Indigo Man

by M. J. Carlson

  “Okay,” he said as he finished filling in the form and saved a copy in the same folder. The chemistry was almost auto-pilot, but dealing with people’s expectations, fears, and prejudices were always a challenge for him. Laz was better at diplomacy, but he’d had a lifetime of practice. People usually only needed reassurance, and Laz always picked exactly the right words, a skill which often escaped Zach.

  “If you never push your comfort zone, you never find out who you are.” It was Laz’s mantra. He’d pushed his comfort zone right out of the Chicago projects and into a full scholarship, and he seemed to have a pretty good idea who he was.

  With as much of the report done as he could manage without the final results, Zach saved and closed the numbered file and folder. He saved a cross-referenced copy in another folder labeled with the number Special Agent Goode had given him when she’d brought in the specimen. Finally, he copied the day’s lab results to a backup file in the secure server at the front of the building and another at the off-site backup.

  Zach unplugged the holographic crystal flash drive from his workstation and retraced his steps to the break room. Once there, he grabbed a thermos from its spot in the refrigerator and placed the flash drive inside. He returned it to its resting place and closed the refrigerator door.

  It was a silly precaution, he knew, but the month’s worth of research he’d lost once in graduate school made him appreciate redundant storage.

  He strolled from the break room back to the large lab area he shared with Laz. The floor-to-ceiling window and the little piece of wild Florida beyond caught his attention again as it settled into darkness. It was his private refuge. He’d vehemently opposed the plan to bulldoze the space and plant what the owners of the health food store next door had called proper landscaping when they moved in. “Natural this, and organically grown that, then try to replace real nature with nursery-grown landscaping,” he said with a smile of appreciation for the irony and turned away.

  “I’d like to get a sample of Congressman Martin Stiles’s DNA to test,” he said to himself, the rancor clear in his voice. He tilted the Coke up, and took a swig to the sound of the lab’s front door opening. “Enough excitement for one day. I’m going home.

  CHAPTER 2

  Congressman Martin Stiles sat in the living room of the Clearwater Florida beachside penthouse currently serving as his campaign headquarters. His feet were crossed at the ankles and propped on the antique wood coffee table. Across the room, his campaign manager, Donald Brown fumed.

  Brown slouched in one of the two leather chairs and listened intently to the iLink receiver in his left ear, eyes narrowed. Brown’s nostrils flared open, shut. Open, shut. His thumb constantly spun the Kitaro Cup golf championship ring on his right hand. The lights gleamed off of the beads of perspiration on his shaved head.

  “Go on,” Brown said into his PCOD.

  Stiles took in the framed prints of Leonardo da Vinci sketches hanging on the living room wall. They were exquisite. The godless bastard’s work was the epitome of control and methodical execution. Things he strived for in all phases of his own life. When he’d been preaching, even his pulpit diatribes had been planned and staged to a precise schedule. The skill transferred well to politics. People were people, after all. They needed to be told what to believe.

  “Elaborate,” Brown said.

  Brown’s nose flared again. He sat up slowly until his back was perfectly straight. Stiles and he might have passed for brothers at a distance. Both were tall and solid, with dark eyes and heavy brows. Brown spent more time in the weight room and it showed. The key differences between them, though, were Stiles’s full head of thick, black hair and the thin scar running down Brown’s left cheek. The scar kept Brown in the background while Stiles sought the spotlight.

  “Thank you, Special Agent Goode. Disconnect.” Brown pulled the earpiece from his ear and casually slid it into an inside pocket of his tailored suit coat. He sat back slowly and crossed his left leg over his right knee. His lips formed a thin line. “That was Goode. She says—”

  “Who?”

  “Goode. The tall blond. Gopher-girl.”

  “Goode.” Stiles exhaled the word. His inability to remember people’s names was legendary, almost funny. They’d made a game of giving nicknames to people. Pretty girl, he thought. Then another, more intimate fantasy crossed his mind and he smiled. He shook it off.

  “She reported a message from the geek where we sent the DNA.”

  “You mean where you sent the DNA. Now we’re stuck with damage control.” Stiles hated damage control. That was for losers. He preferred being on the offensive, with God on his side and his ducks lined up.

