by Ellen Butler
“I’ve got your card back at the house.”
“Put it in your phone.”
“Okey doke.” I pulled at the door, but Josh held it fast.
“Now.”
I fished the phone out of my purse. “Here, put it in yourself.”
“And call McGill.” He handed it back.
“Thanks, Josh. I appreciate your concern.”
My drive home was uneventful. I didn’t call McGill that night. Instead, I left a note to do it in the morning, after I’d slept on it and came up with the perfect excuse for having gone down to the scene of the accident where another elected official died. And, maybe, after I spoke with Jessica.
Chapter Twenty-one
The incessant, eerie sing-song of the X-Files theme woke me at half past midnight. The spooky music had my heart jackhammering into overdrive, until I realized it was my cell phone. I’d recently given the ringtone to Mike’s number. We were both X-Files fans, and since Mike was an FBI agent . . .
I stubbed my toe on the way into the kitchen where the phone charged; cursing, I swore to change the ringtone in the morning.
I bypassed polite greetings, still half-asleep. “What? What’s wrong? Are you okay?”
“Am I okay?” Mike’s voice bordered on irate. “What the hell is going on up there? Damn it, K.C. When I left, you promised me you’d stop this asinine and dangerous snooping. And tonight, as I’m about to fall into bed, I get your message that there’s been a ‘development in the case.’ A case you’re not supposed to be anywhere near, by the way. Key-rist, I need to hire a damn babysitter to sit on you, so you stop making harebrained decisions. Now what have you gotten yourself into?”
While he lectured, I fell into a prone position on the couch and pulled a blanket over my legs.
“Naftali Rivkin.” My statement had the desired effect.
Mike stopped mid-ass-chew. “How do you know that name?”
“I know that’s Jablonski’s real name.”
“Who have you been talking to?”
“Someone who doesn’t mince words and can tell me the truth because he’s not bound by stupid FBI uber-super-secret clearance bullshit. And if you don’t want to listen to what I have to say, I’m happy to have my lawyer call your boss in the morning to explain why you should damn well listen,” I snapped. The abrupt wake-up and subsequent ass-chewing made me a little cranky.
Silence.
“I woke you. Didn’t I?”
“It’s past midnight here. Of course, you woke me.”
“I’m sorry,” he apologized. “Go back to bed. We’ll talk in the morning.”
“No.” I rubbed my eyes. “I’m up now. We might as well talk.”
I launched into Rodrigo’s and my adventures on the way to IKEA, and Silverthorne’s stop-by to tell me about Naftali Rivkin. Mike remained silent throughout.
“So, you’ve been talking to Navy boy.” I knew Mike didn’t have the best opinion of Silverthorne. He believed they worked in the gray areas of the law.
He was likely correct. Whatever the case, I trusted them. Not that I advocated for lawlessness. However, unlike Mike, as a lawyer, I knew that justice wasn’t always served in black and white, but rather worked in the shadows of gray. Sometimes you had to walk that fine line. It’s why the CIA hired spies, and companies like Silverthorne existed. However, I didn’t want to antagonize Mike, so I changed the subject. “Did you know about the house owned by Troika Star?”
“We’re looking into all the homes in the area.”
“Did you know it’s owned by a major pharmaceutical company?”
“No, I didn’t. Where did blondie get his information?”
“No idea. Why?”
“The holding companies were offshore, and the only way he could’ve gotten the information is by hacking into bank files or having someone on the inside.”
“Uh, I wouldn’t know anything about that.”
“This is exactly why I don’t like you playing with these guys. Everything they do is underhanded.”
“How is the Harper case coming? Did you get your man?”
Even though I couldn’t see him, I could hear the ruminations skittering around his head as he decided what to say. I rolled to my side and waited.
“What I can tell you is this . . . we are close—very close—to capturing the person I believe is responsible for Harper’s pacemaker hack.”
“Good for you. Maybe he can shed some light on Finley’s death as well.”
