by Fiona Quinn
The dead man had called her Danika.
Unable to make her brain form coherent thoughts, unable to get her legs to hold her body weight, Lacey crawled to the bathroom and turned on the hot water. A bathtub had always been her refuge and thinking spot. And that’s what she needed more than anything in that moment - peace and clarity so she could take the right actions. She peeled off her filthy clothes and winced as her feet—bruised and cut from her four-mile, barefooted hike from the Metro to Martha’s place—dipped beneath the water.
Lacey lay her head against the lip of the tub and let the pictures flutter through her brain. If only Steve had been there on time, they would have eaten dinner and gone home to hear the news of the murder on TV, and it would have been unremarkable. If Steve had been there, he would have protected her from the scotch-on-the-rocks guy’s stares – not a guy on the make, an FBI agent. Questions surfaced and floated in front of her. Leo Bardman had been killed warning her to trust no one. How could she find her way out of this maze if she trusted no one? She was on the run – but why?
Chapter Four
Lacey
Friday Morning
Lacey pulled Martha’s home phone toward her and lay back. The wooden floor pressed against her shoulder blades. It was cold, and it hurt. She liked that. The ache stopped the hysterical giggles from exploding from her chest.
Jittery from her night of high-adrenaline pacing, Lacey was exhausted. Dawn hadn’t even scratched at the horizon, but Lacey was ready to go on the offensive. What she needed was to get to the high ground where she could look down at the problem instead of groveling in the ditches – or in a jail cell. And the only way to do it was to show the world that she was just someone standing in the wrong place at the very wrong time.
Lacey’s teeth scraped over her lower lip as she plugged the numbers from Deep’s business card into Martha’s house phone and waited through two rings.
“Joseph Del Toro’s line. How may I assist you?”
Surprised that a woman had answered, Lacey stalled. “I, um. Good morning, is Deep, I mean Joseph, available to the phone?”
“This is Mr. Del Toro’s answering service. May I have your name and message, please?”
Lacey’s free hand clutched protectively over her throat. If she gave this woman her name, the woman might contact the police, and Lacey would be on the defensive. That wasn’t her strategy.
“Thank you kindly, but no.” Lacey gently set the hand piece back in the cradle. Okay. Plan B. The only other person she was willing to call right then was her lawyer. She wrinkled her nose at the thought. Four o’clock in the morning seemed too early to call someone’s house—funny how that never crossed her mind as she was reaching out to Deep—but Lacey needed to get going. As each second ticked by, she felt more vulnerable. There weren’t many people who knew that Lacey was taking care of Martha’s cat, but a few did — Steve and some of her colleagues. Someone might make a call and give this address as Lacey’s possible hideout.
She had no way to leave. Lacey had no transportation, no ID, nor money – not even shoes. And she’d look darned conspicuous walking in daylight in her date-night outfit spattered in dried blood. Martha’s clothes and shoes were much too big for her.
Lacey dialed her lawyer’s number by rote. She had dialed it often enough during the Iniquus art debacle. Unlike Deep, Mr. Reynolds answered on the first ring.
“Hello?” Mr. Reynolds sounded wide awake. There was an effervescence about his voice – something excited and anticipatory that made Lacey’s lips seal tightly.
“Lacey? Is that you?”
“Yes, Mr. Reynolds, this is Lacey Stuart.”
“I thought I might be expecting your call. I saw you on the news. Are you alright? Were you injured?”
Lacey looked down at her cut feet, and the bruise that encircled her ankle from the FBI agent’s grip, but she knew that’s not what her lawyer meant. “I’m a little worse for wear, but I wasn’t stabbed.”
“I called your home phone and cell, but you didn’t answer.”
Lacey took in a long, faltering breath. “No, I didn’t feel safe going home.”
“Are you in a safe place now?” Mr. Reynolds asked.
