“I hope you’re not encouraging that.”
“I’m trying to stay neutral.”
“As long as he’s not putting himself in danger, Alex.”
I looked at my watch. “He was at sports camp all day and should be home by now, getting ready for dinner.”
“Just the same. I don’t want him in over his head.”
Mahoney came out the door and motioned me back into the war room.
“Ned wants me and you need sleep,” I said.
“I do. And I love you.”
“I love you too and I’ll give your predicament some more thought.”
I hung up and crossed to Mahoney, who stood impatiently in the doorway.
“We’ve got a second victim, a second confession,” he said quietly. “One of ours. I want you and me on the scene ASAP.”
“Okay. Where are we going?”
“Los Angeles. Go pack a bag. I’ll meet you at Reagan National in an hour.”
Chapter 17
Sampson slapped the bubble on the roof of his squad car, lit up the sirens, and drove me from FBI headquarters to my home in under eight minutes.
He double-parked with the lights flashing and followed me up the porch stairs, saying, “Damn, I wish I were going with you.”
“And I wish you were coming with me, but fatherhood matters most,” I said as we went inside.
“It does. Thanks for reminding me.”
“You sure you have time to get me to the airport?”
“Jannie’s supposed to be babysitting Willow until seven.”
We went into the kitchen, where Nana Mama was frying panko-crusted rabbit in onions, garlic, and chili oil.
“That smells unbelievable, Nana,” Sampson said.
My ninety-something grandmother grinned. “I’ll send you home with some for you and Willow for dinner.”
I told her I had to pack to go to Los Angeles on short notice. I started to turn away, then asked where Ali was. She told me he’d called from the house of one of his sports-camp buddies and would be home for dinner.
I ran upstairs and threw underwear, socks, three shirts, two ties, two pairs of pants, and a dark blazer in a suitcase. After a moment’s consideration, I grabbed my passport, in case we had to go to Mexico. I tossed in my toothbrush and a few other items, then took the luggage downstairs. Anything else I needed, I’d buy.
“John!” I said. “Let’s go.”
Sampson didn’t answer. I could hear Nana Mama talking to him in concern. I dropped my bag and went back to the kitchen to find my oldest friend sitting at our table, forehead in hand, staring at his phone screen.
“He won’t tell me what’s wrong,” my grandmother said.
“John?” I said.
Sampson finally looked at me, the anguish plain throughout his face. “M is watching, isn’t he, Alex? M’s still playing us all the time, isn’t he?”
I took the phone from him and read the text message he’d received less than a minute before.
Dear John,
My apologies for not writing sooner to extend my sincere condolences about the passing of your wife, the ever-vivacious Billie. I was always impressed by her. So tiny and yet such a force of nature. You wouldn’t think that something as small as a tick could kill a person like Billie, would you?
I know I wouldn’t have thought that.
You see, John, your late wife did not die of Lyme disease. I know because I killed her and I thought now was the right time to tell you. How sad it was to watch her dwindle away, day after day after day.
Am I sorry your sweet Billie had to succumb? No, not really.
Billie’s death was necessary, John. Everything I do is necessary and you and Cross need to believe that in a real way.
Because the ball is in your court now.
The clock is ticking.
Make a move.
Or I will.
Sampson got to his feet, his eyes haunted, and said angrily, “He’s trying to throw me, upset me. Billie died of a heart attack caused by Lyme disease.”
“Was that the official result of the autopsy?” I asked quietly.
“There wasn’t one, remember?” he said. “Because of all the hospital stays, the ME decided it wasn’t necessary. And it wasn’t. She died of Lyme’s.”
“Then I agree. M is trying to throw you.”
“And he’s watching us. It’s time for that to stop.”
“Who’s watching us?” Nana Mama asked.
“We’re about to make sure no one is, Nana,” I said and looked at my watch.
Sampson turned stoic again. “I’ll be back for the rabbit, Nana. I have to get Alex to the airport.”
Outside, as we went to John’s double-parked squad car with the bubble still flashing blue, he said, “I want my house swept top to bottom for bugs and cameras. And there’s got to be some way to make sure there are no cameras trained on our homes.”
“I’ll ask Ned on the plane,” I said.
When we got in the car, I saw Big John’s hands were shaking.
“Want me to drive?”
“No,” he said.
“M is trying to throw you.”
The anguish was back on Sampson’s face as he put the car in gear and said, “I know, but I’ve got to make sure. I owe that to Billie, that and so much more.”
Before I could answer, he flipped on the siren and peeled away from the curb.
Chapter 18
Los Angeles
Mahoney and I touched down in LAX around ten that evening, local time. We had spent the flight learning about the latest law enforcement victim to be found with a white envelope marked CONFESSION.
According to his personnel files, the deceased, FBI Special Agent Mason White, was a fourteen-year veteran of the Bureau with a solid record and a reputation outside work as a devoted husband and father of three kids. The pictures we pulled up on social media depicted thirty-nine-year-old White as a model citizen, loving hubby, and doting dad to his nine-year-old son and five-year-old twin daughters. White was born and raised in Provo, Utah, and had played offensive line on the Brigham Young football team before applying to the Bureau.
According to officers on the scene, White’s wife had returned home from a visit to San Diego, first stopping to drop off the kids with her parents in Pasadena. She’d entered the house around noon to find her husband dead, lashed naked to a chair, the sealed confession on a table beside him.
She’d become hysterical and called her husband’s FBI boss, Patrick Loughlin, instead of 911. Loughlin, the supervising special agent of the FBI’s LA office, had heard about the FBI’s investigation of Hingham. He ordered agents to White’s house and had them seal the crime scene pending our arrival.
Loughlin was waiting at the gate when Mahoney and I came off our flight. To be honest, with his flattened nose and callused hands, he looked more like a street heavy than a supervising special agent. An East Boston native, Loughlin had been a Boston patrol cop who’d gotten his college and law degrees at night. He’d been the oldest recruit in Ned’s FBI Academy class at Quantico, but despite his age, he’d won both the physical and academic awards at graduation.
“Frickin’ LA traffic’s a nightmare,” Loughlin said, his Boston accent still thick. “If we went by car, it’d be two hours. We’ll take the chopper. Perk of the job, huh?”
Minutes later, we were flying in an FBI helicopter over the Staples Center and then the Hollywood Hills before sweeping out over the San Fernando Valley, which glimmered with millions of lights.
“You knew Special Agent White well,” I said.
“A Boy Scout if ever there was one,” Loughlin said. “A Mormon, for frick’s sake. I got no idea what he’s done to confess to.”