  Brown stared at Stiles without comment.

  “And?” Stiles growled.

  “And, if the information gets out, we’re fucked without oil.”

  Heat crept into Stiles’s cheeks. “What’s in that report?”

  “It seems,” Brown hesitated. “The sample contains the gene for psychopathy.”

  “You’re joking.” There was a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, like the debacle with that girl from the church—Tiffany, or Tabatha, or whatever, but this—

  “I wish.” Brown propped his elbow on the arm of the chair and rested his head on his hand. “The guy we sent it to developed the goddamned test series. He’s some kind of uber geek genius. Best in the field. That’s why we picked him.”

  “You picked him, you mean. There must be a mistake. I’m not a psychopath. Hell, I’m not even on a benzo, for Christ’s sake.” Stiles stood and started pacing.

  “Doesn’t matter, Martin. If this gets out, I won’t be able to get you elected dog catcher.”

  “What the hell does that mean, Don? Does anybody actually run for dog catcher?” He stared at Brown. Heat worked into his cheeks.

  Brown shrugged and took a drink of scotch. “I don’t know. It’s just an old saying.”

  “Then don’t confuse the issue.” Stiles relaxed, pulling the veil of calm back over his flaring agitation. The energy in here was all wrong, he thought, while his pulse pounded in his temples. He wished people would just say what they meant. Brown was talking…

  “…can’t let the information get out. Maybe we can pay him off.” Brown rubbed the index finger of one hand over his lips.

  “Make it go away.”

  Brown didn’t ask what he meant. There was only one way to completely eradicate the information and the danger of a leak. Stiles couldn’t say any more and maintain deniability.

  “Martin, he doesn’t know who the sample came from. We didn’t give him your name, and there’s no way for him to find out. Hell, we could tell him—”

  Stiles held up a hand. “God didn’t put me in this position to let some lab rat ruin it for me. Let Murphy handle it.”

  Brown let out a slow breath. “Martin, that’s a really, really bad idea. If we just—”

  “Do it.”

  Stiles had insisted they ask for Murphy when it came time to pick a security detail. He’d read his file personally, at least the parts that weren’t redacted because of national security. Murphy was the bogey man. “Someone good to have on your team when shit gets too deep.”

  “What about his partner and their staff?” Brown asked.

  “Make it go away. All of it. Let me say it slower, in case you weren’t paying attention. Make. It. Go. A-way.”

  ***

  “I guarantee he’s still in the facility,” Special Agent James Murphy said to Brown via his PCOD. “The entire staff is gone except for Marshall. He always stays late, always gets home between seven o’clock and seven-thirty, and he’s always in bed by ten-thirty. You could set your watch by him. Guy’s a nerd. He doesn’t drink, smoke, or screw around. He’s even straight hetero. Hasn’t been on a date since his live-in girlfriend dumped him six months ago.”

  “What if he does something unexpected?” Brown asked, his anxiety clear.

  “He won’t,” Murphy laughed.
“Guy’s an assassin’s wet dream. You could almost wire the wear spot on his front steps to blow his ass up. His foot hits the same place each time.” Murphy sat on his leather couch, legs outstretched, and crossed his ankles on the modern, glass-topped coffee table in his apartment.

  “What about the other guy?”

  “Thomas?” Murphy shrugged a shoulder. “He’s at least fun to follow. Had about three semi-serious hottie girlfriends in the past six months, has four or five places he likes to cruise. Put his money into an upscale house north of town, but his security isn’t for shit.”

  “The receptionist?”

  Murphy shrugged. “Small potatoes. Literally. Tits the size of plums. What criteria do these guys use to hire—typing speed? Anyway, she’s just the receptionist. She doesn’t have the codes to the files on the server, so there’s no point, unless you want to rid the world of skinny chicks.”

  “Let her go for now. We’ll watch and see what happens. No use going gonzo. What about their lawyer?”

  “Typical shyster. Easier to just pay him off, but if you want, he could have a boating accident or step into a well, or something.”

  Brown hesitated. “Not yet. Somebody has to administer the estates. We’ll talk to him, ‘unofficially,’ and plug his leak if we need to. Anybody else?”

