"Just out of curiosity," Cleo asked, "how did you make that connection?"
"Goose and I keep in touch."
That's all he would say. The Special Ops guys were like that, she remembered from her air force days. Most communicated in monosyllabic grunts that could convey anything from sexual ecstasy to the imminent demise of whoever they happened to have in their crosshairs.
"So what have you got on Irish Jackson?" she asked, helping herself to a doughnut from the green-and-white box Devereaux nudged across his desk. She'd waged a fierce battle with the snap on her jeans after pigging out last night and this morning, but these were Krispy Kremes.
"Still nothing," the detective replied. "I'm almost through making calls and about to start pounding on neighbors' doors again."
"How about going with me to pound on a couple of doctors' doors first?"
"What doctors and why?"
"I found out Trish may be pregnant."
The genial smile fell off Devereaux's face. "How did you get that?"
"I spotted a Weight Watchers water jug in her kitchen and checked with the clinic in her neighborhood. Turns out she had to drop out of the program due to a possible pregnancy."
"I'll be damned." Devereaux inhaled the remains of his chocolate-sprinkle combo and swiped a few stray crumbs from his shirtfront. "Goose said you were good."
"He did?"
Basking in those rare words of praise, Cleo munched her way through a maple glaze. "I'm hoping Trish consulted with either her family practitioner or OB-GYN," she said between bites. "The doc could give us a lead to the father."
"Who in turn could give us a lead to Ms. Jackson's whereabouts."
"Exactamundo."
Devereaux flipped through the printout on his desk. "I didn't see her physicians' names in her computer address book. Must have missed them."
"No sweat. I got 'em off the prescriptions in her medicine chest."
"We're good to go, then."
Lifting his bulk from his chair, the detective snagged his seersucker sport coat. Cleo started out of the office, hesitated and swung back for another maple glaze.
Trish was evidently a healthy young woman. She hadn't visited her family doctor in more than a year. She had, however, brought a urine sample into her OB-GYN to verify the results of a home-pregnancy test just a few days before she went missing.
"She waited for the results," the nurse related after Detective Devereaux charmed her with his dazzling smile and a copy of the missing-persons report. "She seemed more excited than apprehensive when they came back positive."
"Did she share any information about the father? Like a name or an address?"
"Not that I recall. We ask for a detailed medical history of both parents to determine whether or not there might be complications during pregnancy. The patient usually supplies that information prior to her first prenatal visit with Dr. Rasmussen. Trish might have called the father, though. She was certainly eager to share her news with someone."
"Excuse me?"
"She asked to use the phone here at my station to make a quick call. I went to take the vitals on another patient, so I didn't catch any of the conversation."
Cleo and Devereaux exchanged a quick glance. The detective would have to get a subpoena to obtain an official phone-company record of all calls made from this number. There was a faster way, thank goodness-one Cleo resorted to frequently in her line of work.
"Does this clinic pay the phone bill electronically?" she asked the nurse.
"I think so. Yes, I'm sure we do."
"Good. Your office administrator can go online and print us out a list of all calls made from this number."
List in hand, Cleo and Devereaux manned their cell phones. Most of the calls made from the nurses' station at the approximate time of Trish's appointment were traced to labs, medical suppliers or patients, who verified conversations with Dr. Rasmussen's nurse on the date in question. None, Cleo noted, traced back to Marc Sloan, Diane Walker or Sloan Engineering.
Only one number came up blank. The service at that number had been deactivated a few days ago. Prior to deactivation, it had been registered to Frank Helms at 312 Harbor Drive, Unit 6B.
When Dr. Rasmussen's nurse confirmed they had no patient by the name of Helms or one who listed him as a contact, Cleo and Devereaux headed back to the Charleston PD to run a check on the man.
A name alone wasn't enough for a NCIC check. The National Crime Information Center database required a minimum of two identifiers, such as date of birth or social security number. But Devereaux could-and did-run him through the Charleston police department's records bureau.
The screen produced no hits.
Strangely, a check of various non-crime-related databases came up blank as well. A detailed search was impossible without a social security number, but still it was odd that a sweep of credit bureaus, utility accounts and the DMV returned no one with that name and address.
"Looks like we've got us a mystery boy here," Devereaux commented.
"Looks like," Cleo agreed, trying to ignore the last doughnut. The damned thing sat in a pool of hardened grease, shouting Cleo, Cleo, Cleo.
