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Nancy felt better after the catch up with Finn. Of course, looking at post-mortem images of Luke Chircop had been jarring, but it needed to be done; and Nancy never put off work. Not when it was this important. But it was also good to have her friend's shoulder brushing against hers, a coffee cradled between her palms. The scene had reminded her of how little personal contact she'd had at work since he'd moved.
She had George, but that was a temporary thing. And George wasn't FBI. She didn't get what it was like to have to keep so many things close to the vest.
It wasn't the FBI's fault. Not entirely. Nancy had always been private. She had a pretty, surface-level smile she could flash around, whenever it was needed. And she charmed everyone that she met. But her social circle was small by design. And Finn had managed to slip into it, even if it was something of an obligation for Nancy to check up on him after he almost died in her presence. But a genuine friendship had formed despite the routine of hospital visits and emails about cases.
"You ready for this?" Finn asked, as they pulled up in front of the small, nondescript building, where the equally small Chicago anti-terror team was located.
Nancy gave her friend a small smile. "As ready as I'll ever be."
Nancy didn't know any of the others in the square room, slotted around a square table. And she knew they weren't especially interested in knowing her. She'd let her superior die on her watch. And she'd brought Finn, an outsider, into their midst.
"You've looked at the post-mortem?" a woman who looked like a weightlifter asked.
Nancy brandished her copies, annotated with neat pen notes. "I have questions, actually. "It says here that the shot was just four inches from his heart. That would indicate that the shooter was not directly in front of him, as the FBI report states. Of course, the shooter could have just had bad aim, but we've already established they were a pro so that just doesn't seem likely at all to me."
"Witness reports state that someone in the crowd started running."
Nancy frowned, looking down at her notes. They swam before her vision. To stop the letter from surfing before her eyes, she closed her lids. She tried to think, tried to remember the scene. There had been a sound. Something that had caught her off guard. In the confusion, the ensuing days, the scene had become a distorted puddle. But it was becoming clear.
"No," she said softly. She cleared her throat. "No, someone was running. But I didn't see them, and from the reports I've read, I don't think they shot him. The person who was running didn't seem to have a firearm on their person, which doesn't track, because they wouldn't have time to put it away. And, before you tell me, I know most people in that crowd was armed, but I was thinking about it all night and if the reports are correct, we'd have to assume a member of law enforcement or the criminal justice community just happened to miss someone aiming their gun and shooting at the stage?"
Someone at the table started to protest, but Nancy raised a hand to stop them. Now she'd started, there was no going back. But her thoughts were tumbling out, and she had to clear the air.
"Listen, there was a sound before the shot. Chircop and I both looked to the side, backstage. He must have been facing toward the curtain when the shot was fired. Obviously, he was talking, so his entire torso wasn't turned, but we both looked."
"But the witnesses-"
"-weren't right by his bloody side. Look, I know what I saw. And I saw someone running. But hear me out, what if they were a decoy? What if they didn't shoot Chircop?"
Finn knitted his brow. "Are you saying there were two people involved?"
"Maybe more. But we knew that. It would have taken two people to organize the attacks, before the shooting. I think the person in the crowd was a distraction."
The woman straightened. "Weren't you in charge of securing backstage?"
Nancy sucked in a breath. "Yes ma'am. I was."
"Right. Well, I don't care what O'Sullivan says, you failed in your duties. As of this morning, you are officially suspended, Special Agent Drew. Turn in your badge and gun until this is all sorted out."
"Why did you say anything until you were sure?" Finn asked Nancy, as they left the meeting, the intent of seeking out an early morning drink (or two). "Surely you knew they'd kick you off the case as soon as you said something!"
Nancy smiled sadly. "I knew. But my being dishonesty won't solve this case."
"Yeah. It shouldn't surprise me when you're so honest, but it does. I thought you were married to your job. I don't even want to think about what you'll do with free time."
Nancy rubbed her neck. "I was. But I think that needs to change. Do you have any plans for the rest of the day?"
"Apart from being sent back to NYC, you mean?"
"Yeah, apart from that."
"Nothing. You're about to change that, aren't you?"
"Yup. I saw someone running, Finn. And I know exactly who she is. And I've got all my paper notes. So, what do you say? If I shout you a beer, will you join me?"
