It turned out that Agent Matthew Reed was no slouch. He was certainly just as weird as Tim had thought, but he was also sharper and brighter than Tim had initially given him credit for.
Tim wondered if maybe he should have bought the man dinner because it felt like he'd somehow been roped into a very long, boring date.
Reed had studied psychology at Stanford before joining the Bureau, and had most often been used as an analyst before stepping into the role he now had. Tim had to admit, his profile of Sarah Geller ran relatively close to what he knew about Kathryn, and Reed had far less information to work from, so that in itself was impressive.
He also had to admit that Delia was extremely good at what she did, because Reed didn't know anything about Sarah Geller before that was her name. He also didn't know who she was working for, exactly. The single photo he had out showed nothing of Delia's face, making it impossible to track her down from it, and there was no way to trace any of the payments Kathryn or Romero had received that were presumably from her.
Tim felt his brain go a little fuzzy during some of Reed's in-depth explanations and analysis because of the intricate details he included every time he made a new connection. Reed knew a lot—a lot more than Tim thought he should, if he was being honest.
As Reed had taken him through each painstakingly double-checked fact, Tim found himself visualizing red yarn connecting all of the disparate pieces as if Reed were a crazed conspiracy theorist from a spy film. The fact that Tim's brain was now wired in such a way made him want to take a several shots of tequila and a nap.
Reed knew Romero had been dirty; he could trace bank records back to Solkov's organization, and Tim found it a little irksome that Reed had made Romero's murder seem like such a fucking travesty, when he had apparently known the guy deserved what he'd gotten.
In addition to Kathryn, Reed had identified at least two other CIs within the larger FBI network he thought might be working with Delia, but they were located in Boston and Miami. The thought of Delia having her fingers in cities across the United States made Tim's stomach twist uncomfortably.
It also meant tracking down her location may be more difficult than he had originally surmised if she could feasibly be anywhere on the East Coast; he'd assumed her home base was in Kentucky, or at least reasonably close.
The detail that was most shocking, however, was Reed's last confession.
"I'm sorry, could you repeat that?" Tim asked, because he was sure he'd misheard.
"I want to recruit them."
Tim leaned back in his chair and reached for a phantom glass of bourbon. He'd meant to pour himself one, but had hesitated when he realized how intricate Reed's documents were. He was now regretting his conservative approach.
"They're felons," Tim said, "You think Geller had Agent Romero killed."
"Agent Romero was on the take from a Russian crime syndicate, and also from whoever Geller is working for. You killed Solkov and his men; you know the kind of people we're talking about here. If there's anything I hate more than an outright criminal, it's a dirty cop." Reed looked like he'd just run a 10k. There was a faint sheen of sweat gleaming across his forehead, and he'd rolled his sleeves up to his elbows sometime during his longwinded explanation of his plan to find and recruit Sarah Geller and her associates.
John Cusack flashed through Tim's mind again, but this time it was his role in Grosse Pointe Blank that seemed most fitting—neurotic and displaced.
"What does that have to do with wanting to recruit these people?"
"Altruism."
"Come again?" Tim's eyes slid over to his counter, where the bottle of untouched bourbon stared back at him mockingly, just out of reach.
"These people are products of circumstance and I think they might be swayed with the right incentives." Reed leaned forward, digging out a file from the middle of the pile and tossing it into Tim's surprised hands. "Take Geller," he said.
Tim opened the file and found Kathryn's mug shot, her informant profile, and her rap sheet. But he knew when he flipped through, he would also find the profile that Reed had compiled himself. According to his notes, Kathryn likely suffered from post-traumatic stress and the power she derived from hunting scumbags and liberating trafficking victims was her way of taking control of her life and atoning for her perceived sins.
It seemed relatively on point, even with all the bullshit psycho jargon, but he'd never gone to college, so what did he know?
"She is relentless. Even as a CI, she was booked multiple times for going after guys in the street. Romero fixed the charges for her, but she's never done that to someone I wouldn't also want to deck in the face."
Tim raised his eyebrows. "I find it difficult to imagine you decking anybody."
Tim was once again taken aback by Reed's response, as a sly grin spread across the man's face. "You didn't know me in college. I was quite the brawler before I got kicked out of my frat and got serious about my academics."
