What Lies Hidden

by C G Cooper

  “What was it doing there?”

  Chance looked at Mac’s reflection. “You tell me. I mean, I know who put it there—”

  “You do?”

  “Sure. Tiffany.”

  “Not Dana?”

  Chance shook his head. “Nah, it was Tiffany.”

  “How do you know?”

  Chance walked over to the chest and pulled out the top drawer, revealing an array of plastic bins.

  “The girls had a system,” said Chance. “Blue bins for Tiffany, yellow for Dana.” He pointed to a blue bin full of lipsticks. After a moment of searching, he lifted one out and removed the lid. Lipstick in hand, he stepped over to the microwave. Two mugs sat upside down on a drying pad next to an assortment of herbal teas.

  Chance held the lipstick up to a smear on the edge of one of the mugs. The pale orange color was a perfect match. Checking to make sure Mac was watching, Chance lifted the mug, revealing a stack of sugar packets. “Dana’s been on a coffee kick lately. She gets the good stuff in town. Tiffany was the tea drinker.”

  Mac said, “Thanks. That’s helpful.”

  “How is that helpful?” said Chance.

  “I thought it’d take longer to rule Barringer out,” said Mac. He retrieved a sugar packet from the stack and returned to the desk, where he lifted the mirror from its stand and laid it flat.

  Motioning to Chance, he tore the packet open and poured a few granules onto the glassy surface. He began to roll them around with his fingers. “It’s an old safe cracker’s trick. With practice, lots of practice, your fingers get sensitive enough to detect the tiny vibrations you need to be able to feel in order to crack a safe or pick a lock.”

  “They teach you that at The Farm?”

  “They did,” said Mac. “Technology is essential, but the work we do takes us to the back end of forever. Old tech, old school.” He brushed the sugar crystals from his fingers.

  Chance took a measured breath. “You think Tiffany was living a double life. She was learning Western Civ by day, breaking-and-entering by night, is that it?”

  “Yeah,” said Mac. “That’s what I think.”

  “I don’t guess you can tell me how she went from wannabe spy to dead.”

  “I can’t, but I wanna find out.” He looked Chance directly in the eye. “I’ll level with you. My bosses didn’t send me here to investigate a murder. I’m here for something else. But my gut says the two are connected. Find the killer, find what I’m after. That’s what my gut says.”

  Chance looked for a moment like he was going to demand details of Mac’s mission. Detectives didn’t like being kept in the dark. Mac hoped he could get over it. Chance had already shown his worth. He’d hate to have to cut him loose.

  Chance said, “Okay. My gut says, help you out. What do you need from me?”

  “Just this,” said Mac, pointing a finger from himself to Chance and back again. “Cooperation, insight, experience.”

  He walked to the dresser between the two beds. “For instance, your people did a good job sweeping this place. Nothing more to see here. Less than you’d expect, actually. In your report, the item you called out as missing bugged me, too.” He lifted out a phone charger from the open drawer. “Blue bins, right? So tell me, detective. Where’s our victim’s phone?”

  Chapter Ten

  The trip down the hill from dorm to townhouse was considerably colder than the first. The wind had picked up, blowing the new snow around in sheer wisps. Keeping his head down, Mac pressed his elbows into his sides, trying to retain as much warmth as he could.

  Growing up, he had always felt that hot and cold were a state of mind. He’d laughed at the retirees who wore windbreakers on his native Kauai. He’d spent most days surfing bare-chested. When he joined the CIA, he discovered that his meteorological philosophy didn’t work outside a tropical zone.

  As he angled toward the townhouse’s back door, he cursed himself for not wearing another layer over his leather jacket. How did cows make it through the New York winter? Answer: They stayed indoors.

  The wind was blowing from the southeast. He shifted his course slightly to keep the townhouses between himself and the worst of its knives. It was a clear night with a bright moon. It was thanks to the moonlight that he saw the man leaning against the wall of Unit 8A.

  His position was well-chosen. If Mac had left the townhouse by the front door, the mound of plowed snow, which humped over the curb and onto the sidewalk, would have hidden the watcher from view.

