The Eyes of Others Read online

  “Take what you know to the FBI. It’s time.”

  “So they can do what? Arrest me when I’m this close? I don’t think so. You wanted me to end this. It’s time.”

  “Boston, you need to listen to reason. There’s no telling what Colby is capable of. If he killed Turner―”

  “I’ll be well protected.”

  “I don’t like this one bit. If you go and confront him, what do you think he’s going to say? Do you think he’s going to confess?”

  “One way or another, yes.”

  What he is about to do scares me. He’s always been driven by what happened to him. Now he sees the end of the journey and will do anything to reach it. Anything.

  “Boston―”

  “Gina, my mind is made up. I have to do this.”

  “Boston, you promised you would come back to me when this was over.”

  “I intend to keep that promise.”

  “I’m going to hold you to that. For the record, prison doesn’t count as coming back to me. When are you going?”

  “I’m leaving soon. The weather’s horrible so it should provide me plenty of cover to get there. They don’t know what car I’m driving, and the rain will interfere with any traffic cameras I pass if they figure it out.”

  “Please be safe,” I plead.

  “I will,” he promises. I hear voices getting louder. It sounds like they’re between a customer and an employee, meaning it’s only a matter of time before I have company in the adjoining dressing room.

  “I have to get going before we’re overheard or the G-men get suspicious. Good luck, honey. “

  “Thanks. Take care of yourself, and don’t worry about me. I’m not the one who’s going to need the luck.”

  .

  ~ chapter 57 ~

  eric “maryland” williams

  It could be much worse. They could have set me up in one of those interrogation rooms you see in bad spy movies or television police dramas. Either I rate better than that treatment, or they don’t conduct their business that way anymore.

  I was immediately shown into this small conference room in FBI Headquarters when I showed up. I’ve never been here before, but the look and feel of the facility is much like what I see every day at the DIA. Men are in suits, women are professionally dressed, and all of them walk around with serious looks on their faces.

  A couple of agents asked a few questions, but it was a couple of hours before the real debriefing began. There have been several serious-looking men in this room to hear my story, and the mood didn’t change when this most recent agent sat down and asked me to tell it all over again. I’m a little less confident this time, but not because I was bending the truth. I recognized him, and not in a good way.

  “That’s quite a story,” Agent Bruhte says from across the small table.

  “It’s the truth.”

  He looks at one of the other agents in the room who gives a slight nod. He’s not impressed. His words may be measured, but his body language screams that he’s measuring me up for a prison jumpsuit.

  “After all that, you want me to believe you’re just a hapless victim in all this?”

  “Boston believed there was a mole in our organization. I wanted to be supportive on the chance he was right. Especially if it turns out we were the target of the ambush two years ago,” I explain.

  “And you think that these dreams Boston has will uncover the answer?”

  “He seems to think that,” I deflect.

  “And you don’t?”

  “I’m a little more skeptical.” I am, so I don’t know why he’s making faces at everything I say.

  “Why didn’t you bring this information to us earlier?” Bruhte demands.

  I rub my chin but don’t say anything. What is there to say? He was a fugitive, I knew his location, and I didn’t go to the police. By definition, that’s aiding and abetting and I could go to prison for it. I’m sure Agent Bruhte knows that too.

  “You promised to give him time, didn’t you?” he says with a smirk when I don’t answer. This guy is good.

  A knock on the door interrupts us, and an agent walks in. I’ve been saved by the bell, in a manner of speaking, but it’s only a temporary reprieve. The agents form a gaggle in the room, and despite their hushed tones, I can hear most of what’s being said.

  “Hollinger’s fiancée went to Union Station.”

  “For what?” the older, bald agent asks.

  “Agents said she got a cup of coffee, visited a few shops in the mall, purchased some items at a Victoria’s Secret store, and left.”

  “Did she talk to anyone?”

  “They don’t think so.”

  “Why would Gina Attison visit Union Station?” Agent Bruhte asks me, taking a step or two away from the gaggle towards me.

  “How would I know?”

  “Let me try a different question. Did Hollinger have a means to contact her?”

  I look down at the table. The FBI is taught how to spot all manners of deception, and I just committed one of the most prominent tells. Once again, I say nothing, but I don’t really need to at this point.

  “We can do this the easy way or the hard way, Eric. We’re monitoring Gina’s phone and Boston tossed his according to you. How are they communicating?”

  “They have burner phones.”

  “Do you know the numbers?” he presses.

  “No.”

  He studies me for a few moments, trying to determine if I’m telling the truth. There’s nothing more unnerving than having your every move analyzed by men specially trained to detect dishonesty. Feeling his eyes bore into me makes me even more nervous.

  “Victoria’s Secret,” he mumbles, turning his attention to the other agents. “She called him from the dressing room.”

  “You got to give her this much, she’s smart,” the older agent opines with a nod.

  “Have those agents watch her closely,” he says, turning to one of his younger colleagues who entered the room a moment earlier. “I don’t care if they have to follow her to her gynecologist. She doesn’t leave their sight. I want to know the second she tries to reach Hollinger again.”

