Intentional Acts

by Melissa F. Miller

  Gella remained focused on Sheila Anne, who still looked as if she might faint.

  Sasha croaked. Her throat was bone dry. She worked up enough saliva to speak and tried again. “Do you want me to take care of these pictures?”

  Sheila Anne didn’t respond.

  “Why don’t you let Sasha handle that envelope for you? She’ll know what to do,” Gella suggested.

  The stricken widow stared at Sasha with wide, terrified eyes for a moment then nodded her agreement.

  Sasha stuffed the pages back into the envelope and ran, stumbling out of the house before Sheila Anne could change her mind.

  28

  Leo smashed his hand down to silence the blaring alarm clock. He rolled over onto his back and opened his eyes. It took a moment to realize where he was, and why.

  He eyeballed the time display. It was nine thirty on the dot.

  He stood, cracked his back, and padded to the bathroom in his boxers and undershirt. He used the complimentary toothpaste and his finger to brush his teeth. Then he splashed cold water on his face and ran a hand over the two days’ growth on his chin and cheeks.

  He fumbled through the pockets of the pants he’d worn last night until he found his phone.

  His finger hovered over his contact list. He wanted, more than anything, to call Sasha. But he needed to call Hank first.

  He raked his hands through his hair while he waited for the call to connect.

  “Hi. Tell me you’ve got something for me.” Hank answered halfway through the first ring.

  “I’m working on it.”

  “That’s not good enough.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” he bristled.

  “What it means is the Bureau asserted jurisdiction over the investigation and—”

  “Why would they do that?”

  “It’s procedure, according to Ingrid. Even though a no questions kill order is designed to provide maximum cover for the ordering agency—”

  “Cover for the agency? Screw the operative, right?” Hot anger flared in his gut.

  “How ‘bout you stop interrupting me?” Hank’s voice was cool, impersonal.

  “Sorry.”

  “Like I was saying, despite the fact that the order gives the agency complete deniability, Project Storm Chaser authorized the Bureau to step in and make sure the investigation is resolved in a desirable manner.”

  “So, in plain English, the task force is ready to perpetrate a cover up if necessary.”

  “In a nutshell. Don’t act surprised. You’ve been around long enough to know how the sausage is made. And, while you’re not the intended beneficiary, any sanitation work they do will ultimately protect you, too.”

  He rolled his neck to work out the kinks and release some of his building irritation. “Okay, that’s fair. But in this case, it’s a problem. Because any brick agent worth his salt will take one look at Essiah Wheaton and know it wasn’t a government job.”

  “It’s already happened. Ingrid’s asking questions. Give me something.”

  “I’ve worked my way into a group of Wheaton’s buddies. I’m meeting up with them again in about an hour. I’ll come away with something solid from that. Can you buy me the rest of the morning?”

  “Leo, you know I will. But I need something to buy it with.”

  He squeezed his eyes shut and flipped through his mental notes from the conversations with Wheaton’s crew.

  “Sheila Anne Johnson.”

  “Who’s she?” Leo heard the familiar zing of excitement in Hank’s voice.

  “Wheaton’s wife. Another native Texan, but from a different part of the state. His pals said they met in August or September, were married by December, and moved to Mars at the end of January. That’s a little unusual, don’t you think?”

  “Maybe, maybe not. After all, ‘the heart wants what it wants.’”

  “What, are you listening to pop with Brianna now?”

  “What? No, that’s an Emily Dickinson quote, you philistine.”

  “If you say so, old man.”

  They were both laying on the shtick a little heavier than was strictly necessary, but it was better than letting a wall of distrust spring up between them. Hank was, in many ways, his partner more than his boss. And the worst feeling out in the field was the suspicion that your partner didn’t have your back.

  He winced at that thought. The obvious corollary cut a bit too close: The worst feeling in a marriage was the suspicion that your partner didn’t have your back.

  “I’ll feed her name to Ingrid and run it through some databases, see if anything pops.”

  “Thanks. I’ll call you with an update after I meet these guys. Don’t call me unless you have to, okay?”

  “Understood.”

  “And Hank?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Can you check on Sasha for me?”

  Hank made a sound that was half-sigh, half-groan.

  “What?”

  “She was pretty fired up yesterday. I don’t want to have to lie to her or evade her questions. Can’t you just … I dunno, text her?”

  “Gee, I wonder why you’re still single.”

  Hank snorted. “Let’s see if we make any progress with this Johnson woman. Maybe you can wrap things up this morning in time to meet Sasha for a late lunch and make up for the past couple of days.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Stay sharp.”

  “Right.”

  He ended the call and spent a few minutes scrolling through pictures of Finn and Fiona on his phone’s camera roll. He smiled at the images, but his chest cavity felt as if it were being squeezed in a vise—he missed his kids so much that the thought of them gave him an actual, physical heartache. He shut down the phone and found his clothes.

  The clerk at the check-in desk had mentioned a free continental breakfast bar in the lobby, and he had time to spare. He wasn’t quite sure what brunch at a dive bar would entail, so he figured he might as well grab a bite before he headed to Mugsy’s.

