“Oh?” said Simon. “Do tell.” His voice quavered.
Alex’s stare burned on Katie’s face. Not that Katie even noticed. “Ugh,” Alex said. “It was nothing. Total mistake.”
“Two hundred pounds of pure lean man meat of a mistake.”
“It’s really none of my business,” said Simon.
Alex was desperate to change the subject. “Are you ready to work after breakfast?”
“What’s this about work?” said Katie with a yawn. “It’s Saturday morning.”
“Simon’s teaching me some basic programming.”
“How nice of him,” Katie said with a theatrical nudge and wink. “Are you making it worth his while?”
Alex was about to make a rude comment when she was interrupted by a beep of her phone. She checked—e-mail. From her adviser Dr. Strimling, a motherly, soft-spoken humanities professor. It was her third message to Alex about her grades. Alex had opened none of them but made an educated guess that the problem was definitely not that they were too high.
She deleted the e-mail, unopened.
“Katie,” Alex said. “Shut up.”
Chapter 5
Lisa Frieze woke up with her head against the fiberboard surface kitchen table again, snuggled up to a half-eaten box of General Tso’s Chicken, one-quarter of a wineglass of cheap chardonnay, and her laptop, fully drained of battery life.
She picked up her cell phone, which was at two percent, and found through squinting eyes a missed call from—
“Peter,” she whispered to herself.
She hated herself a little bit for the fluttering heartbeat, her eagerness in looking at the time stamp—6:57 that morning. It was now just past 10 A.M.
Most of that, she reminded herself, was the loneliness of moving to a new city. She had no friends, not even any acquaintances in Boston outside of work, excepting the ever-elusive Peter Conley. Online dating was too much work for too little reward, and hookup apps were plain depressing.
How does an adult make friends in a new city anyway?
She stood up with a grunt, rubbing her temples, and made a point not to respond to the missed call before taking a shower, which did its intended work of reviving her. She towel-dried her hair in front of the mirror, working its loose auburn curls with her hand, trying to get it into some kind of shape that worked with her big nose, her bony, angular face, before giving up, giving it a shake, and letting it do what it would. She held her gaze on the mirror, now touching her fingers to the shrapnel scars on her left shoulder. The ache still smoldered deep when it was cold, but the memories had finally faded to the point where the anxiety was more like an unwelcome dinner guest than a growling tiger. Then, her bare skin tingling in a cold draft, she rooted through the boxes still scattered around her one-bedroom apartment for the day’s clothes.
Some foreshortening illusion made it hard for the fact that she’d already been there a month to sink in, and that she should have enough shame to finally unpack the boxes and get some damn furniture other than the flimsy kitchen table and single, nonmatching chair she’d picked up for thirty bucks (for the pair) at a yard sale. She hadn’t even unboxed her kitchen supplies, which meant she was already on friendly terms with all the area’s delivery boys. She had meant to cook the night before. Instead, she distracted herself with work and ended up calling Hunan Garden for the fifth time in as many days.
All she was missing to complete the pathetic tableau was a cat.
Okay, she thought to herself once she had pulled on her graphite wool pants and blue button-down top. It’d been long enough to convince herself that she was not desperate. She pulled the chair (the one) to the corner of the living room where her phone was plugged into the wall and returned his call.
“Lisa,” he said in greeting. “Thanks for getting back to me so quickly.”
The smarmy son of a bitch. “Hey, Peter. Been a while.”
“Yeah, it really has.” She tapped her bare foot on the tile floor. That’s right, squirm in the awkwardness. “Lisa, I know you must be busy, so I’ll get right to the point. I need your help.”
She picked at the chipping paint on the wall. “Peter Conley waits until he needs something to call you back. Big surprise.”
“I wouldn’t be calling if it wasn’t—”
“Oh, oh, let me guess,” she said with feigned enthusiasm. She reclined against the chair and stretched her free arm. “It’s critical, national security, yadda yadda yadda. It could be pivotal in an investigation of—what is it this time? Nuclear weapon? Bioagent? Nerve gas? I don’t care. It’s not my problem.”