  “Nope.” Murphy studied Zach’s file on his tablet computer again and flipped a page. “Blind alley. Marshall has a brother, but they don’t get along. Haven’t talked in, like years.” He flipped again. “Mom’s in the loony bin. Seems she did the dad years ago, and got sent up for it. Pity.” Both men chuckled. He minimized the file and opened Lazlo’s again. “Thomas has a sister and parents in Utah. Utah? What the hell kind of black family lives in Utah?” Murphy shivered. “Wait. They moved there after Thomas’ little sister caught a bullet in a drive-by when they lived in Chicago. She ended up in a wheelchair. Apparently they keep to themselves. How far into the extended family you want to take this?”

  “I think we can keep it local for the time being. Just get it done tonight. And send somebody to the facility to collect the computers and samples.”

  “You want the facility to disappear?”

  Brown groaned. “No, just the equipment. Send somebody from the team who’s mainstream.”

  “I’ve got just the pair. The boy and girl team. They’re young and idealistic, real straight-arrow types. A year out of the Academy. Total losers.”

  Brown nodded. “Hayes and Boone.”

  “Yeah.”

  “What about Newman?”

  “I’ll take Newman with me.”

  “Is that a good idea?”

  Murphy smiled. “Yeah. We’ve been talking. He’s expressed an interest in expanding his resume. I’ll let him drive.”

  More hesitation. “Your call.”

  “Yeah. Let me go so I can get this done, boss.”

  “Call me when you’re through.”

  Murphy laughed. “Shit, boss, just pick up a morning paper.”

  “I thought I said no publicity.”

  “Yeah, well the uber nerd is going to send emails to everyone on his contact list about his crushed hopes of a romance with his partner. Then he’s going to throw a hissy and plug Thomas, finally blowing himself up in a fit of depression. It’ll make great copy.”

  An exhalation sounded from the other side of the iLink. “Listen, I don’t want to tell you your business—”

  “Then don’t. This isn’t my first rodeo, boss. Let me ride the horse my way. You boys didn’t hire me for my oratory skills.”

  “Just do it.” The connection broke.

  “Yes, sir, mon capeetan.” Then he said, “iLink. Establish connection. Newman.” It rang three times.

  “Newman here. What’s up?”

  “Get your pants on, you’re driving. Meet me at my place in twenty, unless you’d rather stay home and watch rerun porn.”

  Newman snickered. “What’re we doing?”

  “You’ll find out when you get here. Go to channel three on the secure comm.” Then he said, “Disconnect.” He started to pace. “iLink. Establish connection. Hayes.” Hayes answered on the fifth ring.

  “Hayes here.” The man’s voice sounded sleepy.

  “Hayes. Murphy. Reach over and wake up Boone. I have a job for you two.”

  “She’s not—We’re not—What?” The voice sounded more awake. “Something going on?”

  “Calm down, it’s just an errand.” Murphy read the address to Hayes. “It’s a little, out-of-the-way testing lab. Call Boone. Then, you two go pick up the two workstations in the back, any samples out on counters, and the file server in the front closet.”

  “Now or in the morning?”

  Murphy blew out an impatient breath. “Am I calling you now? Go now. Rabbit wants to see three new computers at HQ in the morning.” He used Stiles’s Secret Service code name.

  “A warrant?”

  Murphy rolled his eyes. “Flash your creds. You work for the Secret Service, you’re part of Homeland Security. We don’ need no stinking warrant.”

  “But—”

  “Hayes, there must be a technical problem with the equipment. I still hear your voice. Do I have to tell you how to do your job as well as what to do?”

  “No, but—”

  “Good. Stay off the comm unless there’s a problem, and don’t let there be a problem. Disconnect.”

  Murphy hesitated before making the last call. Gopher-girl. Sara Goode. Goode for nothing, he thought. Hayes and Boone were straight-arrows, but Goode was a righteous pain in the ass. She could not only quote statutes like bible verses spilling out of Stiles, but she had ‘morals,’ whatever those were.

