I resigned myself to returning the FBI phone calls. I couldn’t put it off any longer. Both Bryant and Hutchins had left phone messages again yesterday, and their persistence made me nervous. Rolling out of bed, I shuffled downstairs to start the coffee, my liquid courage. I drank half a cup and dialed. Hutchins didn’t answer. I braced myself and dialed Special Agent Bryant.
“It’s Cara Baker.”
“Listen, I have some news. The U.S. Marshals have lost contact with Tony Rizolli.”
I paused to digest this.
“You must be joking! How the hell did that happen?”
“His tracking anklet was cut, and he disappeared.”
“Do they think he’s been whacked?”
“They’re not sure.”
“Why are you calling me? You do realize I no longer work for the DA’s office.”
“Yes, we know that.”
Exasperated I asked, “Then why are you calling to tell me this? Not much I can do.”
“I’m concerned about your safety. Tony bore a lot of hostility toward you.”
“The FBI’s concerned, or you’re concerned?”
“I’m concerned.” He stated matter-of-factly.
“What does the FBI think?”
“The FBI thinks there’s a leak in the Marshals’ office and Rizolli’s six feet under.”
“Why does Tony have so much animosity toward me? He walked into a shiny new life provided by the American taxpayers.”
I took a moment, rubbing a hand across my eyes. “What does he know?”
“We’re not sure. I think one of the pencil pushers at the Marshals’ office told him about the Cayman accounts during relocation. There was very little legitimate money he could take into the program. He wasn’t happy about it.”
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