“I know where it is,” Delgado said.

“So what it means, they knew him up there, they came down and got him.” He slapped a hand against the file folder and waggled his eyebrows one more time. “You don’t need this thing. Jefferson County’ll have what you really need.”

Delgado nodded. “Thank you,” he said. And he was gone before Sergeant Valducci could put the folder away.

* * *

—

The drive north to Watertown took a little over an hour. Delgado took Interstate 81 all the way, and the traffic eased up after Liverpool, a few miles outside of Syracuse. He drove at a steady eighty miles an hour, until he reached Watertown. He left 81 on the Arsenal Street exit. That took him straight through town—a town that had grown much larger and busier since the last time he’d been to Watertown, on a security case at Fort Drum. And Watertown had grown because Fort Drum had gotten bigger and more important. There were a lot more census-conscious franchises like Arby’s and Taco Bell, which wouldn’t open a location unless the population hit a certain density. But it wasn’t just size; the flavor of the town had changed, too. There were even a couple of sushi restaurants, which would have been unthinkable in the decaying, blue-collar Watertown Delgado had known before.

There were so many new shops and strip malls and cafés that Delgado wasn’t quite sure where he was. But the county probation department office was right on Arsenal, so there was no chance of getting lost. Twenty minutes after leaving the interstate, Delgado was standing in front of a desk and showing his credentials to a trim, middle-aged African-American woman who wore a lavender blouse and an expression that said she’d seen everything, and i

t mostly just made her weary. The sign on her desk read, “MAVIS WOLCOTT—Director Juvenile Services.” She frowned at his badge for a few moments, then flicked her glance up to his face.

“All right,” she said. “How can I help the FBI, Special Agent Delgado?”

There was a steel folding chair against the wall. Delgado moved it closer to the desk and sat. “I’m collecting background on someone who was in your system twenty years ago,” he said.

Ms. Wolcott’s lips twitched. It was probably intended to be a smile, but it didn’t make it that far. “A little before my time,” she said.

Delgado nodded. “I’d like to see his file,” he said.

“Does he have a name?”

“Riley Wolfe,” he said.

Delgado was watching closely for any sign of recognition, but there was none. “What’s your interest in Mr. Wolfe?” Ms. Wolcott asked.

“He’s a dangerous criminal,” Delgado said.

Since she did not know Frank Delgado, Ms. Wolcott waited for details. He offered none. Finally she raised her eyebrows and said, “Well, I don’t see why not. I guess.” She picked up the phone on her desk and, after a moment, said, “Trish? I’m sending somebody down to see you. No, an FBI agent. Delgado. What? He can tell you that himself.” She hung up and said, “Trish Wolcinski, in Records.” And as he stood to leave she said, “Fair warning, Special Agent Delgado? Trish loves to chat.”

Delgado just nodded. “Thank you for your help,” he said.

Ms. Wolcott’s warning had not been an exaggeration. Before Delgado even had both feet into the records room, Trish was already talking.

“You must be the FBI guy, right? Yeah, of course, I mean, who else would you be? Not that many people come here—I mean, duh, records, right? Who really cares enough to want to get all dusty? But I gotta say, you don’t really, really look like an FBI guy. I mean, no offense or anything, but you know. You look more like a drug cop, right? What is that, DEA? I mean, those guys are more—not that I’m, you know, it’s just—see, I’m from Detroit, you know, I just came here cuz my hubby was at Drum? Tenth Division? And he deployed and I thought, what the hell, it’s not such a bad place. I mean, it gets colder than you can believe in the winter—that’s, you know, that’s why they put Fort Drum here, okay? Because the winter is—”

“I need to see a file,” Delgado said, much louder than he’d intended. It didn’t seem to bother Trish.

“Sure, of course, why else would you be here? But I gotta say, most of our files are on computer now? Which is totally NOT a lot easier and more convenient like they said it would be—”

“It’s from twenty years ago,” Delgado said.

“Okay, sure, no problem. And it’s a local juvenile who was in our system at the time, right? I mean, Mavis didn’t say, but I just figured that—”

“He used the name Riley Wolfe,” Delgado said. “I don’t think that’s his birth name.”

“Uh-huh, uh-huh, they do that sometimes, I mean, I guess it’s a good idea and all, if you’re breaking the law, and so they get away with—”

“The relevant date is here,” Delgado said. He passed her his copy of the arrest report from Syracuse.

“Right, there it is, okay. Yeah, that’s not gonna be on computer, that’ll be an actual old-fashioned paper file, which means it’s gonna be right over here—you know, they were going to put all the old paper files onto computer a few years ago? But they suddenly, I mean the government, I guess, I don’t know which one, local or, you know, Washington? Anyway, it was probably some jerk in Congress saving money, but like suddenly we didn’t have a budget, so—”

Trish whirled away toward the back of the room, talking full speed and running a finger along the front of the file cabinets as she chanted the dates, interspersing that information with haphazard comments about computers, filing, winter, her husband—there was so much, all of it random noise, that Delgado tuned her out and didn’t notice what she said again until the flow of talk stopped abruptly.

“Huh,” she said suddenly. She looked up at him and frowned. “It should be right here, but . . .”

Tags: Jeff Lindsay Riley Wolfe Thriller
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