Okay, maybe falling for Neil so quickly was a consequence of stress and adrenaline, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t real attraction between them, or that they shouldn’t have fun with it. It might keep her sane while her life was otherwise in shambles.
“Or I could contact the company, explain the situation.” She shrugged, mainly because she liked feeling herself moving against Neil’s chest. “At least the part about my husband dying and me needing to get into his phone and cloud account, not the part about possible spies and terrorists. They might give it to me.”
“If they won’t, the police can get a warrant.” He kissed the top of her head. Janice, back with a sheaf of menus, rolled her eyes.
“Get a room! Wild sex I could handle, but I’m not all that interested in watching two of my best friends get mushy on my sofa. Though I guess I did set you up so it’s my fault.” Janice waggled her eyebrows above her red-rimmed glasses. “Anyway, the Thai place is really good and delivers, and the Mexican is good too, but we’d have to pick it up. If you want pizza, I recommend Luigi’s. And seriously, try ASSHOLE for the password. Can’t hurt, can it?”
* * * * *
The hour passed more quickly once they had menus to argue over and eventually pad Thai, summer rolls and a spicy chicken Penang curry to distract them. But finally the time came when Suzanne couldn’t put it off any longer. “So what should I try next? Maybe one of the cars? Or a real aspirational car, like a Maybach? I know he coveted one. Who doesn’t?”
“Have you tried your anniversary?” Neil suggested.
She snorted. “I thought you said people liked passwords that were easy to remember and he forgot that years ago.” Still, she tried it. It didn’t work.
Then she thought of something. Frank had spent his junior year in Germany. Europeans put the day before the month when typing dates.
She tried their anniversary in that format. That one probably wouldn’t work, she figured, but she’d go back and try Frank’s birthday or some other date he’d have been more likely to use.
The phone came to life.
“What the fuck?” she said slowly as she sat up straight, sliding out of Neil’s embrace as if his touch stung her. “What the actual fuck?”
Neil’s body followed hers. He didn’t touch her again, but he sat up at attention when she did, then leaned slightly in her direction.
She was all too aware of him, of the weight of his presence, how much he wanted to put his arm around her, how easy it would be to pull her close and kiss her if he did. Aware, too, of how much she wanted him to do that at the same time she really, really didn’t. She sprang to her feet, started pacing as she tried to open various apps on the phone. Neil leaned forward, his muscles tensing as if he was about to take off into orbit, but he stayed seated.
Smart man. Aggravating man. She needed him to keep his distance for the moment, but at the same time she really didn’t want him to. Part of her hoped he’d shatter her indecision, pound right past the barrier of guilt she was erecting, and distract her from the phone and whatever secrets it might contain. Just knowing the password had thrown her for enough of a loop.
God, she was an idiot. With all the real problems she had, problems that the phone might help her (or more likely the police) solve, she was fixated on Neil, and on the ambiguities and tangles of her relationship with a dead man.
Focus on the phone, dammit. It may contain information with national security implications. Or at the very least something that will help you to resolve some of the questions about your marriage.
By some luck, the password for the Gmail app had been saved. The Gmail address was one she didn’t know, but most of the emails seemed to be either forwarded from Frank’s work email. Only two people seemed to send directly to this address, a Nancy Chang and an R. Delvecchio. She opened one randomly. Turned out R. Delvecchio was a Ron. It sounded totally innocuous, talking about a dog Frank was training…
Only they’d never had a dog.
“It’s a code!” she exclaimed. “I have no idea what it means, but it must be code. Take a look!” She returned to the sofa, brandished the phone under Neil’s nose.
He chuckled. “I can’t read it when it’s moving.” Then he took hold of her wrist, stilling her so he could read.
And so she could melt a little. She could tell herself it was an accident, but she didn’t think for a second he didn’t know what he was doing to her.
When he absently put his hand on the curve of her ass as he read, she knew it was deliberate.
Of course, she hadn’t let go of the phone and moved back like she would have with anyone else, so she was at fault too, assuming “fault” was the right word. As soon as she realized that, she pulled away and began to pace up and down the big room. His touch, she swore, still burned into her skin, right through her jeans. His gaze—how could blue eyes be so heated, so smoldering?—definitely followed her as she paced. He looked like a predator who wanted to spring at her, waiting for the perfect opportunity.
Her breath caught in her throat at the thought, at the blurry but delicious sensual barrage of images that followed.
Focus on the phone. I’m imagining how much I feel for this guy because I’m scared and I’d rather think about sex than danger.
A quick scroll through the emails showed a few more seemingly coded communications from Ron and a lot of fairly straightforward technical and work-related questions from Nancy Chang that were obviously meant to be intelligible only to the two of them, a lot of key details left out.
Either both of his correspondents were involved with the supposed secret project or Frank had been so guarded he even flirted in code.
Which was possible. It didn’t seem likely he would have been flirting with another man—Frank was accepting of other people’s sexuality, but was straight and fairly conventional in what he liked—but maybe he’d met someone who’d completely rocked his world, made him feel things he’d never expected to feel.
It happened sometimes. It kind of had to her, after all. She’d always known she had a passionate, kinky side that didn’t get out much, but Neil had unleashed way more than she’d known was there.
