Page 46 of The Grave Artist (Sanchez & Heron #2)

“Is he back from wherever he went?” Jake asked Sanchez, as they stood in front of his workstation in the Garage.

He meant their boss, of course.

“Don’t have a clue. Never heard back from him.”

They had just set Declan to work, tracking down cars that might be traced to Ms. POI.

“Not like him to go silent,” Sanchez noted. “You know, let’s go talk to Destiny. Maybe he’s sick or one of the kids is.”

Jake nodded.

Together they walked out of the Garage and up the short, gray-carpeted corridor to HSI proper.

“Notice anything?” he asked.

Sanchez looked around. “Quiet.”

“It is.”

As they approached Williamson’s office, he glanced ahead and saw Mouse at the far end of the main hall. When she saw them, she began jogging their way.

Odd, Jake thought. She was excitable but not given to this kind of behavior.

Or panic, as her expression suggested.

They stepped into Williamson’s ante office, where Destiny Baker was on the phone. She was surrounded by dozens of slips of paper covered with handwritten scrawls. Many Post-it Notes too.

Her look of dismay mirrored Mouse’s.

Jake and Sanchez glanced at each other.

Which was when they heard a voice from inside their boss’s office.

“Ah, Agent Sanchez and Mr. Stealthy Intrusionist. Pray enter.”

“The fuck,” she whispered.

Deputy Director Stanley Reynolds was pouring bottled water into a potted plant in the window. Williamson did not decorate his office with greenery. Which meant Reynolds had brought his own. And that implied he planned to stay awhile and was making himself at home.

This was why Mouse was doing her sprint—racing to warn them of the disaster.

Reynolds put the water down and motioned to the small round conference table in the corner. They sat and he joined them. The office seemed naked without Williamson’s massive presence.

“Where is he?” Sanchez asked.

“Eric? Ordered to Washington. Hauled before a meeting with Justice and a congressional subcommittee hearing, so I’m at the helm for the time being.”

It was all clear now. Reynolds had likely been working his dark magic and convinced the subcommittee that he was responsible for the recent win that Sanchez and Jake had managed to pull off.

He was leveraging that for another shot at the director position when it opened again and, at the same time, stealing I-squared out from under Williamson.

If he didn’t dissolve it outright, he would make sure it was absorbed into another Justice operation like the FBI or NSA—where the whole point of the pilot program, rapid response to micro threats, would be ignored.

And the palace coup grew even sneakier. Jake was thinking of yesterday’s video, Reynolds on a plane. But not going to Washington, DC, as he’d implied.

He’d been headed to LA.

“Shit.”

He’d meant to whisper. He caught Sanchez’s eye, and she gave a brief nod.

Reynolds frowned. “Say something, Mr. Heron? Something I missed?”

“No, Stan.”

Intentionally not using his title, or even the last name.

Reynolds then began once again to push his theory that Brock had been murdered, for some reason, as part of a Russian spy op, involving the oligarch Sergei Ivanov.

Sanchez sighed. “Remember, we did look into it. And HK made another attempt, last night. A couple on their honeymoon in Bel Air. That would’ve made that killing, and the deaths in Italy, collateral damage to sell the deception.”

Reynolds wasn’t put off in the least. “Exactly. Clever, aren’t they? Ivanov and his hit man.”

Jake weighed in. “What we told you on the plane—when you were headed out here.” He couldn’t let that one go. “Is still true. Nothing suggests that’s why Brock was killed. He didn’t have access to sensitive information, and he wasn’t assisting with any federal investigations. There’s no motive for—”

“This is where you have the disadvantage of being, as they say, out of the loop. I’m privy to information you don’t have.

For example, Mr. Brock was being considered for a spot in a section tasked with analyzing foreign financial influence.

The team would report directly to the top.

” He leaned forward. “The Comptroller General of the United States. I can’t say more than that. ”

“Only being considered?” Jake asked.

Sanchez now voiced another logical parry: “But if we didn’t know about the promotion, and we work for the federal government, how would an outside asset know?

” She shook her head, a bit more enthusiastically than necessary.

“And, Stan, I still don’t see what killing Brock gets Ivanov.

Wouldn’t the Russians want to turn him?”

Reynolds blinked, as the idea zipped by. He said, “Ah, well, that’s the mystery we need to unravel, like an onion.”

Jake didn’t dare look at Sanchez for fear she would mouth, Can you unravel an onion?

“And you’re just the two to do that.” Then he grew serious. “Look, doesn’t this whole idea of a serial killer who gets off on murdering newlyweds seem a little far-fetched? What could his motive be? It’s not sexual. It’s not money. Then what?”

“We agree there are questions,” Sanchez said.

“Which are all answered, nice and tidy, as soon as we agree that he’s being paid by Ivanov to kill Brock and lead the investigators astray.

“Now, here’s our strategy. Ivanov’s assets.

He’s a tech billionaire but that’s just a cover.

