Direct evidence, p.1
Direct Evidence, page 1
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Direct Evidence
A Chase Adams FBI Thriller
Book 10
Patrick Logan
Prologue
PART I – Guilty
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
PART II – Nothing is Real
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
PART III – Cerberus
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Epilogue
END
Author’s Note
Other Books by Patrick Logan
Direct Evidence
A Chase Adams FBI Thriller
Book 10
Patrick Logan
Prologue
Even though it was a cool night in Las Vegas, sweat soaked the man’s face. This perspiration was induced by fear as much as it was the dry air, or the fact that he’d been running for the past ten minutes.
Despite being far from the glitz and glamor that was The Strip, what every non-local thought of when they considered Las Vegas, the night sky still glittered like diamonds embedded in the mud.
“Please,” he begged. “Please, I-I didn’t do it—it’s not what you think. It wasn’t real.”
His legs were rubber and his heart had grown weary from pumping so laboriously. He was not built for exertion, nor did he have experience with it. What felt to him like an all-out sprint was to most just a casual jog.
“Please.”
The sweat mixed with tears now, and when one of the drops traced a line to the corner of his mouth, the man’s tongue instinctively snaked out and dabbed at it.
It was salty, which was to be expected, but the mild sweetness of the liquid was surprising.
“Password. Give me the password.” The man who had been chasing him spoke in a monotone voice, almost robotic. “Now.”
“Y-you don’t understand. This is real. I can’t just—“
The man’s legs buckled, and he went down. His right knee struck the pavement hard, and to avoid damaging his other leg, he pivoted upon contact and absorbed the rest of the fall with his ass. He immediately tried to rise but only managed to plant his hands and make it to an upright seated position before his pursuer was upon him.
A dark shape, an outline of a man.
A man holding a gun.
“No—no, please. Please.”
“Password. Now.”
“Okay. Just-just don’t hurt me, okay? I’ll give it to you, but you have to let me go. You have to promise to let me go.”
The figure looming over him was backlit, which disguised the man’s features and also made him look distinct from the background, almost like a poorly photoshopped image.
How fitting. How fitting that this seems like a simulation.
But it wasn’t.
This is real, and this is where my life ends.
“Passwo—“
He gave it up. He had to—he was out of options.
But as soon as the word left his mouth, he knew it was a mistake. There was no surviving this. As a last-ditch effort, he scooted backward, but only made it a few inches before stopping cold.
It wasn’t fatigue that gripped him this time. It wasn’t even fear, though the man had raised the pistol and was taking aim.
It was that he saw the man’s face clearly for the first time.
“Wait—it’s-it’s you?”
One final diamond peppered the night sky—a flash of first white then searing orange.
The last color was red—the blood that seeped from the hole in the center of the man’s forehead.
And then all that was left was sheer and utter darkness.
PART I – Guilty
Chapter 1
“Come with me,” Agent Tate Abernathy ordered the moment Floyd stepped through the front doors of the FBI Training Academy in Stafford County, Virginia.
Floyd was completely drained after the long trip he’d taken from Columbus, Ohio. And that didn’t even consider the emotional toll of finding Julia Dreger standing over Meredith Griffith’s corpse, a bloody knife in her hand.
Even after sharing more than he was obligated to with Columbus Police Lieutenant Lehner, which took upwards of two hours given the complications of the case and its links to the crimes in West Virginia, the man had no reaction.
He just stared, unblinking. Not even his large belly quivered.
Floyd had repeated the details, focusing on Cotard’s Syndrome and Henry Saburra’s involvement. Not only was this above Lehner’s pay grade, but it was also evidently above his intelligence level. Which was fine—all Floyd wanted was for Julia Dreger to be treated fairly, given counseling and consideration prior to her arraignment. It was his opinion that the woman had acted in self-defense, despite the brutality of the crime scene. And that’s what he put in his report to Director Hampton.
And now he was here, working on only a handful of hours of sleep, his mind still abuzz, his heart racing, to meet with Tate Abernathy.
His partner… who had abandoned him. Just like Chase.
Both his past and present partners knew about his PTSD, and yet they’d sent him alone to inform Meredith Griffith of her daughter’s demise.
“I need to—“ Tate cut Floyd off mid-sentence by wrapping his arm around his shoulder. Floyd was so angry that he was tempted to shake the other man off, but he was too tired.
“You need to come with me, that’s what you need to do,” Tate said sternly.
