by Kayt Miller
Ian: He’s in his twenties but he says things like “Far out” and “Groovy” a lot so there is that.
Me: Right on. He’s an old soul?
Ian: Ha. No. Just an idiot.
Me: Harsh.
Ian: I suppose.
Me: Okay, it’s time to hit my To Do list. My laundry isn’t going to do itself. I’ll see you tonight?
Ian: You will. Bye, Agatha.
Me: Bye, Ian.
Wow. I re-read the exchange. That felt so natural. Like we’ve been doing that for a long time. I’m not sure how to process it. The good thing? I have lots of time to think about it at the laundromat. Yay me.
Chapter 12
Ian
I re-read our text exchange and smile. I can’t remember the last time I enjoyed texting. That’s probably because text messaging is a double-edged sword. On one hand, it’s a faster, more efficient way to communicate than a phone call. On the other, it’s a sure way to find out your wife’s been cheating on you with your superior. See what I mean?
“Got anything?” I ask Jason as I sip my third coffee of the day. I need to switch to water or I’ll be up all night.
“You know I went through this before, right? The day she was canned.”
I release a low growl. I don’t like that he’s being so flippant about her.
“Sorry.” He clears his throat. “The day she resigned.”
“And?”
“I’m going in deeper, to deleted shit.”
I stand, silent. Waiting.
“It looks like some shit was dumped the day before she was, uh, let go.”
“What kind of shit?”
“Well, if I had to guess, it looks like remote access coding.”
“Remote access? You mean someone could get into her computer from somewhere else?”
He nods. “Exactly. Remote access software gives someone access to a computer, such as a home computer or an office network computer like Agatha’s here, from a remote location. It would allow anyone to work anywhere, controlling her mouse, keyboard, everything on her computer really.” Jason scoots his chair closer to me, speaking in a hushed voice, “Not only that. This means…” He pauses for emphasis. “Your girl could be innocent.”
Could be? I know she’s innocent. “You don’t know for sure, though. Or do you? Can you tell from the coding what it did on her computer? If it was ever used or how it was used? Or more importantly, who used it?”
“That’s a lot of questions, man. I may be able to figure out who else has the software on their computer since Drake the Douche gave us free reign here after hours. But it’s going to take time.”
“We’ve got a short list of suspects. Start there.”
“Right on.”
I look at my watch. Three-thirty. “I’m going to check in with base and get a workout in. That is, if you don’t need me.”
Jason scoffs. “You only distract me. But, bring me some food later, would ya? If I’ve got to work late, I need food.”
“Sure. You want junk food or healthy?”
He arches his brow at me. “You seriously asking me if I’d rather have rabbit shit over fries?”
“It wouldn’t hurt you to eat better,” I mutter.
When Jason says nothing more, I leave our tiny office. On the way to the elevator, I’m approached by a small, dark-haired woman that I recognize as Camille Bartlett.
“Excuse me?” she asks tentatively.
“Yes?”
“Um. Hi,” she says in a flirty tone. “I’m Camille. Camille Bartlett.”
I nod. I know who she is.
“I’m Agatha’s best friend.”
Interesting. You’d think she’d phrase that differently. I nod again.
Stepping close to me she whispers, “I know her. She wouldn’t steal any money.”
“How do you know?”
She shrugs. “I just do. She’s too naïve.”
Naïve is a word I wouldn’t use for Agatha. To me, when you say someone is naïve, I think of words like gullible or foolish. I want to hear more. “Too naïve?”
“She’s not the smartest tool in the shed.” She laughs. “I think it’s why she keeps, or kept, getting passed over for promotions.”
I’ve seen her college transcripts; I also saw the score from her CPA exam. Agatha isn’t dumb. I find this entire conversation fascinating. Either this ‘best friend’ is trying to throw me off Agatha’s scent by portraying her as too dimwitted to have committed a crime, or she’s throwing her girl under the bus. I’m just not sure which. Perhaps I need to give Ms. Bartlett a closer look. In the meantime, I think I’ll give Camille something to think about. “Some of the dumbest people I know are criminals. Stupidity is the number one criterion for thieves.”
