Page 156 of The Grave Artist

Lydia was always the instigator. The force.

But for him to turn on her?

Peer pressure—like that exerted in a cult—was one of the most insidious forms of intrusion. And among the hardest to resist. He guessed his father had been brainwashed, in a way.

“Your mother’s a hero, Professor. She saved a bunch of lives. So, we’re trying to find her. There’re no charges. We want to get her into protective custody. Probably set her up in witness protection until we can find Stahl and his people. So do you have anything that could help us?”

He was stunned by the news. It took him a moment to focus. “I don’t, no.”

Horowitz produced a wallet and gave Jake his card. “If you hear from her again.”

The CHP investigator stepped away. He paused and turned back. “I’m sure your parents gave you a real crappy childhood, Professor. Butall my years in this job, one thing I can say. People can change. I’ve seen it a thousand times. And you know where it happens most often?”

“Within families.”

“You got it, Professor. You got it.”

As the officer left, Jake noted several vehicles pulling into the lot. Sanchez and Selina.

He had a fast thought, a rare sentimental one. They had solved the case about Roberto Sanchez, clearing his name and getting justice in the process.

Now Jake wanted to share the story Horowitz had just told him.

Your mother’s a hero, Professor ...

He walked forward to join them, wondering where this new information would lead—and how soon they’d be able to embark on another unauthorized freelance investigation.

Chapter 78

“So it’s done, completed,finis... kudos to you both!”

Carmen glanced up impatiently at Stan Reynolds, who hovered in the doorway of the Garage.

The deputy director gave an exaggerated wince. “But I’m afraid I do have a tad bit of bad news for you.”

She had been writing up the after-action report with Heron, Selina and Grange.

Then Reynolds frowned, looking at Selina. “And you are ... do you work here?”

“She’s my sister,” Carmen said, and did not tell him that she was the kidnap victim they’d alluded to earlier.

Reflecting that the man had not even asked about the condition of the abductee.

Stan Reynolds, true to form.

“I know you and your erstwhile leader, SSA Williamson, were a touch skeptical of my theory that Sergei Ivanov was behind the Brock murder.”

Heron whispered, “‘Tad.’ ‘Touch.’”

Carmen tried not to smile.

“But we dug deep enough and found, guess what, the dear departed bridegroom,didsend an encrypted message to a known asset in theRussian embassy in Washington. It came from, ta-da, Brock’s house.” His eyes were triumphant. “I ordered agents to bring Ivanov in for questioning.”

She frowned. “What charge?”

“He wasn’t arrested. Only brought in for questioning. As I just said. But we’ll break him. I know you tried, did your best. Points for that. But I’m afraid there will be consequences for dropping the ball.”

All of Reynolds’s skills were on full display—not as a law enforcer but as a masterpoliticaloperator. On these facts, he would have an easy time bringing I-squared within his own orbit. Organizations—and personnel—often never recovered from national security oversights like this.