Page 52 of The Grave Artist

Both visitors remained calm. One thing was clear from their expressions. The pair were utterly bulletproof to any insults and anger fired their way. They were the government equivalent of the hit teams called in by human resource departments to fire employees.

“You’ll have time to read everything on the flight—there’s a government jet standing by at LAX. But the gist is that the subcommittee plans to fold this I-squared program into DHS at a higher level than HSI.”

“But ... I can’t leave HSI.”

Winters offered, “Oh, that’s not a concern, Agent Williamson. You’ll remain here. There’s no change in your job status whatsoever. But you’ll no longer have the added burden of I-squared.”

“Burden? It’s the whole point of what I’ve been trying to put together for three years.”

Mehlman jutted out his lower lip. “Then kudos to you that it’s going to a higher division.” He looked at his watch. Was he late for the next meeting in which he’d destroy someone’s life? “If you could acknowledge receipt of the subpoena, sir.”

“I’m not doing that.” He pushed the two slips of paper back toward them.

Mehlman shrugged. “All right.” Delivered with the practiced air of a process server who had heard it all before. He glanced at Winters. “Please record.”

She lifted her phone and hit what was presumably the video button.

Mehlman spoke in a carrying voice. “The federal subpoena issued by Magistrate Joanne Visconte in the District Court of Washington, DC, dated this day has been duly served on Supervisory Special Agent Eric Williamson.” He looked back at Winters and added, “And duly witnessed.”

No . . . this can’t be happening . . .

His mind spun. A million thoughts. “Well, I can’t just leave with these active investigations going on.”

“The director will be in touch about that. You don’t need to worry.”

Williamson resisted an urge to tear up the subpoena as Winters frowned wrinkles into her young face. “Agent Williamson? I should mention. The plane is wheels up in forty-two minutes.”

Mehlman added, “If I were you, sir, I’d get a move on. You miss your appearance and you’ll be held in contempt of Congress. Could get you a year in prison. We wouldn’t want that now, would we?”

Chapter 25

Jake stood in front of the digital murder board on I-squared’s otherwise unadorned walls. There was a lot of text, a lot of pictures, a number of maps. Some sketches.

Nothing was proving helpful, though.

Sanchez disconnected a call. “Not having much luck with Lauren Brock.”

The elusive sister of the victim at the Hollywood Crest.

They had gotten pertinent information about her from Allison and Ben, Anthony’s best man. Lauren worked as a bookkeeper at an automotive parts supplier in San Fernando Valley. She rented a small house in Van Nuys, a modest region of LA, also in the Valley.

Sanchez continued, “Her boss said she called in the day after Anthony’s death to tell him she was taking the week off. He advised her to use as much time as she needed. He didn’t say anything about substance issues, and I didn’t mention it.

“Sheriff’s deputies stopped by her place, but nobody was home. And the neighbors hadn’t seen her since the weekend. I tried the rehab center Anthony put her in, but she’s not there and hasn’t been in touch.”

Jake sighed. “Hate to picture her with a bottle or a bunch of dirty needles, holed up in some sleazy motel.”

“Tough, yeah.”

He noticed her face had stilled and wondered where her thoughts were.

The answer—possible answer—came a moment later. “I’m going to see Frank.”

They’d gotten no updates on Tandy’s condition.

“Sure. Give him my best.”

“Will do.”