  As Mac watched, the man slid forward and darted a glance in the direction of the parking lot. He shrank back, tugged off his gloves, blew into cupped hands, then replaced the gloves. Mac drew back toward the tree line, considering what he should do.

  He didn’t see any tracks in the snow that hadn’t been there earlier, meaning the other man probably had a vehicle parked somewhere close by. If he bolted, Mac might not get a second chance at forcing a conversation. The watcher might also be armed. Instead of confronting him directly, Mac retreated out of earshot and put in a call.

  “Boxer?” Lynn said.

  “Can you see me?”

  There was a pause while she cycled through security displays. “Are you wearing a lacy negligee? Cute satin number with a bow above your tramp stamp?”

  “I am not.”

  “Then, no. Your secret is safe with me.”

  “I’m on the hill north of the townhouse. I need a favor.” He explained his request in a few short sentences.

  “Not a problem, Boxer,” said Lynn. “Give me three minutes.”

  “Great. Thanks.”

  The wait was shorter than promised. In something like two minutes, he heard a distinct buzzing coming from the opposite end of the row of townhouses. He had cautioned Lynn not to give away his position on the hill, so the drone, Fu-Fu, swooped in low over trees from the opposite direction.

  The watcher must have heard the buzz and realized what was about to happen. He soon appeared at the back of the townhouse, sliding around the corner to hide in the recess where the side wall projected a few feet past the back wall.

  Fu-Fu followed her course, flying level with the roof’s eaves but keeping enough air between itself and the building so that it could light up every angle with a single 1500-lumen LED.

  As Fu-Fu rounded the back corner, the drone deliberately pointed the lamp away, wobbling slightly off course. It righted itself to complete an orbit of the townhouse but left a window, spanning most of Mac’s concrete porch, bathed in darkness.

  The watcher bolted as soon as Fu-Fu was clear of the building’s opposite corner. He sprinted up the hill as fast as his legs would carry him. It looked for a moment like he would run right into Mac’s arms, but when there were about fifteen yards between them, the man broke for the trees away from Mac. Mac cursed and pushed his way through the trees, hoping to cut the man off. He’d underestimated his opponent, however.

  Just as the watcher sprinted through a thin screen of trees, Mac heard the growl of a snowmobile engine. He froze, still hidden, and saw the driver of the snowmobile arc into a hundred-and-eighty-degree turn. The watcher leapt up behind the driver and the snowmobile zoomed off, slinging loose snow in its wake. Mac considered keeping up the pursuit, but he didn’t feel like dodging bullets in the dark.

  “Get anything good?” he asked Lynn over the phone as he trudged back to the townhouse.

  “See for yourself,” she said.

  His phone binged to announce the arrival of a text message containing a link to video footage. Fu-Fu’s night vision camera had captured its full orbit of the townhouse. Mac watched the video all the way through then focused in on a three-second clip near the midway point.

  The clip showed the back corner of the townhouse as Fu-Fu went into its turn. As Mac had seen him do from a distance, the watcher scrunched up in the corner behind the side wall, mere feet from the townhouse’s back door.

  As the night-vision camera focused on him, he looked up. A black ba
laclava hid his expression. The little jolt off-course that Lynn had programmed into Fu-Fu’s flight path might have convinced him he’d escaped notice, which was the point, but there was no way to know for sure.

  “What do you think?” said Lynn.

  “I don’t guess the drone’s got enough range to chase down a snowmobile.”

  “Not one with a full tank of gas. Sorry.”

  “Never mind.”

  “So, what’s the play?”

  “There is none,” Mac said, rubbing a hand over his face. “I’m gonna take a pill and try to sleep off my disappointment. If our friend comes back, don’t hesitate to call.”

  “Will do. Sleep easy. I upgraded the locks at your place, and there are air-pressure alarms upstairs and down.”

  “That’s a comfort.”

  “Don’t mention it. Anything else you need?”

  Having reached his back door, Mac pulled the keys from his pocket.