“Yes, though I don’t believe I’ll be safe here much longer.” Lacey lay back on the floor. With her eyes squeezed tightly closed, she pitched into her tale of fear and escape. She was glad Mr. Reynolds just let her ramble without asking too many questions. Her whole grasp on what had happened, what was happening, was tenuous. It all felt very dream-like. Nightmarish. Lacey finished up her story but held back two pieces of information – what Leo Bardman said to her, and that he had given her a flash drive. Why she didn’t share that, she didn’t know. But something in her brain felt hyper-protective of that information. And since it wasn’t really tied to her, Lacey, and was instead tied to some woman named Danika, it really shouldn’t matter. Should it?
“The sooner we get your story out in front of the public, the better this is going to be for you,” Mr. Reynolds said. “Cases are tried in the court of public opinion, and we know you did nothing wrong. We have to let everyone else know you did nothing wrong, before your reputation is further compromised.”
“Yes, thank you. Yes.” Lacey’s voice was barely a whisper. “People should know that I was a bystander at an unfortunate event, and I was very scared and upset and that’s why I acted the way I did.”
“I’m going to call the media, and we’ll do a press conference,” he said.
Lacey’s hand was shaking so hard that she had to hold the receiver away from her ear, making Mr. Reynold’s voice sound distant and tinny.
“I’ll tell the police,” he continued, “that after we talk to the press, we’ll head down to their precinct so you can answer questions. I’ll contact the FBI and let them know we’ll be available for their questions, too.” Reynolds pushed on. “We’ll stage the press conference right out in front of the gallery.”
Lacey’s voice warbled. “The gallery? I don’t think that’s a very good idea. I don’t want this to hurt the gallery’s reputation.”
“Imagine it, Lacey, you’re standing at a podium on the portico surrounded by those beautiful marble columns. People will see you for who you are — an upstanding citizen from an excellent family, who spends her days dealing with artists and the caliber of people who can afford to collect art. Someone who is beautiful, well-educated, and well-spoken. On the news last night, you seemed—” He stopped to clear his throat. “Well, in the videos, it shows a woman who looked like a wrecking ball. We need to reframe perceptions so people understand that you were afraid for your life and fighting strangers who seemed to have malevolent intentions. You had no idea that when the special agent was reaching in his jacket, it was to pull out his badge. Like you told me, you thought he was pulling a weapon in order to shoot you.”
“I see what you’re saying. You’re probably right.” Lacey faltered. “I’ll have to go by my house and get some clothes. What I have with me is covered in blood.”
“We want to be the ones who come forward. If you go home, there’s probably an officer staking out your place. They’ll take you in for questioning, and we’ll be behind the curve – reactive isn’t the way to play this game.”
“What should I do, then?”
“I think you and my daughter are about the same size. I can bring you something from her closet.”
“Okay, yes, I, um, I haven’t any shoes. I lost them when I was running away. I wear a size five.”
“If my daughter’s not the same size, I’ll find some, somehow. I have your number on my caller ID—I’ll call you back as soon as I have a time set up, and then I’ll come over with the clothes. It’ll be soon. So if you could, you need to work on fixing your hair and makeup. I want this on the air while people are getting dressed and watching – not buried somewhere during the day when people are at work. We want the most exposure we can possibly get.”
There it was, the glee
that she had heard at the beginning of the phone call. “Thank you,” she said after a moment of hesitation. Blood had raced to Lacey’s face when Mr. Reynolds mentioned caller ID. She hadn’t considered that, and was under the assumption that if the call hadn’t gone well, she’d still have her location concealed. But people could Google a phone number to find the accompanying address. It didn’t take a PI. Well, Mr. Reynolds was her lawyer, and that meant any information was privileged, right?
Chapter Five
Steve
Friday Morning
“What in the hell is going on?” Steve Finely demanded, slamming the door to Monroe’s office in the imposing white stone building on Fourth Street that housed the Washington DC FBI headquarters. It was only zero-six-hundred but already the halls were bustling.
Monroe leaned back in his chair and considered him. “Too much caffeine? Didn’t get laid? What’s crawled up your ass this morning, Finley?”
