Paradise Crime Thrillers Box Set

by Toby Neal

  The Ghost. She thought of their exchange of photos. What would he want with her now? Would their online game of attraction survive her mutilation? Maybe, since it seemed to be about a lot more than the physical. She couldn’t help a persistent feeling that somehow, the Ghost had something to do with waking her from the coma.

  But right now the last thing she needed to worry about was some man’s opinion of her face.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Dunn was next to see Sophie’s scars besides her father a day later. Shock showed in the widening of his gunmetal eyes and the flare of his nostrils before he schooled his expression into an impassive mask. “Looking good, Sophie.”

  She rolled her eyes “That’s the best you can do, Jake?”

  “I don’t know what to say, damn it.” Dunn ducked his head, pushed a hand through hair still damp from a shower. Wearing a teal-colored polo shirt and chinos, he looked like someone her father would play golf with on the weekend. “I’m sure it’s going to get better.”

  “I’m not that concerned about it, actually.” She opened the door further to let him in. “What did you come for?”

  “I came to see you. And to tell you there have been some new developments in the case. Hello, Ambassador.” Francis Smithson, seated at the couch with the Wall Street Journal open, shook out his paper and stood.

  “Nice to see you outside the hospital, Jake.” Her father had been the best possible company—warm and supportive, but leaving her alone whenever she wanted to retreat into her computer world or stare out the windows. Sophie wasn’t ready to go out in public and be seen, still hoping the lurid color and swelling of her face would go down. “I’ll give you two some privacy.”

  The apartment was set up in such a way that each of their bedrooms had an office/work area, and her father disappeared into his large, formal bedroom, closing the door. Dunn sat on the couch across from her. His gaze flicked to her face, then back down to a file he had brought in.

  Was this always going to be the way people looked at her in the future? Glances, side looks, not wanting to make eye contact or seem to stare, but also not wanting to look at her face, either?

  After another week, she was getting a little more used to it. The stitches would be coming out in another day or so, and they would begin a round of laser treatments to reduce the raised, red ridging around the edges of the scar. She kept her hopes small, though—it was better to get used to being what she was now than to hope for more.

  Dunn cleared his throat and opened the file on the coffee table. “Big breaking news. Sloane was spotted here on Oahu.”

  Sophie’s eyes widened. “Where?”

  “Airport. Preliminary identification points to Dougal Sloane.” Dunn pulled a grainy surveillance photo out of the folder. “Check this out.”

  Sophie picked up the printout of a dark silhouetted face. “I can’t make out anything about this photo.”

  “See this?” Dunn’s thick finger pointed to the ridge of light at the top of the head. “That’s a light reflecting off of a scalp. Height and build are also consistent with Sloane.”

  “So how close is Hilo PD to picking him up?”

  “That’s why I’m here.” Dunn gazed at her squarely at last—it was as if he’d had to work up to it, and the thought hollowed her belly. “I think we need you and your DAVID program to find him. Hilo PD has put an all-island warrant out on him, and his photo is circulating, but no one has seen him since he arrived, likely traveling under an alias. He seems to have a hideout here. Probably a Society of Light connection of some kind. Wish we were in on that investigation.”

  Sophie settled deep into the love seat, curling her legs up onto the couch. “I can’t officially use DAVID while its possession is in contention with the FBI. And even if I found any information, how could I give it to the police? It would open the door for an appeal from Sloane later, if he were prosecuted. As it is, we can’t even make a case for those murdered women without the evidence being compromised.”

  “You were using DAVID before. And, on an encouraging note, the judge ruled the evidence admissible in the case against Jackson. The ruling was based on your work as a private contractor working for a client, with no directive from law enforcement. I brought your laptop back.” Dunn opened the case at his feet and lifted out Sophie’s familiar laptop. “You have more security on this laptop than I’ve run into in years.”

  “You tried to get into my computer?”

  Dunn shrugged, the dimple in his cheek flashing, his teeth white. “Of course.”