“Lisa, I—”
“Don’t Lisa me. Our entire relationship consists of me doing favors for you, and I’m sick of it.”
“But—”
She stood, yanking the power cord out of the phone. She was on a roll now. “Do you understand that my FBI salary doesn’t begin to cover this? And I can’t take money from you because that would be graft, although God knows I’m already plenty screwed if anyone finds out I’ve been feeding a clandestine intelligence outfit information for the better part of six months.”
“I know you—”
“And I’ll have you know that I have things to do. I have a rich, fulfilling life where there’s no place for me to keep waiting around for you to call. I have plenty enough going on that has nothing to do with you in the slightest bit. Now will you please just tell me what the hell you want?”
She was left panting by her long tirade. Conley didn’t miss a beat.
“A man called Dominic Watson.”
She wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of being less quick on the uptake than him. “Doesn’t ring a bell. Friend of yours?”
“Corpse. Took a free fall in an elevator at Acevedo Tower yesterday.”
“Huh. Doesn’t live up to your usual level of insanity.”
“Does the prospect of a mysterious deadly conspiracy do anything for you?”
Lisa Frieze looked at the unpacked boxes, the remnants of Chinese food and wine for one. Not like there was anything else going on in her life. “All right, where do I meet you?”
Acevedo Tower. Twenty-one stories of steel and mirrored glass on the corner of Congress and Water, displaying the name of the company in white six-foot letters to the heart of Boston. Frieze found Conley smoking a cigarette, bundled in a parka and leaning against one of the steel and glass pillars that lined the entrance of the building, all six-foot-seven of him, his long, masculine face, strong nose and a jawline sculpted for Hollywood. She couldn’t suppress the quiver of attraction in her gut as she laid eyes on him. He waited for her to initiate the greeting with an almost cocky schoolboy aloofness.
She walked straight past him, up the steps that led to the lobby door.
“Hey!” he called out.
“Try to keep up.”
He ran up the steps at a jog. “Thanks for coming. I really owe you one.”
“You owe me several,” she said, without breaking stride. “But who’s counting?” She pushed the revolving door to emerge into the warmth of the spacious lobby. Sunlight filtered through the tinted glass, falling on dark blue carpeting, gray patterned panels on the walls and assorted potted palms, which somehow made it even blander than the local FBI office. Yellow police tape cordoned off the two elevators beyond the front desk.
She flashed her badge at the receptionist. “Lisa Frieze, FBI. This guy’s with me. Special consultant.” Conley handed over whatever fake ID he was using. “I’m here about the elevator accident.”
“I’m going to need to call it in,” said the young receptionist, picking up a telephone receiver. As she waited for the person on the other end, she said to Conley, smiling just a little too much, “Consultant to the FBI, huh? Must be exciting.”
This grated on Lisa.
The girl exchanged a few words with her supervisor, entered their information into the system, and gave each a badge for the turnstile.
Guarding the crime scen
e was a single square-faced policeman, sitting on a borrowed office chair sipping on a cup of cheap coffee and reading a copy of the Globe. Frieze approached with Conley in tow.
“Take the stairs,” he said, without looking up from his paper. “Elevator’s out.”
Frieze cleared her throat. The policeman looked up from his paper, and his pupils dilated when he read the three prominent capital letters on Frieze’s ID.
“Lisa Frieze. This is Peter Morris. He’s a special consultant.”
“Officer Prezelin,” he said, fumbling to stash the newspaper under the chair. “I didn’t know this case had gone federal.”
“I came on a strictly informal basis. Hopefully we can agree that, officially, I was never here.”
“Yes, yes, of course. Don’t worry about it.” Knowing she wasn’t supposed to be there relaxed him and gave him the attitude of a coconspirator. “Is this here more than an accident?”
“I don’t know any more than you do. Where’s everyone else?”
