“We know,” says Schott. “I’m the one who sent you the link to the story in the New York Times. But that doesn’t change anything. Dr. Graham gave us this assignment and we’re seeing it through.”

I’m still not sure what’s going on. “I thought Dr. Graham was retired from the FBI.”

“Let’s just say he had deep roots at the Bureau,” says Fane, “and some chits to call in.”

“Well, now you have a debt to me,” I say with a bravado I don’t actually feel. “Does this mean you’re my bodyguards now?”

“More like guardian angels,” says Schott. “Just hovering on the periphery.”

“I don’t get it. Don’t you have real assignments?”

“We do,” says Fane. “We’re moonlighting.”

“I have so many questions. For starters, did Dr. Graham have an online alias?”

Schott smiles. “You mean Doc Cams?”

I was right! It was him. “He was posting some pretty harsh stuff against Cole Wright.”

“Dr. Graham was a mole,” says Schott. “A digital mole.”

“What does that mean?”

“Dr. Graham dug his way into radical groups to see what they were up to. That was his specialty in the Bureau. He could take on any identity or tone of voice he needed to earn somebody’s trust. He broke into a lot of crime rings that way over the years. Drugs. Smuggling. Extortion.”

“So he wasn’t anti-Wright?”

“No. He was pro-truth. He was getting ready to expose the whole network.”

“Do you think he was killed?”

Fane gives a wry smile. “Yes. But by his coronary arteries.” He pulls a small flip phone out of his pocket. “Take this. The only number it can dial is ours.”

“Same number for both of us,” says Schott.

I’m suddenly exhausted to the point of collapse. I take the phone and toss it into my backpack. “I need to go to my room now.”

“No problem,” says Schott. “It’s clear.”

“Wait. You searched my hotel room?”

“Quick sweep,” says Fane.

“Jesus! How many times have you been in there?”

Schott glances at Fane. He nods. “Twice a day,” she says, “starting the day you arrived.”

So much for my DO NOT DISTURB sign.

I walk to my room. My eyes are burning. My head is throbbing. I feel like crashing. But my cell phone is ringing.

“Hello?”

“Brea? It’s Ron Reynolds!” He’s practically shouting into the phone over loud music and a noisy crowd.

“Hi, Ron. What’s up? Where the hell are you?”

“I’m in a bar in Brentwood. A woman here knows one of the bailiffs. Be at the courthouse first thing tomorrow. They’ve reached a verdict!”

CHAPTER
130

Rockingham County Courthouse, New Hampshire