  “You got it.”

  The younger agent leaves and Bruhte rubs his stubble. He looks more ragged than I do, and that’s saying something. He sits back in the chair to continue my inquisition.

  “So, you waited to turn yourself in and tell us your story. Why?” It didn’t take him long to come back to that subject.

  “He asked for time.”

  “And you gave it to him.” It was a statement, not a question, but I answer anyway.

  “Yes.”

  “Time for what?”

  “He didn’t say. Probably to see if he could glean anything more out of these memories he’s experiencing.”

  “Right.” He draws it out like a parent who just heard a teenager’s lame excuse as to why half the bottle of vodka in the liquor cabinet is missing.

  “I don’t give a damn if you believe me or not, Agent Bruhte. Hell, I’m not sure I believe it myself. I’m only telling you everything I know. Do what you will with the information.”

  “Did Boston, or your friend … Louisiana,” he says, looking at his notes, “kill Garrett?”

  “Louisiana is not my friend. We served together. But no, I don’t think they did.”

  “Someone else did it?” Again he uses the parental tone of disbelief.

  “They think they are being set up.”

  “Set up by whom?”

  “The one person who gains the most by Garrett’s death,” I tell him, returning his hard stare.

  “They gain the most, Eric.” When did I get on a first name basis with this guy?

  “Do you really believe that? It only makes matter worse for him because of what they did to your car.”

  Agent Bruhte is not amused at me bringing up what’s left of his car. It must be a sore spot for him. I know it would be for me, and I don’t drive an expensive impo
rt.

  “Okay, so who gains the most?”

  “Colby Washington. With Garrett out of the way, Admiral Troxsell will probably give him his job back.”

  “Do you think a government servant would kill to regain his position?”

  “I think Boston thinks that.” I wish he’d stop trying to lump me into this.

  “Does Hollinger think he’s the mole?”

  “Colby Washington is an administrator. He stopped being an analyst doing real work ages ago. Now he sits back with his high-level clearance and sees every piece of intelligence analysis coming out of his directorate. Why else would someone be so desperate to get a job like that back?” I speculate.

  Agent Bruhte just sits in his chair and watches me. I don’t know if he’s thinking about what I said, searching for holes in my story, or trying to determine what to ask me next. He’s staring right through me, and it’s intimidating as hell.

  “Okay, Mister Williams, you’re free to go. I can have an agent help you retrieve your car from the impound lot. Be prepared to fill out a mountain of paperwork.”

  “That’s it?” I ask in utter bewilderment.

  “For now, yes. Just don’t think about leaving town. The local police are going to want to have a nice long chat with you about what happened in Adams Morgan once the dust settles in the search for your friend. You still may face charges of obstruction and aiding and abetting a fugitive by the time this is done.”

  .

  ~ chapter 58 ~

  FBI agent zach bruhte

  “I don’t know why you let him go,” Grimman tells me once Eric Williams leaves the small conference rom. “He’s jerking your chain.”

  “I don’t think he is. In fact, I don’t think he lied at all.”

  “You believe all that mumbo jumbo about the dreams being memories?”

  “Not really, but it doesn’t matter what I believe. Hollinger believes it.”

  “Are you basing that on his word?” he asks, pointing toward the door Williams just left out of.

  “Not entirely. All the pieces fit. The doctor, Hollinger needing more time, even the calls from Washington to Gina Attison. He could very well be our guy, and I’m certain that Hollinger thinks so. We need to find him.”

  “We need to get a unit to check out where Williams said the doctor’s friend lives. Maybe we get lucky and they’re still there.”

  “If Williams gave him twelve hours, he won’t be.”

  “All right, so where would they have gone after that? Another friend’s place?”

  “If you thought you were experiencing other people’s memories in your dreams, and that could lead you to someone who wanted you killed, where would you go?”

  “Anywhere but Elm Street.”

  I don’t miss the Nightmare on Elm Street reference, but I’d rather not think about Freddy Kruger visiting anyone in their dreams. One of the lectures I received at Quantico during my FBI training was the psychological profile of a copycat murderer who was replicating the deaths in those movies. I didn’t sleep for a week after that. Sleep. That’s the key.

  “That’s it! Sleep disorder centers.” I turn to one of the agents in the room. “I need a list of all the clinics in the area that deal with sleep disorders. Then call them to see if any of them have had a patient named Eugene Hollinger. Go.”

  “Wait a second!” I instruct the agent before he gets to the door. I turn back to Grimman. “We need to put a guy on Williams to watch him once he gets his car back and leaves.”

  “We’re a little low on manpower here, Zach. Have the poli―”

  “The police will just haul him in,” I surmise.

  “Why do you want him watched?”

  “I want to see if he reaches out to anyone.”

  “Or if anyone reaches out to him. I get it. Make it happen,” Grimman instructs the agent who bolts out of the room before he can get assigned another task. “What are you going to do?”

  “I am going to the source to see why Colby called Garrett that night from a burner phone.”

  “It could have been a coincidence,” my boss offers weakly. I just give him a look. He’s been in the FBI for longer than five minutes. He understands that there rarely are coincidences.