  She took the laptop from him. “I don’t use wireless with this. I had security issues working from home last year, part of why I left the FBI. I don’t feel comfortable using this apartment as a base of operations for DAVID, especially with my father here. He is a diplomat, and has his own security concerns.”

  Dunn nodded agreement. “Would never expect you to compromise your safety,” he said. It seemed like it was getting easier for him to look at her, and now he was staring.

  She frowned. “Like what you see?”

  “Sophie, you will always be a beautiful woman. Even if this is as good as they could do, you’d still be beautiful. The scars add character. They make you look even more interesting.” Dunn’s voice was pitched low and sincere. “Kind of badass, actually.”

  Sophie stood, agitated. She rubbed her hands up and down her yoga pants and walked over to the tall glass windows framing the beautiful skyline view of downtown Honolulu. “I kind of liked being Mary Watson. I got to disappear as her whenever I wanted to. I’m not sure I know who Sophie Ang is anymore, and now I don’t even recognize her face.”

  Dunn stood up and walked over to where she stood. He squeezed her shoulder gently. “I’ve always thought work was the best antidote to almost anything, and I think you need to get back to work, sooner rather than later. You’ll get more closure by finding Sloane than any therapy.”

  Sophie looked up at him and smiled for the first time. “I never thought I would say this, but you’re not half bad as a therapist yourself.” He was standing too close, and his hand slid down her back. She broke away and walked back to the couch. “So what’s happening with the cult and the children?”

  Dunn shrugged as he walked around to sit across from her, collecting his file. “Well, Jackson’s out of jail on huge bail, but his absence gave the children’s grandparents a chance to sue for custody, which is promising for them—they are currently with their grandparents, and as we know with custody cases, possession is nine-tenths of the law. Our client has cut us loose and closed our contract. She paid for us to find out what happened to those women, and we did. Now it’s up to the police to make their case.” He cleared his throat. “Speaking of Hilo PD. They really grilled me about who I saw when I took the shot to try to save you, and I had to admit I couldn’t positively identify Sloane.”

  “So I’m the only eyewitness to what he did to me at the pit.” Sophie’s throat felt dry. “And to what he did to me when I was Mary Watson.” Being Dougal Sloane’s only living witness did not seem like a good thing.

  “At the moment. According to Ohale, who called me yesterday, none of the cult members are admitting to seeing him the night you were shot—though they do admit he’s gone.”

  “Don’t they think that’s a little suspicious? Who else would have shot me?” Sophie snapped.

  “Of course. But info I have is through the cult’s attorney—you know how it is.”

  “Unfortunately, I do. Well, thanks for bringing my laptop, but until I find a secure location to work, I won’t be able to use it.”

  “You should consider what I said. About closure.” Dunn leaned forward, dangling his big hands between his knees. “You’re welcome back at the office whenever you’re ready.”

  “I’m not ready.” Formless panic at the thought of leaving the apartment rose up to grab Sophie by the throat. She’d been plagued by nightmares and had trouble sleeping, and even taking Ginger out was difficult.
“I may not be, for a while. Until after all my repair surgeries.”

  “Bix told me to tell you to take all the time off you need. Our injury insurance will cover your leave, your health care. Security Solutions is keeping you on the payroll, but I wish it were more. Don’t let this injury put you on your ass in here, hiding from the world.”

  “I’ll take that under advisement,” she said stiffly.

  “Listen. I can tell by those circles under your eyes that you’re having trouble sleeping. If it’s any consolation, I am too. I went on many combat missions for the military, but retrieving your body from that pit and flying you back to Oahu—it did something to me, too.” Dunn’s gray gaze was intense. “I’m talking to Dr. Kinoshita about it…and the rest of my past. Please consider seeing her too.”

  She wanted to scream. His trauma was only a shadow of hers, and Sloane was here on Oahu. “I think that’s enough of a visit for today, Jake.” Sophie stood, giving him no room for argument.

  Dunn walked slowly to the door and turned back at the opening that she held ajar. “I’m not giving up on you. I meant what I said about that. Come back to work.”