“Oh.” Her face blushes to a deep pink color. “I, uh, suppose that’s true.”
“Nice to meet you, Camille.” I step around her to the stairwell. No way I want to ride down an elevator with anyone right now. Why did that entire exchange piss me off so much?
Camille Bartlett
Age: 28
Height: 5’7”
Weight: 123
Address: Whispering Sands Apartments,
300 Sandhill Road. Apt # 2, Page, Arizona 86040
Property Type: Rental
Rent amount: $400 / month
Driver’s License State: Arizona
Title: Staff Accountant
Annual Income: $39,430.00
Years at H&S: 5
Marital Status: Single
Children: None
Criminal record: None
Social Media: Facebook, Twitter, Snapchat, Tinder, Match
After my workout, I order food from a little Italian restaurant I discovered my first week here. They make the best lasagna I’ve ever tasted. That means Jason isn’t getting fries tonight. He’s getting garlic bread and pasta. And so is Agatha. I can’t show up to her house empty-handed. I mean…she’s gotta eat. I knock on her door and I wait. I listen as her feet pad across her hardwood floors, holding my breath just a little bit. The minute the door opens, I sigh. And stare. “You look nice.” And she does in a pair of snug jeans and a light sweater in the same shade of gray as her eyes.
“Thanks,” she responds nervously. “Come on in, Ian.”
Stepping through her doorway, I hold up the bag of food. “I brought dinner.”
“Again? You brought lunch. You didn’t have to…”
“I wanted to. I worked out extra hard so I could eat Italian.” I smile down at her.
“It smells wonderful. Did you go to Giovanni’s?”
“I did.”
“Yum, I love that place,” she says, pulling out the foam containers. “I wish they’d quit using Styrofoam, though.”
“Agreed.” I pull out one of the two stools at her small breakfast bar and sit.
“What would you like to drink?” she asks, looking up at me. “I picked up a few things at the store this afternoon, so I’ve got beer, wine, soda, water, juice, and milk.”
“Water is fine. Thanks.” When she turns away from me, I take the opportunity to check her out from head to toe. Damn, she’s a beautiful girl. It’s the first time I’ve seen her in jeans and I’m not disappointed. I get to see the shape of her legs all the way up to her hips. They’re better than I imagined. I bet they’d be even more spectacular in nothing. Then there’s her round little ass. I groan and it’s audible.
“You okay over there?” she giggles. “Hungry?”
“Starving.” But not for Italian.
Chapter 13
Agatha
Oh, mama. I nearly hyperventilated when I opened the door to a jean-clad, t-shirt wearing Ian Burke. Yeah, I read his business card. I now know his last name, employer (Phoenix Cyber Security), and occupation (Senior Security Analyst). But nothing compares to the knowledge that Ian Burke can fill out a pair of Levi’s better than any man I’ve ever seen. And I know they’re Levi’s because I checked his ass out when he passed me
at the door. To say his ass is high and tight is an understatement. And his legs? Long and muscular. Top that off with the snug Rolling Stones tee and ding, ding, ding, we’ve got a hot as sin winner.
Taking the bag from him, I step into my kitchen. I was planning on making us something to eat. I bought some chicken, rice, and vegetables just in case, but I didn’t want to risk humiliation by cooking in case he was only stopping by. As I nervously unpack the food, I ask, “Would you like something to drink?”
Why does this feel like a date? At least what I remember about dates. My stomach is full of butterflies, my heart is racing, and my palms are sweaty. I need to calm my ass down. He’s here to get the thumb drive. That’s it. Well, and to eat. But, that’s it.
When he nods, I list off the selection I purchased at the store earlier. I was careful not to spend too much money on food, but I was out of almost everything.
“Water is fine. Thanks.”
Handing him a bottle of water, I open the lid of the first Styrofoam container. “It looks and smells delicious. Are they both lasagna?”