Steve glared at Monroe, his nostrils distending as he breathed in deeply, trying to keep his fist from smashing into the guy’s unperturbed face. Steve had spent a shit night with Danika, making her believe all his lies about their relationship so his team could stay in the game. And he was terrified for Lacey. Steve was sure that Pavle’s assassin hadn’t rested last night as he tried to find Lacey and finish his job.
Monroe leaned forward and pressed a button on his phone. “Martin, can you find Higgins and get him in here?”
It didn’t take long for the door to snick open. Higgins shuffled into the office. He acknowledged Monroe with a nod and turned tired eyes toward Steve. The bruises on Higgins face showed just how serious Lacey had been about wrenching herself from his grasp.
“Catch Finley up,” Monroe ordered. He leaned back into his seat, making the springs screech, ramping up the migraine that lit Steve’s head on fire.
Higgins crossed his arms and pressed a shoulder into the industrial grey wall. “She got away from me at the bar.”
“Yeah, I got your text. She’s not in protective custody, then?” Steve’s bottom jaw jutted out, and he stared down at the toes of his boots. They had played a little loose with the pawns in this last game of good guy versus bad. But sacrificing Lacey—a civilian—was not in his DNA, no matter how many bad guys they’d be able to bring down. “I thought maybe you all had caught up to her. Hoped. I hoped you had caught up with her.” His gaze came up, angry and determined. “Pavle told Danika that Lacey slipped by his guys, too, but that doesn’t mean anything. He’s a lying piece of shit.”
“Near as we can tell, she’s in the wind, man,” Higgins said. “We’re looking, but the trackers were in her shoe, her phone, and her purse. When she ran, she left all three behind. She hasn’t gone anywhere in her normal circuit.”
Steve’s phone vibrated; he snatched it from his pocket and stared down at the screen. When Steve slid it back into his pants, Higgins pointed. “She hasn’t contacted you?”
“No. And that’s not like her. I had her on my hook pretty good.” After a pause, he muttered, “Or so I thought.” That wasn’t true, and he knew it. It was really Steve who was on Lacey’s hook. He loved her. Couldn’t imagine his life without her. He had even decided to give up his job in undercover if that was what it would take to be with her. And he was pretty sure that that was what it was going to take - especially once she found out that the bureau had been using her without her consent or knowledge.
Higgins shook his head. “Pavle’s assassin is a brazen SOB, stabbing Bardman in front of all those people. And not a single witness is pointing a finger at anyone but Lacey.”
“Hmph,” Monroe grunted, scratching at his chin.
Steve let his gaze settle on Monroe. “The sting went too far.”
“We were protecting her,” Monroe said.
“The hell we were. We were never protecting her. We were using her. If we were protecting her, she’d have been put into our witness program months ago. If we were protecting her, we wouldn’t have been casting a bigger net. We would have taken down Danika and her friends and been glad that at least some of the scum was off the streets.”
“This was our opportunity. These bastards support fucking terror. Because of the Zorics, people are suffering. Dying. Children are in terrible trouble. We had to take the chance.”
“The chance is that she’ll be killed.” Steve realized he was yelling, and worked to rein himself in. “No. Not a chance. A certainty, unless we can get to her first.”
Monroe squeezed his lids into mere slits. “It was a calculated risk, and we had you on her heels the whole time. If you’d done a better job of getting her to fall for you, you would have been her first phone call asking for help.”
“Hell, no.” Steve stabbed a finger at Monroe. “You aren’t laying this at my feet. I did my job. I followed the directives.” He had been ordered to become Lacey’s love interest, and he did whatever it took to be just that. Things had gone along fine until last November when she found out her uncle had duped her into stealing Iniquus’ art. Something about that episode had instantly changed their relationship. Steve had taken the issue to Monroe, and Monroe had ordered Steve to find a way to stay in the game. So Steve had lied. He told Lacey the doctors found something wrong with his heart, and he needed to undergo testing. Lacey had stayed – he knew she would. She was too kind of a person to break up with a guy whose heart was already broken. But she also refused to have sex with him, telling him she was afraid of his heart condition. He couldn’t take that for very long.
