. It was her job to discover
what it was connected to.
“Anne, not a word to anyone. It’s for your own safety as much as
anything.”
Anne Newman clutched her arm as Reynolds stood. “Brooke, I’ve got
three kids. If Ken was mixed up in something ..
“I’ll put the house under twenty-four-hour surveillance. Anything
remotely suspicious catches your eye, you call me.” She handed her a
card with her direct-dial numbers on it. “Day or night.”
“I didn’t know where else to turn. Ken thought a lot of you, he really
did.”
“He was a damn good agent and he had a terrific career.” If she
discovered that Ken Newman had been a sell-out, however, the Bureau
would crush his memory, his reputation, everything about his
professional life. That would, of course, destroy his private side as
well, including the woman Reynolds was looking at, and her children.
But that was life. Reynolds didn’t make the rules, didn’t always agree
with the rules, but she lived by them. However, she would check out
the safe-deposit box by herself. If there was nothing suspicious in