Chasing Frost

by Isabel Jolie

  “Hopkins, if I’m right, how long before they realize they didn’t hit their targets?” My fingers visibly vibrate, and I ball them up. No one seems to notice.

  “I sent a protective detail with Maitlin to the hospital.” Hopkins is thinking ahead of me. That’s why we’re a part of a team.

  It’s three a.m. before Hopkins nudges me and tells me to go home. I’ve told my story to countless officers, both FBI and NYPD. I’ve filled out paperwork. I’ve gone play by play over every single detail I remember. I’ve drunk two bottles of room temperature water and gone to the bathroom in a bodega a few doors down that’s offered restroom access to officers. I have nothing more to add to this case.

  A metallic taste fills my mouth, and mild nausea circulates. I’ve seen every single DOA body, including my first kill. Seventeen dead. More in critical condition. For the rest of my life, I will wonder if there is something I could have done to prevent this massacre.

  I don’t go home. I head to the hospital. Wes is out of surgery. He’s in recovery. Sam and Olivia sit together in the waiting area. They tell me they sent Chase home a while ago. Neither of them questions me about my status as an FBI agent. They treat me like a friend.

  “Sam, my briefcase is still in your car. I don’t need it now, but I will.”

  “I’ll get it to you. Are you going back to your apartment, or to Chase’s?” He has his phone out, ready to send directions into the ether.

  “You can send it to Chase’s.”

  FBI headquarters as a delivery location might make more sense, but the last letters I want to utter to Sam and Olivia are F, B, and I. I want to be their friend. I don’t want to throw up my undercover role between us.

  Two men with FBI badges stand at the far end of the waiting room. I approach them. “Detail accompanied Maitlin home, right?”

  One of the men nods. I can tell he recognizes me. He’s not familiar to me, but I haven’t spent much time in our New York offices yet.

  “Two men.”

  I thank them and leave. My feet ache. Throb. I’m exhausted. I should go home so I can rest before returning to the office. I should, but I choose to shelve the “should.”

  Twenty-Seven

  Chase

  * * *

  The hot water pounds on my back and swirls in circles around the drain. The skin around my toes is sponge-like. It’s time to get out of the shower. I rotate and let the water pour directly on my face and down my body.

  Even with my eyes closed, I can’t escape. The bodies. The blood. Muffled crying. The bright lights. The eerie silence that followed before sirens sounded. The faint, acrid smell of gunfire. The fear Sam wore, unchecked, as he held Wes’s hand. “You’re gonna be okay. Stay with us.”

  I brusquely wipe water droplets off my face and wrap a towel around my waist. Condensation covers the mirror. I swipe a clear path with my palm. The person who stares back at me is foreign. I don’t want to be the guy in the reflection.

  “Did you know Sydney’s in the FBI?” It was the first question Olivia asked when we jumped in a cab to head to the hospital, close behind Wes and Sam in the ambulance.

  I didn’t know. Anything. Talk about being played. Who knew undercover agents would fuck suspects to get close to them? Because that’s what it had to be. Right? She wouldn’t work at both BB&E and the FBI. Someone might have a full career and “help” the CIA, but the FBI is a full-time gig. So, she had to have been undercover. I suppose it’s possible she wasn’t investigating me. She was investigating Garrick or BB&E overall, and she didn’t expect to fall for my charms. Yeah, right. She’s a real-life Bond girl. I got played.

  And it doesn’t even matter. One thing about death, it puts everything in perspective. All over the city tonight, phone calls and texts, maybe social media posts, are being shared, forever altering someone’s world. The person they spoke to earlier today is no more. The person they planned to see this weekend won’t be arriving. So, I was a pawn in an FBI undercover operation. Big. Fucking. Deal. Other people died.

  I get dressed and stare at my bed. A designer decked out my whole place. I let her do whatever she wanted. Told her I wanted the HGTV reveal experience. Zero effort on my part. White paint with a fancy name on the walls and ceiling. Patterned black and white spread, with two muted tribal throw pillows. Then she had me buy this brown and white cowhide throw. All the framed images are black and white. Some photos, some art.