Floyd grew concerned and observed his partner. The space between the man’s eyes was pinched and when Tate ran a hand through his soft brown hair, the movement wasn’t particularly smooth.
Tate looked the way Floyd felt: tired, and worn out.
Had he told Director Hampton about Chase’s unsanctioned participation in the Charleston and Columbus murder investigations? Had he ratted Floyd out for not reporting her himself?
No.
No, he wouldn’t do that.
Floyd allowed himself to be turned and guided back out the doors he’d just passed through.
Would he?
Truth is, Tate Abernathy was full of surprises and a master at hiding them.
“Where are we going?” Floyd asked dryly. Fatigue extended to his vocal cords now.
Tate’s answer came in the form of tightening his grip, anticipating Floyd’s resistance.
He offered none.
Even if he had the energy, Floyd doubted it would make much difference. He was twenty years younger than his partner, but where he was thin and wiry, Tate had old-man strength.
Besides, Floyd was as intrigued by his partner’s behavior as he was concerned.
Tate plopped Floyd into the passenger seat of his car, then walked around and got behind the wheel. They pulled out of the FBI parking lot and drove for about five minutes in silence before Floyd realized where they were going.
They were headed to the place that Chase had once called home.
No, not once—definitely more than once.
“No,” Floyd said adamantly, shaking his head. “No, I don’t want to go to Chase’s apartment—I don’t want to see her. What I need to do is speak to Director Hampton. Julia Dreger is being charged with murder. I need him to step up and do something. She was acting in self-defense, and—“
“Director Hampton’s not going to do anything for Julia Dreger, Floyd,” Tate informed him flatly.
“But he has to,” Floyd protested. “It was Meredith’s fault—you were there at the funeral, and you told me—“
“Yup, yup, I know what I told you,” Tate interrupted. “And I also know you did everything you could. You submitted your report, which I looked at by the way, and I think you did a bang-up job. Now it’s out of our hands. If Hampton wants to step in, so be it. If not, and knowing him I’m thinking not, well, then Julia’s just going to have to put her faith in the system.”
Floyd was incredulous.
Faith in the system?
“No, they-they shouldn’t even charge her. It was self-defense.”
When Tate said nothing, Floyd once again stared at his partner.
The man’s jaw was set as was his stance on the matter.
If the dual cases in Charleston and Columbus had taught Floyd anything, it was that not all victims were created equal. And, by extension, not all perpetrators were treated the same, either. After all, Meredith Griffith was the bereaved wife of a popular and connected plastic surgeon.
Julia Dreger, on the other hand, was a prostitute and a home breaker. It didn’t matter that she was the one who had actually cared for Dr. Wayne Griffith.
Floyd closed his eyes and then squeezed his temples.
“And that’s why I brought you here,” Tate said softly.
“To Chase’s—“ Floyd opened his eyes as the car came to a stop.
They weren’t at Chase Adams’ apartment. Instead, Tate had brought Floyd to a facility that he was familiar with.
It was also a place where he didn’t belong.
Grassroots Recovery was for damaged people. It was for people like Chase Adams, for addicts, for individuals who’d lost complete control of themselves.
Not him. Not Floyd Montgomery.
Not the man from Alaska, the boy who loved trains and who used to drive people around as a chauffeur.
“No,” he said forcefully. “I won’t. I want to go back to Quantico. I have to speak to Director Hampton.”
Tate’s jaw remained set, but he was now nodding slightly. Before the man opened his mouth to speak, something Chase had said suddenly flashed in Floyd’s mind.
Find what works for you. But you have to find something. You have to. It’s about you being able to live without being so haunted by what you see that you find yourself descending into a pit that you can never—never—crawl out of.
Unable to meet his gaze, Tate said, “Look, this isn’t like what happened to Chase. I’m not Jeremy Stitts and I’m not putting you into involuntary confinement or whatever the hell it’s called. I’m just—“
“Wait, how do you know about—“
Tate held up a hand, instantly silencing him.
“Everyone knows about that—everyone in the whole fucking FBI knows about Chase Adams. But this has nothing to do with her. It’s about you. Look, almost everybody in the bureau comes to see Dr. Matteo at some point or another. He’s… he’s good. Really good.”
Tate sounded as if he was speaking from experience now, but Floyd found himself thinking not of the psychiatrist, whom he had met for his initial psych eval, or even his partner, but Chase.
