THE MIDDLE SIN

by Merline Lovelace

  Evi­dently not. The in­vi­ta­ti­on ca­me slowly, but it ca­me.

  "Do you want to get to­get­her la­ter? We co­uld ha­ve din­ner. Com­pa­re ca­se no­tes."

  The ca­su­al sug­ges­ti­on didn't ne­ces­sa­rily in­c­lu­de a night of lewd and las­ci­vi­o­us ac­ti­vity. The po­ten­ti­al was the­re, tho­ugh. Most de­fi­ni­tely the­re.

  Still, Cleo step­ped ca­uti­o­usly. "If I know the Old Man, he pro­bably sin­ged off a few of yo­ur eye­las­hes when you told him I was in Char­les­ton. Su­re you want to risk his wrath by, uh, com­pa­ring ca­se no­tes?"

  "He did, and I am."

  He ga­ve the grin then. The Jack Do­no­van Spe­ci­al. Slow, lazy and all sex.

  "You're worth a few sin­ged eye­las­hes, Cle­opat­ra Ap­h­ro­di­te. I'll pick you up at six. Whe­re are you sta­ying?"

  "Why don't I get a re­com­men­da­ti­on for a go­od se­afo­od pla­ce and call you? We can me­et the­re."

  No sen­se spo­iling the mo­ment by let­ting him know she was bed­ding down just a hop, skip and a jump from Slo­an's back do­or.

  "Go­od eno­ugh. You've got my cell num­ber?"

  "I've got it. La­ter, Do­no­van."

  She clim­bed out of his ve­hic­le and in­to the Es­ca­la­de. The key went in­to the ig­ni­ti­on. The mo­tor tur­ned over with a well-bred hum. Cleo shif­ted in­to Dri­ve and sat with her fo­ot on the bra­ke, en­ga­ged in a fi­er­ce, si­lent de­ba­te.

  What the hell.

  A jab at the si­de but­ton sent the win­dow whir­ring down.

  "Hey, Do­no­van!"

  His win­dow lo­we­red. Sun­light glin­ted on his tawny ha­ir as he po­ked his he­ad out. "What?"

  "J­ust for the re­cord, I'm not get­ting it on with Marc Slo­an."

  With a wag­gle of her fin­gers, she dro­ve off.

  When her cell pho­ne pin­ged a few mo­ments la­ter, she fi­gu­red it was Do­no­van fol­lo­wing up on her an­no­un­ce­ment. La­fa­yet­te De­ve­re­a­ux's smoky bass rum­b­led out in­s­te­ad.

  "Tho­ught you might want to know I'm lo­okin' at a re­cord of all calls ma­de by our boy, Helms."

  "Any in­te­res­ting ones on the­re?"

  "I ha­ven't chec­ked them all out yet, but the­se fi­ve calls to Mal­ta ca­ught my at­ten­ti­on."

  "Mal­ta, whe­re?"

  She was thin­king so­me small town in So­uth Ca­ro­li­na or Ken­tucky or Ohio. She wasn't thin­king a tiny speck of an is­land in the Me­di­ter­ra­ne­an. Af­ter De­ve­re­a­ux set her stra­ight, she ma­de the con­nec­ti­on.

  "Red-Span­dex Gal sa­id Helms spo­ke with a Bri­tish ac­cent. Isn't Mal­ta a for­mer Bri­tish co­lony?"

  "Be­ats me."

  "Did you try the num­bers?"

  "I did. No one an­s­we­red. I for­got abo­ut the ti­me dif­fe­ren­ce, tho­ugh. It's af­ter bu­si­ness ho­urs over the­re."

  Whe­re­ver "the­re" was. Scrun­c­hing her fo­re­he­ad, Cleo tri­ed to con­s­t­ruct a men­tal map of the Me­di­ter­ra­ne­an. She was pretty su­re Mal­ta lay just so­uth of the Ita­li­an bo­ot, so­mew­he­re clo­se to Si­cily.

  "This ca­se is star­ting to ta­ke on a stink," De­ve-re­a­ux com­men­ted, bre­aking in­to her men­tal car­tog­raphy. "I'm thin­king I'd bet­ter call in the feds."

  Cleo swal­lo­wed a gro­an. Her en­co­un­ters with va­ri­o­us go­ver­n­ment se­cu­rity agen­ci­es sin­ce go­ing in­to bu­si­ness for her­self had al­most-al­most- ma­de her reg­ret le­aving the air for­ce. At le­ast then, she'd be­en con­si­de­red one of the go­od guys.

