Chapter Eighteen
Preston Galloway raced back to DC and made a beeline to Forsyth’s office. Crockett was right. This made no sense. He wasn’t going to stand by aimlessly again. Finding the door open, he entered in time to hear the special agent in charge in a rage, yelling at Gideon Murrow.
“You set me up. I went into that interrogation cold, believing you. I should’ve held the line. Shame on me. I told you to step back. Gideon, I can’t imagine what you’re going through, but getting creative with evidence? Wesley Crockett is not some gym rat who runs a training center. He is an executive for Chase Security International. And every member of the executive board has Homeland Security credentials. To make this even worse, the boss contracted with Chase Security for assistance in this matter.
“Eleanor West is employed by Crockett, and it looks like he’s involved with her. I’m hoping he can get close enough to her to find out what she knows. He’s duty-bound to pass on pertinent information,” Forsyth said. “You have to hold on to the bigger picture. Lives are at stake.”
“C’mon, Stew, we go back forever. We haven’t gotten anywhere. You know she knows something. Look at how we found her. She’s lying,” Gideon maintained.
“We don’t know anything. I have to go explain this mess to the boss. Let her call her attorney and spring her by the time I get back. Galloway, go assist Murrow and Nash with this clean-up.”
* * *
Nash pulled Eleanor from her seat. She wobbled and lost her balance, falling into him. He grabbed her before she hit the floor, provoking an agonized cry as he jostled her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he said.
Eleanor felt sick. Sweat broke out on her brow, and her body shivered from the constant changes in temperature. Preston Galloway arrived to see Nash walk her to a holding cell and lock her inside. Her face was blotchy, and she appeared to be weak on her feet. Turning on his heel to not be seen, Galloway ran to his office, grabbed his jacket and retrieved his cell phone.
He stepped outside into the cold drizzle. With a deep breath, he dialed an old number. When it came up disconnected, he returned to the building. Instead of returning to his office, he took a detour to the Art and Cultural Property Crime Division. Their Senior Analyst, Sophie Garland, was Ian Chase’s wife Cassie’s best friend, and a former girlfriend. He swallowed hard and entered the unit. After showing his identification, he was directed to her desk.
“Preston,” Sophie acknowledged him coldly.
“Hi, Soph, I know it’s been a long time.” This was awkward.
She glared at him. “What do you want?”
“Sophie, you don’t know how many times I regretted what happened because I was too cowardly to stand up for Cassie. That’s why I’m here. There’s another woman who needs someone to stand up for her. I need to speak to Ian Chase.”
“If you’re screwing with me…” She picked up her phone. “Hey, Ian, it’s Sophie. I’m sorry to bother you. I have someone in my office who needs to speak with you.” She handed Preston the phone.
“Mr. Chase, this is Preston Galloway. I need your help.”
* * *
The Serenity River sheriff poured a cup of coffee. “Hello, Madge, good morning,” he said.
“Good morning, Sheriff Jackson; how are you today?” his solicitous clerk asked.
“Great.” The tall, lean man in his sixties with white-blond hair and a white beard walked into his office and closed the door. He sat in his comfortable, well-cushioned desk chair. Placing his mug down, he smiled at the photograph of his towheaded twins. “Sweet Eleanor, your daddy misses you,” he sighed.
A deputy walked in. “Dad, we had another accident at Hutton’s Bridge. Poor young red-headed woman hit her head and knocked herself out. Momma and Nurse Frey are taking care of her. Momma says she should be healed in a few days. We should have a New Year’s baby.”
“This is really a great day.” Sheriff Ryder Jackson, formerly known as Malachi Drake, smiled at his third son, thirty-eight-year-old Conrad.
“Tell Momma I’ll be by later. I need to read the latest alerts on missing girls. We’ve got those FBI folks running in circles,” he chuckled.
* * *
Before he could engage his Bluetooth, a call buzzed into the car. “Wentworth.”
“Sit-rep,” Troy asked. The directness in his tone made Wes sit taller in his seat.
“We are ten minutes out. They had no evidence, none. It was easier to prove his innocence than ferment a case of guilt. Wes wants you to check on Eleanor West. The agent knew Wes spent the night at her place.”
Troy was heard breathing. “Can Wes hear me?”
“What’s going on?” Wes felt sweat drip down his spine.
“No easy way to say this. About thirty minutes after you left, two FBI agents picked her up. They transported her to the FBI offices in DC,” Troy said.