  I’ll give it to her. You can photograph the shit out of this place. But there’s not a damn thing here to take cover from this hell I’m in. I shuffle out of the bedroom. I don’t want to close my eyes. I’d rather stare at the white walls and my sparse modern furnishings than see what I’ll see if I lie down.

  The buzzer sounds, alerting me that someone’s outside. Who the hell would be coming here at four a.m.? A coldness infiltrates. Shit. Olivia might want to tell me in person if Wes didn’t make it. When I left, he was out of surgery. I thought he was out of the woods.

  I bow my head and press the intercom button to allow her in. I’d speak, but it doesn’t work. The intercom relays static, and that’s about it. Side effect of living in an old building. I’d loved this renovated loft and the street, Hudson Square. Now, it comes across as disjointed. Alien.

  I hold open the door, standing one foot in the hall in boxers and a t-shirt, barefoot. There are two other units on my floor, but no one’s going to be coming out into the hall at this hour. The rickety elevator creaks up to my floor, and the single panel door folds open.

  Sydney steps out into the hall.

  Not who I was expecting. She’s got two colleagues parked on the street. Protective detail, they said. I wonder if she’s aware. But of course she is. She’s FBI. They know every fucking thing.

  “I hope I didn’t wake you.” She’s tentative. Fiddling with her fingers. Wearing the same little black dress and high heels. Pink, verging on red, skin mars the area where skin meets shoe on her feet. Her hair still falls in a perfect straight bob. If it wasn’t for the feet, I’d say this is just another day in the life for Agent Frost.

  I lean against the doorjamb and let the door fall against my left side.

  “What do you need?”

  She pushes her hair behind her right ear and looks me in the eye. “Can I come in?”

  Fuck her. But whatever. I kick the door open and walk into my apartment. The three windows in my living area open onto the building across the street. No one’s lights are on, a reminder of the hour.

  I hear the door click close.

  “You want something to drink?” I ask as my bare feet pound the wood floor.

  “I’d love some water.” She slides onto the barstool that faces the kitchen area, and I push a glass over the Corian block countertop, another design feature courtesy of someone else’s taste.

  I stare at her. She squirms on the stool. I’m fully aware she’s had a tough day, too. Hell, she killed someone today. But unfamiliar emotions roll through me, and my brain’s not fully activated. I don’t even know who the fuck she is.

  “I have some explaining to do.” She crosses her long legs and folds her hands in her lap.

  “I’m all ears.” I cross my arms and wait.

  She twists off the barstool and limps over to the sofa, barefoot. My sofa is this modern, low back, cool-looking but not particularly comfortable, light brown suede piece with some throw pillows on it to soften it up. It’ll do, but when my butt hits the ultra-firm seat, for about the thousandth time, I wish I’d requested a comfortable ugly plush sofa that a person can crash on.

  I lean forward, elbows on my thighs, forehead against my palms. My eyes burn, my throat’s sore, and my muscles ache. I lift my head and exhale.

  “Let’s get this over with,” I tell her.

  She pulls her feet up under her and cradles a throw pillow in her lap.

  “I work for the FBI.”

  “I kinda got that.”

  “I’m a new team member to a larger operation. The task
force suspected BB&E was engaged in illegal activities. As a new member, with my background, I was chosen to participate in an undercover role. I am a CPA, and forensic accounting is my specialty. It was supposed to be a quick assignment.”

  “So, did you catch the bad guys?”

  “I can’t talk about specifics in an ongoing case. I’ve probably already said too much.”

  A bug or something nips below my eye, and I rub it hard, then press up and down in vicious swipes on the right half of my face. If she can’t talk about an ongoing case, what the fuck else can she say?

  We stare at each other.

  “If you don’t have anything else to say, I’m sure you’d like to try to get some sleep.” I gesture to the door.

  “Chase, I’m sorry. I never meant to hurt you.”

  “Who says I’m hurt?”

