He typed a message.
They have federal agents here.
He sent it to a number saved under one letter.
E.
A reply appeared seconds later.
Leave. Now.
Reed looked toward Monica.
Then toward Naomi and Danielle.
For the first time that afternoon, Sergeant Thomas Reed understood something terrifying.
The anonymous tip had not been designed merely to frighten the Brooks sisters.
Someone wanted those documents recovered.
And if the police couldn't recover them, someone else might.
The FBI moved Naomi and Danielle to a secure office downtown.
Their mother arrived an hour later.
Lorraine Brooks entered the conference room furious.
Not frightened.
Furious.
"Which police officer put handcuffs on my daughters?"
Naomi stood.
"Mom."
"Don't 'Mom' me."
Lorraine was sixty-seven, five feet four inches tall, and capable of making grown professionals feel like misbehaving children.
"Where is he?"
Danielle pointed toward the door.
"Not here."
"Good for him."
Monica entered carrying coffee.
Lorraine looked at her.
"FBI?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Did you handcuff them?"
"No."
"Then you may stay."
Danielle covered her mouth.
Naomi almost smiled.
Monica placed a photocopy of Arthur's notebook on the table.
"We need to talk about your husband."
Lorraine looked at it.
"Arthur?"
"Did he ever mention Elias Grant?"
Lorraine thought.
"The trucking man?"
"You know him?"
"Everybody knew him."
"Did Arthur?"
"Maybe."
Lorraine looked at the notebook.
"My husband knew hundreds of people."
Monica opened to a marked page.
Arthur's handwriting filled it.
Grant vehicle 17. Repeated unauthorized county channel access.
Another entry:
Reed present at maintenance garage. Claims test. No work order.
Naomi leaned closer.
"Reed?"
Monica nodded.
"Thomas Reed."
Danielle stared.
"The sergeant?"
"Yes."
Naomi looked up.
"These notes are twenty years old."
"Correct."
"He was a police officer then?"
"Junior deputy."
Monica turned another page.
Grant requests private frequency. Refused.
Then:
Equipment moved without authorization. Reed signed access sheet.
Lorraine's expression changed.
"I remember this."
Everyone looked at her.
"Arthur came home angry."
"When?" Monica asked.
"Years ago."
"Why?"
"He said somebody was using county equipment for private business."
"Did he say who?"
"No."
Lorraine paused.
"Actually..."
"What?"
"He said he was told to forget it."
Monica leaned forward.
"By whom?"
"I don't know."
"Did he report it?"
Lorraine laughed sadly.
"Arthur reported everything."
Naomi nodded.
"He once reported our neighbor for running a sprinkler during water restrictions."
Danielle added, "Twice."
Lorraine smiled.
Then her expression darkened.
"But after that, somebody broke into his workshop."
Monica became still.
"What was taken?"
"Nothing."
"Nothing?"
"That's what bothered him."
Lorraine folded her arms.
"Drawers were opened. Papers moved. But tools, money, electronics—everything stayed."
Monica and Bell exchanged looks.
"When?" Bell asked.
"Maybe nineteen years ago."
"Did Arthur keep copies elsewhere?"
Lorraine smiled.
"You didn't know my husband."
Naomi did.
She suddenly understood.
"The basement."
Lorraine looked at her.
"What?"
"Dad kept duplicates."
"Of everything."
Danielle groaned.
"Of course he did."
Naomi stood.
"Mom, the filing cabinets."
Lorraine nodded slowly.
"I haven't emptied them yet."
Monica immediately reached for her phone.
"We need to secure the house."
But they were already too late.
At that exact moment, forty miles away, a black pickup stopped outside Lorraine's house.
Two men climbed out.
One wore work gloves.
The other carried a pry bar.
They entered through the rear door.
They knew exactly what they were looking for.
And they were not alone.
A neighbor named Samuel Price watched from across the street.
Samuel was seventy-two and deeply suspicious of everyone.
For thirty years, Lorraine had considered this annoying.
That afternoon, it became useful.
Samuel photographed the truck.
Then the license plate.
Then both men.
Finally, he called Lorraine.
She answered inside the FBI office.
"Sam?"
"Lorraine, you've got visitors."
"What?"
"Two men went through your back door."
Lorraine stood.
"What men?"
"Don't know."
Monica saw her expression.
"What?"
Lorraine put the phone on speaker.
Samuel continued.
"They're not carrying boxes in, so I'm guessing they're not movers."
Monica grabbed her radio.
"Do not approach them, Mr. Price."
Samuel paused.
"Who is this?"
"FBI."
Another pause.
"Well."
Samuel sounded delighted.
"I knew something interesting would happen on this street eventually."
"Stay inside."
"Already got pictures."
"Do not—"
A crash came through the phone.
Samuel whispered:
"They're leaving."
"Do you see what they're carrying?"
"One box."
Lorraine looked at Naomi.
Naomi knew.
The basement files.
Monica shouted into her radio.
"Vehicle description!"
Samuel gave it.
Within minutes, state police units were moving toward the neighborhood.
But the truck disappeared.
When federal agents reached Lorraine's house, the basement had been destroyed.
Files covered the floor.
Cabinets were open.
One drawer was missing entirely.
Danielle stood in the doorway.
"What's gone?"
Lorraine pointed.
"Arthur's work records."
Monica looked at the empty cabinet.
Someone had known exactly where to search.
Someone had known the Brooks family was talking to the FBI.
And only a small number of people knew that.