  29

  “You’re not going to believe this, but that guy, the fed, is staying at the same hotel as us.”

  Fletch pulled the phone away from his ear.

  Was Chuck joking? What a dumb thing to joke about.

  “Are you serious? How small is that town?”

  “Smaller than small. And I’m dead serious. What should we do?”

  Fletch watched from the veranda as his pool guy crouched by the water and took out a case of testing strips.

  “What am I, your babysitter? Did you get the pictures developed?”

  “Yeah, of course.” Chuck said in a sore voice. “We drove over to Wheaton’s house this morning and slipped the envelope under the front door.”

  “In broad daylight? Was she home?”

  These two geniuses were going to give him an ulcer—unless his growing suspicion that Melody Lynn was sneaking around with his pool boy like a caricature of a desperate housewife did him in first.

  “Relax. She was home, but she had company. There were two cars in the driveway. I watched through the binoculars from behind a row of trees while Marcus took care of the envelope. She was in her living room with two other ladies the whole time, crying and talking. None of them noticed him.”

  “Hmm.” Fletch’s attention wandered from Marcus’s story as his wife walked into the kitchen wearing a hot pink two-piece bathing suit and some oversized sunglasses like she thought she was Audrey Hepburn. “Hang on a sec,” he instructed Marcus.

  Then he covered the phone with his hand and yelled into the kitchen, “Hey, hon, you can’t go swimming right now. Phillip’s out there checking the levels.”

  She slid open the glass door and joined him on the covered sun porch. She pushed the sunglasses up to the crown of her head and squinted toward the pool.

  “That’s not Phillip, silly. That’s Neo.”

  “Neo? What in the hell kind of name is Neo?”

  She shrugged. “It looks hot out t
here. Did you offer him some lemonade or an iced coffee?”

  “No, I didn’t offer him any cold drinks, Melly. I’m paying him with American currency to do a job. He can buy his own freaking lemonade.”

  She rolled her eyes and tottered off on her kitten-heeled sandals in the direction of the pool boy.

  He clenched his fist and returned his attention to his other, more pressing problem.

  “I’m back.”

  “So what should we do?”

  “I imagine this Sheila Anne’ll go straight to the cops with the envelope. All you need to do is keep an eye on the G-man until he leaves town or the local authorities catch up with him.”

  “So, follow him?”

  Fletch bit back his first, sarcastic response. And his second.

  “Yes,” he said simply.

  “Got it. Tail him, but don’t engage.”

  “Right.”

  “What if I have Marcus call the cops, you know, anonymously? Maybe in an hour or so? He could tip them off that this guy was seen near Wheaton’s house before he was murdered and give them his location to speed things along?”

  Fletch smiled to himself. “Now that’s the kind of strategy I expect from you, Chuck. That’s brilliant. Yes, do that.”

  “Roger that. I’ll call you when we have an update.”

  “Good.”

  Fletcher ended the call, narrowed his eyes, and settled back on the chaise lounge to watch his wife flirt with Neo. He couldn’t quite tell if the guy was just really tan or if he was brown.

  Either way, Melody had better watch her step, he told himself. Otherwise, Chuck would have another job waiting for him when he got back to town.

  30

  Within seconds after pulling out of Shelia Anne’s driveway, Sasha realized she was shaking too badly to drive. She pulled over to the shoulder, parked, and turned off the engine.

  She pressed her palms flat against the tops of her thighs and focused on her breathing with an intensity she’d last felt during active labor with the twins.

  Now, as then, her efforts didn’t stop her from vomiting. She jerked open the door and lurched out onto the berm just in time to lose her coffee in the gravel and not all over her front seat.

  She leaned against the hood of the car until she stopped heaving then she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and took a series of deep, greedy breaths to fill her lungs with fresh air.

  Once she felt steadier on her feet, she stretched across the front seat of the station wagon and rummaged through her glove box.

  Parenting twins was like being an Eagle Scout, or a big firm associate for that matter. Prepare for every contingency. That was her motto.

  She re-emerged from the car with a package of natural face wipes, a travel toothbrush and toothpaste, and a lukewarm mini-bottle of water.

  Once she was minty-fresh and sparkling clean again, she slid back behind the wheel of the car but didn’t start the engine.

  She sat stock still and upright and stared through the windshield at the undulating hills in front of her, studiously refusing to so much as glance at the envelope resting on her passenger seat.

  After a long moment, she asked herself the question that had turned her stomach:

  Did she believe her husband had sat across the table from her and shared a meal, then walked the dog, and left her home with their children to drive out here and kill someone else’s husband?

  No. Her heart answered instantly and emphatically. Not Connelly. Not her husband, lover, best friend.

  Her brain piped up. He took his gun out of the safe, left in the middle of a rainstorm, and hasn’t come back. Oh, and that is him skulking around Essiah Wheaton and Sheila Anne Johnson’s backyard in those pictures. And someone killed Essiah Wheaton.

  Her stomach lurched again. She pressed her palm flat against it, even though she knew it was completely empty now.

  There must be a reasonable explanation.

