Chasing Frost

by Isabel Jolie

  He shakes his head. “So much footage is out there. There’s no point. Our communications group is attempting to take charge of the conversation and focus on safety procedures. It’s clear from the footage that taking cover was important for survival.”

  “Homeland’s staying on this, right? They aren’t going to give up? The coincidence is too great. They’ve got to look into the shooter’s medical records. Maybe he had a terminal illness, so he agreed to this? Maybe he had a ton of debt, or someone he’s close to did? Maybe he never expected to die, and something went wrong with his plan? Maybe—”

  “The investigation is ongoing. There may be a connection. Homeland is on it. This isn’t your case, you know that, right?” Hopkins squeezes my shoulder. “By now, everyone’s seen you, and you’d be recognized as the person who shot him. It wouldn’t be safe for you to interview his friends and family.”

  “I know. I just need for it to be investigated. Seventeen people are dead. If it’s a for-hire situation, then at least one, if not all, of the Stanford Six should go down for murder.”

  “Hey, Sadie, you’re on TV,” one of the agents in the front of the room says.

  On the screen, in amateur video shot by a shaky hand, an image of me fills the screen, as the videographer zooms in. I’m leaning over Wes, checking his pulse, crouched down, partially hidden from the shooter above by the lower level of the dance floor and the raised booth platform.

  When Wes jumped over our table, he was seeking cover, as well as alerting us to take shelter. From the angle of the video, you can’t see where I got the gun from, but it’s clear I brace myself on one knee and raise the gun, two-handed for maximum stability. The video does not capture the assailant being hit, but that image will forever be seared in my brain.

  The caption scrolling in white letters reads “Off-duty FBI agent killed shooter.”

  “Are you going to share my name?”

  “It’s gonna come out, Sadie. No more undercover work for you in New York, or maybe in the U.S., at least for a while.”

  “UC’s not for me, anyway,” I say, eyes trained on the TV monitor, like all the other agents in the room.

  A commercial breaks in, and the agent in charge approaches Hopkins to ask, “Can you get her situated at her new desk?” Then to me, he says, “We shuffled some things around. You’ve got paperwork to do, just some repeat stuff on what happened last night. Get in with psych, then get outta here. We’ll see you in the morning.”

  “What about Chase Maitlin? Are you keeping a detail on him?”

  “For now. But Eileen Becker’s testimony is far more damning to the Stanford Six than Maitlin’s. We’ll regroup later, but there’s a good chance we’ll pull it. Is he in the office?”

  “No. I told him not to go in.”

  “They don’t have anything to gain by going after him. I expect we’ll drop his detail.”

  “What about Garrick Carlson?” My lips go numb as my heart rate increases.

  “You think he’s a threat?”

  I think back on my interaction with Garrick Carlson. He’s scrawny, not a physical threat based on size. But he’s intelligent.

  “Is the only evidence we have against Garrick Carlson from Maitlin? I haven’t seen what Maitlin provided the FBI. I still haven’t watched the tape of him coming forward.”

  Hopkins tugs on his chin, staring off in the distance. He’s seen everything from Maitlin. I’ve been on my one little piece of this case for weeks, but there are so many pieces of this puzzle to consider. I suspect he’s running through all scenarios. He scratches along his jaw.

  “That’s a good point. Maybe we should keep a detail on Maitlin until we locate Carlson. We suspect he’s out of the country. We got a warrant and searched his apartment this morning when he didn’t answer to receive the indictment. It doesn't look like anyone’s lived there for weeks.”

  Our SPIC and Hopkins nod in silent agreement to discuss this point further, then Hopkins leads me to a desk that’s in the bullpen. There’s a desk phone on one side with a red light blinking behind a plastic square.

  “You’ve got a message. Did you lose your FBI issued cell?”

  “It took a bullet last night. Had it in my purse on the center of the table. My personal cell is in my briefcase, which was in Sam Duke’s car. I’ll get that back today.”