"Harbor Drive is only a few blocks from here. Pricey neighborhood for a guy with no apparent financial assets. Want to ride along while I canvass the neighbors?"
Cleo did better than ride along. Fueled by another injection of sugar and grease, she worked the residences to the east of Frank Helms's waterfront condo while Lafayette worked the west.
A woman in red spandex and a sweatband answered the second bell Cleo rang. The jogger didn't recognize Trish from the photo but remembered the man who'd rented the condo two doors down from hers.
"He pretty much kept to himself. I only spoke to him a couple of times, at the mail center. He had a definite accent. British-sounding, although he looked more…" "More?"
"More exotic. Olive skin. Dark eyes." Cleo jotted down the details, took the woman's name and phone number, and compared notes with Devereaux. He'd turned up almost the same information.
A visit to the agency that managed the property produced even more intriguing results. Seems British-Accent Guy had rented the condo fully furnished and paid the hefty security deposit in cash. He'd also plunked down three months' advance rent.
"He was new in town," the agent explained, fidgeting in his plush leather chair. "Said he needed a place right away. The condo was available for immediate occupancy. The owner keeps the utilities in his name and turned on for just that reason. Sol, uh…"
"So you pocketed a hefty lease-signing bonus and ran only a
cursory background check," Devereaux finished dryly. "I don't suppose you followed up when the financial references Mr. Helms supplied came back as unknown or unavailable."
"Well…"
"Christ! What rock have you been living under since 9/11? Don't you get even a little suspicious when a man slaps down a wad of cash and provides no verifiable references?"
The agent's face went gray. "You think Helms is a terrorist?"
"We don't know what he is," Devereaux returned, his voice disgusted. "Just give me a copy of the rental agreement."
Cleo departed the Charleston police headquarters a little after three. Devereaux would have to subpoena the phone records for the calls made to and from Frank Helms's condo. Until they came through, he had to work the other cases stacked up on his desk.
"I'll let you know if I come up with anything," he told Cleo.
"Same here," she promised.
Since police headquarters was only a few miles from Sloan Engineering, she decided to stop in and update Marc on the day's developments. She wheeled into the underground garage, pulled into her reserved space and buzzed for the elevator. It pinged its way up from the lower two parking levels and opened with a full complement already on board.
"'Scuse me, folks."
Wedging inside, Cleo hit the button for the seventh floor. As the glass cage worked its way upward, she collected her thoughts. She had confirmation Irish was pregnant. A phone call to a pricey condo. A rental agreement signed by a man who didn't pop in any police or civilian databases. Not much to report, but the case was certainly starting to take on some interesting hues.
Slowly, the elevator emptied. Two smartly dressed women got off on floor three. A clerk on five. Three men in business suits on six. The doors swished shut. The elevator started for seven.
Suddenly, an arm reached past Cleo. A blunt finger stabbed the red emergency stop button. In the next heartbeat, the hand had snaked around her waist and yanked her back against a hard slab of a chest.
6
Caught against an unknown assailant, Cleo kicked instantly into fight mode. Before she could execute any of her more lethal moves, however, the arm banding her waist shifted and a warm breath tickled her ear.
"Feels like you've shed a few pounds, Cleopatra Aphrodite."
The deep, laughing drawl checked her initial instinct to inflict bodily harm. The use of her much-despised middle name had her rethinking that check. Disgusted, she shook free and swung around.
"Dammit, Donovan! Do you have any idea how close you just came to singing soprano?"
Major Jack Donovan, chief of the Criminal Operations Division at headquarters, Air Force Office of Special Investigations, grinned down at her.
"Yeah, I do. I've tangled with you before, remember?"
She remembered. She most definitely remembered. But Donovan must have decided she needed a refresher course. Planting a hand against the elevator panel behind her, he swooped in for a kiss.
Okay. All right. Cleo could admit it. A mere glimpse of Donovan's sun-streaked tawny hair and those squinty little laugh lines at the corners of his blue eyes was enough to get her hot. But the feel of his mouth on hers did things to her female organs she wasn't about to acknowledge-particularly considering the weeks that had elapsed since the bastard had rung her bells like this.
It took a moment or two for her to realize that the clanging in her ears came from without, not within. The elevator was sending out distress signals loud enough to wake the dead. Or at least the security guard at the other end of the camera mounted high in the glass cage.
