Page 6 of Facing the Enemy
“I’ve seen your skills in action.” I wished I could find the words to show how much I valued his friendship ... and more.
The fellowship hall cleared of those who offered their final words of comfort. I took a peace lily plant from a table, a reminder of today that I could place on the balcony of my apartment. The white, tear-shaped blooms caught my attention as if they longed for care and nurturing. Gage carried the plant and walked me to my car.
No words ... I had nothing to say. I had everything to say.
The weather hovered in the high nineties, blistering, humid heat.
An envelope beneath my windshield wiper caught my attention. I assumed it was a sympathy card.
I unfolded the paper—It should have been you. Resign from the FBI immediately or face another funeral. Whose will it be? Yours? One of your parents? Your partner? Tell anyone and watch what happens.
I gasped and crumpled the note in my hand. Trenton died because someone wanted me dead.
3
Gage asked me to show him the note on my windshield until he was red-faced. I depleted his patience, but what choice did I have? He wanted to take over the situation, and I refused. Never would I take a threat lightly—I’d seen too many instances where recipients ignored potential danger and regretted it.
I thanked him for his concern and drove to the FBI office. The horrendous rush-hour traffic on US Highway 290 reinforced my emotional anguish and stretched my nerves to the max. In the distance, the sound of blaring horns and emergency vehicles speeding to an accident rang in my ears. By the time I arrived at the FBI building, I trembled. Normally my composure accepted city-life hazards, but not on the day of my brother’s funeral.
In the privacy of my cubicle, and in the quiet of the late afternoon without the pressure of anyone pressing in on me, my breathing and heart rate found a little rest.
I pulled out the threatening note from my purse and smoothed the crinkled edges and reread it. Moments later, I had my pastor on the phone.
“Sir, this is Special Agent Risa Jacobs. I’d like to thank you for taking care of my brother’s funeral today. My parents and I appreciate the care you and your staff demonstrated to all who were there.”
“You’re welcome, and I’ll pass on your appreciation. If you need to talk, we can schedule a counseling session.”
“I might need to take you up on that. This call is about another matter. I’d like to see the security-cam footage of the parking lot on the east side during the service. Can you share the video?”
“Was a crime committed?”
“It appears so, and the footage could provide the identity of those involved.”
“By all means.”
I thanked him again and gave him my Dropbox information. He must have heard my angst, because within ten minutes he sent a link to the security-cam video. The note had to have been placed during the service and luncheon, so I scanned the footage until I observed a woman, medium height, shoulder-length, dark-brown hair, and a thin body walk across the parking lot to my car. She placed the note beneath the windshield wipers with gloved hands, either industrial or medical grade. She kept her face hidden from the cams and walked to the street, taking the sidewalk north until she disappeared into a residential area.
No matter how I pondered the note, the threat gave me no alternative. I relented to what I called a coward’s stand and typed out my resignation, saved it to a file, and printed a copy for Special Agent in Charge Dunkin. The woman who’d written the note and destroyed my brother’s life just thought she had the upper hand. She’d never dealt with Risa Jacobs before, make it ex–Special Agent Risa Jacobs. No protocol guidelines would hinder me, only the call for justice ripping at my heart.
I texted the SAC and requested a few minutes of his time.
Why aren’t you with your family? Go home. In fact, take tomorrow off.
I need to share an important matter.
I can see you in an hour.
I’d studied HPD’s report and the four witnesses who’d seen the hit, including the man who’d recorded the license plate of the SUV. To make matters worse, the light at the intersection didn’t have a camera recording it, so no chance of facial recognition from a video.
The owner of the SUV, a man in his late thirties who had a clean record, reported it stolen after getting off work late afternoon at Best Buy. I contacted his HR department and learned he had an impeccable reputation and recently had been given a promotion.
The likelihood of Trenton getting mixed up with the wrong people, which he’d done in the past, pierced my heart. Those kinds of people took retribution for whatever reason that suited them. Were my motivations any different? But I shook that question off.
Trenton’s criminal record reached back twelve years to age eighteen, and then his charges were underage drinking and DWIs. The problems escalated to possession and dealing. Dad had asked him why he chose to break the law, and Trenton responded with “If there’s a law against it, I will break it.” Trenton carried a rebellious streak that neither Mom, Dad, nor I understood. Counseling demonstrated a waste of money and energy because he quickly comprehended what to say for the therapist to release him.
I recalled one incident in his midtwenties after he’d been in jail for ten days. He’d stolen a six-pack of beer from a convenience store and struck the cashier when confronted. “Sis, I try to stop,” Trenton had said. “I want to quit, but I can’t. I’m damaged. No conscience. No concern for the innocent or those I love. Please, don’t give up on me.”
I’d prayed he’d one day fight his way through his chains of addiction.