And his money is going to lead us to his employer.

GRU, the SVK, the ABC—some outfit we don’t even know about yet.

We’re going to squeeze him. And find out.

I want enough evidence to freeze Ivanov’s bank accounts and some of his goodies.

He’s partial to his G7 jet and his Bentley.

You look blank, Mr. Heron. You’ve presumably never seized anything .

.. legally. Ha, that’s a joke. I’ll explain.

“There are three types of forfeiture,” Reynolds began in a gratingly superior tone.

“Criminal, administrative and civil. The first two don’t apply to this situation, not yet.

But we can pursue him through the civil avenue.

We don’t need to prove criminal liability, just some criminal activity.

I want to pressure him—I want him to sing like a little birdie.

He gives up his handlers here and in Moscow and we bring down the whole network. ”

“But forfeiture’s a complicated process,” Sanchez said.

“It takes a long time. And we need to establish criminal behavior and trace specific assets to it. And with a Russian national? It’ll mean an international investigation, with dozens of agents.

Usually 981 actions take months or years.

” She waved a hand toward him. “We’re only two people, and neither of us has a background in accounting or international finance. ”

Reynolds said coolly, “Thank you for that fine law school class description, Agent Sanchez. But I’m confused. Didn’t Eric tell me that I-squared’s whole thrust was speed? Targeted raids? Precision strikes? If you want to move fast, you’ll find a way.”

Jake said, “Not my area of expertise, Stan, but just thinking out loud—once we make any move at all on his assets, he’ll have to be put on notice, won’t he?”

“You can be forgiven for not appreciating how due process works, Mr. Heron. Most hackers don’t. But, yes, he’ll be on notice—and that’s when he’ll make a mistake.”

Silence. Jake and Sanchez now regarded each other once again. It was Sanchez who asked, “And what mistake would that be, Stan?”

“I don’t know. But you’ll be there to find it. Bigger operations have failed, and I won’t stand by while he continues to thwart me—and embarrass me at every turn.”

And then Jake got it. With that last sentence, Reynolds had given himself away. Jake would bet a year’s salary the deputy secretary had been part of that task force earlier in his career and had never gotten over the fact that Ivanov had outmaneuvered him.

“You contact Main Justice,” he said to Sanchez. “And see if Ivanov has filed as a foreign agent and if so with whom. Then dig up everything you can about every single one of those organizations. His principal employees too.”

Jake knew nothing of this process either, but it sounded like a tremendous amount of work.

“If he’s stumbled, that’ll be enough to start forfeiture proceedings.

And you, Professor, you’re going to locate exactly what we will forfeitize—ha, I know that’s not a word, but it should be.

Now how’s this plan? You do some of your pen testing at Ivanov’s facilities.

You should be able to find bank accounts, the aforementioned vehicles, some properties that we don’t know about. All kinds of goodies.”

Jake could not suppress a sigh. “The subject’s company hires me to pen test. I can’t initiate it on my own.”

This would surely amuse Sanchez, Jake thought, since his position was exactly the opposite of what he usually said.

Reynolds bristled. “Obviously, Professor. It’s going to require a little work on your part to convince Ivanov and his operating people they need to hire you. Do some salesmanship. Isn’t this what they call social engineering?”

Yes, it was. And in fact Jake Heron was damn good at it. But the art and science of social engineering took weeks, if not months, to ply successfully.

And besides, did Reynolds not see the gaping hole in his logic? If Ivanov were a Russian spy, the last thing on earth he would do is hire a private pen tester to assess his security systems.

“I’ve contacted LAPD.” Reynolds frowned. “I do wish they hadn’t been brought into any loops. Local police? Positive sieves when it comes to holding on to classified information.”

Sanchez stiffened. Even as a civilian, Jake knew that LAPD’s anti-terror unit—which had access to as much classified data as the CIA—was one of the premier such outfits in the world.

“But I’ve made some calls, and they’re benched for the time being. Now, run along, both of you. Get to work. I’ve got to check in with the circus in Washington and see about the latest developments there.”

“And Eric?” Sanchez asked.

“He’s being well taken care of. Don’t you worry.” He rose, picked up the water bottle and returned to his farming.

Jake and Sanchez left the office, sliding sympathetic glances at Destiny Baker, still on the phone, still swamped with handwritten notes, which he now knew were instructions from Reynolds.

Jake lifted his hands, asking in effect, What the hell?

Destiny lowered the phone. “Eric’s in Washington. A select committee’s grilling him about I-squared. I talked to him. He said it’s not going well. Reynolds plotted the whole thing.”

Her intercom buzzed. “Destiny, could you come in here? And bring your pad and pen again? By the way, did I tell you I really like your name?”

With an eye roll, she finished her phone call and got up, and Jake and Sanchez returned to the Garage. He was thinking that the Honeymoon Killer himself could not have derailed the investigation against him as effectively as their “superior” had just managed to pull off.