  “Let’s take a trip and find out.”

  * * *

  The drive from FBI headquarters on Pennsylvania Avenue to Colby’s place in Maryland would only be forty-five minutes under normal conditions. These are not normal conditions. This has to be some of the nastiest weather on record. The rain is hard, steady, and hasn’t let up at all since the skies opened up. It also makes driving a nightmare for Remsen who is behind the wheel and has to get us there in this mess.

  Remsen, another agent I barely know, and myself are quiet as Grimman tries to hear whoever is on the other side of his cell phone over the beating of the rain on the windshield. It’s been a one-way conversation so far. I don’t know if he’s talking to a superior or getting an update from a subordinate.

  “Yes, ma’am, I understand,” he says after what felt like an eternity. “Yes, ma’am … we’re about twenty-five minutes away. I can call you with an update when we’re done.”

  “What’s up?” I ask from the backseat after he hangs up from the call.

  “That was Director Weisz. The American hostages were beheaded by ISIS. The video was posted online an hour ago.”

  “Damn!” I mutter, punching the door with my forearm.

  “She called me personally to let me know we’ve been directed to accelerate this investigation,” Grimman adds.

  I’m about to answer when my own phone rings. I fish it out and look at the caller ID. It’s the office.

  “Bruhte.”

  “Agent Bruhte, our agents are at the address Eric Williams gave you. It belongs to an Andrea Davis. We ran her name and immigration officials at CBP have reported her as out of the country. She left through Dulles International over a week ago.”

  “Please don’t tell me she went someplace crazy like Turkey,” I warn. I don’t need any more surprises in this investigation.

  “Paris, France. The trip was booked with an accompanying ticket for a Michael Ramaglia. We ran a check on him. It comes back clean.”

  “Williams told us the friend was out of the country, so that makes sense. What else?”

  “The car reported stolen from Ivy City? It’s parked out behind the place and partially covered with an old blanket. We never would have found it.”

  “Then that part of Williams’s story checks out too,” I say into the phone, looking at Grimman when I do. I told him that he wasn’t lying to me.

  “That’s not all. We contacted DMV, and Andrea Davis has an Infinity SUV registered in her name. We thought it might be at an airport or Union Station, so we had people at Infinity’s roadside assistance program do a trace on it.”

  “Let me guess, it’s not at the airport?”

  Boston and company probably used it as transport, assuming we were onto the stolen beater car from Ivy City. A nice SUV wouldn’t stand out as much in certain parts of the city as their stolen one would. If he was trying to flee the area, it might not be a big deal, but for whatever reason, he’s staying put around Washington.

  “Far from it. The GPS coordinates have him heading south on Route 301 in Waldorf.”

  “Waldorf?”

  Yeah, it’s a small town in Maryland that―”

  “That is next to White Plains,” I finish for him, commanding the attention of my boss in the front seat.

  “Jesus, that’s where Colby Washington lives,” Grimman decrees.

  “And that’s where Hollinger is going. Thanks, I’ll call you back. Hey, Remsen?”

  “Yeah, boss?” my friend answers, looking at me in the rearview mirror.

  “Step on it.”

  .

  ~ chapter 59 ~

  EUGENE “BOSTON” HOLLINGER

  Colby’s house sits in a planned suburban neighborhood, a couple of turns removed from Route 2
13 in Maryland. It’s a typical two-story colonial style house with attached garage and no place to hide. The trees are all freshly planted and the only cover is provided by woods to the rear and left side of the house, being too far away to be of any use.

  Tara’s friend’s Infinity fits right in with the cars parked in this neighborhood, even left next to an empty lot a couple of houses up the street. I remember when Colby told me he bought this place. It’s brand new, and one of the first dozen or so houses to be built in this neighborhood. The rest are still in the planning stages or are currently under construction.

  It’s dark out for midafternoon. It’s been pouring steadily with no sign of letting up, and the overcast gray skies make it feel like it is closer to eight p.m. than midafternoon. It serves my purposes though. It keeps the neighbors inside and provides me some cover as I huddle under the overhang of his garage.

  I go back to the passenger side of his car and start rocking it. After a few good jolts, the car alarm goes off. The previous two attempts to get him to come out of the house led him to disarm the car from the living room window. Luring him outside in this weather is a long shot. He’s more likely to leave the alarm disabled, but I’m hoping his curiosity of what is causing it to keep going off wins out.

  Let’s see if the third time’s a charm. I scurry back to my spot and peer ever so slightly around the corner of the garage towards the front porch. The smoke grenade and police issue flash bang hanging off my belt clink against each other as I move. That won’t do. I adjust them so they can’t touch each other, silently cursing Louisiana for suggesting I bring them along from his duffle bag of doom just in case. Right now, they’re more of a problem than they’re worth.

  I didn’t expect Colby to be home when I got here. I was planning just to lie in wait and ambush him as he arrived, but that plan was out the moment I saw his car in the driveway. Since I couldn’t come up with a better idea, short of walking up to the door and ringing the bell, this will have to do. I will concoct a plan B if I have to.