  “I was going to tell you everything tomorrow, or I mean today. As soon as I had the approval to do so.”

  “And when you told me everything, was there more you were going to say, or did you just cover all the points you wanted to cover?”

  “My real name is Sadie. Sadie Keating. I chose the name Sydney Frost as my cover name. I thought it was a good play on my real name. I’ve never been an undercover agent, and I was nervous about it. It’s not the role I want to play in the FBI moving forward. I might not have known that before this operation, but I know now. It’s too hard for me to pretend to be someone else, to disassociate. The only way I could pull it off was to be as close to the real me as possible.”

  I swallow and grind my teeth as I absorb her statement. “And who is the real you?”

  “Sadie—”

  “Not your fucking name. A name is a name. I’m called by many of them. Women often choose ‘asshole.’ But that doesn’t make me one. Who the fuck are you?”

  “I’m an agent who got close to someone while on an undercover assignment. At least, I thought we were becoming close.” She squeezes the pillow to her chest like it’s a life raft. “I’ve grown closer to you than I have anyone else in a long time.”

  She’s staring down at the suede. There’s a shitload of questions to ask her, but my throat’s closing, and exhaustion is setting in. Only one thing really matters.

  “When you were with me, when we spent time together, just the two of us? Iowa. Last night. Was that real?”

  “Yes. I promise. I swear.” She slowly lifts her gaze to meet mine.

  My eyes burn. My emotion levels are sky high, yet in a state of paradox. I’m numb. I stand. Her dark eyes glisten in the moonlight cascading through the window. “I can’t promise anything. I’ve got a shitload to think through…sort through. And a shit ton of questions. But it’s late. I just want to crash. End this day.” She nods, and the light catches on a stray tear. “And I want to hold you in my arms. Thank the gods you’re okay and that fucker didn’t shoot you before you shot him.” Tears sting. I rub my eyes and walk away.

  She follows me into my bedroom, and I close the shades. She pulls off her dress and snaps off her bra, letting them both fall in a heap on the floor.

  “Go. Get in the shower. Wash today off. Then we’ll sleep.”

  She follows my directions and steps into my shower. The water pours down over her, and the steam builds. I hold out a towel for her, waiting. I watch her through the glass as she tilts her face into the water. Her shoulders shake as emotion rocks through her.

  I drop the towel, open the glass door, and step in behind her. I hold her to me as she cries it out. Once her sobs settle down, I place soap on a sponge and wash her all over. I massage shampoo into her scalp, then finger conditioner through her strands.

  I wrap a towel around her then drop my soaked sweatpants onto the shower floor, to be dealt with tomorrow.

  I get into bed behind her, pulling her against me, spooning her, holding her tight. Filled with gratitude that I can. I don’t have any idea what tomorrow will hold. How I’ll feel. How angry I’ll be. But one thing is crystal clear. When the world’s thrown into utter chaos, you’ve got to focus on what matters. Names don’t matter. Material shit doesn’t matter. People. Those you love. At the end of the day, that’s all there is. I could kick her out. But after the carnage of today, no way. She’s my people. I’m holding on.

  Twenty-Eight

  Sadie

  * * *

  I’m headed into the office. I don’t have my phone with me. It’s still in Sam’s car. I believe he’s having it delivered to your apartment today. Do not go into BB&E today. If you can, stay home. Call me when you wake up, and I’ll bring lunch. -S

  I spent minutes staring at that note, waffling on the signature. I have so much to explain, but how do you do that in a note? I opted for saying what absolutely had to be said. It felt a little formal, but sharing feelings isn’t my personal strength. In closing, I finally decided on simply ‘S,’ as it has the added benefit of not throwing it in his face that he didn’t know my real name until sometime early this morning. I thought about signing with love, or I love you, but we haven’t said those words yet, and again…you don’t pop that in a note. When he wakes, he could take this so many ways. The whole relationship built on lies thing…my gut says that’s where our conversation, when we finally have one, could net out.

