I said, “I’m working a quadruple homicide, and I’m fairly certain that this isn’t news to you. I want to know why Michael Chan was murdered and by whom. I want to know who killed the housekeeper and the two CIA computer techs in the room next to Chan’s at around the same time. I want to know why I was followed and beaten by four Asian men who had a Stinger missile launcher in an apartment they were renting in Chinatown. And I want to know what my husband, Joe Molinari, had to do with all or any of that.
“If you can’t give me answers and compelling reasons why I should keep what I know to myself, I’m going to let the press know that the CIA knew about WW 888 before it went down and may even have had something to do with that disaster.”
I was suddenly afraid that I’d said too much; that like a little terrier on the street going after a pit bull, I’d taken a bigger bite than I could chew.
If I was seen as a danger to national security, I might be taken into government custody. Or worse. I thought of the sweaty young man with the clandestine videos on his laptop, afraid for his life. I thought of Bud and Chrissy dead on a hotel room floor.
Knight gave me a patronizing smile and said, “We’re not going to hurt you, Sergeant. I’m not the bad guy.”
I exploded.
“So who is the bad guy? That’s what I want to know. Who’s the bad guy in all this?”
The door opened behind me. I swiveled my chair and saw a man who looked a lot like my husband come into the room.
My God. It was really him.
“I guess I’m the bad guy,” Joe said, dragging a chair out from the table and dropping down into it.
My mouth had fallen open, but the rest of me was paralyzed. Joe looked terrible. He had a beard, there were bags under his eyes, and his clothes were filthy.
What the hell had happened to him?
Why didn’t he look glad to see me?
I managed to croak, “Joe?”
He looked at me with an expression I can only call sadness.
“What do you want to know, Lindsay? I’ll try to tell you what you want to know.”
CHAPTER 78
I’D BEEN SHOCKED into silence.
This was my husband. My husband.
I looked across the table at Knightly and back at Joe. Joe said, “Chris, give us a moment. And kill the cameras.”
“Got it,” Knightly said. When he’d left and the door was closed, Joe moved over to the chair next to mine and reached for my hands.
I pulled away.
It was pure instinct. This man resembled the man I had loved and married, but I no longer knew who he was.
He said, “Lindsay, I know you’re upset. I would be, too.”
“Upset?”
“Wrong word. I know you’re furious at me and I…and that I deserve it. I know I’ve hurt you, and I can’t tell you how sad that makes me. I know what I’m saying isn’t working, but please, if you can, trust me.”
Trust him? How? Why?
“Where have you been?”
“I can’t say. Not yet.”
I shouted, “I’ve been thinking you’re dead!”