Aimpoint by Candace Irving (best mystery novels of all time .TXT) 📗

from Evan. I thought—" He broke off, shook his head as if still unnerved by the text's contents. "I thought it was a suicide note."

Christ. "May I see it?"

The molten gray churned anew, but he nodded. John retrieved his phone from his back pocket and opened his text app, then slid it across the table.

You're right, man—I am fucked up. I made my decision. Thanks for hanging in as long as you did. Don't blame yourself.

It did sound as though LaCroix had planned on ending things. And he had—just not his own life. At least, not until he'd taken Saniye's.

She took a screen shot of the text and forwarded it to her own phone, then opened John's conversation stream with her to ensure it had sent.

In retrospect, it might not have been the best decision.

She'd have gotten a copy of the same information by accessing LaCroix's cellular account once the warrants came through. And she wouldn't have sent John's phone scooting back across the table with his last text to her now open on the screen.

everything ok?

Not by a long shot. And it was getting longer.

She could feel John recalling every moment they'd spent together as he looked up from that text, replaying every confidence and confession he'd offered her in light of what he now knew about her. And every confidence and confession she'd supposedly gifted him. She wasn't coming off well. Worse, she deserved it.

She'd become her dad after all.

At least in this man's eyes.

The case, damn it. Focus on the case. "The sergeant mentions a decision. To what was he referring?"

"We had an argument. The night you came over for dinner. After you left, I told him what I thought was the truth." John's inflection on that last left no doubt he now knew otherwise. Unfortunately, inflection wouldn't stand up in court.

"The truth?"

"That some SF sergeant said you were a ringer for Carys. I told him I realized that's why his mood had gone to hell, but—painful reminder or not—like his former housemate, I'd had it with his attitude and his digs. I assured him the rest of the Army wouldn't be far behind. I told him he had two choices: get his shit together, or get the fuck out. And I didn't just mean my house. I figured he'd sent that text to let me know he'd chosen the latter, just not the way I'd assumed. But as I said, I didn't know that when I first saw his text."

"How did you discover his plans?" Because he must have. Why else had John shown up here?

"I'd called him back, but it went to voicemail. So, I sent a text. Hell, I probably sent a dozen in half as many minutes—all unanswered. So, I went to his room." He shrugged as though he was still embarrassed he'd invaded the man's privacy. "I was desperate. I found his computer, got lucky when I typed in Carys' name at the password prompt. But then I became even more worried when I realized he'd cleaned everything out. Emails, texts, browser history, bookmarks—they were all missing. I'm not even sure why I checked his maps app. Part of me hoped I might be able to figure out where he'd gone to off himself. Anyway, that's when I spotted it. And then I knew."

"It?" She knew too, but she needed it spelled out for the recorder.

"The Karmandi address."

"He wasn't supposed to have it, was he?"

"No one was. Not even the general. And that was Ertonç's decision, not mine."

"I don't understand."

John sighed. "You'd have to go back a few years, and over a subcontinent if you want to do that."

"You're referring to what you did for then-Colonel Ertonç in Kabul."

He captured her stare for a moment and held it. Nodded. "I guess you figured that out too."

"I think so. I know about Dr. Karmandi's cousin Royar and Royar's connection to the PKK and the car bombing that killed the general's sons in Inçirlik last year. Learning of Ertonç's extremely personal hatred for Kurds years before the bombing, along with a few other facts, allowed me to extrapolate the rest—eventually. I assume Saniye and Dr. Karmandi met while she was still in England, since that's where she supposedly died."

John nodded. "Saniye was a student; Olan was already a physician. Both were volunteering at a clinic for immigrants. I happened to be with her father when he found out she was dating a Kurd. And, yes, that's when and why his hatred turned personal—but it grew worse. Ertonç tracked me down the following week. Saniye had called to tell him she and Olan were marrying and moving to Germany, with or without his blessing. He was enraged. But he was also terrified she'd be killed as a message to him, either by someone in the PKK or another Turk who wanted to make an example of her. I offered to contact a buddy with the CIA to make her disappear safely. Ertonç wanted me to go further. He wanted her dead to the world—and he didn't want the CIA involved. He didn't trust them. Only a select few, very hefty links up my chain of command were allowed to know, and even they weren't to be privy to her new identity. The links agreed, so I got to work."

"You faked her drowning."

He shrugged. "It seemed the easiest option. Everyone knew she had asthma and there was no need to produce a body since it had supposedly been swept out to sea. Everything was fine until her brothers were murdered in retaliation for Ertonç's role in Operation Peace Spring. Saniye was devastated—but Olan was enraged. With Royar. He called Ertonç to apologize on behalf of all Kurds. Ertonç hung up on him. But as the general's grief began to ease, he realized he had only one male blood relative left in the world. His grandson. The boy was half-Kurdish. But if his son-in-law could humble himself when he'd known he'd be cut off, maybe some Kurds