Enthusiasm kindled in her eyes as she fondled her latest creation. "I bought it at Wal-Mart and did some tinkering."
"What kind of tinkering?"
"Nothing much. I just installed a high-intensity LED bulb and some miniature, solid-state circuitry that extends the battery life into infinity."
When she flicked the switch, a beam of light stabbed across the kitchen. It was so bright and intense Cleo had to fling up an arm to keep from being blinded.
"I also coated the outer case in polyurethane." Doreen flicked the switch to Off. "This baby is waterproof, tamperproof and shatterproof. You can drop it down a Pennsylvania coal-mine shaft and it'll still send up a stream of light visible to the astronauts on the space station."
"Right," Cleo muttered, cautiously lowering her arm. "I'll give 'em a signal next time I'm at the bottom of a mine shaft."
At Doreen's insistence, she clipped the penlight to her keychain and went to throw a few things in an overnight bag. Her years jaunting around the world with her dad had taught her to travel light. Her tour in the military had taught her to pare the essentials down even more.
Learning to cram a month's worth of necessities into a light carryall was one of the more useful skills she'd honed in the air force. Her training as an investigative agent was another real plus. The rest…
Well, the rest was up for debate. She certainly could have done without the eighty-seven layers of supervision. And all those rules and regulations were a real pain in the ass. Looking back, though, those years in uniform had been worth the effort.
She'd joined the service right out of college, had been selected for training as a special agent with the Air Force Office of Special Investigations. She'd surprised herself by acing every school and specialized course the OSI had sent her to. Given her fluency in languages and globetrotting childhood, Cleo had expected to specialize in the spook stuff. Counterintelligence. Risk assessment. Overseas force protection.
But OSI policy dictated that recruits receive training in all aspects of law enforcement and security. As a consequence, she'd investigated everything from illegal-arms sales to sex crimes and murders. She'd also rotated through white-collar crime, fraud and computer ops before plunging into the shadow world of spies and secret agents.
For most of those years in the field, she'd had to blend into the background. Her regular uniform had been jeans and military-spec Oakley boots, with a nine millimeter SIG Sauer semiautomatic tucked into an ankle or underarm holster. Now that she was in business for herself, she still worked primarily in jeans, but paired them with cashmere turtlenecks or silk tanks topped by hand-tailored blazers. She also preferred the new ten millimeter Glock to the SIG.
The Glock went into a special side pocket in her carryall. Since she didn't know how long it would take her to find Sloan's missing employee, she tossed in another pair of slacks and a couple more tops. Also a clingy spandex dress in a vivid jungle print. Not because the dress showed off the trim one-twenty she was down to these days. Simply because she preferred to travel prepared for any eventuality.
Several pairs of the lace-trimmed Brazilian Boxers she'd just discovered in a pricy boutique, her favorite Dallas Cowboys sleep shirt and a few toiletries rounded out the list of personal necessities.
Her professional gear was already packed and ready in a flyaway kit. In addition to her digital camera and laptop, she'd take along the usual complement of electronic sweeps, listening devices and satellite-link communications. She doubted she'd need them on a missing-person case but had learned to go in prepared for anything.
Doreen was back on the sofa, snorting and cackling, when Cleo passed through the living room on her way to the garage.
"Call your aunt for me, would you? Tell her I'm going out of town on a job and can't talk wallpaper with her."
"Oh, jeez," Doreen groaned. "Hasn't she finished redecorating your dad's place?"
"Evidently not."
"She'll try to rope me into this wallpaper waltz. I know she will."
"Better you than me."
"You owe me for this one, cuz."
Almost giddy at the reprieve, Cleo climbed behind the wheel of her black MG. Her father was always after her to buy something a little more solid, like a Humvee or an Abrams tank. Either one, Patrick claimed, would be more appropriate, given Cleo's road techniques. Since he'd been the one to instruct her in the fine art of guerrilla driving in the first place, she had so far ignored his advice.
The "forever" light thunked against the dash as she zipped through traffic on the Dallas North Tollway. The usual smog hung over the city, not as bad as in L.A. or D.C., but gray enough to almost obscure the skyscrapers poking up from the plains. Turning off the toll road and onto Mockingbird Lane, she wound through an older part of the city and enjoyed a real Texas spring for a few blocks. Daffodils poked through cedar chips raked neatly in beds. Redbuds flowered in shades of magenta, hot pink and pearly white. The occasional dogwood showered snowy petals on shaded lawns. Gradually, the fifties-era bungalows gave way to what used to be Dallas's main airport.