“K.C., Finley’s driver had drugs in his system.”
“He took them, or someone drugged him?”
“We’re not sure. The body was mangled beyond recognition.”
“Oh, lord. Was he married?”
“Yes, with kids.”
“How awful.” My mind went back to my discussion with Rick. “I just don’t believe it, Mike. My Silverthorne contact said he was very professional. Never drank on the job. I doubt he would do drugs. What about the car? Had it been tampered with? Do you have a clear reason why the gates didn’t go down?”
“We haven’t gotten the full reports yet.”
“What are they waiting for?”
“K.C., this takes time. There are a number of fingers in the pot.”
“You should tell McGill about Troika Star. Someone needs to look into that.”
“Even if we do find out that Finley was there, it may lead nowhere. Nevertheless, I’ll talk to McGill and have someone look into it.”
“Thank you.”
“You know what’s strange about Finley? We never found his cell phone. It wasn’t on the body, and so far, they haven’t found it in the car.”
“So, like Harper, you can’t trace the text messages or call logs.”
“We got a warrant for the texts and call logs from both of them.”
“And did they share a number?”
“Many. But there was one . . . from a burner phone that we can’t place.”
“That’s it? One number?”
“Only one. Is there anything else you needed to tell me?”
“I’m meeting with two different home security companies this week.”
“Good. Anything else?”
“No.”
“I’d better let you go. My morning just got a little earlier.”
“Mike . . .”
“Yes?”
“I don’t know if this take-down is dangerous, or what, but . . . stay safe. Don’t do something stupid and heroic. Okay? Come back safe.”
“I won’t. And you either, for that matter.”
“If the FBI is on the case, I’m off of it.”
A windy sigh blew at me from afar. “Sleep well, K.C.”
“You too.”
I pulled the blanket up to my chin and fell asleep on the couch.
Chapter Twenty-two
During the main course, I spied Karen Ferngull across the room and made a mental note to swing by her table to speak with her. My mind debated different opening lines as I stared. She looked . . . pale. I think she’d lost weight just since Friday, perhaps mourning Nick’s loss of affections. Senator Kollingwoods took the podium to provide the keynote address at the monthly Women in Business luncheon. Karen gave a little jump, grabbed her phone, and began madly tapping on it. With a furtive glance around the room, she quickly gathered her materials and slipped out through the emergency exit, practically plowing down a server on her way out.
I considered following when a finger tap on my shoulder stopped me. Wincing pain shot down the side of my neck as I rotated. I should have returned to bed last night, instead, I woke up with a stiff back and painful crick. “Hi, Tesha,” I whispered as she slid into the empty chair on my right.
Senator Kollingwoods spoke passionately about the power of women mentoring other women to rise in the ranks amongst the male-dominated business culture. Everyone agreed with her, but one could argue she was singing to the choir. While her speech hummed along, I stared at the chocolate mousse confect
ion the waiter placed in front of me. It took every ounce of willpower to keep from picking up the fork. I didn’t need the delectable but empty calories ending up on my hips. LaTesha had no such qualms and dug in. I stared enviously.
Finally, the senator wound down, and LaTesha, licking the last bit of mousse from her fork, turned to me. “Been a while. What’s new?”
I waited for the woman on my left to gather her things and leave before answering, “Oh, you know, work stuff, lobbying, fundraisers . . . being a suspect for murder.” I murmured the last under my breath.
The frown doubled her toffee-colored chin. “Have they found Harper’s killer?”
“Not yet.” I shoved the plate away and rubbed my neck.
“What’s wrong?”
“Fell asleep on the couch. Paying for it this morning. Do you know a good massage therapist?”
“I do, as a matter of fact. I’ll text you.” She picked up her phone to find the contact. “So, nothing new on Harper?”
“Nothing of interest. I’m still waiting to hear, myself. Tell me, what do you know about Karen Ferngull?”