  “Did you hand your FBI phone over to evidence?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, put in for a new one before you leave today. It takes a while to process.”

  I strum my fingers on the desk. Hopkins stands beside me, observing me.

  “To be safe, should Maitlin go into WITSEC?” I ask. Going into witness protection isn’t something to take lightly, but if last night’s shooting was meant to take Chase out, then it would be our safest option.

  “I expect we’re going to end up with a wealth of additional evidence after we meet with all the individuals we’ve just charged. And once we indict Bennett and Mitchell, possibly more. Maitlin’s a small piece in this. That’s my opinion. But the team will give careful consideration to whether or not any of our witnesses need protection. We always do.”

  He leaves me to return to the conference room. A television on the far wall shows the footage of me raising the gun. The news is on loop. A newscaster starts in with, “This is what we know.”

  I drop into my desk chair and enter my code to listen to my voicemail. It’s from Chase. “Hey, I’m up. Happy to follow your orders and stay home today. Your briefcase is here. Since you don’t have your phone with you, here’s my number if you need to reach me. Wait. You’re the FBI. I’m sure you have my number. You probably know my last credit card charge too.” The message ends, and I smile. He’s probably half-joking. Hollywood portrays the FBI as all-knowing. We can find a lot of information, but it’s not as easy as a computer whiz clicking a few keys on a computer. Joking or not, he didn’t sound angry, and that’s a good start.

  I take care of the few things I need to and leave. I have an appointment with psychology tomorrow afternoon. They’ll want to know how I’m handling my first kill. It’s a good thing the appointment is tomorrow because right now I’m numb. I couldn’t really tell her anything about how I’m handling it.

  The cab drops me off on the corner of Charlton and Varick. I see the officers in the car across from Chase’s building. The other vehicles parked along the narrow street sit empty. A bike messenger whizzes by on the sidewalk across the street as I press Chase’s apartment number. He doesn’t even speak into the microphone before buzzing me in. Not safe at all, Chase.

  When the elevator arrives at his floor, he’s standing at the door barefoot in jeans and a t-shirt. His hair is damp. He hasn’t shaved, and the skin below his eyes bears a shadow.

  “It’s not safe to buzz someone in without checking to see who it is.”

  “Well, good afternoon to you, too.”

  I squeeze past him into his apartment. He kicks the door closed, grabs my hips, spins me around, and presses me against the wall. “You left without saying goodbye. Don’t do that again.” He pins me against the wall with his body and a smoldering, reprimanding glare.

  “Yes, sir.”

  He smirks at my jest and pauses, gently running a thumb across my cheek in a caress. He swallows hard and closes his eyes as he pushes away from the wall.

  “You brought lunch?”

  I lift the white paper bag in response and step past him into the kitchen.

  “Deli sandwiches. Hope you don’t mind. I would have called to ask what you wanted, but I still don’t have my phone.”

  “A deli sandwich is the food of kings. That’s good enough for me. Your bag is over there. Sam had it delivered this morning.”

  I finish setting out our Reubens on plates and lick the thousand island dressing from my finger as I skirt past Chase to the kitchen table where he set down my briefcase.

  “He let a random courier carry our bags?”

  The sound of the icemaker
fills the room as Chase prepares our glasses, picking up where I left off preparing our lunch. The contents of my briefcase are the same as I left them, the same papers, and my laptop in the same order as yesterday. I unzip the interior pocket and exhale when I locate my personal cell and my handgun. I lift it out and check the chamber and the safety, out of habit. I shouldn’t have let the government-issued gun out of my sight.

  Chase freezes, holding two ceramic plates with our sandwiches in front of him.

  “You carry a gun?”

  Satisfied my gun hasn’t been tampered with, I slip it into the interior pocket and zip it closed. Then, since he’s still frozen in place, I take the plates from him and set them on the round table.

  “Not always. I debated carrying a gun last night. It’s not like it did me any good once I left my briefcase in Sam’s car.”