Tim decided that he was done trying to judge people. It was clear his metrics needed to be recalibrated. He also decided he didn't want to look at Kathryn's face anymore, so he closed the file and dropped it back on the table.
"The point is," Reed continued, "they are after the same things we are—scumbags off the streets and victims saved. They just go about it in a very different—"
"You mean illegal," Tim mumbled.
"way." Reed watched Tim carefully as he weighed his next words. "You worked with her. Do you really think it's so ridiculous to imagine her working with us on the other side of things?"
Tim considered this. The thought of Kathryn with a badge hadn't seemed a stretch before—he'd assumed she was a fed without any doubt when he'd met her. But now, the concept felt like a fantasy. Like Reed was offering up a wardrobe from his uncle's house that could magically transform her from a renegade vigilante into a law-abiding citizen.
Eventually, he found that he couldn't decide whether it was too farfetched an idea to work, so he shrugged impotently.
"Listen, Deputy Gutterson, you don't have to agree with me. To be honest, most of my superiors don't, but I am of the opinion that if we could turn these people to our side, they could help us do a lot of good."
"Wouldn't it just be easier to arrest them all?"
"Yes," Reed said, matter-of-fact, "But sometimes the easiest thing isn't the right one."
Tim rolled his eyes at the platitude.
Reed laughed that strange squealy laugh again. When he was done, he asked Tim a new question. "Did you see we lost Dawson in Virginia?"
Tim leaned back, tucking his fingers under his nose as his palm cupped his chin. It was only when he saw Reed staring at his hands that he realized the cuts and bruises must be incredibly obvious.
He pulled his hand back down and tapped his fingers in a nervous rhythm against his thigh instead. While Reed hadn't mentioned Anderson again, the unspoken knowledge lingered just beneath the surface of every word he said, and Tim had a feeling the information would be used against him eventually, likely at an incredibly inopportune time.
"I did," he said, finally.
"They found some stuff in the room he'd rented."
"Was it a written confession for Romero's murder and a rendezvous point, because that would be peachy."
"Not quite," Reed said, and there was a seriousness in his tone that made Tim pay closer attention. "He had info on Sarah Geller's known locations in and around Lexington, and photos of vehicles she'd used that we didn't know about—recent ones. We think he's getting ready to take her out."
#
Kathryn still wouldn't answer, and Tim was running out of ideas. Eight calls, fucking eight. Did she think he was trying to ask her to the prom? She must know what he had to say was important.
Maybe she'd ditched the phone, which meant Tim had no way of getting in touch with her, and the thought sat like ice in his belly.
It wasn't a total shock that Dawson was after Kathryn—hell, they'd watched her house on the chance that was true—but to know he was getting closer, that he'd found the coffee shop she liked to frequent and the grocery store she used when she was home, meant he was now too close, and Kathryn needed to stop fucking around.
Reed had left some of his paperwork with Tim, asking him to look over the documents before he went into the office the next morning. Tim checked the time; it was nearly 4PM.
Before delving into the thick folio Reed had left for him, Tim decided to sort through the papers on his floor. He was sure there was probably a bill in there somewhere he'd forgotten about, and now was as good a time as any to let his mind drift as he went about the monotonous task.
Nearly all of it was junk; coupons and takeout menus for restaurants he would never eat from. There were political mailers for the mid-terms he'd missed and plenty of postcards asking him if he needed a new car or a painter or better health insurance.
And then there was a square envelope with his name and address handwritten on it, but no return, and he immediately recognized the handwriting.
It was Kathryn's.
Tim tossed the papers in his hand to the side, negating the mediocre sorting job he'd been doing completely, and tore open the envelope after checking the postmark date. Whatever it was must have arrived only a week and a half or so after they'd parted ways. What could she have been sending him?
It was a newspaper clipping. A short blurb about Ralph Ibsen's arrest. And scribbled in the margin at the top: "Thought you might like to know. – K."
But that wasn't what had Tim gripping the paper tightly in his hands, pulling it up close to his face to inspect it. He'd seen the article; had followed Ibsen's case every day for weeks.
What had caught his attention was a photograph from the courtroom the day Ibsen was arraigned, and the caption underneath: Dominique Hughes, Founder of After the Life, a nonprofit helping human trafficking victims reassimilate, attended the proceedings.