“Pretty much done. Seemed open and shut, and to be honest nobody was too excited to stick around on a Saturday morning. I’m just waiting for the paperwork to come through so I can release the scene. They’ve called for cleanup already. I think I heard someone say they’re coming early in the afternoon.”
Conley broke in, “Are you the only one on the premises?”
“From the precinct. But there’s a technician from the elevator company looking at the machinery on the roof.”
Lisa punched Conley in the arm. “Ready to leg it up twenty-one stories?”
Grateful that she’d opted for flats, Frieze pounded the concrete, every step amplified and echoing in the endless stairwell. She was pleased to realize that she was in better shape than Conley and would climb just fast enough so that he had to catch up at every landing. Nice to have him chasing her for a change.
They met the technician coming down, between the tenth and eleventh floors. He was fat, maybe forty-five, and balding, sporting a thick gray mustache. He had on a heavy gray jumpsuit with a logo embroidered on it—Hornig Elevators.
Frieze showed him her badge. “I’d like to ask you a couple of questions. What’s your name?”
“Upshaw.” He had a gruff, raspy voice. “Ask your questions while we walk. I got places to be.”
He walked faster than she’d have guessed given his figure, and they had to struggle to keep up and talk at the same time. “What did you find?”
“Elevator went up all the way and the motor didn’t stop. Just kept on pulling until the cables snapped.”
“What about the emergency brakes?” Conley asked.
“They never deployed. Straight drop down from the top floor.”
“I thought they were mechanical. You know, automatic, going off if the elevator hits a certain speed.”
“That’s how it’s supposed to work,” Upshaw said.
“So it didn’t?” asked Frieze. “What happened?”
“Look, that elevator down there is a big twisted pile of scrap metal. One look ain’t enough for me to tell you what happened there. But I’ll tell you one thing. Whatever made that elevator act all wonky in the first place, it wasn’t mechanical.”
“Oh?” said Frieze.
“I tested the motor, couldn’t reproduce the error. It stopped every time the program told it to.”
“So the problem is the software?” she said.
“That’d be my guess. The computer folks should be going over the electronic records now.”
“Could we get a copy of those records?”
“You’ll have to check with the boss. They tend to be pretty territorial about what they show anyone, so I wouldn’t be surprised if they asked for a warrant. But call ’em up. You never know.”
“Mind if I take your card?” Lisa asked.
Upshaw stopped at the landing on the fifth floor. He reached into his pocket and handed her a business card with a greasy, sweaty hand.
They parted ways at the lobby, the technician moving off toward the exit while Conley and Frieze hung back.
He was all business. “If we go over there soon maybe we can—”
“No, you can do that yourself,” she said. Man, it felt good saying no to him. “I need to go if I want to keep my job.”
“They won’t talk to me.” He laid his knobby, masculine hand on her shoulder. “Not without you.”
She shoved his hand away. “Tell you what. I’ll call Hornig from the road and see what I can do.”
She turned her back on him.
“Where are you going?”
“To do my job.” She dropped her card at the turnstile and walked out into the street.
Chapter 6
“This is a debriefing session for operation number 1032A-3. Subject is Daniel Morgan, code name Cobra, internal designation AZ27-F. Speaking is Diana Bloch, AZ04-D. At my side are Paul Kirby, AZ43-I, and code name Smith, AA-004.”
Clear, crisp, and professional, Diana Bloch rattled off the information, pretending to look at a script even though Morgan knew she needed no prompting. The prim head honcho of Zeta Division, brown hair in an impeccable bun, neutral makeup on a face set in neutral professionalism, in a classic silk blouse and pearl earrings, sat review-panel style between two others. On her left was Paul Kirby, his back so straight that a broomstick might have run all the way from the chair to his oversized oval head. His chin was raised and his weasel face was at a slight angle, giving him an air of insufferable smugness. To her right was Smith, the inscrutable, with his fastidious short hair, his blank façade, in his trademark black suit, hands lightly clasped on the table. From the far corner of the tiny interrogation room, a camcorder on a tripod recorded him at a three-quarter angle.