“Deputy Secretary of HHS? Some say she slept her way into the position, although I don’t believe it. Others think she bribed her way into it. Either way, you and I both know she’s not looking out for the nation’s healthcare, she’s looking out for the corporations. Not a surprise, considering where she comes from.”
“You mean J & P?”
LaTesha put her phone down. “Well, that, of course. But, long and short, it’s nepotism. Her stepbrother, Lars Dillon, is one of the president’s financial lawyers.”
“Really? I don’t recall reading about that.”
“Saw it in a Newsweek article. It came out about the same time as one of the North Korean missile tests last year. It got overshadowed. Besides, the media circus focused on the secretary’s confirmation, not the underlings.”
My phone dinged with a meeting reminder. “Girlfriend, I’d love to stay and chat longer, but I’ve got an important meeting at the office. I need to head out now to make it on time.”
“I want to hear more. Text me when you’ve got an open lunch hour.” She rose with me and we hugged.
Twenty minutes later, I slipped silently into the back of the conference room. Hasina had already started and was discussing the strides we’d made with the state legislature initiatives. My lateness meant that I missed out on seating, and I stood with four other officemates, massaging my stiff neck. Rotating my head from side-to-side, I realized Rodrigo was absent. Subtly, I pulled out my phone and texted him.
You’re missing the staff meeting. Where r u?
Don’t worry. Call me when you get out.
Two hours later, my toes had gone numb and the meeting finally wrapped. I dialed Rodrigo on the way to my office. He picked up on the second ring.
“Hey, how are you feeling? Cathy said you called in sick.”
“I’m down here at the Troika Star house.”
“You’re what?” I closed my office door and flopped down on the guest chair. “Are you out of your mind? You missed a staff meeting to surveille the house? We have a quarterly board meeting and committee meetings coming up. Hasina is stressed beyond the max, and she’d fire you on the spot if she found out you were playing hooky to do a little amateur investigation. What is wrong with you?”
“Karen Ferngull showed up about fifteen minutes ago, and two other men arrived five minutes ago.”
After my conversation with the Silverthorne guys, not to mention the midnight call with Mike, I wasn’t so sure Rodrigo’s little stakeout was a good idea. I needed to convince him to leave. Who knew what kind of trouble he’d get into if someone in that house found him loitering?
“Rodrigo, I spoke with my FBI friend. It’s really not a good idea for you to stay there. The FBI is working on the case, and you’ll only get in the way. And, if Karen finds out, she could bring you up on stalking charges.”
“Fine, when the FBI shows up, I’ll give them my notes. I’m sure they’ll appreciate my help.”
“Notes? How long have you been there?” I demanded.
“I got down here around noon today.”
I picked up on the slight intonation. “Today?”
“. . . I may have been here last night for a few hours,” he admitted.
Clearly, my coworker was not going to be persuaded over the phone. I pressed fingers against my temples to ward off the growing headache. “I’m coming down. Stay by your phone.”
My watch read twenty past four. I-95 rush hour traffic would be in full swing. It’d be faster for me to catch a southbound train, but I only had ten minutes before the Virginia Railway Express rolled into the station. Shutting down my computer and scooping up my handbag, I powered out of the office, practically jogged to the station, while cursing myself for wearing pumps today. Not only were my feet sore from standing the entire meeting, the heels would now be in tatters from the concrete. Luckily, the train ran five minutes late, and I had time to catch my breath before its arrival. Blessedly, with a groan of relief, I collapsed in an empty seat at the back of the car. When we reached the Lorton station, I texted Rodrigo.
Pick me up at the Rippon VRE station in fifteen minutes.
Get an Uber.
Check your map. It’s only five minutes from where you are.
I might miss something.
You won’t miss anything.
No response.
Rodrigo?
After a lengthy pause, his answer popped up on my waiting screen.
I just ordered you an Uber. Virginia plates, NUC-6400, your driver’s name is Szingo. Here’s his photo. He’s been given directions to my location. Be safe. Check the plate before you get in. See you in a few.