  Chalk it up to one more reason you’re not supposed to get involved when you’re undercover. The guy you fall for will have to forgive you once he learns the truth, and he may not be able to. Of course, there are so many other reasons, too. Emotion adds a layer of complexity. Emotion can put the entire mission at risk. I hear my instructor’s voice as I scold myself, but the reality is I didn’t get involved with Chase until after we determined he wasn’t a suspect. This piece of the case will provide supportive evidence, but it’s not critical. We have a strong case against Senator McLoughlin and three successful CEOs, and evidence against one BB&E employee.

  As I enter 26 Federal Plaza, I alternate between reprimanding myself for what I’ve done and defending what I’ve done. It’s almost 11 a.m., and televisions in the main area and in the office are on, covering the mass shooting. On the screen, a woman in her mid-twenties cries, and the caption below reads Shooter Girlfriend Unaware of His Plans.

  “There she is.” Hopkins is the first to notice my entrance.

  “Didn’t think we’d see you today, Keating.” Hopkins told me last night I didn’t have to come in. It’s a big day for Operation Quagmire, but all the activity is going on in Chicago.

  White letters scrolling on the bottom of the screen catch my attention. Sen. McLoughlin charged with bribery, extortion, and fraud.

  “Wanted to be here on the big day. Have all the indictments been delivered?”

  “Everyone except Garrick Carlson. Still can’t locate him. The Chicago team is interrogating Eileen Becker as we speak. She’s agreed to fully cooperate, and she has evidence tying Tom Bennett and Evan Mitchell to the entire scheme. Apparently, she’s been taping their meetings for a while now, as she didn’t trust them.”

  “That’s not surprising. She’s the one member of that group who didn’t socialize with the Stanford crew. She has two young children, too.”

  “We should be ready to deliver indictments to Tom Bennett and Evan Mitchell tomorrow.”

  “Is the organized crime unit still investigating Joe McGurn?”

  “Yes, they asked us to leave him in play for now. Heat’s on, and they want to see what he does.”

  “What about the SEC?”

  “Oh, they’re all over South Fork Research. There will be a trickle effect of charges to several they suspect were involved in insider trading.”

  “Any news on the shooter? Any connections to this case?”

  “No. If it was a hit, it was done well. There are no ties we can find connecting him to any of the Stanford Six, or their businesses. The shooter has a history with gangs, but nothing that ties to McGurn’s mafia connections. We haven’t found any suspicious payments. He wasn’t a social media guy, so there’s little
to go on there. His girlfriend came forward this morning.”

  The news replays the same segment of her crying in front of a microphone as he mentions her.

  “She’s got to be twenty years younger than him.”

  Hopkin’s face contorts, and I can tell there are things he wants to say that won’t be appropriate.

  A caption below the girlfriend reads “McLoughlin Claims Witch Hunt.” Of course he does.

  “What do you need me to do?” It’s my first day back in the New York office, but I spent one day in a conference room before I was nominated for the undercover role, so I need direction.

  “I need you to get an appointment with psych. Standard protocol. You need to be cleared before you can resume field duty.”

  There are at least twelve men gathered in the office. Most of them are watching the television, keen to hear what the media is saying. There’s a news conference scheduled in fifteen minutes with the Illinois DA’s office. The New York DA’s office will hold a news conference later in the week on our case. Right now, the sole focus of the New York media is last night’s mass shooting. For that matter, the mass shooting is greatly overshadowing news of the Illinois senator’s indictment. At the end of the day, one more politician charged with using funds from a charity inappropriately isn’t remotely eyebrow raising. The ticker tape on the bottom of the screen announces that Senator McLoughlin will hold a press conference this afternoon.

  Hopkins puts his hand on my shoulder and waits until he has my attention before speaking. “We’ll be getting reports from the Chicago team all day. Not sure if you’re aware, but video of you shooting the assailant last night has surfaced. It’s all over the Internet. There’s one video, in particular, that you can be seen clearly. You might be identified on the street.”

  One of the other agents adds, “You’re gonna be a celebrity.”

  “You couldn’t get the footage taken down?” I ask the question, but I know the answer.