  Be­la­tedly, she re­cal­led she was ha­ving din­ner with one of tho­se go­ver­n­ment agents in a few ho­urs. "Lis­ten, La­fa­yet­te, I just got back from Sunny Po­int Mi­li­tary Oce­an Ter­mi­nal. I dro­ve up the­re with a fri­end of mi­ne. Jack Do­no­van. Air For­ce OSI."

  De­ve­re­a­ux was for­mer Spe­ci­al Ops. She didn't ha­ve to ex­p­la­in the ini­ti­als.

  "If you want, I co­uld ask Jack to run the­se Mal­ta calls thro­ugh his net­works, see if they link to an­y­t­hing hot."

  As she'd an­ti­ci­pa­ted, he le­apt on the chan­ce to cut thro­ugh the or­ga­ni­za­ti­onal ma­ze that con­s­ti­tu­ted the Uni­ted Sta­tes go­ver­n­ment.

  "Are you so­mep­la­ce whe­re I can fax this list?"

  "Not at the mo­ment. Tell you what. Zap it to me at Slo­an En­gi­ne­ering. Ask Slo­an's as­sis­tant to ha­ve it wa­iting for me in the lobby. I'll swing by and pick it up."

  "It's on its way."

  The man was right, Cleo tho­ught as she cut ac­ross two la­nes of traf­fic, ig­no­ring the idi­ot who le­aned on his horn. This ca­se was star­ting to ta­ke on a stink.

  She didn't re­ali­ze how much of a stink, tho­ugh, un­til she pul­led up in front of Slo­an En­gi­ne­ering's cor­po­ra­te he­ad­qu­ar­ters. Le­aving the Es­ca­la­de id­ling in a red zo­ne, she flas­hed her ID at the re­cep­ti­onist man­ning the lobby desk.

  "Do you ha­ve a fax for me?"

  "Yes, Ms. North." She han­ded over a se­aled en­ve­lo­pe. "Ms. Wal­ker sent it down a few mi­nu­tes ago."

  With a word of thanks, Cleo fol­ded the en­ve­lo­pe and stuf­fed it in her back poc­ket. She star­ted out of the lobby, then spun back to eye the hu­ge glo­be dot­ted with lit­tle red lights.

  The For­bes ar­tic­le she'd di­ges­ted whi­le flying in­to Char­les­ton in­di­ca­ted Slo­an En­gi­ne­ering had cor­ne­red the mar­ket on this emis­si­on-con­t­rol ret­ro­fit bu­si­ness. Gi­ven Jack's in­te­rest in the Pit-sen­bar­ger-and the una­ut­ho­ri­zed ac­cess to the Af­lo­at Pre­po­si­ti­oning da­ta­ba­se-Geo wo­uld bet one of tho­se lit­tle red lights rep­re­sen­ted the Pits. "How do you know which ship is which dot?" she as­ked the re­cep­ti­onist.

  Smi­ling, the yo­ung wo­man po­in­ted to a mar­b­le pa­nel set amid the lush gre­enery on the far si­de of the lobby. Fi­ve rows of but­tons mar­c­hed down the mar­b­le slab, alig­ned as pre­ci­sely as Prus­si­an sol­di­ers.

  "Tho­se but­tons rep­re­sent an al­p­ha­be­ti­cal list of all our ships at sea. You just lo­ok up a par­ti­cu­lar ship, push the but­ton be­si­de its na­me, and its dot will glow a bright, ste­ady red. Push the but­ton twi­ce, and you'll see the ro­ute of its cur­rent vo­ya­ge." "Thanks."

  Su­re eno­ugh, Slo­an En­gi­ne­ering cla­imed the U.S. Mo­tor Ves­sel A1C Wil­li­am H. Pit­sen­bar­ger as one of its own. Cleo pus­hed the but­ton be­si­de the ship's na­me and se­ar­c­hed for a bright, ste­ady glow. She fo­und it in the eas­tern Me­di­ter­ra­ne­an. The Pits was pro­bably stan­ding by to re­sup­ply U.S. air­c­raft ope­ra­ting from Tur­kish ba­ses. Cu­ri­o­us, Cleo pus­hed the but­ton a se­cond ti­me.

  A li­ne of am­ber dots ap­pe­ared, cut­ting a long tra­il that led from what she gu­es­sed was Sunny Po­int Mi­li­tary Oce­an Ter­mi­nal. The stre­am cros­sed the At­lan­tic. Ma­de a blip of a stop in the Azo­res. Pas­sed thro­ugh the Stra­it of Gib­ral­tar. Cru­ised by Sar­di­nia. Ma­de anot­her stop at…

  Cleo's chest squ­e­ezed. Ice spre­ad from her neck to her to­es. Sto­ne cold, she sta­red at the small is­land gro­up just off the so­ut­he­as­tern tip of Si­cily.

