Sign of the Maker (Boston Crime Thriller Book 4) Brian Shea (black authors fiction txt) 📖

inside him. The case no longer held the gamesmanship of before. It became real. It mattered.

Langston had worked the case tirelessly, abandoning sleep for days on end. He was so immersed he forgot to eat, sometimes going an entire day without food. For the man who prided himself on consuming mass quantities of food at any opportunity, that was an eye-opener to the fact that this case mattered.

It took him over seven months of digging, investigating, going back into the old files, talking to witnesses, retracing the steps from where she last was seen. He'd scoured that field where her friends had seen her playing, where she had ridden her bike.

An old report mentioned a drifter by the name of Cody Fletcher. He was never listed as a suspect. At the time he was interviewed, he was living in a trailer not far from where the girl had disappeared. He'd gone unnoticed by investigators because the officer who'd conducted the interview listed him as a potential witness rather than a suspect. He was overlooked because of the mislabeling. When Langston came across his information, something immediately rang wrong. That hunch proved to be warranted when he went to the trailer to do a follow-up interview and found he was gone.

After extensive digging, he discovered Fletcher had moved to Ohio and was living in a cabin in an isolated area. A local child had just gone missing under a similar set of circumstances to the Caldwell disappearance.

Langston's effort not only brought closure to the Caldwell case but saved the young girl Fletcher had caged in a back room. That case had taken Langston down some dark places. He'd seen the awfulness in people. When you walk with darkness, it has a tendency to taint your soul. For Langston, after losing his own baby girl, that darkness stuck. It clung to him. And it had never left.

Those who knew Langston before said he was a different man, a different agent, after that moment. The smile and laugh were long gone, replaced by a burning intensity. The stress of his chosen path led to years of overeating. Every pound he added seemed commensurate with the weight of the lost souls he sought to avenge. He knew that case had changed him. He felt it. He tried to go back to the old version of himself, but never managed to find his way. At some point, he just accepted who he was now: a gruff, angry man who didn't take shit from anybody, including supervisors.

A heavyset woman with a plaid scarf and wool skirt walked over. Even though they were in a temperature-controlled climate, she felt the need to keep her fall ensemble intact. "Mr. McLaughlin is ready for you, gentlemen. Please follow me."

They were escorted through closed doors and down a short hallway that led to a large office overlooking the Charles River and all the glory of the bright orange and gold trees surrounding it. The man at the desk didn't look pleased by his view or his arriving guests as they entered and took a seat across from him. "Agents, I appreciate your patience. Sorry. I was in an extremely important meeting. I'm juggling a lot in preparation for my campaign launch."

"Understood, sir," Langston said. Salinger remained quiet. It was their unspoken agreement. Salinger would accompany. He was tasked with watching and learning. His input would only be provided if Langston asked for it; otherwise he was to serve as a silent partner and scribe.

"You said in your message to my secretary that this is in relation to the rash of bombings?"

"Yes, sir," Langston said, offering the mayoral candidate about as much professional courtesy as he offered anybody else. If Langston was anything, he was fair. "Listen. Our information is coming from a source that we're still investigating. I cannot divulge any information about this source, other than the fact that we are taking all information received with the utmost seriousness."

"And this source mentioned me by name?" McLaughlin stopped shuffling the papers on his desk.

"Yes. It's believed the bomber may be planning to target you in his next attack."

"I don't understand. Does this have something to do with my campaign? I mean I know some people don't like me. I get hate mail all the time, but..."

"We're not sure of the motive at this point. All possibilities are currently being explored. The information we've received is limited at this time, and the bomber's message was cryptic."

"Why would someone target me?"

"I don't know. You tell me."

"I don't understand what you're getting at, Agent Langston. How am I supposed to know? Isn't this what you do?"

"It is. The way I do that is through investigation. To do that I need to ask questions." Langston felt his blood boil. "Well, sir, we're going to need to have access to any suspicious emails, mail, text messages, and phone calls you've received that you feel may be out of place."

"I've received nothing. You must know who you think is responsible. Tell me who you think might be behind this and maybe it will make some sort of sense. Otherwise, you're wasting my time."

"The information we have links you to an IRA fringe group from twenty-three years ago."

McLaughlin laughed, then cleared his throat and looked at the agents. "Are you kidding me? An IRA fringe group? You're telling me someone is saying that the IRA is targeting me? Why? Because I'm a successful Irish businessman running for office in one of the most powerful cities in the country."

"I'm not saying that. I'm saying that somebody has said you're affiliated with—or at least were affiliated with—an IRA fringe group."

He laughed again, this time not as heartily. "I really don't understand."

"Neither do we. Is there any reason someone would suspect this of you? Is there any reason someone would make that claim?"

"No. It's absolute madness."

"A claim like that could really shake things up for your campaign."

"You're not putting this information out to the press, are you? I mean this