Cole can already see where this is going. “And that changed.”

Lambert nods. “Last Monday, she received a wire transfer in the amount of nine thousand, five hundred dollars.”

“The magic number,” says Cole. Just under the ten grand that requires a currency-transfer report to the IRS.

“Yes, sir. And her credit debt is now zero.”

“The poster with Suzanne Bonanno’s picture. How did she get it?”

“No way to know, sir. But I found one on eBay for twenty bucks.”

“Maybe we can send somebody to talk to her undercover? Say we’re doing a student survey or some damn thing…”

Lambert folds his hands and leans forward. “She’s not there, sir.”

“What?”

“The morning after you encountered her, she took a flight out of Reagan National to LAX. Final destination Cambodia.”

“Cambodia? She’s gone?”

“Off the grid, sir.”

Cole shakes his head. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.”

“I can reach out to the embassy in Phnom Penh, sir.”

“Don’t bother. Cambodia is a non-extradition country. She’s been paid off and tucked away. Thank you, Doug. You can go.”

Lambert walks out and pulls the door closed behind him.

Alone in his office, Cole balls his hand into a fist and brings it down hard on his desk. Right now, it’s about the only power he can muster.

There’s no way to tell who Joan Cardinal was working for.

She’s completely out of reach. Unavailable for questioning.

If she’s even still alive.

CHAPTER
41

Litchfield, Connecticut

I’m sitting at home in the upstairs alcove I call my office looking at news reports on Amber Keenan’s murder. So far, I’m finding nothing beyond what O’Halloran already told us except that her two kids are temporarily in the care of a neighbor, and the store clerk is not a suspect. The killers are still on the loose.

Plink! Plink!

I’ve got a ten-gallon pot on the floor near my desk to catch the drips from the farmhouse’s leaky ceiling.

When Garrett texted me after his prison meeting, he had a two-hour drive ahead of him. He should be home by now.

I hear a car in the driveway.

Finally!

I get up from my desk, look out the window, and see the reflection of blue lights.

I look down. It’s a police car. I take the steps two at a time and yank open the front door.

The cop is standing on the porch, ice already forming on his cap and slicker. He’s backlit by the headlights of his car. “I’m Officer Blaine, Litchfield Police,” he says. “Is this the residence of Garrett Wilson?”

My heart is pounding and my vision narrows. I grab the door frame. “What happened? Where is he?”

“Are you a relative, ma’am?”

“I’m his partner! Girlfriend! My name is Brea Cooke! We live together!”