Reaching into the bag he pulls out plastic silverware and two small foam containers. “Yeah. I also got us some garlic bread and small salads.” Looking up at me he hesitates. “Is that okay? Do you like lasagna? If not I could…”
“No, it’s my favorite. I always get it.” And I do. They make their own pasta and I’m positive the mozzarella comes directly from Italy. I hand Ian real silverware. “Would you like a plate or...”
“Nah, this is fine, thanks.” He hesitates again. “Unless you want to use plates.”
“Nope. Fewer dishes to wash,” I say with a laugh.
“Absolutely. Dishes are my least favorite chore,” Ian says, right before he takes his first bite of pasta.
“Mine is laundry.” I search the bag for salad dressing. I know I’m out. At the bottom of the bag, I see two small dressing containers. Hurray. Looks like Italian dressing. Perfect.
Swallowing, he wipes his mouth. “Did you get it done today? Your laundry?”
“I did. It’d been piling up for weeks, so I used several machines.”
“You don’t have a washer and dryer here?”
“I wish.” I snort. An unattractive sound to say the least. “There are hookups in the bathroom for a stackable, but the space is already tight in there. It’s easier to go to the laundromat and do it all at once anyway.”
“Maybe you could use a closet. Add laundry hookups in there. I did that at my house.”
“Your house? Where do you live?” Talking like this with him feels so personal, domestic. Sure, laundry isn’t personal, but when he mentioned his own home, I wanted to know more.
“Phoenix.”
“Makes sense.” My shoulders slump a little bit. Phoenix is a long commute from here. Why that matters? I’m not sure.
“What does?”
“The name of your company is Phoenix Cyber Security.”
“It is but we’ve got offices all over the country. Our headquarters are actually in Nebraska.”
I laugh. “Really?”
“Yep. In the middle of nowhere.”
Ian smiles, and it’s breathtaking. I think it may be the first time I’ve seen a real smile from him which isn’t surprising under the circumstances. After all, I’m accused of stealing a million bucks and he’s tasked with proving it, or disproving it, hopefully. I just need to remember this isn’t a date even if he did smile like that. Dang, his teeth are straight and white, but not perfect. You can tell he never had braces because his eye-teeth are a tad crooked. Perfectly crooked.
“So, how long have you worked for them?”
He takes a bite of food. As he chews, he looks at me. It’s like he’s trying to decide on his answer. I stare at his throat as he chews then swallows. He’s got a nice throat. On the thick side. “I’ve worked for Phoenix for just over a year.”
“Only a year? What’d you do before?” I pick up my bottle of water but stop midway to my mouth. “Wait! Don’t tell me. Let me guess.”
He nods.
“You were an FBI agent who tracked serial killers.” I laugh as I sip my water, but when I look at him, he’s not laughing.
“Really?”
Nodding he admits, “Yep. For fifteen years.”
I’m in awe. “No joke, Ian. If I could get a do-over, I’d do that job.”
Chuckling, Ian starts to eat again. “Why the hell would you want to do that?”
“It’s always fascinated me. My dream is to go on a stake-out.”
“Oh, honey. Really? Stake-outs are boring as fuck.”
I blush a little at his words. “Yes, really. Solving crimes and mysteries would be the perfect job for me. My brain is analytical.”
“I get it. When I joined the Bureau, I had stars in my eyes. But I’m… things aren’t as glamorous as mystery books lead you to believe. The paperwork alone would make you quit.” He laughs again but it’s restrained.
“I could see that. But, were you on any major cases? Anything I would have heard about?”
Ian sets down his fork and stands up from his seat. I watch as he pulls his shirt up revealing a long scar on his torso. His firm, muscular torso. But I can’t focus on that. That scar... “Oh, my god. Ian?” I race around the island to get to him. I raise my hand, nearly touching the jagged scar. Looking in his eyes, he nods. I reach out and run my finger gently over the scar tissue that runs from his right side to the center of his chest. Guessing, I’d say it was eight inches long. “It was so close to your heart,” I whisper.
“It was.” His voice sounds uneven. “I nearly died.” He clears his throat. “They said I did, for a minute or two.”
Resting my palm over the scar, I feel his heart beating rapidly. Looking into his blue eyes, I say, “Who did this to you?”