I ground my teeth.
At five-fifteen, Szingo dropped me off behind Rodrigo’s green Forrester. He was parked half a dozen houses down, facing our target. Karen’s BMW was parked on the street. In the driveway sat a black Charger and a gray Cadillac.
I slammed the passenger side door. “Anything?”
“Nothing yet.” A pair of binoculars hung around Rodrigo’s neck and he sucked on one of the two bottles of water sitting in the cupholders. A spiral notebook and pen sat on the dash next to a half-eaten orange bag of BBQ potato chips.
I kicked aside an empty, refillable, red Big Gulp mug. “Did you already drink an entire Big Gulp? Isn’t that a little risky, considering there aren’t any bathrooms nearby?”
“That is the bathroom.”
“Eww!” I pulled my knees to my chest.
“Don’t worry. I haven’t used it. I’ve been rationing the water.”
“What on earth are you thinking, Rodrigo? What do you think you’re going to find?” I demanded.
“Maybe nothing.”
My face twisted.
“I know, I know, it’s almost a compulsion.” He went back to his binoculars.
Putting on my best stern voice, I lectured, “This borders on irresponsibility. We’ve got a lot of work to do before the meetings.”
“Pshaw. Hasina has a lot of work to do.” He pulled up the binoculars. “I sent in our report last night.”
My mouth dropped open. “Rodrigo! That was a draft. There are a few more points I needed to add.”
“Forget it. Nobody reads all those over-bloated reports. We’ll be lucky if they skim the one-page synopsis. Even Hasina doesn’t read everything.”
“How do you know?”
“I once accidentally repeated a full paragraph of information. Nobody said a word.”
“That’s sloppy. It’s not the way I work.”
“I get it, okay? You’re Ms. Lawyer-perfectionist. Relax, if you’re that concerned, just make your updates and send it back to Hasina. Tell her I sent it before you had a chance to finish your edits. She’ll understand.” He smiled and popped a chip in his mouth.
“You’re killing me . . .” More temple rubbing ensued.
Another chip followed th
e first and Rodrigo’s crunching filled the car. The haunting X-Files theme resonated loudly enough to drown out his chomping.
“Shh. Don’t say a word.” I held up a warning finger.
Rodrigo paused mid-chew.
“Well, hello, Sunshine,” I greeted. “I didn’t expect to be hear from you so soon. Did you talk to McGill?”
“Hello, Karina.” Mike’s voice sounded stiff.
Uh, oh, it’s never good when Mike calls me Karina. Now what did I do?
“What are you up to?” he asked in a carefully measured tone.
“Like, right now? Ah . . . this and that. You know, boring work stuff,” I lied.
“And by work stuff, that includes sitting in a car with whom I can only suppose is your equally inquisitive officemate, outside the house I specifically told you not to go back to.”
My head whipped around; pain sliced down my spine. “Ow. How did you know? Where are you?”
“Me? I am in New Orleans doing my job. My question is, why aren’t you at your job? Where you should be!”
“New Orleans?” Mike must be pretty upset. Heretofore, he hadn’t revealed his location. “Then how . . . ?”
My gaze rested on a white panel van sitting in the driveway of the empty house for sale, the same house Rodrigo and I had used as cover last week. Black lettering along the side of the van read PWC Electric. I covered the receiver with my hand and whispered, “How long has that van been sitting there?”
Rodrigo shrugged. “It’s been here as long as I have.”
“It doesn’t matter how I know. What matters—” Mike grit out.
“White van. Electric company logo on it,” I interrupted. “Apparently, my information was important enough to put a team on it.”
An exasperated breath blew across the phone line. “It’s one tech guy. McGill ordered it this morning. Our guy saw you get in the car a few minutes ago and called McGill. Leon called me. This is no joking matter. You and your buddy need to leave. Now.”
“Or what?”
“Or . . . I’ll have you arrested.”
It took me a moment to digest his threat. “Nah.”