  “Were you off duty last night?” The questioning angle of his head and his deep squint warns me this isn’t the first time he’s thought about this.

  “That point is probably debatable. Technically, yesterday was the last day I was supposed to go into BB&E’s office as an undercover agent. Today, the plan had been for me to resume my spot on my team within FBI offices.”

  Chase pulls the chair out and sits down in front of one of the sandwiches. He pushes the plate away from him, leaving room for his forearms to rest on the table, and leans forward.

  “Is that because indictments were going out today?”

  “You saw the news?” I sit in front of the remaining sandwich, watching him, unsure of what’s running through his mind and uncertain how much I can say without risking harm to our operation. I won’t be a witness, so since I won’t be put on the stand, the risk level from sharing information seems low. But Chase could potentially be an important witness.

  “Yes. No one’s been indicted from BB&E. At least, not that’s made the news.” His intonation rises as he finishes his sentence, leaving it open for me to add more.

  I could tell him we can’t find Garrick Carlson, or that additional indictments still need to be delivered to others within BB&E, but I won’t. That’s crossing a line. I take a bite of my sandwich.

  “This morning, I spent about thirty minutes on the line with BB&E’s chairman of the board.”

  “Really?” I ask through a mouth full of Reuben.

  “Apparently, Evan Mitchell called him and told him he’s expecting he and Tom Bennett will be receiving an indictment either today in Chicago or tomorrow when they return to New York. He believes Eileen Becker has shared some information that implicates BB&E. He notified Jonathan to give him a heads up.”

  “Jonathan is the chairman of the board?” I’ve seen all the names of BB&E’s board but hadn’t paid a great amount of attention to them as we didn’t suspect any of the board members.

  “Yeah. I’ve never spoken to the guy before. But he said they had an emergency board meeting this morning. Evan and Tom will be stepping away from the company to protect BB&E’s interest, and to allow them time to devote to building their defense.”

  Interesting. The real question is who gave Mitchell the heads up. Did Eileen call them after her meeting with the FBI, or did Evan’s childhood friend within the FBI give him a heads up?

  “He wants me to step in as interim CEO.”

  “What?” I blurt. Chase flinches. “I mean, that’s a big promotion, right?” Organizationally, that change would put Chase jumping past a whole row of SVP division heads.

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence, Syd.” He grimaces. “I mean, Sadie.” He exhales. “But I agree with you. It doesn’t make sense to me either. He said Evan Mitchell recommended it on the basis that I am the best they have at relationships, and in order to keep clients calm and with the firm through this, they’re going to need someone who can lead employees and keep morale positive while also hand-holding clients.”

  I take another bite of my room temperature sandwich and think it through. “I can see that. I’ve only met three of the four division heads, and they aren’t personable. I doubt communications is a core strength for any of them. But…I don’t like that it’s Evan Mitchell who recommended it.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t trust him, Chase.”

  He nods slowly and drinks some of his water. He sets the glass back down on the table with a thud.

  “I don’t trust him either, but I don’t have all the information you do.” The statement is pointed and full of expectation.

  “I can’t share specifics of the case. But the team will want to get you back in to talk further about your testimony. If you ask, they may be able to share more information with you.”

  He rests his elbow on the table and his chin on his fist. If only his elbow was on his knee, he’d look like the infamous Thinker sculpture.

  “FBI first? Job first always?”

  Thoughts of my parents growing up, the coldness in our home, and frequent relocations trail through my mind. Dad’s prolonged absences, the months not knowing where he was. Knowing no news meant he was alive. Mom acting as if we were like every other family, to the extent I still suspect she’s an agent, and I’m not even sure for what side. There’s no point in asking.

  “Right now? Yes. The work we are doing is important, and I’m not going to jeopardize our case. But there comes a point when some agents do decide, or can decide, family comes first.” It’s a tough line to straddle. Any job that demands you be available at any time, twenty-four-seven, by definition, demands that at times the balance won’t fall on the side of the family or personal life. But plenty of agents make it through for decades in the bureau, with marriages intact and healthy, well-adjusted children. “I moved around a lot growing up. My father works for the CIA based in Moscow. My mother is a professor in Great Britain. My sister is in university. I’m close to my sister.”