  The lar­ger of tho­se is­lands was Mal­ta. She was su­re of it.

  Every in­ves­ti­ga­ti­ve in­s­tinct she'd ho­ned over the ye­ars sat up and star­ted scre­ec­hing. Her gut told her the­re had to be a con­nec­ti­on bet­we­en Slo­an's mis­sing em­p­lo­yee, the una­ut­ho­ri­zed in­t­ru­si­on in­to the APP da­ta­ba­se and that ship on sta­ti­on in the eas­tern Med.

  Eyes loc­ked on that ste­ady red glow, she dug out her cell pho­ne. Do­no­van an­s­we­red on the se­cond ring.

  "It's Cleo, Jack."

  "You de­ci­ded on a res­ta­urant al­re­ady?"
/>
  "For­get the res­ta­urant. Me­et me at Slo­an En­gi­ne­ering."

  "What's up?"

  "I'll bri­ef you when you get he­re. Lo­ok for me in the lobby."

  Whi­le she wa­ited for Jack to ar­ri­ve, Cleo de­ba­ted the et­hics of the si­tu­ati­on. Slo­an was her cli­ent. He'd hi­red her to find a mis­sing em­p­lo­yee. The fact that the em­p­lo­yee co­uld be lin­ked to a pos­sib­le bre­ach of a clas­si­fi­ed da­ta­ba­se put Cleo in an aw­k­ward po­si­ti­on.

  If she as­sis­ted Jack with his in­ves­ti­ga­ti­on, she might un­co­ver evi­den­ce that in­vol­ved or af­fec­ted her cli­ent. Then aga­in, she re­aso­ned, she might not. At this po­int, the­re we­re a who­le lot mo­re qu­es­ti­ons than the­re we­re an­s­wers.

  And she co­uldn't sha­ke the gro­wing con­vic­ti­on that at le­ast so­me of the an­s­wers wo­uld le­ad back to that lit­tle red dot in the eas­tern Me­di­ter­ra­ne­an.

  If so, she'd pro­tect her cli­ent's in­te­rests. Pro­fes­si­onal et­hics re­qu­ired her to. But she'd back off the Trish Jac­k­son ca­se im­me­di­ately.

  Jack whe­eled in­to the un­der­g­ro­und ga­ra­ge so­me fif­te­en mi­nu­tes af­ter the call from Cleo. He jab­bed the ele­va­tor but­ton, his mo­uth twis­ting when he re­mem­be­red how, yes­ter­day, the ele­va­tor had stop­ped one flo­or up, the do­ors had who­os­hed open and Tro­ub­le had wed­ged her way abo­ard.

  She was wa­iting for him in the lobby this ti­me. Her brown eyes held no tra­ce of the­ir usu­al ir­re­ve­rent gle­am when she spot­ted Jack and wa­ved him over.

  "I want to show you so­met­hing." She pun­c­hed one of the but­tons set in­to a gray-gre­en mar­b­le pa­nel. "See that bright red light in the eas­tern Med?"

  He se­ar­c­hed the fre­es­tan­ding glo­be that do­mi­na­ted the lobby un­til he spot­ted the bright pin­p­rick of red.

  "I see it."

  "That's the Pit­sen­bar­ger. And this is the ro­ute it fol­lo­wed on its cur­rent vo­ya­ge." She hit the but­ton aga­in. "No­te the stops."

  Jack trac­ked the dots. "I see two. The Azo­res and…" He squ­in­ted at the small is­land gro­up in mid-oce­an bet­we­en Si­cily and the Af­ri­can co­ast. "What are tho­se? The Mal­te­se Is­lands?"

  "You got it."

  She slid a whi­te en­ve­lo­pe out of her poc­ket and ex­t­rac­ted a fol­ded she­et of pa­per.

  "And this is a re­cord of pho­ne calls ma­de from the con­do ren­ted by the man Trish Jac­k­son- Slo­an's mis­sing of­fi­ce as­sis­tant-cal­led from her doc­tor's of­fi­ce. De­tec­ti­ve De­ve­re­a­ux of the Char­les­ton PD just fa­xed me a copy."

  The pa­per crac­k­led as she un­fol­ded it, a tiny so­und al­most lost amid the splash of the wa­ter­fall ac­ross the lobby. Her fa­ce grim, she pas­sed it to Do­no­van.

  "The fi­ve calls you see cir­c­led we­re ma­de to a num­ber in Mal­ta."