“Could we turn down the heat?” said Morgan. The air inside Zeta headquarters felt like a midsummer day. He ran his hands over his still-wet hair from the shower. He’d carried the grime from the Saavedra compound through the airlift all the way here, so they let him bathe in the Zeta gym and pull on a fresh T-shirt and jeans he kept in his locker before the session.
“Surprising as it may seem, the thought had crossed our minds,” said Kirby in his usual pissy-polite tone. His forehead, extended by a receding hairline, was glistening with sweat.
“There’s some problem with the regulating software,” said Bloch. “Shepard’s looking into it. Now, if you don’t have any further objections, shall we start?” Morgan nodded in assent. “The purpose of the mission was to gain the trust of Francisco Ruiz, also known as Paco, in order to make contact with the Saavedra cartel, to in turn find their connection in Acevedo International, suspected of involvement in smuggling weapons into and drugs out of Colombia.”
“Agent Morgan,” said Smith, “please relate the events that transpired yesterday, from last night until your airlift from the Saavedra compound this morning.”
Morgan told the story with no interruptions but the occasional request for clarification from Bloch or Kirby. Smith didn’t speak at all.
At least until Morgan got to the good part.
“I drew Paco Ruiz’s sidearms and shot Saavedra’s armed bodyguards.”
“And why did you do that, Agent Morgan?”
“The op was blown,” he said. “Saavedra was having me sent away, possibly to kill me. I saw an opening, and I took it.”
Kirby interjected. “We had the tactical team at the ready to extract you at the first sign of danger. We could have used the connections and information gleaned from this operation to find out more about this Mr.”—he looked at his notes—“White. Instead, we lost our only promising thread in this investigation.” He looked at Morgan for a response with all the smug superiority of a schoolmarm facing a child caught misbehaving.
“Saavedra is dead, and so is his cartel,” said Morgan.
“And another will rise to take its place,” said Bloch. “Meanwhile, the Acevedo operator is still at large.”
“Do you realize,” said Kirby, “that not only does t
his sever our best lead to connect Acevedo with their arms dealings, but that they now realize that someone is after them? Worse, that someone at Acevedo now knows what you look like?”
Morgan bristled. The heat in the room was suffocating. “It all looks so clear from behind your desk, doesn’t it, Kirby? Ever wonder what it’s like on the ground?”
Kirby scoffed. “Don’t pretend this was a tactical decision. Why—”
“You have no idea—”
Kirby raised his voice. “You are a professional, and you made a decision—”
“—a decision that ended a bloody criminal—”
“Tell us why you did it, Morgan.”
“Because the son of a bitch deserved to die!”
Morgan gritted his teeth and clenched his fists. Wrong thing to say.
“I think I’ve heard enough,” Smith said. Then, to Bloch: “I want the full report by morning.” He stood up and walked out without saying a word.
Kirby held a tight-lipped sneer as Morgan finished his report and stood, collecting his notes. “I’m going to bring up a list of Acevedo employees and associates. Report to the War Room when you’re done, Morgan. Let’s see if we can’t ID your Mr. White.”
Bloch motioned for Morgan to stay behind as Kirby cleared the door. She clicked off the camera.
“What were you thinking?” she demanded.
Morgan leaned against the glass. “I couldn’t let him get away with it.”
She banged her hand against the table. “There is a chain of command. When you subvert it, you put the mission and everyone’s lives in danger.”
He raised an eyebrow. “No one on our side died, last time I checked.”
“You are my weapon.” Her voice was sharp, ice-cold steel. “You’re here to do as you’re told.”
“I made a judgment call—”
“You disobeyed a direct order. Rabid dogs are put down. Remember that.”
He pushed himself off the wall. Fully upright, he loomed almost a full head over her fragile frame. “Is that a threat?”
Arch Enemy Page 4