He knew, at that point, how much his undercover role had become a reality. He had come to love her, deeply. To get back in her bed, Steve invented a clean bill of health from his doctor, but that good news was followed on the same day with tragedy as he found out his five-year-old nephew had leukemia. Yeah, he was that much of an asshole. He made up a fake nephew and gave him fake cancer just so he could sleep with the girl. That wasn’t the only reason, he tried to remind himself. He did what he had to to keep the sting going, save lives, fight the money stream to terror organizations.
Still, things had been different between them. Steve knew for months now that Lacey had left their relationship emotionally but was too bighearted to drop him while he was in crisis.
“You didn’t follow directives last night.” Monroe countered. “You were ordered to be at that bar moving Lacey into protective custody, not leaving her protection to Higgins.”
“I called Higgins in because Danika made it impossible for me to take off without raising suspicions.” Steve leaned his back against the cool wall, muttering, “Goddam Danika for taking so long at the warehouse.” Steve wrapped his hand around the back of his neck. “You know, now that Bardman’s dead, I’m thinking Danika wasn’t at all surprised by the news,” Steve said. “Maybe she was ordered to keep me away from the scene so I wouldn’t get involved in the murder. Maybe she knew what was going down on Pavle’s end and was trying to protect me.” He focused on Higgins. “Tell me what happened last night.”
“You know, man, it was confusing. At first, I couldn’t tell if it was Danika or Lacey sitting there on the stool. I thought maybe communications got the message mixed up, and I was supposed to be trailing Danika. I was trying to catch a look at the girl’s lips.” Higgins pinched his lower lip and pulled it out. “Before I could decide who I was dealing with, the girl dropped her head, and Bardman comes through the door. He stared at the girl as if he was confused, too. When he went up to her, he whispered something in her ear. I didn’t hear it, but it made sense to Lacey, because she reacted like she’d been punched in the stomach. Then I see him grabbing her, and I jumped up to get in between them. But the two of them went over onto the floor and the crowd pushed forward. I muscled my way through, reached out to pull her up, and Bardman’s holding on to her, whispering in her ear. Then it looked like he shoved something down her blouse.”
“You didn’t see what it was?” Monroe asked.
Higgins shook his head.
�
��So where were you the rest of the night?” Steve lifted his chin toward Higgins. “Holding ice on your nut sack?”
“I’ve been out trying to run Lacey down. Unlike you, I was out in the cold, turning over rocks. Meanwhile you were cozied up in a nice warm bed, screwing Danika. So don’t shoot shit at me.”
Steve’s fists clenched. In his mind, he became defensive. He needed to sleep with Danika to reassure her and keep his foot in the door. He needed to be in the loop in case any news came up about Lacey.
Monroe made a brushing motion with his hand as if to dismiss their bickering as so much garbage that needed clearing from the table. “Quiet. Let me think. Bardman grabs Lacey, whom he might have confused as Danika, and whispers something to her, then, as his last dying act, he shoves something in her blouse?”
Monroe stared at the ceiling; silence engulfed the office.
“Maybe,” Higgins said, finally. “That last part I can’t say for sure.”
“How much interface did Bardman have with Danika?”
“Plenty,” Steve said. “When Danika met Bardman there was chemistry. She insisted that Bardman take over as her shadow, so Pavle assigned him as Danika’s partner the whole arts con.”
“You think they had a something going on between them?” Higgins asked.
“I’m sure I’m not the only one Danika screws. She thinks that having sex with me keeps me on a leash. She’s that kind of narcissistic. Of course, she sleeps with anyone who can get her what she wants. Though, Bardman seemed to believe she genuinely cared for him.” Steve pressed his thumbs into his temples to stop the thrumming that interrupted his thoughts. “Did they have a side job they were working together? Something besides a romantic relationship? Something that would raise Pavle’s hackles? Nah. His organization’s too savvy. They wouldn’t let Bardman and Danika get away with . . .oh, hell.”
