Not Exactly Allies

by Kathryn Judson

CHAPTER 23 – TECHNICAL PROBLEMS

  Darlene Dourlein, hurting and tired, dutifully dragged herself to the office at the usual time. Her first order of business was to pretend there was a technical problem that only Carterson from wiretap could fix. Finding her on the phone when he showed up, and not knowing he'd been called in on a pretext so she could fill him in on overnight developments, he started poking around. He came upon a wiretap. He stashed it in a small container brought along for just such a contingency, and looked around for more. Then he dusted for fingerprints.

  "I don't know how you do it," he said reverently, once she was off the phone. "You have half the people in the building convinced that you're psychic, you know. And in case you're wondering, I've been cleaning and dusting here, there, and everywhere since Felicity called me. A person can't be too tidy when company might show up any second, as grandmother used to say. This set-up can't be more than forty minutes old. That's what I mean, though. How do you just walk into a room and smell trouble?" He leaned closer. "More to the point, is it teachable?"

  "It might be, only I didn't. I only wanted to chat with you, really."

  "Whatever you say. You're the information princess."

  "Don't get fresh."

  "But get on with the job, eh? Oh, all right," he said, clownishly. He lifted dusted prints with adhesive tape, cataloged his evidence, then dug in the office closet for cleaner and towels, which he cheerfully used to good effect.

  "Too bad you're so young," Darlene said. "Cheerfully tidy men who clean up after themselves are hard enough to come by. I might be tempted to remarry, presented with a proper specimen."

  "Careful, now. There's many an older woman who marries beneath herself these days. Someone might take you seriously."

  "I heard you're taken anyway."

  "Word travels fast."

  "Garbled messages travel fast. I've heard five variations on the occupation of the lucky woman."

  "Considering that she holds down two part-time jobs in addition to her full-time one, there's a fighting chance more than one rumor might be true, as it happens. Manages a 999 center, raises heritage vegetables, and is half-owner of a dairy, just so you don't waste brainpower right now."

  "Doesn't sound a city gal."

  "That's the biggest obstacle. All my ties are urban, all hers rural."

  "However did you meet, if you don't mind my asking?"

  "I can't stand the sort of vegetable bred to travel or sit around looking good. I'm always on the prowl for someone who provides an honest tomato."

  "Speaking of prowling, shall we take a look at whatever of this office's surveillance tapes might be relevant?" she said, as she began typing the appropriate commands. She faltered. She looked confused. She typed some more. She shook her head. "Here, you try," she said, moving out of the way.

  Carterson sat and typed. Frowned. Tried a different set of commands. And then another. And then he called security. "I say," he said, "Do you have a system-wide failure of security cams or is it merely Stolemaker's office that's in ruins? Or more precisely, running loops of pictures from last week?"

  There were alarm bells up and down the halls, and the sound of fire doors sliding shut. Darlene's computer screen flashed "Network under maintenance."

  Carterson checked that he had his collected fingerprints securely in his pocket, and automatically headed for the door, meaning to wrestle through the fire doors and get to his department. Darlene flagged him down. Not being the sort to abandon a damsel in distress, he stopped in his tracks.

  "I might need your help," she said. She cleared her desk and locked papers in a drawer. "This way," she said. She led him to the closet, where, with some effort, she got a hidden door open. The door let into a narrow passageway between the walls, barely big enough for either of them. He went in first. Once in, she closed the hidden door behind her.

  "And where does this go?" Carterson asked, shining a flashlight beam down the passage.

  "I can't remember. I've never had to use it, considering I've never felt under attack from the inside before. It just seems better than sitting still, or heading out where expected, given the circumstances."

  "I'm with you on that, now that I stop to think about it. Well, here goes nothing."

  They eased carefully down the darkened way for a few long minutes.

  "This seems to be the end of the passage," Carterson said, keeping his voice down. "Why don't you stay back there while I check what's the other side of this door?"

  "Listen first," Darlene suggested.

  "Always. Listening is all in a day's work for me, in case you've forgotten."

  "I hadn't forgotten. The unusual circumstances might have thrown anyone off his game, I thought."

  "Ever the diplomat. Now shhhh. Hold the torch while I see what the latching is."

  He put his ear against the door. As satisfied as he could be that no one was the other side, he started to put his hand on the doorknob. He pulled his hand back. He looked closely at the knob. "Bear up a moment. My curiosity is on full burn. I'm going to dust for prints. Unless you think we should keep concentrating on fleeing?"

  "Hiding suits me as well as running, for now at least. Dust away."

  He did. Darlene choked on stray dust.

  "Sorry about that," Carterson whispered. He struggled to get himself rearranged so he could get out his pocket notebook and tape and other accoutrements needed to finish the job. "Remind me to go on a diet when this is over, will you?" he said.

  "It wouldn't do you any good. None of your bulk is from fat, from what I can see."

  "Flattery will get you nowhere, but thanks."

  "We're talking too much, aren't we?"

  "Probably. Sorry. I always have been a wee bit claustrophobic. That's why I generally work in the main labs, and not in those equipment-infested small vans."

  "Why don't I carry those prints, to make sure they don't get mixed with the ones from the office?" Darlene said, changing the subject.

  "Ordinarily I'd say no. But since we're more or less smuggling, I guess it makes sense to split things up. If one of us gets snagged, there's still a good chance of getting some evidence out. Speaking of evidence, it's all too obvious that someone's been in here trying to lift prints. I don't suppose you have any idea how to clean things up enough to disguise what I've just done?"

  "You didn't think of that earlier?"

  "No. Kick me if you'd like. I deserve it. But usually a fellow goes after dabs after a crime scene is secure. We don't usually have to worry about this."

  Darlene treated this with the silence it deserved.

  "All right," Carterson said, "Sometimes we like to sneak in, and sometimes the courts actually let us do it. In hindsight, I think I fell back on the wrong routine. So now what do we do? Leave the mess and brazen it out later if we have to, if someone finds this mess before I can get back with cleaning supplies?"

  "I don't much like that idea," Darlene said. She took off her scarf and tried to lean past him to polish the doorknob with it. There wasn't room enough. He took the scarf and did the job himself. He listened at the door again. Nothing. He wiped where his ear had been flattened against the surface (it would be humiliating to be identified by an ear print), and then, using the scarf to keep from leaving prints of his own, he moved to open the door. The door was locked.