  It to­ok Jack less than a he­ar­t­be­at to ma­ke the con­nec­ti­on. Sud­denly the in­ves­ti­ga­ti­on that had bro­ught him to Char­les­ton to­ok on a new sco­pe and ur­gency.

  "Well, hell."

  "I fi­gu­red that wo­uld be yo­ur re­ac­ti­on. Mi­ne was pretty much the sa­me."

  Jack's ga­ze whip­ped back to the glo­be. The bright red dot bur­ned in­to his mind as his tho­ughts char­ged down a do­zen dif­fe­rent al­leys. All of them dark and sud­denly dan­ge­ro­us. And all cir­c­ling back to Marc Slo­an.

  "Let's go up­s­ta­irs. I think it's ti­me I tur­ned this in­for­mal in­qu­iry of­fi­ci­al."

  Di­ane's in­ter­com rang. On­ce. Twi­ce. A third ti­me. She ig­no­red the chi­me. Fin­gers la­ced in a bo­ne-crus­hing grip, she sta­red un­se­e­ing at the hazy af­ter­no­on sky be­yond the wall of win­dows. Fury bo­iled in­si­de her, hot and thick. It had sin­ce yes­ter­day, when Cleo North had drop­ped the bom­b­s­hell abo­ut Trish be­ing preg­nant.

  Marc was the fat­her. Di­ane didn't want to be­li­eve it, but co­uldn't deny the aw­ful cer­ta­inty that buz­zed aro­und in her he­ad li­ke a swarm of angry wasps.

  Why el­se wo­uld Trish ha­ve avo­ided sha­ring any de­ta­ils abo­ut the man she was se­e­ing? She knew-ever­yo­ne who wor­ked he­re in the exe­cu­ti­ve su­ite did-how Di­ane felt abo­ut of­fi­ce ro­man­ces. Par­ti­cu­larly with the han­d­so­me, cha­ris­ma­tic boss. Di­ane had ma­de that cle­ar eno­ugh af­ter that in­ci­dent on Marc's yacht.

  Had Trish sen­sed that Di­ane's ri­gid pro­hi­bi­ti­on aga­inst of­fi­ce af­fa­irs stem­med from the fact that she her­self lus­ted af­ter Marc? Had Trish sat the­re, with her che­er­ful smi­les and res­pec­t­ful "Yes, Ms. Wal­ker's," all the whi­le la­ug­hing at the mid­dle-aged fo­ol so ho­pe­les­sly in lo­ve with her boy­f­ri­end?

  God! Boy­f­ri­end. What an ab­surd, asi­ni­ne, ri­di­cu­lo­us la­bel for a man li­ke Marc Slo­an.

  She was ma­king a men­tal list of a few mo­re ap­prop­ri­ate la­bels when the do­or to Marc's of­fi­ce flew open. Shir­t­s­le­eves rol­led up, Marc clut­c­hed a set of sche­ma­tics in one hand.

  "Isn't that yo­ur in­ter­com?"

  As if in an­s­wer, the in­s­t­ru­ment rang aga­in.

  "Aren't you go­ing to an­s­wer it?"

  "No."

  The an­no­yan­ce on his fa­ce re­ar­ran­ged it­self in­to ir­ri­ta­ti­on. "What's the prob­lem he­re, Di­ane? You've be­en ac­ting li­ke a ro­bot with a short cir­cu­it all day."

  "Ro­bot?" Her he­ad snap­ped up. "Ro­bot?"

  That's all she was to him. All she'd ever be­en. A mac­hi­ne! A dam­ned mac­hi­ne!

  The emo­ti­ons she'd kept loc­ked in­si­de her for so long scre­amed for re­le­ase. She tri­ed to swal­low them, tas­ted only bi­le. She co­uldn't cho­ke them back. Not aga­in. Ne­ver aga­in.

  Sho­ving out of her cha­ir, she slap­ped both palms on her desk. "You want to know what the prob­lem is? I'll tell you what the prob­lem is."

  The ra­ge erup­ted, whi­te hot and scor­c­hing.

  "The prob­lem," she hur­led ac­ross the ro­om, "is the over­se­xed, ove­ra­ged prick I work for!"

  He co­uldn't ha­ve lo­oked mo­re as­to­nis­hed if one of the wel­ders at the ship­yard had lit an acet­y­le­ne torch un­der his ba­re ass. Di­ane tas­ted a sin­g­le, se­aring in­s­tant of tri­umph be­fo­re his glan­ce sli­ced to the left.

