THE MIDDLE SIN

by Merline Lovelace

  "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.