“So, you trust her?” Oshiro asked.
Trust? Morgan? The two words did not even belong in the same universe. “No. I don’t trust her. But I can rely on her for one thing: to always do whatever is in her best interest. Right now, that means playing the good girl, pretending to be a hero, saving lives.”
She couldn’t keep the contempt from her tone and Oshiro picked up on it. “You think she’s like her father. A psychopath.”
“No. I think she’s worse. There’s a reason why Clinton Caine lived underground all those years—he couldn’t maintain a mask of normalcy long enough to survive out in the open. But Morgan, she’s a chameleon. If they gave Oscars for psychopathic performances, she’d win every category. Normal people like her, they let her inside their guard. That makes her much more dangerous than Clint.”
“Because they want to trust her,” Oshiro mused. “That’s the key to any undercover work. Manipulate the responses of the people around you until they’re totally invested in believing whatever you have to sell them.”
Maybe the deputy marshal was smarter than he looked. They passed through Delmont and started up Route 819.
“Are you going to arrest her? You have men watching her and Andre, right?”
“Nothing to arrest her for—like you said, there’s nothing to charge her with. But take her in for an interview? Oh yes. Definitely.”
Which meant Jenna had to hope that Morgan didn’t see being picked up by the feds as a threat. Otherwise she might play her ace in the hole, and it might be Jenna arrested for murder.
Chapter 8
GIBSON RADCLIFFE THOUGHT he was Clinton Caine’s son? Morgan sincerely doubted it was true—Clint kept close tabs on all his offspring and had never mentioned Gibson. More likely Gibson was just another lost kid hanging onto a delusion he hoped would turn him from a no one into a someone.
She wondered when Gibson’s obsession with Clint had begun. A quick search of Gibson’s computer revealed a folder labeled “Trig” that actually contained clippings of Clint’s crimes and his capture. There were a lot of them—Clint’s depravity and his willingness to speak to the press made sure he’d grabbed headlines across the country.
She also found drafts of letters from Gibson to Clint. The kid was definitely a fan, that was for certain. Talked about proving himself worthy of Clint, making him proud…poor kid had no clue that Clint received dozens of letters like his every day.
In prison, Clint wouldn’t have had access to email, so Gibson must have sent paper letters—and if Clint replied, it would have also been via regular postal mail. She continued to ransack the books and other papers strewn around Gibson’s lair. Nothing from the prison. She debated calling Jenna to see if any of her former Postal Service connections might be able to track any correspondence but decided against it. The feds would have already checked that.
Besides, Clint was much too smart to ever put anything on paper that could be used against him. The most he would have done was to arrange future, more secure communications. Maybe using his lawyer as a conduit…but only if he had use for the boy.
As she continued her search, she wondered at that. Clint and the other two prisoners would have needed help to coordinate their escape. Transportation, clothes, food, shelter, cash, weapons… They had to have had an outside accomplice, and who better than a malleable teenager desperate for a father figure? Gibson certainly fit the bill.
Which meant it was no coincidence Gibson’s mother had called on Galloway and Stone to investigate his disappearance. She’d bet it was Gibson who placed that magnet so prominently on the family refrigerator and who made certain his mother saw the article that featured Jenna and Andre.
Big question was: how well did Gibson cover his tracks? He would have left an obvious trail for Morgan to follow—one that led to where Clint wanted Morgan to go, no doubt a trap.
She took another look at the ancient laptop. Nothing. He’d cleared all of his accounts, the only thing remaining an automatic reminder about a family portrait appointment at the mall tonight. She was surprised Gibson still cared enough to join in on the ritual—not as if many of his photos made the wall of honor upstairs.
She kept looking, digging deeper into the computer’s files. No way could a sixteen-year-old kid from Monroeville hide all evidence of the logistics needed to assist a prison break. Maybe he had another computer he’d taken with him? Or maybe he’d used his phone for everything?