  “Are your parents divorced?”

  “I don’t believe so.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve never asked. They don’t live together for most of the year. But I don’t think they’ve ever filed for a divorce.”

  “Wow.” He scratches his jaw. “But your dad taught you how to shoot? So, you were close to him growing up?”

  “Close is a subjective word. The definition varies by person. My father is committed to his cause. Guns are a means to an end.”

  “I hate guns. They should be illegal.” There’s an edge to his tone.

  “It’s a multi-faceted subject. I would never want to walk into a gunfight with a knife. I also don’t see a need for civilians to own machine guns. I’m well-versed in both sides of the gun rights debate. Is that what you really want to talk about?”

  He shakes his head then lifts his gaze to mine. “You said last night that we’re real.”

  “We are.” I reach for his hand and hold on to it. “I wasn’t with you for this case. What happened between us in Cedar Falls, that was all me. I wanted to be with you. Once I knew you were innocent, it wasn’t about the case anymore.”

  “Wait. I was a suspect?”

  I nod. Our primary suspect to start, but there’s no need to tell him that.

  “So, my legal team knew what they were doing when they paraded me into the FBI with my statement and whistleblowing piece.”

  “They gave you sound advice.” I straighten my spine and place my palms flat on my thighs.

  “But you didn’t give me that advice. You were just watching what I was doing? Why?”

  “I don’t call the shots. We had a different plan. If you hadn’t gone in on your own, we were going to bring you in today and ask for your testimony.”

  “You mean demand it?”

  “We would have asked nicely.” He squints at me. I have no recourse. I can’t change the way the system works.

  He pushes the plate farther away from him. He’s barely touched his sandwich. He stands and picks the plate up, dumps the remains into the trash, and deposits the plate in the dishwasher. I twist in the chair and watch
him warily, the way one watches a campfire on a windy day.

  When he comes back to me, he leans against the breakfast bar and crosses his arms over his torso.

  “Here’s the thing Syd—Sadie. We, you and I, we started this on lies. And I’ll be honest because we don’t stand a chance if I’m not. I don’t know where to go from here. Half the time I’m calling you by the wrong name in my head. I like you, I really like you. I know this for a fact because I know how fucking terrified I was last night when you were facing gunfire. But I don’t know what of you is real. I don’t know if the person I’m falling for even exists. And I don’t know how to deal with that. And then, there’s this other part of me that thinks, you know, the short guy never gets the Bond girl. Ever.” A sad, subdued smile plays across his lips. True to his personality, he’s making light of something he doesn’t find funny. He runs a hand through his hair and exhales. “So, why should I try?”

  I place one foot in front of the other, in slow, measured steps, until I reach him and cross my palms over his heart.

  “How about we start with you getting to know me, the real me? I think you got to know the real me, but you’ve got to decide that for yourself.”

  I rise onto my tiptoes, pressing my lower body against his, and brush my lips across his. At first, he doesn’t open. I stand close enough that I can examine the variations of brown and gold in his irises. He wraps his arms around me, and I lift mine around his neck. He tilts his head and gives me a slow, cautious kiss.

  The sound of a phone vibrating breaks us apart. I run my fingers across the scruff along his jaw, and he leans into my touch.

  “Why don’t you come back with me to my real apartment?” Of course, the reality is, all my business clothes are in the FBI apartment. I had planned to move them out this weekend, but other than clothes and bare necessities, all my personal life is sitting in my downtown apartment, yet to be unpacked.

  “The place I’ve been in, that was an FBI cover?”

  I nod. “Yes. FBI owns it. They use it from time to time.”

  “Explains the absence of personality.”

  “Well, don’t expect more from my real place. I’ve only spent a handful of nights there.”