“I hate feeling like a teenager again,” she spat at Janice in passing, hoping Janice would understand.
Janice nodded and mouthed something. It took Suzanne a second to translate it as “horny and conflicted,” which summed up a lot of what was going on. Out loud, she said, “It’s called perimenopause, hon. All the fun head games of adolescence, only with the benefit of experience so you know you’re acting insane.”
Neil stood himself, moving like a big cat. He was going to pounce after all, her treacherous brain and body informed her, but all he did was stretch and then say, “It’s getting late and I have an early shift tomorrow. I need to go.” He shrugged. “I can leave you here with Janice, but I’d feel better if you were at the house with me and Dad.”
Janice smirked, but Suzanne could tell it was a veneer on top of genuine concern. “Cops and their egos. I’m more dangerous than you any day of the week, Callahan!” Then she turned to Suzanne, “On the other hand, Neil has ranged weapons. By the time someone’s close enough for me to whip him into submission, things could get dicey.”
Things could get dicey if she went home with Neil because she didn’t know right now if she was coming or going where he was concerned. Or worse, she did. She’d be coming, and she probably ought to be going.
Yet she found herself grabbing her bag and giving Janice a hug.
She told herself she was thinking about safety, about keeping her friend out of harm’s way.
Pity she didn’t believe her own rationalizations.
Chapter Sixteen
She kept playing with the phone while Neil drove. By the time they got back to Neil’s house she’d learned that while Frank had emailed both Nancy Chang and Ron Delvecchio regularly,
he’d called only one number from this phone. No name, but it almost had to be one of those two, didn’t it? “I’m calling that number,” she announced as she walked in the door, entered the by-now reassuring shabby comfort of Neil’s front room. “It’s a San Francisco area code. If the person’s actually in California, it’s not all that late.”
“Bad idea. Let the police follow up.” He tried to put his arm around Suzanne, but she jerked away.
She wanted his touch. Sweet God in heaven, she wanted his touch, the way it simultaneously grounded her and sent her soaring, made her not care so much about the madness her life had become. But she wasn’t happy about how much she craved his touch. She couldn’t afford the distraction, couldn’t afford how confused she was right now about him.
Janice had said he was a guy who’d give an honest answer to a direct question. That was a novelty, so she’d try the novel approach of asking the direct question.
“Bad idea because I’d be breaking the law somehow, or messing up the chain of evidence or something else that’ll make the cops’ job harder?” That was important and he’d know better than she would. Still, she had a gut feeling that his issue was less procedural and pragmatic than emotional. “Or bad idea because you’re trying to protect me from finding out the truth about Frank, which is bound to be painful no matter what it is?”
“It’s the cops’ job, not yours. If the person’s a fed, she’ll talk in circles to you and you won’t be better off than when you started. If she’s a business contact and dirty, it might tip her off so she hides whatever she’s up to even more effectively. And if she was Frank’s lover…” He eased off, but she could read his thought: if this woman was Frank’s lover, confirmation of the affair she’d suspected would cause her pain without giving them any useful information.
Except it would be useful information, for her if not for the police. She’d have one little area where she’d know what Frank had been up to. Closure wasn’t always comfortable, but at least she’d have that much settled.
“First off, Nancy Chang is probably in San Fran, so I’m betting against them being involved that way. I’m thinking a co-developer on this project. But Frank’s lover would need to know there’s something weird going on. That whoever is coming after me might find out about her. For that matter, a business contact should know too.”
Neil nodded, almost sullenly. “You’ve got a good point. But if it turns out to be someone’s office number, do me a favor and just hang up. You’ll know the person’s probably the co-developer, and we can tell the police that much, but in case they’re dirty, you won’t tip our…their…hand.”
Our…their. She smiled at that little slip. He so wanted to take over, make this his case. She couldn’t decide if it was rampant professional enthusiasm about an interesting, baffling case or possessiveness, a feeling that he was involved in the situation, and she was his…well, she wasn’t sure how she’d describe their relationship, let alone how he’d describe it, but something was going on.
It was almost cute. She’d never tell him that, of course, but cute came to mind. Only a young man had that much passion to spare, in her experience. At a certain point, you learned to hold back, conserve your energy. He wasn’t there yet.
Any more than he conserved his energy in bed.
Which was a damn mistake. She couldn’t afford to think that way. Not until she had a few more answers about what Frank had been up to in the last few months of his life. The fact he’d used their anniversary as a password might mean everything she’d assumed about him was wrong. Or it might have just been a convenient date, one he could remember even if he’d rarely done anything about it unless she’d brought it up first.
“Here goes nothing,” she said with studied casualness as she hit the number in Frank’s phone.
Maybe she’d get lucky and it would be an obvious office number and no one would be there. She’d be able to hang up without saying a word, but the voicemail would give her a name, the company name and maybe a job title.
Instead, someone answered on the first ring. “Chang here.” The woman’s voice was professional, crisp. She sounded Midwestern, Suzanne thought, with the kind of accent newscasters used because it was so middle of the road. Then there was a second of hesitation as if it just sank in that a dead man had been on her caller ID. “Who are you?” The who the hell part was strongly implied, but she was too classy to actually say it, or maybe federal agents were trained not to lose their cool.
