“That’s right. So let’s try something new.”
“Something new,” Beau repeated. “I thought that’s what we were doing. But all right, I’m game.”
“Maybe the reason we keep coming up with zip is becausewe’ve been looking at this the wrong way.” Cassidy studied the notes she’d made on the pad, old ideas revived, new ones doodled on the thin blue lines, some scratched out, others rewritten.
“All this time we’ve been working the money angle,” she said. “The loan your dad made with Vaughn, blackmailing George Larson into selling Green Gables, the building deal on the side, the arson fire for the insurance money, Jess Milford demanding money from Vaughn to keep quiet about what he knew.”
“Money was what my father was all about.”
“Right. Which is why we keep thinking the favor Vaughn’s big client was after had to be something worth very large bucks. But what if money wasn’t what the client wanted?”
Beau pondered the notion. “Taggart says Jamal Nawabi is Luca Reichlin’s client. If Reichlin wanted a favor from Vaughn for his boss, it sure as hell wouldn’t be money. He’s already worth thirteen billion.”
“Exactly. So let’s make a leap and assume the Internet chatter is real. If Nawabi is part of a terrorist cell—”
“Terrorists don’t need money, either. With all the oil they control, groups like Al-Qaeda and ISIS are swimming in dollars.”
“So what do terrorists want?” Cassidy asked, working through the problem aloud.
“They want to destroy infidels. Anyone who doesn’t believe the same way they do, Americans in particular.”
Cassidy sat up straighter. “That’s right, and to destroy infidels, they need access.Access, Beau. Access to planes to blow up the Twin Towers. Access to streets in the area where the Boston Marathon was being run.”
“Nawabi would want access to . . . Jesus—what was the favor my father provided? Either knowingly or unknowingly, he gave Vaughn’s client access to the capitol building!What better terrorist target than blowing up the Texas State Capitol?”
Hurriedly digging through the printed material they had collected, he tugged out the sheet with the list of contractors hired to do deferred maintenance.
“What was the name of the company Scott Watson recommended?” He ran over the names on the list. “There it is—you circled it. Hardrock Trenching.”
Her pulse started thrumming. “I remember it wasn’t a very big company. It had to qualify under the Small Construction Participation Assistance Program.”
“That’s right.” Beau shot up from his chair and pulled her to her feet. He tugged her over to her laptop. “Let’s see if we can get the names of the people who own the company and a list of employees.”
Excited now, thinking maybe they were finally on the right track, Cassidy sat down and started typing. “And we need to know exactly what job they are doing.”
By a little after four P.M., they had the answers they had been looking for.
“Sonofabitch!” Beau studied the laptop screen over Cassidy’s shoulder. “It’s hard to wrap your head around, but there it is.”
“We need to call Quinn Taggart,” Cassidy said urgently.
“Better yet, let’s pay him a visit. I don’t think this is something we want to talk to him about on the phone.”
Collecting their notes, making sure they had everything they needed, they set off in the Ferrari, Beau driving the car at breakneck speed toward FBI headquarters at One Justice Way, which on a Friday with heavy traffic took what seemed hours.
Cassidy refrained from mentioning that honking his horn and cutting in and out between cars wasn’t going to get them there any faster. Beginning to know her, Beau flicked her a sideways glance and tapped the breaks.
Cassidy flashed him a smile and for the first time in days, Beau smiled back.
“We’re almost there,” he said a few minutes later, turning off Storey Lane onto Justice Way.
Beau had called ahead, but Taggart wasn’t there. He had an appointment somewhere else, but Beau had demanded a meeting, told the man’s assistant it could be a matter of life or death. It was getting dark by the time the Ferrari parked in the lot of the federal complex and they walked through the main entrance into the big gray building.
“Agent Taggart’s expecting you.” An attractive middle-aged woman wearing tortoiseshell glasses sat behind a computer at the front desk. “Someone will be with you shortly.”
So Taggart had returned, as Cassidy had figured he would.
A few minutes later a young woman with glossy black hair slicked into a knot at the back of her neck walked toward them. Dressed in a navy-blue skirt suit, white cotton blouse, and low-heeled shoes, typical FBI attire, she smiled as she approached.