The clanging cut off. A gruff, disembodied voice floated through a hidden speaker. "This is Sloan Security. Is there a problem?"
"No problem," Donovan replied, his mouth still playing with Cleo's. "The elevator just stopped."
"Hold on. I'll hit Restart."
The glass cage gave another little jolt and resumed its upward glide. When the doors whooshed open a second or two later, Cleo had herself mostly together.
"What the heck are you doing in Charleston?" she demanded as she and Donovan stepped into the hallway of the executive suite.
"I just flew in. I'm here to see your pal, Sloan. What are you doing here?"
She suspected he wouldn't be real thrilled with the answer. Jack had witnessed the moves Sloan had made on her in Santa Fe. He hadn't liked them then. He wouldn't like them now.
Tough noogies.
"I'm working a case for Marc."
She'd guessed right. There was a definite cooling in Donovan's attitude. "What kind of case?"
"One of his employees is missing. He brought me in to find her."
"That so?"
He hitched his thumbs in the pockets of his black slacks. He'd dressed in one of his more sophisticated special agent uniforms for this meeting, Cleo noted. Black loafers to match the trousers. Gray gabardine sport coat. Sunshine-yellow, button-down oxford shirt. He'd even knotted on a tie.
Cleo carried a different set of images of this man around in her head. The most vivid sprang from their days in Honduras. Donovan's face smeared with jungle paint. His assault rifle spitting rounds at the dopers who'd opened fire on them. His jaw locked as Cleo dug a bullet out of his right shoulder.
His belly muscles rippling as she straddled his thighs two days later.
That particular memory caused her own stomach muscles to do some serious rippling. Gulping, she covered the sensation with a grin. "Interesting that we both turn up in Charleston at the same time."
"You know what the Old Man says about coincidence. It just don't…"
"…happen in our line of work," she chorused.
That was one of the OSI commander's favorites, she remembered. Along with several others that didn't bear repeating in public.
Cleo had heard 'em all, though. General Barnes, commander of the Air Force Office of Special Investigations, hadn't minced words the various times he'd ordered Lieutenant North to headquarters. She still wasn't sure who'd been more relieved when she decided to turn in her badge, Barnes or her immediate supervisor at the time, who swore she'd turned his hair gray with her unorthodox investigative techniques.
Then again, those same unorthodox techniques had broken some tough cases. They'd also busted a billion-dollar procurement fraud that went back years and put the squeeze on two former secretaries of Defense. That little exercise had earned Special Agent Cleo North a Meritorious Service Medal. The expression on General Barnes's face when he'd pinned on the medal constituted one of Cleo's favorite moments from her years in uniform.
Smiling at the memory, she turned and pushed at the etched-glass do
or to the executive suite. The workers in the outer office recognized her and merely nodded as she led the way into the inner suite of offices.
Diane Walker glanced up at their entrance. Her gaze slid from Cleo to Jack and back again. "Is Marc expecting you, Ms. North?"
"No, he isn't."
Cleo tipped the man beside her a curious glance. A favorite technique among investigators was to show up unannounced, catch a suspect off guard and get him talking before he gathered his wits enough to lawyer up.
"How about you, Jack? Is Marc expecting you?"
Eyes glinting, he acknowledged the unsubtle probe. "Yes, he is."
He slid a hand into his coat pocket, produced the black leather case containing his credentials and introduced himself to Sloan's executive assistant. "I'm Special Agent Jack Donovan, with the Air Force Office of Special Investigations. My secretary called earlier this morning to arrange a meeting for me with your boss."
His gold OSI shield gave Cleo a funny little twinge. She'd carried one just like it for years. She didn't miss the paperwork and bureaucratic hassle that came with being an air force investigative agent. She did miss the authority packed into those few ounces of metal, though.
Diane Walker responded to that authority with her characteristic efficiency. "Oh, yes, Mr. Donovan. Mr. Sloan is expecting you. Unfortunately, he had to attend a city council planning meeting that ran late. He's on his way back to the office and should be here shortly. Would you like something to drink while you wait?"
"Coffee would be great. Black, three sugars." "Ms. North?"
"I'll have coffee, too. Black, no sugars." With a flick of an intercom button, Walker relayed the order. The bright young subordinate on the other end in turn relayed the information that Dubai was holding for her on line two.
THE MIDDLE SIN Page 6