Nice of Marc Sloan to send his private jet to Love Field instead of big, sprawling Dallas-Fort Worth International. Love was a good half hour closer to Cleo's condo and much more accessible to private jets.
The one that waited for her was a Gulf-stream V. She didn't track the private-jet industry in any detail but knew enough about the business to guess this baby sold for a cool forty or fifty million. As the pilot informed her when she'd strapped in, the sleek, twin-engine jet could cruise at 51,000 feet and fly nonstop from Tokyo to New York.
They were only going from Texas to South Carolina, but Cleo lolled in leather-coated luxury all the way. A male flight attendant offered her a choice of champagnes and a selection of imported hams and cheeses. Since she was technically on the job, Cleo passed up the champagne but did serious damage to two crusty baguettes, several thick slices of Parma ham and a wedge of smoked Danish gouda, all lavishly spread with sweet French mustard.
After surreptitiously loosening her black leather belt a notch, she flipped up her laptop to review her file on Marc Sloan. She'd gathered most of the data when she'd headed up to Santa Fe to investigate his brother. The more personal tidbits had been added after she'd mistaken Marc for his twin and ended up in the man's arms. Scrolling slowly, she skimmed the file on the Sloan twins.
The boys had been adopted at birth by a career army officer and renowned scholar of ancient warfare. Marcus, Cleo had learned, was named for the Roman general Marcus Aurelius, and his brother Alexander for the Greek conqueror. Both son
s had followed their father into the military. Alex had put twenty-plus years into the air force. Marc had opted out of the navy after completing his four-year service commitment and went to work for Northrop Grumman Ship Systems Division. A few years later, he'd left Northrop to form his own company.
Sloan Engineering had started small, with a navy contract to reengineer amphibious assault ships, and had grown steadily. A few years later the company had burst into the big time with an innovative design to retrofit ocean-going cargo vessels and significantly reduce NOx emissions- whatever the heck those were. Evidently Sloan had cornered the market on NOx's. Forbes magazine put his estimated current assets at somewhere between four and five billion.
He hadn't been quite as successful in his personal life. Or maybe he'd been too successful. At the ripe old age of forty-five, Marc Sloan had racked up two ex-wives and a string of "just friends" that stretched from Washington, D.C., to Hollywood, with a few international beauties tossed in here and there for variety.
Cleo was still digesting the eye-popping details of his last divorce settlement when the pilot announced they were on final approach. Shutting down her laptop, she enjoyed an aerial view of Charleston as the pilot swooped into a private airport just north of the city. The hatch whirred down a moment later and let in a blast of warm April air.
Cleo gathered her things and poked her head into the cockpit. "Thanks for the ride."
"Anytime, Ms. North."
She wished!
A limo with Sloan Engineering's logo etched in gold and marine blue whisked her into Charleston. The city was as muggy and charming as she remembered from a brief visit years ago.
Palm trees rustled, showy rhododendrons blossomed everywhere, and the perfume of camellias battled with the distinct tang of the sea. The salty scent grew stronger as the limo glided over the bridge spanning the Cooper River just a few miles north of where it joined with the Ashley to flow into the sea. Fifteen minutes later the driver pulled up at Sloan Engineering's corporate headquarters.
The building's exterior was impressive-seven or eight stories of glass with just enough wrought iron and architectural detail to give it a Low Country flavor. But the atrium lobby stole Cleo's breath.
It featured palmettos, a cascading waterfall and a freestanding world globe at least three stories tall. Little red lights moving around the globe represented ships built or retrofitted by Sloan Engineering, or so the discreet plaque at the base of the globe informed her.
"Ms. North?"
Cleo recognized the polite, magnolia-tinted drawl from her earlier call. "Yes."
"Would you come with me, please? Mr. Sloan is expecting you."
A glass-enclosed elevator zinged them upward, giving Cleo a bird's-eye view of the globe and all those red dots.
"Right this way."
She followed the young woman into a suite of offices redolent with the scents of polished mahogany and the calla lilies massed in a tall vase. Depositing her carryall and laptop in the outer office, Cleo entered the inner sanctum and was greeted by Sloan's executive assistant.
Diane Walker proved to be a trim, well-groomed forty or so, with honey-colored hair cut in a chin-length bob. The suit was Chanel, the shoes were Ferragamo and the eyes were coolly assessing as she shook Cleo's hand.
