would’ve been gone before we had enough evidence for prosecution.” She
took a long breath. “Sir, you asked for my observations. Here they
are. I don’t think Lockhart killed Ken. I think Buchanan is behind
it. We have to find her. But we have to do it quietly. If we put out
an APB, then Ken Newman has probably died in vain. And if Lockhart is
alive, she won’t be for long if we go public.”
Reynolds looked over at the van just as its doors closed on Newman’s
body. If she had been escorting Faith Lockhart instead of Ken, the
odds were that she would have lost her life tonight. For any FBI
agent, death was always a possibility, however remote. If she were
killed, would Brooklyn Dodgers Reynolds fade in her children’s memory?
She was certain her six-year-old daughter would always remember
“Mommy.” She had doubts about three-year-old David, though. If she
were killed, would David, years from now, only refer to Reynolds as his
“birth” mother? The thought itself was nearly paralyzing.
One day she had actually taken the ridiculous step of having her palm
read. The palm reader had warmly welcomed Reynolds, given her a cup of
herbal tea and chatted with her, asking her questions that tried to
sound casual. These queries, Reynolds knew, were designed to gather
background information to which the woman could add appropriate
mumbo-jumbo as she “saw” into Reynolds’s past, as well as her future.
After examining Reynolds’s hand, the palm reader had told her that her
life line was short. Significantly so, in fact. The worst she’d ever
seen. The woman said this as she stared at a scar on Reynolds’s palm.
Reynolds knew it was the result of falling on a broken Coke bottle in
her backyard when she was eight.
The reader had picked up her cup of tea, apparently waiting for
Reynolds to plead for more information, presumably at an appropriate
premium over the initial fee. Reynolds had informed her that she was
strong as a horse with years in between even a simple bout of flu.
Death needn’t be by natural causes, the palm reader had replied, her
painted eyebrows rising to emphasize the obvious point.
On that, Reynolds had paid her five dollars and walked out the door.
Now she wondered.
Connie scuffed the dirt with his toe. “If Buchanan is behind this,
he’s probably long gone by now anyway.”
“I don’t think so,” Reynolds replied. “If he runs right after this,
then he’s as good as admitting guilt. No, he’ll play it cool.”
“I don’t like this,” Massey said. “I say we APB Lockhart and bring her
in, assuming she’s still living.”
“Sir,” Reynolds said, her voice tight, edgy, “we can’t name her as a
subject in a homicide when we have reason to believe she wasn’t
involved in the murder, but may well be a victim herself. That opens
the Bureau to a whole civil-action can of worms if she does turn up.
You know that.”
“Material witness, then. She damn well qualifies for that,” said
Massey.
Reynolds looked directly at him. “An APB is not the answer. It’s
going to do more harm than good. For everybody involved.”
“Buchanan has no reason to keep her alive.”
“Lockhart is a smart woman,” Reynolds said. “I spent time with her,
got to know her. She’s a survivor. If she can hang on for a few days,
we have a shot. Buchanan can’t possibly know what she’s been telling
us. But we do an APB naming her as a material witness, we just sign
her death notice.”
They were all silent for a bit. “All right, I see your point,” Massey
finally said. “You really think you can find her on the Q.T.?”
“Yes.” What else could she say?
“Is that your gut talking, or your brain?”
“Both.”
Massey studied her for a long moment. “For now, Agent Reynolds, you
focus on finding Lockhart. The VCU people will investigate Newman’s
murder.”
“I’d have them lockstep the yard looking for the slug that killed Ken.
Then I’d search the woods,” Reynolds said.
“Why the woods? The boots were on the stoop.”
She glanced over at the tree line. “If I were here to ambush someone,