  “I’ll think about it.” She shut the door and leaned on it, closing her eyes just to breathe.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Sophie settled a small straw cloche-style hat onto her head and smoothed the black fitted sheath dress she’d ordered online, along with a pair of kitten-heeled pumps. Makeup, except for lipstick, was a waste of time, but a cherry-sized green Tahitian pearl at her throat gave a nice focal point for people to look at other than her face.

  She was dressed a whole lot like Audrey Hepburn today.

  Dunn was right. This look felt like it might be her style, and she couldn’t look less like an FBI agent.

  “You ready in there?” Her lawyer tapped lightly on the bathroom door. Smithers had called her two days ago to tell her that the FBI wanted a meeting, and that she was getting on the next plane to come over and attend with Sophie. “Not going isn’t an option. This could be them escalating the situation—or, better yet, dismissing it,” Smithers had said.

  “Coming.” Sophie gave herself a spritz of gardenia body spray, and opened the door. “Ready as I’ll never be.”

  “You’re getting pretty adept at those Americanisms.” Bettina Smithers wore a sleek red suit, gold winking at her ears and throat, contrasting nicely with her mocha skin. The lawyer looked every inch a competent professional—from somewhere other than Hawaii. “If you didn’t have that little bit of an accent, I’d think you were a local.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment,” Sophie said. “It takes years to be a real kama’aina in Hawaii.” She walked past Smithers, practicing some calming breaths and drying her sweaty hands by slipping them into the slash pockets on either side of her hips. She retrieved her purse and slid on her sunglasses. “Let’s go.”

  “Not so fast.” Francis Smithson got up from the desk in the corner and came to put his hands on her shoulders, kissing her cheek, careful to avoid her lipstick. “You look gorgeous.”

  “You’re my daddy. Of course you’d say that.” Sophie blinked through tears she’d been fighting all day. The stitches had come out yesterday and she’d been fighting the depression, a blinding headache, and anxiety about going out of the apartment.

  “I second that. You’re gorgeous. The scars add character, an element of mystery and danger,” Smithers said now, smiling. “They say, ‘no one better mess with me.’”

  Sophie smiled. “And no one better. I have the best lawyer in LA by my side.”

  “You sure you ladies don’t want me to come too? For moral support?” Her father seemed rather taken by Smithers, and clearly wouldn’t have minded a little more time with the stylish litigator.

  “Not appropriate for this meeting, Frank, but perhaps you could meet us for a celebratory, or a consolation drink after, as the case may be?” Smithers raised elegant brows. Her father accepted with alacrity.

  Sophie decided she would be coming straight home, and would leave the two of them to that drink alone, whatever the outcome of today’s meeting.

  Rising in the familiar elevator to the tenth floor of the FBI offices in the Prince Kuhio Building in downtown Honolulu felt like déjà vu—but like a life that had happened years ago. The New Agent Trainee at the check-in desk buzzed them into the locked hallway.

  “I was keeping an eye out for you.” Marcella emerged from her office and gave Sophie a quick hug. “You’re in Conference Room A.”

  “Oh good. Friendly interrogation room.” Sophie’s smile felt like a tic.

  Marcella raised her brows, smoothed her chocolate hair back. “Waxman pushed for this meeting. We’ll talk later.” She ducked back into her office, and Sophie saw why—Special Agent in Charge Ben Waxman, her former supervisor and mentor, approached. Slim and dapper, the SAC was followed by his right hand man, Agent Gundersohn, a hulking Swede with a passion for detail.

  “Ms. Ang.” It was strange not to have Waxman call her Special Agent. His steel-blue gaze flicked over Sophie, who kept her hat and sunglasses on. “It’s good to see you up and about. You were down for the count the last time I saw you, and we were all concerned. You’re looking terrific.” Waxman’s greeting sounded forced. Gundersohn said nothing, per usual.

  He’d visited her in the hospital? She had no recollection of it.

  “This is my attorney, Bettina Smithers,” Sophie said.

