Keller’s phone starts pinging again. News is spreading.
“Shit. This is bad,” she says. The Bureau isn’t an organization that appreciates attention—unless it’s cultivated through the Public Affairs office.
The anger drains from Bob’s face. “It’ll be fine,” he says, knowing what she’s thinking.
As he hugs her, she experiences a wave of emotions: fear for her job, embarrassment at being a national spectacle, shame that Bob thinks she acted recklessly with their unborn twins.
“Look at me,” he says.
She does.
“It’s gonna be okay.” Bob gives a half smile. “And, I mean, let’s face it, you are a badass.”
* * *
On the drive to the Union County Prosecutor’s Office, she calls Stan. It goes straight to voice mail. She worries that’s because her boss is on the phone dealing with his bosses at HQ in D.C. about the viral video.
Her phone chimes and she answers immediately.
It isn’t Stan.
“This is James Nicoletti with the Secret Service,” the man says in a deep baritone. “I got a message that you’re looking for intel on Russell Whitaker.”
Keller had asked the field office to run a search on Vince Whitaker’s father in federal databases. But Secret Service? How could they be involved with a lowlife like Rusty Whitaker?
“Yes, thanks for reaching out, Agent Nicoletti.”
“Call me Nico,” the agent says. “What can I do you for?”
Keller hates expressions like that. They permeate the lingo of law-enforcement agents of a certain age.
“The Bureau’s helping the locals with a mass killing at the Dairy Creamery in Linden,” she begins.
“I heard about that. Tragic.”
“We’re running down whether the murders may be connected to a fugitive on our Top Ten: Vincent Whitaker, the key suspect in similar murders fifteen years ago. Russell Whitaker is his father.”
“Quite the family,” Nico says.
“We interviewed the father and he’s uncooperative, so if you have something we could use as leverage to get him to talk, the Bureau would appreciate it. I’ll admit, though, I didn’t expect to hear from the Secret Service. Did he threaten the president or something?” Keller imagines Rusty tapping out a venomous political post on social media, or, more likely, making a drunken call to the White House switchboard.
“Hardly.” Nico chuckles. “It’s about cigarettes.”
“I’m sorry?”
“We’ve been investigating a ring of cigarette counterfeiters.”
“You all cover that?”
“We do, indeed. And before you say it’s a waste of time, these cigarette smugglers make more than drug dealers. In case you haven’t noticed, cigs are taxed at more than three bucks per pack in New Jersey. Illegal factories outside the U.S. actually manufacture and sell counterfeit brand-name cigarettes. You take a truck full of fake cartons and charge half price, you’re still making more per kilo than selling heroin. And that money sometimes funds terrorist groups.”
Keller didn’t know that. The ingenuity of criminals never ceases to amaze. It also dumbfounds her—why don’t the smart ones take their talents and go legit?
“What’s Rusty Whitaker’s connection?”
“You get a giant shipping container at the Port of Newark filled with a load of counterfeit product, you need somewhere to store it.”
It hits her. “He’s renting out space at the storage business.”
“Bingo.”
Keller recalls the semitruck at the facility yesterday. The nervous desk clerk.
“I don’t want to step on anything you’re doing,” she says, “but I’d love some leverage on this guy. He may know how to find his son.” Keller doubts that Rusty knows the whereabouts of Vince Whitaker, but her instincts tell her he’s hiding something about the case.
“You’re in luck.”
Keller waits.
“A new shipment just landed at the port this morning. We’re taking it down soon.”
“How soon?”
“You got plans tonight?”
She smiles. “Sounds like I do now.”
CHAPTER 24
CHRIS
Chris knows he has an unhealthy obsession. Sitting in the interview room of the Union County jail, he pulls up the anonymous travel vlogger’s site on his phone. During these long morning breaks between clients, he often falls down the rabbit hole and watches video after video of Mr. Nirvana’s adventures.