THE MIDDLE SIN

by Merline Lovelace

  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."