Free Echo of War by Grant Blackwood

scrambling.”
    Tanner sat back down. He signaled the bartender to refill Slavin’s drink. “Let’s start at the beginning: Who first pushed the panic button, and when?”
    Tanner questioned Slavin for another thirty minutes, until certain the man was holding nothing back. In fact, Slavin didn’t know much; his knowledge had come secondhand as he routed messages between FCI command and DEA headquarters in Washington. Tanner’s hunch about Susanna’s assignment involving French organized crime was correct, but Slavin had no specifics.
    â€œLast question,” Tanner said. “The only address I have for her is a blind DEA mail drop. Can you get me her address?”
    Slavin nodded. “Yeah. You planning on going there?”
    â€œYes.”
    Slavin gulped the last of his bourbon. “Watch yourself. She lived in the armpit of Paris.”

6
    Royal Oak, Maryland
    An hour after leaving Washington McBride and Oliver arrived at a waterfront ranch-style house in Dames Quarter, three miles across the bay from the Root estate. Oliver pulled into the driveway and stopped behind the ERT—evidence response team—van. Standing on the porch were an elderly man and woman; beside them a chocolate lab paced back and forth, whining and sniffing the air. The man pointed his thumb up the driveway. Oliver nodded his thanks and they walked on.
    At the head of the driveway they found a meadow of knee-high Broomsedge grass and wild rye; beyond that, a rickety dock surrounded by cattails. McBride caught the scent of rotting bait fish in the air. One of the ERT technicians met them at the foot of the dock while two more agents in yellow chest waders stood in the water, peering through the reeds and under the dock. The mud along the shore was as dark as coffee grounds, with a hint of red, stained by the tannin in the cypress roots. A fourth technician knelt in the mud photographing something there.
    â€œWhat’ve you got, Steve?” Oliver asked.
    â€œAbout an hour ago the owner called the Somerset Sheriff’s Office and reported his boat missing—a fourteen-foot Lund with a trolling motor. They called Wicomico and they called us—they figured the timing coincidence was worth a look.”
    â€œWas it?”
    The technician grinned. “There’s boot prints all over the place, Collin. Three men, I’m guessing.”
    â€œGood enough to cast?”
    â€œI think so. My gut reaction: They’re the same as the one’s at the Root place.”
    â€œHow about the boat?”
    â€œCoast Guard’s looking for it, but I wouldn’t hold your breath. About a hundred yards from shore the bottom drops to a couple hundred feet.”
    McBride looked around. “How about nearby roads?”
    â€œThere’s a fire road and a boat ramp about three hundred yards to the southeast. I’ve got a couple guys looking around.”
    â€œWhat kind of motor did the boat have?” Oliver asked.
    The technician frowned. “Uhm … electric, I think. Why?”
    â€œThey’re quiet.”
    â€œOh, gotchya. I’ll call you when I get the casts compared.”
    â€œThanks.”
    Oliver and McBride walked a few feet away. Oliver plucked a cattail, brushed his index finger over the nap, tossed it away. “Smart SOBs. Odds are, they didn’t pick this boat by chance.”
    McBride nodded. “Agreed. They did their homework: Steal the boat across the county line and hope the Somerset and Wicomico sheriffs aren’t big on information sharing. One thing that bothers me, though: Why scuttle the boat?”
    â€œI was wondering the same thing.”
    â€œThey grab Amelia Root, put her in the boat, cross the bay to the fire road … Gotta figure it’s about two A.M. by then, which means they could’ve had the boat cleaned up and back here by three—long before the owner would wake up and notice anything. So whatdya think?