Andrew Gross 3-Book Thriller Collection 2: 15 Seconds, Killing Hour, The Blue Zone. Andrew Gross

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       CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

      “No!” Kate’s voice rose, her head shook with incredulity. “You’re wrong! Whatever he’s done, my father’s no killer.” Her eyes fastened on the horrible crime photo. The image of Margaret Seymour’s empty expression almost made her retch. “Not that!”

      “She was headed there to meet him, Kate,” Cavetti said. “He ran away from your family. That much we know.”

      “I don’t care!” Her face flushed with frustration. It was impossible. Too horrible to even contemplate. “You steamrolled my father into a conviction. You took away his life. You don’t even have proof he’s still alive.”

      She picked up the file. She wanted to throw it against the wall. Her head was swimming. She tried to focus on the facts.

      Someone did purchase a cell phone in her brother’s name. She couldn’t deny that. Someone had boarded a plane for Minneapolis the night her father disappeared. Someone had placed that call to Margaret Seymour. And rented a car. The GPS led to the murder site. Margaret Seymour’s scribbled note.

      MIDAS.

      Why …?

      “Why would he want to kill her?” Kate shouted back. “What possible reason would he have to kill the one person who was trying to keep him safe?”

      “Maybe she knew something he didn’t want her to divulge,” Booth, the FBI man, answered, shrugging. “Or cover up something she’d found.”

      “But you would know that.” She spun to Cavetti. “You were Margaret Seymour’s senior officer. That would be part of his file. Goddamn it, this is my father we’re talking about!”

      “Whatever it was, we know he went to meet her, Kate.” The WITSEC agent just stared at her. “The rest—you connect the dots.”

      Kate sank back down. “Maybe he made a foolish choice or two that’s made him look bad. I don’t know why he tried to contact Margaret Seymour. Maybe someone was after him. Maybe she contacted him. But those pictures …” She shook her head, her eyes horrified and wide. “What they did … That’s not my father. He’s no killer. You know him, Agent Cavetti! How could you possibly think it was him?”

      Suddenly Kate felt a sickening realization.

      The bolt. To her apartment.

      She looked back at Cavetti. “That’s why you didn’t warn me, wasn’t it? After Tina was shot. It was you. You broke into the apartment. You were using me, to find my father. You wanted to know if he contacted me.”

      Cavetti stared at her without apology. “Kate, you have no idea what’s at stake in this case.”

      “Then tell me, Agent Cavetti!” Kate stood up again. “Tell me what’s at stake, and I’ll tell you. My father may be dead. Or worse”—she pointed to the photo—“he may have done that. And I have a friend who’s fighting for her life with a bullet in her brain that may have been meant for me.

      “That’s what’s at stake, Agent Cavetti, for me. Whatever it is for you, I hope it’s worth all that!”

      Kate grabbed her bag, stepping over to the door.

      “He’ll try to contact you, Ms. Herrera,” the FBI man said. “There’ll be a missing-persons alert out for him. But you realize we’re talking more than that.”

      “I saw those pictures, Agent Cavetti.” Kate shook her head in anger. “And that’s not him. It’s not my father—no matter where the dots lead. He testified for you. He went to jail. You’re the one who’s supposed to be protecting us, so protect us, Cavetti. You’re so sure my father’s alive—find him!

      “Find him.” Kate opened the door. “Or I promise I will.”