  “I’m kinda sick of sandwiches,” he said. “Is there a Chinese place in Wilburville that’ll deliver at this time of night?”

  “In this Podunk town?” said Lynn. “I asked a local where I could get Thai food, and he said that most folks only eat out after church on Sunday mornings. I’m afraid you’ll have to pick it up.”

  He considered it, but a glance at his watch changed his mind. “I should probably turn in,” he said.

  “Nice work if you can get it,” said Lynn. “I’ll be on until 0600.”

  “Good work tonight. Buzz me if anything comes up.”

  “Goodnight, Mac.”

  After cleaning up, Mac searched his duffel for his prescription sleeping pills. He took two with water and left the bottle on the kitchen counter. Just before he removed his hearing aids to charge on their stand overnight, he heard the strains of a distant melody. It sounded like it came from nearby, but it was too soft to pinpoint over his ears’ customary whine. He put it out of his mind. He had enough to think about. In a few minutes, the pills sent him off to La-La Land.

  Chapter Eleven

  — One Week Earlier: Tiffany —

  The walls of the corridor leading into Morris Hall were painted a dull ocher. The building housed the College of Science and Engineering. Its interior decorator had evidently felt that earth tones best reflected its pragmatic concentration.

  Tiffany laid on a burst of speed. If a third attacker put in an appearance before she reached the corridor’s end, she hoped to build up enough momentum to bowl him over.

  Nobody showed.

  Tiffany ran into the carpeted basement of Morris Hall. The entrance opened onto a break area with thin carpets, a few vending machines, and odd bits of furniture that smelled like they’d spent thirty years in a garage. There was a hallway leading to a door that was always locked. Tiffany recalled her tour guide calling the hall “The Road to Nowhere” during new student orientation.

  Adjacent to this was an elevator with shiny metal doors and an entrance to the stairwell. Tiffany looked around for anything she could use as a weapon.

  No dice.

  The chairs were bulky and cushioned. The coffee table was flimsy and too awkward to wield. A hook on the wall between the elevator and stairs showed where a fire extinguisher had once hung. The sight of it made Tiffany’s stomach twist.

  Listening to the slow, steady footfalls in the corridor, she kicked the elevator call button with her toe while easing the stairwell door open. As quietly as she could with her hummingbird fluttering heart, she started up the stairs two at a time.

  She was running again by the time she reached the top of the first flight and collided with the exit door. It didn’t budge. Tiffany bounced back, grabbing her arm where it had impacted the panic bar.

  She pushed against the door again, confused. She could see only darkness through the narrow window. This fact suggested that the door had been blocked, barricaded by a solid object that felt as heavy as a refrigerator. The door from the landing below hissed open and Tiffany ran up the next flight of stairs.

  She didn’t hit the next door like a battering ram. Instead, she stopped to shove it and felt it move an inch but no more.

  Her pursuers climbed rapidly, impatient with the hunt. Tiffany left the landing behind. At the third floor she pushed hard against the door and felt the barricade on the other side shift.

  Through the door’s window, she glimpsed the pallid security lights shining over the top of a copy machine. She stood back and kicked. The impact of boot on metal jolted her spine, but she kicked and kicked, breaths coming fast and quick through her teeth. She heard the stomps below speeding up and slammed into the door. This time it didn’t budge. All she’d managed to do was close a gap between the copier and the door. Now it was stuck fast.

  Niko appeared at the bottom of her flight and looked up. Tiffany saw black grease painted around his eyes and a flash of blue irises that gleamed unnaturally bright, like he was wearing costume-store contact lenses. She dashed up the stairs.

  In the middle of the next flight, she placed a foot wrong, cracking her shin against the metal edge of the step. She barked out a “No!” that shattered what was left of her self-control, and tears streamed down her cheeks.

  Eyes shining, she looked left and right, searching the solid walls for a way out. None appeared. She was a rabbit cornered by hounds.