  Sure. Like, maybe you’re married to a special agent who works for a government agency so secretive that you’re not allowed to know what it’s called. And maybe, just maybe, this shady agency engages in activities the government would rather keep quiet. Perhaps, say, at the direction of the NCTC.

  The logic was airtight and seductive. It made so much sense.

  No.

  She covered her ears with her hands even though that did nothing to silence the words considering they were inside her head.

  She exhaled and watched the landscape blur like a watercolor painting as her eyes filled with tears.

  One of two things was true. She was either losing her mind or coming to grips with the fact that she was married to a stranger.

  Her heart whispered. Or, third option, Connelly’s being set up.

  She sat with that idea for a moment. It could explain why he’d disappeared. He might be trying to clear his name. She glanced at the envelope. And that note—who types a farewell note to his beloved and, not only that, leaves such a sterile message: These are photographs of the man who killed me. No my darling Sheila Anne? No, Love, Essiah? It smelled funny.

  Or you’re deluding yourself to avoid reality, her brain hissed.

  She closed her eyes and called up an image of her husband. His clear gray eyes, half-smile, sharp cheekbones, and thick, spiky black hair—with one small patch of gray right behind his left ear, which, she was convinced, he had no idea existed. The man who stayed by her side after she watched a woman die at her feet. Who proposed to her, not once, but twice. Who never doubted her, who never backed down from a threat. Who cooked all their meals, diapered their children, and taught them lullabies in halting Vietnamese. Who donated part of his liver to his estranged father and then turned that same man in to the authorities for murder.

  No. Not Connelly.

  She dug her phone out of her bag and placed the call she had to make.

  “Hello?” He answered halfway through the first ring.

  “It’s me.”

  “Uh—”

  “Don’t. Hank, why am I holding a set of photographs of my absent husband lurking in the backyard of a man who was murdered yesterday?”

  “What?” Hank’s confusion seemed genuine, but then she doubted she knew him as well as she thought.

  “Let’s try it this way. Did Connelly kill Essiah Wheaton? And if so, was it at your direction?”

  “I can’t answer these questions.”

  “That’s not a no.”

  “It’s not a yes,” he countered.

  “Hank, I don’t have time for this BS.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Irrelevant.”

  “Are you with Leo?”

  “Are you kidding? I haven’t seen him for two days. Why is that? Where is he? What have you told him to do?” She kept her voice as level as she could manage, but she could hear a note of rising panic as she spat rapid-fire questions at a man she’d always considered a friend—no, more than a friend. A rock.

  Hank answered her in a patient tone. “You know I can’t tell you anything, sweetheart.”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  “Okay. I’m sorry. Look, I don’t know anything about any photographs. Why don’t you come over to my place, and we can talk this through?”

  An ugly thought popped into her mind. Was he stalling? Keeping her on the line so he could pinpoint her location? She was certain he had the technical capability to do it.

  “I have to go. If you talk to my husband, let him know that if he didn’t kill that man, someone’s trying to make it look like he did.”

  She hung up and stared down at the phone in her hands. Was there someone else she could call? Naya? Will?

  The only person she wanted to talk to—needed to talk to—was Connelly. Together, they could figure out a way to fix this. They’d gotten out of tighter spots more than once.

  Her finger hesitated just above his name. She should call him. She had to call him. But the fact that he’d left her on her own stung. He clearly di
dn’t want her help.

  31

  Leo was walking across Mugsy’s parking lot when his phone rang. To his considerable horror, he’d just surreptitiously smelled his armpit. He assumed the dress code for a wake at a dive bar was fairly loose, but he also figured wearing the same clothes he’d worn last night was pushing the envelope.

  At the sound of the ringtone he’d assigned to Hank, he forgot about his hygiene issue.

  “Did you get something on Sheila Johnson?”

  “Hi, yourself. No. But we have a problem.”

  “Hank, I already have a problem, remember? This new one is all yours.”

  “Sorry, that’s not how it works.”

  Leo sighed. “Look, I’m about to go into a biker bar. I need to get my head on straight first. So why don’t you just tell me what’s going on so we can get on with it.’

  “You’re not going to like it.”

  He didn’t like any of this, but he wasn’t about to express that thought to his boss.

  “Okay.”

  “Somehow—and, no, before you ask, I don’t know how—somehow, your wife got her hands on a series of photographs of you that someone took the night you cased Wheaton’s house.”

  “I knew that wasn’t a freaking raccoon.”

  “Yeah, well, whoever was out there is claiming you killed Wheaton. That’s obviously something we could mop up. Except …”

  “Except the field agent assigned to the case is going to say Wheaton was strangled, and not by a pro, right?” A boulder landed in his stomach as he forced out the words.

  “Right. It wasn’t a clean kill. I mean, no fingerprints, no DNA. But the technique … strictly amateur hour. But that’s not the real issue.”

  “Oh?” He stopped just outside Mugsy’s metal doors. “What’s the real issue?”

  “The real issue is that Sasha is hopping mad. She’s running around with those pictures, and I have no idea where she is. I tried to geo-locate and triangulate the call, but she hung up too soon.”

  “Crap.”

  “Double crap.”

  “And she’s got it in her head that you’re being railroaded.”