“He’s obsessed with Agent Guerrera,” Kent said, speaking for the first time. “He won’t just forget about her.”
“I’m not going to hide behind my desk hoping he doesn’t find me.”
“She’s right,” Wade said. “Sooner or later, he’ll come after her directly. Which is why she has to stay on the case.”
She waited, allowing Buxton to reconsider his position.
“You’ve been through more than any agent I’ve heard of,” Buxton finally said. “I have to know whether you can deal with what’s coming. Because things are about to get exponentially uglier.”
She straightened. “I can handle anything he throws at me.”
“It’s not just the Cipher.” Buxton looked skeptical. “It’s the other agents and the public. This kind of scrutiny is . . . unprecedented in the Bureau.”
Wade cleared his throat. “I’ve dealt with my share of public and internal scrutiny,” he said. “She’s my partner.” He tipped his head toward her. “I’ve got her six.”
She had prepared to face the blowback from the video alone, the way she’d dealt with most things in her life. Now, she had Dr. Jeffrey Wade—psychologist, special agent, and self-proclaimed asshole—by her side.
“So do I,” Kent said.
“Me too,” Breck added.
Silence filled the room. Nina had to stop her foot from jiggling under the table as she waited for her supervisor to arrive at his decision.
Buxton blew out a long sigh. “I’ll have to make another round of phone calls.” He gave her an assessing look. “You can stay on the team.” His gaze moved around the table. “You’re dismissed.”
They stood to leave. As they were filing out the door, Nina turned to see Buxton pick up the phone on his desk. For a fleeting moment, she caught the ghost of a smile on his lined face.
Chapter 29
Nina goosed the sleek black Tahoe, pulling around a slow-moving pickup truck before the road resolved into a single lane. “Can’t believe Sorrentino lives this far out from the District. The commute has to be terrible.”
“He’s a creature of the night,” Wade said from the passenger seat beside her. “Works odd hours. Mostly late afternoon until two in the morning. Rush hour isn’t a factor for him.”
She glanced at the clock on the dash. “He probably doesn’t leave before noon, so he should still be home.” Wade grunted his assent as she turned onto a side street.
They had opted not to give Sorrentino a call to set up a meeting, preferring to catch him off guard and away from his club. A calculated gamble.
She’d thanked Wade for backing her up with Buxton, including his request to proceed with the plan to interview the fight club owner with her. They had spent the next hour before heading out researching one Joseph Thomas Sorrentino, who gave every indication of being crooked enough to screw his socks on.
She knew the type. Always looking for a fast buck, always cutting corners, and most importantly, always willing to sell out a friend if the need arose.
She slowed, scanning the addresses, until she pulled in front of a modest two-story colonial-style house set behind a row of bedraggled azaleas in the middle of a patchy lawn. She turned onto the cracked cement driveway and threw the SUV into park.
“I’ll follow your lead,” she said. “You’ve interviewed him before.”
“I’m not too optimistic,” Wade said. “He knows a hell of a lot more than he admitted to last time.”
She unbuckled her seat belt and opened the driver’s door. “How much are we going to tell him? He’s bound to have questions.”
“As little as possible.”
They traipsed over broken flagstones, ending at a stained concrete slab that passed for a front porch. Nina rang the bell, setting off a cacophony of high-pitched yapping inside.
The door creaked open about two inches. A woman in her sixties wearing a pink chenille robe and brown slippers squinted out at them. “I don’t want any.”
She started to close the door, but Nina stuck her foot in and held up her creds. “Special Agent Nina Guerrera, FBI. We need to speak to Joseph Sorrentino, is he home?”
The woman’s watery eyes narrowed as she studied the identification, then she cracked a wide grin and let out a cackle loud enough to startle her three tiny dogs into silence. “I knew it!” She turned her head to call out behind her. “Joe, get your ass down here. It’s the FBI. What the hell have you done this time?”
Nina and Wade exchanged a glance. Apparently, Joe’s wife was not the type to cover for him.
“Let me put the dogs away,” she said abruptly and slammed the door in their faces.
Nina turned to Wade. “You don’t think he’s leaving out the back door, do you?”
He gave her a wry smile. “His wife would snitch him out if he tried.”
Sounds of yipping dogs and shuffling feet emanated from behind the closed door before it finally opened. She recognized Sorrentino from his driver’s license photo. Heavyset, with a bulbous nose set in a fleshy face, he surveyed them from beneath bushy gray brows.
“You,” he said by way of greeting, addressing Wade. “I got nothing more to say to you.”
Apparently, Wade had made an impression. Or perhaps a visit from the FBI had stuck in Sorrentino’s mind.
“Can we come in, Mr. Sorrentino?” Wade asked.
Sorrentino looked as if he dearly wanted to slam the door in their faces but seemed to think better of it. He stepped back. “May as well.”
They followed him into a cluttered kitchen and stood by while he shoved a stack of papers and a withered houseplant aside to make room at the kitchen table. A dead spider skidded off the side, plopping into a doggy water bowl on the floor.
Sorrentino motioned for them to sit with his beefy arm but did not go so far as to offer a glass of water. Just as well. No way would she drink anything he handed her.
“You recall our conversation at your club two years ago?” Wade said, taking a seat in a dilapidated ladder-back chair.
Sorrentino grimaced. “Like I remember my last hemorrhoid.”
“We’d like to discuss those items you sold.”
“Not that again.” Sorrentino leaned forward, the chair creaking ominously beneath his girth. “I told you, I haven’t sold any more stuff since you and the other Feds came to see me, and I don’t know nothin’ else about it.” He held up his right hand as if taking an oath, the universal gesture of liars everywhere. “I swear.”
“Still, let’s go over it again.” Wade pulled out his notebook and opened it. “The last time we spoke, you mentioned that you obtained fighting gloves from your nephew.”
“That’s right, my brother’s kid, Sammy Sorrentino, he went out of business a long time ago, so I did him a favor and bought his leftover stock.”
Wade flicked his half-moon readers open and slid them on before consulting his notes. “You paid him five cents on the dollar for every item, then you resold them at your club.” He peered over the top of the glasses. “At full price.”
Sorrentino cleared his throat. “Well, there’s nothing wrong with making a little money, am I right?”