The Last Second by Robin Burcell

 
    THE LAST SECOND
    Z achary Griffin glanced over at his passenger, then back at the road. He had his reasons for asking Sydney Fitzpatrick to assist him with this case. They worked for two separate agencies. He was a covert operative for ATLAS, an intelligence agency that handled national security threats both domestically and internationally. She was an FBI agent. Typically the FBI would not be working with ATLAS. Very few ­people even knew his agency existed. But he’d crossed paths with Sydney on more than one case, and, since she was also a forensic artist, her clearance had been raised when they’d needed her assistance.
    This investigation, however, was not one that needed a sketch, forensic or otherwise. He’d asked her to come with him as a pretext to discuss a past case he’d worked. One might even say it was a confession. A secret he’d held on to, even though he should have told her before they’d started dating.
    Now it was time to clear the air.
    What better way to do it than when they were stuck in some small town, two thousand miles away, where she couldn’t simply drive home? Maybe then she’d listen long enough to see things from his point of view.
    One could only hope, he thought, checking his rearview mirror, then glancing over at her as she finished reading the case she’d started on the plane. They were now on the road, heading south from Tucson, Arizona. Unlike the gray January skies they’d left behind that morning in D.C., here it was blue and cloudless.
    “This guy looks guilty,” Sydney said, turning the page. It was a thick file, but she was nearly finished.
    “He probably is.”
    “So why are we going out on it then? The guy skipped bail. You really think he’s going to talk to us?”
    “Assuming we can find him. If he can give us Quindlen, it’ll be more than worth our while to offer him a deal.”
    According to the report, Calvin Walker, a Pocito police officer, was suspected of working with the Mexican cartels. He’d been seen talking with a known gunrunner and ex–CIA agent, Garrett Quindlen, who was under suspicion of running the entire operation. When Walker was stopped on his way home, the Pocito police found a number of guns in his trunk, along with a large amount of cash and drugs. He was arrested, and, for reasons Griffin had yet to determine, was granted bail before any other agencies had a chance to go out and interview him.
    Their only hope now was getting to Walker through his sister, Trish, who they hoped might still be in touch with him.
    They met Trish Walker at a coffee shop in the next town over. She had short, wind-­tousled blond hair. Her blue eyes were rimmed with dark circles, and her skin looked gaunt, as though she hadn’t slept or eaten much the past several days. The restaurant was empty save for two ­people sitting at the counter, one scanning the paper, the other the waitress, who was reading a book. The three took a seat at a table near the window, and the waitress got up to pour them coffee, took their order, then went back to her reading.
    “We’re hoping to offer your brother a deal,” Griffin said to Trish. “Information on who’s actually behind the operation in exchange for a lighter sentence.”
    “He’s innocent.”
    “The evidence speaks otherwise.”
    “He’s one of the most honest guys I know. A good cop. Always has been. He would’ve taken this all the way to court to prove his innocence.”
    Not wanting to alienate her, he decided to let her pursue her brother’s innocence. “Did he tell you what’s going on? What he thought was happening?”
    She shook her head. “He said he couldn’t talk on the phone, but that he didn’t do what they said. His lawyer thinks he’s lucky they even allowed bail.”
    “And after you posted his bail, what did he tell you?”
    “That they set him up, and he was going to find out what was really going on. He was sure that this man Garrett Quindlen was behind everything. That he’s