And in the photo, clear as could be, there was Delia.
#
Kathryn would have sent that news clipping long before she had any reason to think he would ever meet Delia, and it also explained the strange feeling he had when he'd met the older woman and felt like he'd seen her before. He'd probably looked at her face half a dozen times sprinkled through the articles he'd read about the Ibsen case, searching for any hint of Kathryn or who she worked for.
He felt stupid now for not having made the connection sooner.
But none of that mattered now. Tim was focused. Because Dominique Hughes was a real name, and she owned a real house about 45 minutes outside Louisville. There was no guarantee she'd be there, but it was the address she used on her taxes, so he figured there was a decent chance.
Maybe Kathryn really did mean something to her if she chose to keep her so close.
Before his car had gone hurtling down the winding back roads outside the city, Tim had formulated a plan. He didn't know if it was a good one, and he honestly didn't care either way. Tonight, he was going to make some headway.
He was going to get some goddamn answers if it killed him.
Tim ascended the stairs outside of Delia's house—which was quite beautiful and far too large—wearing a plain black baseball cap, a windbreaker from an old Halloween costume that he'd dug out of the back of his closet, and a large pepperoni pizza.
When he knocked, Tim turned away from the door just enough to obscure his face and allow him to pull his gun from his holster with his left hand without her noticing.
He heard the faint sounds of someone walking up to the opposite side of the door. "Who is it?"
"Pizza House," he said. "Got a delivery."
"I didn't order anything."
"Listen, lady, this is my third house. Everyone says they didn't order it, but someone did. Will you just take the pizza? It's paid for and my shift ended an hour ago."
He heard the lock click and the door swing open just an inch.
Tim turned and shoved the pizza into her arms, knocking her back a step, and he used the brief moment of distraction to shove past the door and kick it closed behind him as he raised his weapon.
Of course, Delia was only fooled for a second, but that was all Tim needed to level his gun at her face and put his finger on the trigger, so she knew he meant it.
"'Evening, Delia. You have time for a chat?"
"What the hell, Corporal?"
"Don't fucking call me that," he nudged the gun toward her face, "Kitchen. Walk."
And she did, but Tim made sure to stay less than a step behind her, pressing the end of his gun into her back as he did so. He was taking no chances.
The kitchen was even more beautiful than the outside of the house—white marble and gold pendant lights with top of the line appliances Tim had only ever seen in romantic comedies where one of the leads was a chef.
It was all ostentatious in the worst way he could imagine. And, he noted with some amount of unwarranted satisfaction, the exact opposite of Kathryn's own house, which was designed to be used, not photographed.
"Sit," he said, but when she chose a particular chair, he cut her off and ran his hands over the chair and the area around it before pulling a small .22 caliber handgun from a holster attached to the table. He glanced at her. "Nice try."
Tim pulled the chair out into the middle of the room, so none of the other surfaces would be within her reach, and indicated for her to sit down.
"Now, you've read all my records and reports. You know I don't miss when I pull a trigger." Tim paused a moment, letting Delia settle into the chair now facing him. "If you so much as blink in a way I don't like, I promise you, I won't."
"Oh, I have no intention of blinking, Mr. Gutterson."
Tim smiled at the threat in her words, expecting them—wanting them. "Good."
Tim holstered his weapon, but he let his right hand rest lightly against the grip, just in case he needed to pull it quickly. He honestly hoped she'd give him a reason to. He might not be as quick on the draw as Raylan, but at this distance, he knew he'd do just fine.
"How did you find me?" she asked.
"I am very, very good at my job and, as it turns out, everyone else's," he said. She didn't need to know it had been half-luck. He wanted her on edge.
He wanted her scared.
"What do you want?"
"I want to know why you hired an assassin to kill an FBI Agent and let your beloved Kat take the fall for it." Tim was satisfied by Delia's slight flinch when he used her pet name for Kathryn, and he took pleasure in watching her squirm minutely under his intense gaze. "And I want to know how the fuck you intend to rectify the situation before she ends up dead, too."
Tim felt vindicated as he watched Delia's jaw tighten. He was tired of dragging ass behind everyone else. Tonight, he was taking back the reins.