Chase was an objective mess. It seemed like every step the woman took forward she stumbled three back.
And the whole time she’d been seeing Dr. Matteo.
Not a glowing report, that’s for sure.
“It’s up to you, Floyd,” Tate continued. “But if you don’t go in there, if you don’t go into Grassroots right now, I’m going with you to see Director Hampton.” He paused, and Floyd saw something else in the man’s eyes: compassion. Only this didn’t jive with what Tate said next. “I’ll go with you, and I’ll tell Hampton that you’re not fit to be in the FBI.”
Floyd gaped.
“What? Why would you do that?”
“Because,” Tate began slowly, “because if you don’t go in, then you’re going to die. And I don’t mean this rhetorically or as a euphemism. You will fucking die. I’ve seen it before. If you don’t learn how to deal with the shit that we go through each and every day, you won’t last another six months. I saw it with my last partner, and I refuse to see it happen with my new partner—with you, Floyd. So, there—make up your mind. And do it quick because I don’t have all day.”
Chapter 2
Triggered by dawn, the blinds silently rose and allowed sunlight to flood through the floor-to-ceiling windows. When the light struck Stu Barnes’ cheek, he sighed and rolled onto his back.
He let the sun warm his face a little and after a few minutes, the speakers embedded in the ceiling began to play soft music. Only then did the man open his eyes, blink, then pull back his weighted duvet. After a quick stretch, Stu made his way to the bathroom, his movement activating sensors that triggered lights to illuminate the path. He urinated and then drank a glass of cold water.
Next, he slipped on his workout gear and headed downstairs. His coffee had automatically been brewed upon sunrise and he grabbed a cup before continuing to the home gym.
Today was Monday: thirty minutes of moderate effort on the treadmill, followed by a chest and triceps workout. Stu was done in just over an hour. Thirty minutes following the sweat, he was showered and dressed in a pair of dark denim jeans and a plain white V-neck T-shirt. For breakfast, he ate two hard-boiled eggs, a single slice of Ezekiel toast, and half an avocado. This was chased by a second coffee, this one including the addition of a tablespoon of organic, grass-fed butter.
During breakfast, Stu turned off the music and listened to a personalized, curated news feed of issues relevant to his many businesses. There was nothing of interest, which was a relief to him. The past month had been something of a nightmare. A previous employee of one of Stu’s data collection corporations, Kevin Park, had been accused of murdering another ex-employee, Connery Sinclair. This wasn’t newsworthy in and of itself, but some nosy reporter had dug up a pending civil lawsuit that Stu had levied against both men and the company they’d formed. But while they were making money from stolen technology—his technology—it wasn’t worth the headache or the bad press. Stu had dropped the suit, but it was too late. His name and association with these criminals—despite barely remembering the two men—was all over the news. His image had subsequently taken a hit, which meant his financials had also been bruised.
But today? Crickets.
And that made Stu Barnes a happy man.
His schedule was light, too—just a handful of meetings, which meant that he was likely going to be able to hit up that evening’s Vegas Golden Knights game in his private box.
Stu wasn’t quite smiling, but his lips were definitely trending in that direction when he left his Summit Club mansion, and his good humor remained as he opened the door to his new Mercedes-Maybach S.
It faded when he heard the squeal of tires and saw flashing lights.
He was half inside his vehicle when he realized that the closest cop car, unmarked but also unmistakable, was headed not down his street and past his home, but toward his long, interlocking-brick driveway. It jumped the curb and Stu was suddenly worried that it was going to smash into the front of his Mercedes, or worse, clip the side of his knee that was still exposed.
He jumped back just as the car slammed to a halt, inches from his Mercedes’ bumper.
“What the—“
Two men jumped out, guns drawn.
“Get on the ground!” the closest officer yelled. “Get on the fucking ground!”
Stu had instinctively raised his arms when he thought he was going to be run over and now he dropped his hands to his sides.
This was a bad idea.
While the first plain-clothed officer kept his pistol trained on Stu’s chest, the other rushed at him.
More police cars—three? Four?—sirens blaring, followed the unmarked vehicle onto Stu’s driveway, and more men with guns jumped up.
Stu had a moment to think, What the fuck is going on? before his right arm was twisted behind his back and he was shoved roughly to the ground.
Plastic zip-ties were expertly applied and then Stu was yanked back to his feet.
Bewildered, another thought crossed his mind: these aren’t cops.