"This way, Ms. North. Marc's waiting for you."
Marc, huh? Curious, Cleo probed a bit. "Have you been with Sloan Engineering long, Ms. Walker?"
"Almost fifteen years. Marc and I were both at Northrop. I left when he did."
So she'd gotten into Sloan Engineering on the ground floor. If the woman took part of her salary in stock options, it was no wonder she could afford Chanel.
"Ms. North is here," she announced, ushering Cleo into an office the size of Rhode Island. The executive seated at a marble slab of a desk rose and came to greet her.
"Hello, Cleo."
Oh, man!
Oh-man-oh-man-oh-man!
She remembered the chiseled jaw. The smoke-gray eyes. The black hair threaded with silver at the temples. She even recalled the sexy little Kirk Douglas dimple in his chin. She'd forgotten the impact the sum of the parts could have on her respiratory system, though.
Struggling to recall just why the heck she'd turned down Sloan's repeated invitations to join him for dinner or bed or both, she turned her head and took his kiss on her cheek.
Amusement leapt into his face, but he followed her lead and kept it to a light brush of his lips across first one cheek, then the other.
Very European. Very polite.
Very sexy.
This was business, Cleo reminded herself. She tended to be flexible when it came to rules and regulations. But letting a client get her all hot and bothered before they'd established the parameters of the case was a stretch, even for her.
Declining offers of coffee or a cool drink, she followed Sloan and his executive assistant to the armchairs grouped beside a wall of windows. The floor-to-ceiling sheets of glass were set at angles to give panoramic views of Charleston harbor. Historic Fort Sumter sat smack in the middle of the harbor, with the Stars and Stripes flying above its ramparts. The sight was poignant, considering the first shots of the war that almost ripped the Union apart were fired at those same ramparts.
Dragging her gaze from the view, Cleo rummaged in her purse and dug out a small black notebook. During her years as an air force special agent, she'd had access to the world's most sophisticated computers and anticrime databases. Since going into business for herself, Cleo had kept abreast of the latest security techniques and equipment. Doreen, despite her nails-on-chalk-board laugh, was as good with computers as she was with electronic gadgets. Yet the basic tool for any cop, investigative agent or security specialist was and probably always would be a little black notebook.
Pen at the ready, she got down to business. "Why don't you tell me about this missing employee?"
2
“Her name's Patricia Jackson," Sloan informed Cleo. "She goes by Trish."
"Irish. Got it."
"She's worked here a little over two years."
"Prior to that?"
Sloan turned to his executive assistant.
"Trish had no previous work experience," Walker explained. "I hired her right out of business school."
"Okay. How about the personal details? Age, marital status, place of birth."
"Her parents live in a small town about a hundred miles from here. As far as I know, that's where she was born. She's single and has just* turned twenty-two."
Sloan's brow hiked. He looked surprised, or as surprised as a man who controlled a multibillion-
dollar corporation would allow himself to look.
His assistant noted the reaction with a flicker of something that could have been amusement. Or disdain. It was gone before Cleo could decide which. "Yes, Marc, she's only twenty-two." "What does Trish do here?" "General office work," Walker replied. "Typing, filing, answering the phone. Lately I've been letting her manage Marc's schedule." "When did you last see her?" "Friday afternoon. No, make that Friday evening. Marc and I were tied up in a meeting, so I asked her to cover the phones. She left just after seven."
This was Thursday. Trish had been missing almost a week. Not good, Cleo thought.
"When she didn't show up for work Monday morning," Walker continued, "I wasn't unduly alarmed. She's a good worker and bright as they come, but…" "Yes?" "Well…"
There it was again. That subtle shift of emotions. The woman didn't look at Marc this time, but Cleo was picking up definite vibes.
"Trish has been known to party hard on occasion," Walker finished.
"Only one occasion we know of," Sloan put in with a wry twist of his lips. "It was an office party. On my yacht. Trish drank too much, got seasick as well as drunk and passed out in my stateroom. We didn't see her for two days after we made harbor."
"So what makes you think she isn't just off somewhere, recovering from another party?"
"When she didn't show Tuesday morning, I called her apartment and got no answer." A crease formed between Walker's perfectly penciled brows. "I drove out to her place and convinced the manager of her apartment complex to let me in. I found her purse, her keys, her car and her very hungry cat."
THE MIDDLE SIN Page 2