  Her he­ad whip­ped aro­und. One of her as­sis­tants sto­od fro­zen in the open do­or to her of­fi­ce, his hand on the knob, his mo­uth aga­pe. Two ot­her pe­op­le we­re partly vi­sib­le be­hind him. All three, ob­vi­o­usly, had had a rin­g­si­de se­at for the ma­in event.

  "Uh…er…" Her as­sis­tant was al­most in­co­he­rent. "We ha­ve, um, vi­si­tors, Ms. Wal­ker. For Mr. Slo­an."

  "Show them in and get out!"

  "Yes, ma'am."

  He jum­ped asi­de, wa­ved the ot­her two in and scut­tled off li­ke a crab po­ked with a sharp stick.

  Di­ane didn't try to re­in in her fury. She'd kept her tho­ughts in check for so long, it felt glo­ri­o­us to fi­nal­ly re­le­ase them.

  "Ms. North and Spe­ci­al Agent Do­no­van are he­re to see you, Marc." Yan­king open her desk dra­wer, she snat­c­hed out her pur­se. "I'll ha­ve so­me­one bring in cof­fee."

  "Wa­it just a mi­nu­te!" Jaw wor­king, he cros­sed the of­fi­ce in two stri­des and plan­ted him­self bet­we­en her and the do­or. "You think I'm go­ing to let you waltz out af­ter the dis­p­lay you just put on?"

  "Yes, I do."

  "Di­ane, for God's sa­ke! What's go­ing on he­re?"

  Her lip cur­led. "You idi­ot! If you can't fi­gu­re it out for yo­ur­self, I'm su­re as hell not go­ing to en­lig­h­ten you. Get out of my way."

  He didn't ap­pre­ci­ate be­ing la­be­led an idi­ot any mo�
�re than he had li­ked prick. His eyes went har­der than she'd ever se­en them.

  "You go thro­ugh that do­or and you're fi­red, Wal­ker."

  "I'll sa­ve you the tro­ub­le. I qu­it, Slo­an. Now…get…o­ut…of…my…way"

  Stiff-sho­ul­de­red, he mo­ved asi­de, but the pro­mi­se in tho­se sla­te-gray eyes told Di­ane this wasn't the end of it. He'd track her down, wring the truth from her, add to the hu­mi­li­ati­on that now fu­eled her ra­ge.

  Plot­ting an im­me­di­ate es­ca­pe to so­me re­mo­te re­sort in Ari­zo­na or Mon­ta­na or New Ze­aland, she lif­ted her chin and mar­c­hed to the do­or. This ti­me it was Spe­ci­al Agent Do­no­van who mo­ved to block her exit.

  "I ne­ed to talk to you, Ms. Wal­ker."

  "So­me ot­her ti­me. I'll call you and ar­ran­ge a-"

  "Now, Ms. Wal­ker."

  Bro­ught up short, Di­ane blin­ked in sur­p­ri­se. No one ever used a to­ne li­ke that with her. Not even Marc. He wo­uldn't da­re.

  "I can get a war­rant if I ne­ed to."

  The bre­ath slid out of her, le­aving a sud­den hol­low fe­eling in the pit of her sto­mach. She'd wor­ked for de­fen­se con­t­rac­tors for mo­re than twenty ye­ars. Mi­li­tary in­ves­ti­ga­ti­ve agents didn't thre­aten to pro­cu­re a war­rant un­less they had gro­unds for one.

  "Is the­re so­me pla­ce we can talk pri­va­tely?"

  "I…uh…"

  Her hand went to her thro­at, an in­s­tin­c­ti­ve at­tempt to hi­de her sud­denly wild pul­se. Was she in tro­ub­le? What did this man know? What co­uld he know?

  "A pri­va­te of­fi­ce, Ms. Wal­ker? Or a con­fe­ren­ce ro­om, per­haps?"

  Be­fo­re she co­uld for­ce out a res­pon­se, Marc stro­de for­ward. "You're not in­ter­vi­ewing one of my em­p­lo­ye­es wit­ho­ut a cor­po­ra­te at­tor­ney in at­ten­dan­ce, Do­no­van."

  Gray eyes clas­hed with blue.

  "Ms. Wal­ker is no lon­ger yo­ur em­p­lo­yee. If she de­si­res to ha­ve an at­tor­ney pre­sent du­ring the in­ter­vi­ew, it's her call, not yo­urs."

  He was right, Di­ane re­ali­zed. Her ru­na­way pul­se stop­ped de­ad for a se­cond be­fo­re ta­king off aga­in. She didn't an­s­wer to Marc an­y­mo­re. She didn't an­s­wer to an­yo­ne.