Suzanne had thought this part through, even though after this bit of the conversation she’d be punting. A simple, straightforward answer would be best, she’d figured, no matter who was on the other end of the line. “Frank Mayhew’s wife Suzanne.”
“What was the first vintage car Frank purchased?”
The out-of-left-field question gave Suzanne mental whiplash, but it made sense. For all Ms. Chang knew, Suzanne was a North Korean agent who spoke excellent English. Frank and his contacts would have set up some kind of code for emergencies or someone calling in claiming to be from him.
And luckily—although Frank’s meticulous mind and car-obsession, not luck, were responsible—Suzanne knew the answer to the question. “He’d say a 1976 Charger he got when he was still in high school, although I always argued that one wasn’t vintage at the time, just old. I’d say the 1959 Ford Fairlane he restored and sold in grad school.”
Neil’s arms slipped around her from behind. She didn’t pull away.
This woman wasn’t his lover, but a lover would have been easier in many ways. So much more normal than having a calm, rational conversation about a dead man with someone who was obviously from the government but might or might not be here to help her.
A dry laugh. “That was exactly what he said you’d say.” Another second of hesitation, this time, Suzanne thought, because the woman was looking for words. “My condolences, Mrs. Mayhew, and my apologies they have to be belated.”
“It would have been nice to hear that eight months ago, Ms. Chang.” Now it was Suzanne’s turn to hesitate. “No, scratch that. I wasn’t ready right after Frank died to hear that he was involved in some kind of national defense…I don’t even know what to call it. Thing.”
“In my opinion, you should have been filled in at the time, but we were hoping to clear up the loose ends and come to you with answers, not more questions. Mrs. Mayhew, you were told your husband crashed his car. That’s the truth, but not the whole truth.”
After the incidents of the last few days, Suzanne wasn’t as shocked as she wished she was. “Frank was murdered, wasn’t he? Someone caused the crash.”
“We believe so. The investigation is ongoing. I’m not at liberty to say more.”
A tsunami of fury buffeted her. “Why am I only learning this now? And who the hell is we? You and the mouse in your pocket?” A little sane voice in her brain suggested that maybe losing her temper at a federal agent wasn’t the smartest thing she’d ever done, but she thought maybe under the circumstances they’d understand.
“I’m with the Department of Defense, Frank’s contact on Project Frontier. We would be the DoD, the NSA, the FBI, Homeland Security and for all I know, maybe a few other sub-agencies I don’t have the clearance to know about.”
“Oh.” That was the curtest oh she’d ever heard from her own mouth. Pathetic that she was resorting to suburban-housewife cattiness to help her process the reality of her husband’s murder, but how the hell was a person supposed to react to news like that? She’d already gone through the shock, mourning and regret for lost opportunities months ago. Now, she was flashing between numbness and rage, but without any real grief.
“I can’t say much more about his death, but by mid-morning your time I should be able to refer you to someone who can. Can you give me another phone number, one that isn’t potentially compromised by the connection to Frank Mayhew?” Suzanne rattled off her new cell numbe
r instinctively.
Then it all started to sink in. She leaned back against Neil, letting the contact ground her. Someone had killed her husband—and it hadn’t been her, though she’d had moments of wanting to ring his fool neck, or Janice, despite her regular tongue-in-cheek threats, or a business rival or someone’s jealous partner. No, this was the kind of murderer who got the attention of a whole alphabet’s worth of alphabet agencies. A spy, a terrorist, someone like that—and they knew where she lived.
Maybe while Team Alphabet was dealing with the national security threat, they’d take care of the threat to her own skin. “Someone is after me. Two groups of someones, actually, I think. I’ve been followed. My house has been ransacked. And they have Frank’s computers.”
The woman on the other end of the phone paused for a moment, clearly weighing her words. “We’ll step up surveillance where you’re concerned. I’m sorry about your house, but you should be happy to know they got away with computers loaded with dummy notes and schematics for a project that doesn’t exist, as well as his car garbleygook and some pictures of a cute cat with an ugly tail. Homeland got all the important files off them during his funeral. Thank you for letting us know. Sooner or later someone may try to sell that set of phony schematics, in addition to the set Iran already turned up with, and we’ll be watching for that.” Another dry chuckle. “And before you say it, switching out the computers during the funeral was rude timing. Necessary for national security, and convenient, but I’d have been happier if we could have done it another way.”
Suzanne heard the woman draw a deep breath, as if she was collecting her thoughts. “Mrs. Mayhew…your husband was one of the smartest and most talented people I’ve ever worked with. Not the easiest, as I suspect you know: a control freak, stubborn as anyone I’ve ever met and closed-mouthed even by defense industry standard. Unless he got an opening to yammer about cars and then he could talk my ear off.” She sounded actually human then, not like a capital letters DoD Employee, and Suzanne thought she heard a little bit of a Southern accent under that careful, neutral voice. “He was a brilliant, principled man, and a real asset as a defense contractor, and his work will be missed.”
Drive: Cougars, Cars and Kink, Book 1 Page 14
