EIGHTY-TWO

EIGHTY-TWO

HERE WE GO. I better be on my game.

He follows me into my basement, past the backup refrigerator and paint closet and into the game-room area, finished and carpeted, a large flat-screen TV on the wall, a comfy couch.

Special Agent Francis Blair — fiftysomething, I'd guess, handsome in a rugged sort of way, the five-o'clock shadow and mussed dark hair. "Very nice basement," he says, which sounds more like an accusation than a compliment. "Must have cost a fortune," he adds, as if I didn't get the hint the first time.

He knows about the money. That changes everything about this conversation.

Blair rubs his jaw. "Your friend upstairs, Camille, she doesn't know, does she? About the money, I mean."

I don't answer. I'm under no obligation to. My silence feels guilty, though.

"No, she wouldn't know." He answers his own question. "David couldn't tell her. She was a deputy US marshal."

I sit on the couch. Maybe I don't have the strength for this after all.

"The local guy, Sergeant Janowski — he doesn't know, either, I suppose." He shakes his head. "So the only people who know about the money are Cagnina's guy, David, you, and me."

I steel myself, staying in character as part defense lawyer, part protector of my family. "Is this an interrogation?"

He loses his smile. "I want you to help me catch Michael Cagnina. The man who wants to murder your whole family? Remember that guy?"

I look away. Just hearing that. It's not exactly news, but — hearing it.

"You want to use me as bait," I say. "And I would do that why?"

"Why? Because your husband never reported the cash as income," he says. "And he's been laundering that cash through his restaurant. And of course let's not forget the way he got the money to begin with."

"So what is this, then? You're offering me a deal?"

Blair sits on the couch, the other side of the L.

"You know how this works, Mrs. Bowers. I can't promise anything. I can only promise that if you help me catch Cagnina, I will recommend to the US attorney that you not be prosecuted for tax evasion or money laundering."

"Me or my husband?"

"For tax evasion and money laundering? Fine — I'll recommend that David isn't prosecuted for those two crimes."

I don't like the way he qualified that.

"Or embezzlement," I add.

Blair double-blinks, jerks his head. "Embezzlement? Theft? Is that what you think happened? That David stole the money?"

I draw back. That's what I thought he thought — that before David went into WITSEC, he stole twenty million dollars from a secret account belonging to Cagnina.

"Tell me," I plead, my nerves jangling, so tired of secrets, so sick of learning things about my husband from strangers.

Blair's face changes, something dark coming over his expression. "David didn't steal that money," he says. "He earned it."

"He … he earned …" I get to my feet, not understanding, or maybe not wanting to understand, walling it off because it couldn't, it could not be true.

Blair slaps his knees with his palms, then stands as well. He cocks his head, chuckles, runs his hand over the scruff on his cheek. Then he wags a finger at me. "What do you know about your husband and that detention center, Mrs. Bowers?"

"That … he was there voluntarily. He wasn't a criminal, wasn't suspected to be a criminal. He was … he was just a witness."

"That's true." Blair nods. "That part's true."

"But he was there temporarily. He didn't want to stay behind bars like a criminal."

Blair nods. "Right. He transferred out."

"Yes. About two weeks before the attack on the detention center."

Blair points his finger at me, holds it there. "Sure seems like your husband got awfully lucky, doesn't it? Leaving just before the attack?"

And then it happens. The house of cards I've been balancing, suddenly toppling over. My world spinning upside down.

My legs almost give out. I fall against the wall, closing my eyes, as if doing so will prevent the words from leaving Agent Blair's mouth.

"How the hell do you think Michael Cagnina discovered the location of that detention center?" he says. "We investigated everybody. Everybody. Every federal employee who got within a mile of our case. Every deputy marshal, every agent, every employee. But nobody thought of our one remaining witness, our prized possession, our golden goose, our only chance at taking down Michael Cagnina, even if it was just for some lame financial crime that wouldn't put him away forever. It was better than nothing. It wiped a little egg off our faces. So nobody looked hard at Wesley Price."

"No … no," I whisper. "No."

"And then it was over, and he was whisked away into witness protection, and nobody would let me within a fucking mile of him. You know how secretive WITSEC is, right? I didn't even know his new name. And I could never prove my suspicions, right? Well, now I'm here, and now I can, and now I damn sure will ."

"No," I whisper. "No, it … it can't …"

"That twenty million was a payoff, " he says. "A payoff from Cagnina after your husband gave him the location of that detention center."

I slide down the wall, crumpled into a ball.

"He's responsible for the murder of half a dozen federal agents," says Blair. "And I'm not giving him immunity for that. Not ever. But you, Marcie? You wanna avoid going to prison with him and sending your children to orphanages? Do you? Do you ?"

"Y — yes," I manage. "Yes. Please."

"Then you'll tell me everything you know right now," he says. "And you'll help me catch whoever Michael Cagnina sent to town."