  Tough as nails, too. He had to respect that. He had to admit, she had the instincts, too. Of everybody on the team, she bothered him most. Newman was a pet, Hayes and Boone would complain, but they were green. Johnson and Morris were counting time ’til retirement, but Goode was different. He could’ve sworn she’d been hanging around a couple of times when he was discussing different things with Brown—and even once or twice when he’d been talking with Stiles.

  He had to shut her down for the evening. “iLink. Establish connection. Goode.” She picked up before it rang.

  “Goode here.”

  A shiver rippled down Murphy’s spine. “Jesus Christ, Goode, you sleep with that thing in your ear?”

  “This a social call, Murphy, or is there a point?”

  “Hey, Goode,” Murphy stopped himself. This was too cushy a gig to screw it up with a ‘hostile work environment’ beef. He took a breath. “Actually, yes, Special Agent. There’s an op tonight. Your job is to stay by your comm and play back-up.”

  “Question.” Sarcasm dripped off the comment.

  He could almost see her flat-eyed cop stare, her smart-assed hand in the air. “Yes?” he said, in his most pleasant tone, hoping to piss her off.

  “As I don’t take orders from you, Special Agent Murphy, am I to assume this order comes from Special Agent Johnson?”

  Murphy’s lips formed a line. He inhaled slowly and forced a smile, knowing she could tell the difference in his voice. “Assume anything you like, Special Agent.”

  “Is this op connected with my earlier report?”

  “Why do you ask, Special Agent Goode?”

  “I need to know if I’ll be going by tomorrow to pick up the results from the testing lab.”

  “We can discuss it at the morning meeting at Rabbit’s, but my guess would be, mmm, no. Now, if it’s not too much trouble, would you please stay home and stay off the comm? This shouldn’t take long.”

  “Anything you say, Special Agent Murphy.”

  “Disconnect.” The Gopher-girl in his imagination raised her hand to flip him off. Murphy attached his secure communication unit to his belt, ran the mostly-for-show curled white wire up to his ear, and switched the unit on to channel 3. “Newman. Where are you?”

  “Be there in ten.”

  “Good.” Mu
rphy shrugged his shoulder holster on, slid the Glock .40 out, and checked the chamber. One in the pipe, right where it was supposed to be. Thumbing the release dropped the magazine into his hand—full. He smiled. He slapped the magazine home, holstered the weapon, stepped to the closet, and opened the door. Sliding two, standard issue, black trench coats out of the way, he retrieved a golf bag from the far corner. Reaching in past the clubs, he lifted out a sealed, foot-long, olive drab package containing C-4.

  “Come to papa.” He carefully laid it on the floor and replaced the golf bag. He hesitated. Hadn’t he put the bag in with the strap facing the opposite corner? A full minute passed while Murphy tried to recall. He opened the golf bag and checked the contents. Everything was where it was supposed to be. He returned it to its spot, closed the closet door, and stared at it through narrowed eyes as he slipped into his standard black suit jacket. He shook off the feeling. “Must be getting old and forgetful.” He checked his watch.

  The sound of bells tinkled toward him from the bedroom. “Come here, girl,” he said, in a soft tone as the tortoiseshell cat trotted into the living room. The cat nuzzled against his leg and flopped over on her back as he scratched her ears. She swatted at his hand as he stroked her soft belly fur. “Let’s get you some milk before Dad goes out, what do you say?” He straightened and headed for the kitchen with the cat close on his heels. As she lapped cream from a saucer on the kitchen floor, he stroked the cat’s back. “Be good, and don’t kill anyone while I’m out.” He removed the drawer next to the stove and freed the zip-top bag containing the detonators from where they were taped behind its rear face. Then, he snatched the altered egg timer from the stovetop.

  As Murphy walked to the door, he picked up the plastic explosive and tucked it under his arm like a football. The detonators and timer went into his side jacket pocket.

  He took the steps two at a time to the front door of the building, smiling all the way. For the first time since he left the Company, he felt like he was actually doing something. This Secret Service gig had to be the most boring job ever. At the bottom of the stairs, he checked the mailbox out of habit. Finding nothing, he twisted the doorknob and stepped out into the well-lit parking lot.