“Do you remember the Chicago Slasher?”
I gasp. “The guy who stabbed his victims multiple times?”
“That’s him.”
“How?”
“I was a decoy. My wife and I.”
I jerk my hand away from his chest like it’s on fire and step back. “Your w-wife?” Holy crap. I’m flirting with a married man. And, hey! Awesome. He’s flirting back.
“Ex-wife.”
“Ex-wife?”
“It’s a long story. I’ve already told you more than most people know.”
“I’m sorry, Ian.”
“Me too, honey. Me too.” When he pulls his shirt down, I step back around the island.
“Is that why you quit the FBI?”
“It was the other way around. The FBI quit me. I was strongly encouraged to retire. Either that or I was going to be stuck at a desk somewhere.”
Attempting to improve the dark mood now surrounding us, I bite into a slice of crispy garlic bread. “Mm, so good.” I mumble. “Ian Burke?”
“Yeah.”
“I bet you were an amazing agent.”
He gives me a shy smile and a shrug.
“Oh, you’re being modest. That’s cute.” Smiling, I take another big bite of bread. I bet Ian’s amazing at everything.
Chapter 14
Ian
Why the fuck did I tell her all that? Hell, I’m not sure Jason knows half of it. Sure, he knows I used to be an agent and that I was wounded in the line of duty, but that’s about it. The Bureau kept our names out of the press, thankfully. That night was one mistake after another. For one, the Slasher got away. For another, it was the end of my marriage. That night, that one night, was the end. All because I tried to protect my partner, who happened to be my spouse.
Shaking my head, I stand up with my empty food container. “Garbage?” I ask with a smile. No need to ruin this nice evening.
Agatha reaches out, taking the foam box from my hand. I watch as she quickly wipes down her countertops. When she turns back to me, she’s smiling. “So.”
“So.” I return the smile. “Do you have that flash drive?”
Her smile vanish
es, but she recovers quickly. “Of course. That’s why you’re here, right?” Walking out of her kitchen, she steps over to her dining table. Picking up a blue object, she holds it out to me. “It’s the same color and brand of thumb drive I use, but the writing isn’t mine.”
Once the device is in my hands, I ask, “You said it was coding of some sort?”
“Violet thinks it’s HTML.” She rolls her eyes. “Whatever that is.”
“I’ll have Jason look at it.” I’m standing stock still, waiting on what, I’m not sure. Hoping. Hoping is a better word.
“So, um…” Agatha’s wringing her hands nervously. “Do you have to leave now or do want to watch a movie or something?”
“I don’t have to leave right away. A movie would be good.” Hell, I’m as nervous as a teen boy on his first date.
“Great.” She points toward her living area, specifically her bookcase. “All of my movies are over here. Do you want to pick one?”
“You don’t have cable?”
Shaking her head, “Too expensive right now.”
“I see.” I scan her shelves, looking at the books first. Now that I’m close enough to read the spines, I can see she does, in fact, have eclectic taste. “Lots of suspense and mystery books, huh?”
“Told you. I love a good mystery.”
I let my eyes roam over her romance books, old and new, mystery, suspense, true crime, and some biographies. I pull out one on Eleanor Roosevelt and open the hard-bound cover. Replacing that, I pull out a very worn copy of On the Road by Jack Kerouac. “You read this one?” It’s one of my all-time favorites. I’ve read it several times over the years.
Stepping closer to me, she looks down at her book. “I never put anything on this shelf I haven’t read at least once.”
That doesn’t surprise me. A sense of pride rolls over me knowing her books are important to her.
Taking the book from my hands she pulls off the dust jacket and points to a name written in a pretty scripted style: Rachel Montgomery. “That’s my mom, Rachel. It was her book long before she met my dad. It’s one of my most treasured possessions.” Her voice has cracked a little bit. “She’d read her favorite passages of the book to us sometimes, but mostly it just sat next to her bed. She must have read it a million times. She used to say it gave her wanderlust until she met my father. After that, all she wanted was to be wherever he was.”
