“You think we’ll find other skeletons?” Quinones asked, breaking me from my thoughts.
“Yes.”
“Son of a bitch,” he said. But his tone had changed. Something more serious had set in.
I thought of the reality—that despite this finding, we might not be on this case for long. Not if Director Poulton wanted us on the gun investigation.
“I’d recommend you have a coroner take this body in quietly and not alert the public,” I said. “If your killer lives locally, you don’t want him to think the Bureau is back and finding anything.”
Quinones made a call, then told us he’d stay with the body towait for the coroner and forensic team while we headed back to the station to prepare for a bigger survey of a second area. As we spoke, Richie moved off to the side and phoned Shooter and Cassie. Told them to grab the first available flight in our direction.
On the way back to town, Richie filled out the paperwork for us to hire DeLillo, submitting it up the chain of command on my behalf. He also reserved a handful of rooms at a nearby Homewood Suites.
We made our way toward the station, and in my mind, I pictured the county map and the notations I’d made on it so far. But before we arrived back at the precinct, my phone rang again.
It was Craig Poulton.
“Did your C.I. talk already?” he asked.
“I sent you a note,” I said. “We’re letting him sit in jail.”
“But you have a lead? Some weapons cache?”
Was there an update from Shooter or Cassie that I hadn’t seen? Surely they wouldn’t have communicated directly with Poulton.
“The IR request,” Poulton said. “The flyover money, Camden.”
He was referring to the requisition Richie had just put in, but it was obvious the director had not read any of the details. He had just seen the wordPARattached to it.
I explained what we’d found with Freddie Pecos at the ATM and how it had led us to Shilo. But Poulton did not seem intrigued.
A year ago, when he took the lead spot at the FBI, the director made it the new priority of the Bureau to focus on four areas: fraud, domestic terrorism, human trafficking, and the proliferation of child sexual abuse material. Criminal investigations that included homicide, unless they crossed state lines or were the source of “opportunity press,” as Poulton called it, were better turned over to local police or state investigators.
“We’ve got two days until we get our hands on this new C.I.,” I said. “This case could be connected.”
“But you don’t think it is,” the director said.
“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”
Poulton snickered. “This is where you usually mention the odds, Camden. Seventy-six-point-something percent chance. Where you tell me you don’t pursue low-probability outcomes.”
I hesitated. “A man who killed our C.I. led us to a serial murderer operating in Shilo, Florida. You follow that, right?”
“You know I do,” he said, his tone sharpening.
“And this murderer,” I continued, “he’s the only lead we have in the death of Freddie Pecos, our C.I. on the gun case.”
“You mean the C.I. that you and I don’t care about,” Poulton said, referencing our conversation in his office two days ago.
“Sure,” I said. “But we have no idea how this mystery guy got to Pecos. Or if he’s tied to Sandoval. That doesn’t sit well with me.”
“Leave your team there to look into it,” Poulton said. “Get on a plane.”
“Where am I going?”
“D.C.”
I wasn’t following him. “Is there a press conference or—?”