  “Well, we have someone from Legal coming too, but it’s strictly a formality.” Waxman turned on a heel and led them past several offices and meeting rooms to Conference Room A.

  “Strictly a formality?” Smithers preceded Sophie into the cozily decorated room with its homelike seating arrangement around a coffee table. “Except for the part about you suing Ms. Ang for ownership of her program, and sending two Internal Affairs agents to her door.”

  “That investigation has ended, I’m happy to say.” Waxman sat on one of the armchairs and Gundersohn held down one end of the couch. That left the loveseat facing them for the two women.

  Sophie hadn’t spent a lot of time in this room, but she’d watched plenty of footage recorded in here. Everything they did or said was being recorded and observed. The furniture, slightly off-kilter and too far away from the coffee table, was bolted down, contributing to a subtle sense of unease. She’d briefed Smithers on the psychology of the room’s setup, but even knowing the purpose of the room’s deceptive appearance, she had to resist an urge to resettle the loveseat at a better angle or scoot forward. She made herself sit back quietly and fold her hands in her lap.

  Smithers extracted a small black device. “I’m recording these proceedings.”

  “And we are as well,” Gundersohn rumbled. “As I’m sure Ms. Ang told you.”

  The door opened. An older man with a neatly trimmed white goatee and charcoal-gray suit entered. “Aloha, all. I’m Peter Jameson, Esquire, from the FBI’s legal department.”

  As soon as he was seated beside Gundersohn, Smithers squared off.

  “I hope there’s a good reason for dragging us in for this meeting. Ms. Ang is still recovering from extensive injuries, as you can see.”

  Sophie took the sunglasses off, and Waxman’s regard fastened on her face. “I’m fine. Ms. Smithers is just concerned for me.”

  “And we apologize for the inconvenience,” Jameson said smoothly. “I think you’ll be pleased with the purpose for this meeting, which is to dismiss claims and legal action against Ms. Ang and the computer program known as DAVID.”

  “This is indeed good news.” Smithers eked out a smile and accepted a clipboard with a stack of papers on it from Jameson. She began to read through the papers, pen in hand.

  Sophie made eye contact with Waxman at last. “What brought this on, sir?”

  Waxman shook his head, smiled. “Call me Ben, please. After all this time.”

  “Ben. What brought this on?”

  He lifted his hands. “We had
no claim on the program. I convinced the higher-ups of that at last. Besides, without you to run it, the DAVID program is useless even if we could eventually work out all the legal issues involved with the program’s ability to gain access to other law enforcement databases to do its searches.”

  “Why did you put me through all that, and why stop now? You’d likely win.” Sophie’s voice sounded bitter, even to her own ears.

  Smithers snorted loudly. “I wouldn’t count on that.”

  “Your lawyer’s right. And we were wrong to push it this far.” Waxman leaned forward, straightened his tie. “We miss you around here. If we could reinstate your benefits and seniority with the Bureau, perhaps even a raise, would you come back?”

  Sophie took a moment to consider it—her familiar IT cave, routines, the job challenges that were primarily behind a computer. “No. I’m sorry, Ben. I loved working here, but it’s not a fit for me anymore.” She hadn’t realized the truth of this so deeply until this moment.

  Waxman’s gaze was kind, and sad. “I wish you would reconsider.”

  “I’d consider coming in to contract with you and the team for special assignments,” Sophie said. “But no. I’m enjoying the challenges of being out of the lab…for the most part.” She gestured ruefully to her face and tried a smile, but that hurt too much.

  “These agreements look to be in order.” Smithers’s voice was brisk. “Except for the part about never using DAVID again, at any time, for any reason. We will not be signing this contract. Ms. Ang has a right to continue to utilize her proprietary software.”

  “DAVID poses a threat to the security of every national database, and part of our mission as the FBI is to address those kinds of threats,” Jameson said.

  “We will not be signing this contract. We can revisit the terms if you remove that clause.” Smithers stood up. “Ms. Ang, we’re done here. We will not be responding to anything less than a court order banning DAVID’s use.”