"You're just using me for my badge," he complained, good-naturedly.
They both had their drink, then used Nancy's notes to find the contact details for Karen Chircop. The policewoman lived in a neat little apartment, part of a small, trim complex, in a nicer neighborhood than the one the Hardy's were staking out.
Karen Chircop blinked at Nancy as she opened the door. "I know you," she said, not moving from the doorway. Her slim body blocked the slit of vision the two agents had into her home. Her thin face was twisted into a suspicious sneer.
"Yeah. Special Agent Drew, FBI. You saw my badge the day your brother was killed. My job was to be his security. Sitting on the stage. Remember?" Nancy knew she felt a certain animosity for the woman who'd left not only a crime scene but the scene of her brother's death. But it wouldn't do to show hostility. Not right off the bat. Nancy sucked in a breath.
Finn muttered his name and flashed his badge, but the two women ignored him.
"I remember. You did a shit job of protecting him."
"And you tried to stop me, even though you knew who I was. Why didn't you approach the stage, if you knew he was in distress?"
"Luke was dead. What was the point?"
"He wasn't, though. Not then. My friend gave him CPR straight away."
Chircop rolled her eyes. "Oh great, so you let him get shot, then your friend let him die. I should call the FBI, let them know they need to recruit better agents."
"My friend isn't an agent. He's the son of PI Fenton Hardy."
Chircop's already pale face suddenly became a deathly shade of white. She stumbled slightly, and Finn reached out to steady her. But she pushed him away, started to close the door. Only the toe of Nancy's patent leather boot stopped the door from closing completely.
"Cool. Look, I need to go."
"Just a minute. I'm sorry, this got off on the wrong foot. I'm sorry for your loss. And I'm sorry to intrude like this, but I won't pretend I'm not. here for a reason. It would be an insult to your brother's memory, to lie like that. So I'll ask you now: do you know who killed Luke, Karen? I know you don't like me, but I was… his friend. And I want to find who did this to him. It's the least I can do."
The strangest expression flittered across the older woman's face. Nancy was excellent at reading people's expressions, but she couldn't decipher this one. Karen Chircop looked older than her brother. Not just in age. She had none of the youth or charm that her brother possessed. Her eyes were hard and empty, and her mouth was a twisted, thin line.
"I'll leave it to the police, thanks."
And with that, the door slammed in Nancy and Finn's faces.
"They can't just throw you off the case like that!" Joe said indignantly.
Nancy shrugged. "They can. Obviously, there'll be a hearing, an investigation. They have to make sure I wasn't negligent in carrying out my duties."
She didn't look devastated, but her face was milky, tired looking. And she wasn't maintaining eye contact with Frank, Joe noticed. He was fed up with the pair of them! Couldn't they just get their act together?
"Anyway, I didn't call you guys up to complain about work. I just wanted to let you know that I talked to Karen Chircop, well, I tried to. And she had the strangest reaction when I mentioned your dad's name."
She filled the brothers in on her interaction with the policewoman, and Frank sighed.
"That's weird, but it isn't proof she's involved."
"No. But this is."
Nancy showed him her phone. She'd copied their photos to a dropbox folder. "You know how you took all those photos of the seats? Well, Finn and I saw it when we were looking over them this morning. I didn't think much of it when we found it, and I didn't think much of it then. After all, there was trash in the room: a few soda bottles, coffee cups, used tissues... a small scrap didn't stand out. But, after I visited Karen Chircop I couldn't leave empty-handed. I had to have a quick look around."
As Frank and Joe glanced at the photo, she held up a scrap of paper with the numbers "316" scrawled on it.
"This is the scrap in the photo. I'm lucky I put it away, just in case."
"Oh my god," Frank whispered, cupping his hand around hers, to bring the paper closer to his face.
Nancy was confused. "What? You couldn't know it was her handwriting. I saw a letter in her letterbox. It was sent to the previous tenant at her apartment or something. She'd written "return to sender" on it. I recognized her handwriting."
Frank shook his head. "No, Nance, 316 is the factory we're going to stake out tonight." He looked intently into her eyes. "Do you want to come with us?"