  Passing the fourth door, she shoved at it in desperation. It didn’t budge. She was limping now; her shin bone throbbed. Every step sent a fresh jolt of pain rippling up her leg. The stairs rose endlessly above her and plunged to the hell below.

  She reached the fifth floor and spun like a tornado into the door. Her shoulder and the side of her head struck metal. Lights twinkled across her vision, but the door remained shut. She collapsed against it, sobbing.

  One more flight of stairs.

  The elevator didn’t go to the roof, but the stairs did. The hounds were herding her, she felt sure. She thought about her backup, who might be arriving at the tunnel right now, and pulled out her phone. There was no time to text a mayday. No point, either. Either help was coming or it wasn’t. If she did fall into DIOS’s hands, she didn’t want the phone to fall with her.

  Before sending her out on the mission, Velvet had installed an app that would work in concert with what was hidden in the compact. The codes in the app had to be safeguarded.

  Moving rapidly, Tiffany hauled at the swivel handle of a glass safety cabinet. There was a white fire hose inside, folded like an accordion, hanging under a bright red water valve. If she’d had more time, she might have tried to knock her pursuers down the stairs with water pressure, but she could hear thudding boots and rapid breathing from the flight below.

  Fighting to control her muscles, she slipped the phone between two folds of the hose and latched the glass door before Niko or Cora came into view. She sprinted up the last set of stairs.

  Before her stood the gray metal door leading to the roof. There was no panic exit push bar on this level, only a chrome handle with a key slot. Turning her back to the door, Tiffany listened for any indication that her phone had been discovered. She heard none.

  Clutching at her chest with one hand, she plunged the other into her pocket and felt the reassuringly hard shape of the compact. There was nowhere to hide it now. Even if there had been, Tiffany couldn’t have brought herself to leave it behind.

  She thought through her options. There had only ever been two options: fight or flight. She couldn’t fly any higher.

  Bracing herself with one hand on each rail of the stairs, she watched for someone to appear. The plan she’d just dreamt up was all kind of bonkers, but it did leverage the element of surprise, which was all she had going for her. In spite of her flip-flopping stomach and the preternatural awareness of every groove in the paint under her fingertips, she smiled. Velvet would be proud, if she ever got to hear the story of her protégé’s last stand.

  Niko rounded the corner, pounding up the last flight of stairs. Tiffany drew back, a rubbe
r band about to spring.

  Behind her, the door to the roof swung open.

  Chapter Twelve

  — Day Two: Mac —

  “Thank you for coming,” said Chandra, ushering Mac into her office with a sweep of her hand. “I didn’t expect you to be up so early. That is why I sent a text rather than calling you.”

  It was warm inside the administration building. Warmer than his townhouse, warmer even than Grant-Spencer with its roaring fire. The hallways were uncomfortably narrow, as if the architect’s measurements had accounted only for the building’s bones, leaving no space for the dark wood paneling its builders later installed. The boxed-in windows gave the place a medieval air, while the smell of Pine Sol brought to mind a down-home courtroom.

  Chandra’s office, on the corner of the third floor, was open and spacious, feeling all the more so by comparison. The walls were pierced by broad windows facing south and east. The furniture was sparse and tasteful. Chandra’s desk was a podium with a buttressed platform supporting a shelf at precisely her chest height. A laptop was sitting open on the shelf above the president’s wireless keyboard and mouse. The room smelled of coffee.

  “Please,” Chandra continued. “Won’t you have a cup?”

  “No thanks,” said Mac. “I’m jittery enough without any help. And don’t mind about the early hour. If I don’t see the sunrise, it’s a lazy day.”

  “I feel the same way,” said Chandra. “Will you have tea? I have a wonderful Darjeeling, or perhaps you’d prefer something herbal?”

  Mac pointed to an iced carafe on the table beside the coffee bar. “I’ll take water, please. Unless you’ve got a decent Scotch to offer.”

  Chandra chuckled. “I’m afraid you’d have to go next door.” Brian Jarrald was her neighbor.

  Accepting the glass of water she poured, Mac said, “I guess you’re not going to let me get away with asking questions without me reciprocating.”