by Joanne Pence
In a matter of minutes, the years melted away. The way she spoke, the way she cocked her head, the way with each move her hair swung freely, sensually, against her shoulders, enchanted him. He never remembered it being as straight as it was now, but it certainly suited her. The hint of green in her eyes was another surprise. How had he forgotten that about her eye color? He didn’t think he had ever forgotten anything about her—especially not the way they parted some fifteen years ago.
A strange foreboding filled him. How could it be that she was suddenly here? He tried to shake off the feeling. He had become too jaded about life, too suspicious. Meeting Irina again—why couldn’t it truly be what it seemed: a wonderful and fortunate accident.
“Michael?” She had a smile in her voice and on her face. “You look a million miles away. Am I so boring?”
A powerful attraction surged through him, just as when they were young. God, but he had loved her. He once thought he could never forgive her, that he never wanted to see her again, but seeing her now, he realized how wrong he had been. Over an hour flew by as they talked about their lives.
She had married about eight years ago, and last year she and her husband had divorced. He asked if she had children. She didn’t. And then he asked if she was seeing anyone at the moment. She shook her head and looked away.
“But your marriage was happy until recently?” he asked.
She hesitated, then said, “Not particularly.” Maybe he shouldn’t have been elated to hear her admit that to him, but he was. “Let’s talk about something else,” she said. “About you. Tell me about the galleon you found, pieces of eight, and all that.”
When it was time to leave, she gave him her phone number, but told him she didn’t expect him to call. So he leaned across the table and kissed her. She looked pleased and taken aback all at once.
“I’ll call.” He promised. “And if I can get away, I’ll call tonight.”
“Please do,” she said as they stood. “But what’s on your busy agenda?”
He stared at her, confused. “Come to think of it, I’m not sure.”
She took his arm, tilted her head, and gave him a shy smile. “Well, what if we went nowhere and did nothing together?”
A shiver rippled down his back, but he chose to ignore it as he pulled his arm free and wrapped it snugly around her waist. Holding her at his side, although not nearly close enough, he wondered how he could ever leave her. “I never imagined I would find you again,” he said, his voice husky. “It’s a miracle.”
“Yes,” she whispered. “It is.”
Chapter 23
The news of Scott Jones’ shocking and horrible death hit the FBI office almost immediately.
Kira read the police reports from the window-washing company which stated that the company had no idea how their equipment, which was permanently installed on the roof, could have been lowered. They found no signs of tampering. Even more shocking to all was that the equipment could have struck the window with such force as to not only shatter it, but continue into the office and kill Mr. Jones.
The police were inclined to chalk it up to a freak accident.
Kira understood how they reached such a conclusion, but they were wrong.
Her thoughts turned to Michael Rempart. Was he nothing but a publicity-seeking charlatan, or had he been telling her the truth? Something about the way he had looked at her, openly yet with dark and troubled eyes, made her want to believe him even though everything rational told her not to.
Using FBI systems, she checked his flight information. He was listed as traveling from Rome to Los Angeles, arriving before noon that day. Perhaps that part of his story was true, but the rest was outlandish.
She keyed in the names Rempart had given her of the men in the photo, and found information including their tours of duty, university experiences, and current lofty positions. Again, each man was as Rempart had claimed. She smirked—who was she kidding? She knew they would be.
Finally, she investigated Michael Rempart. She read a surprisingly glowing write-up in the FBI database that gave a brief biography, his education, his archeological discoveries, and his publications. Nothing else gave her cause for alarm, not even his brief foray into television.
Her first impression of Rempart had been of a troubled but honest man. He was also very good-looking, but surprisingly thin and pale, as if he had been sick or dealing with pain for a long time. She read that he had nearly died after an accident, but no details about that “accident” had been given.
He had regarded her with no wavering, no shiftiness, and yet with an intensity that she could almost touch, like a cloud of despair that hovered around him. What, she wondered, could do that to a man?
She rubbed her temples, trying to clear her head, and get a clear picture of what all this meant. Michael Rempart made her nervous, but although he was probably wrong about some of what he said, it didn’t mean he was lying.
All of which meant that the other men in the photo—now only four remained alive—had to be contacted and warned. The FBI needed to do that and to use the information she had to track down the killer or, more likely, killers. These deaths were incredibly clever and sophisticated to carry out. Almost unbelievably so, she had to admit. She gathered the photo and printouts about each sailor and then added a big red check mark beside each man who had died in the past three days. She gave everything to Scoggins.
He let out a whistle as he looked over the material. “An impressive bunch,” he said.
“Yes, it is.”
“How did you find all this out?” he asked.
She told him about meeting Rempart, stating that he seemed to have a bit too much information about the murders. He might, she said, be involved in the deaths.
“I’ll check him and everything else out,” Scoggins said, then bowed his head and went back to his paperwork.
“Good.” She waited a moment hoping he would ask her to help, but he didn’t.
Back at her desk, she put in a call to Jonathan Vogel, chairman of the hedge fund, JV Global Energy, but could do no more than leave an urgent message with his secretary. Not even with FBI resources could she locate Hank Bennett or Stuart Eliot. Not yet, anyway. She was sure they would be found eventually, but for the moment, she felt frustrated at being unable to reach them.
The only good news was that Senator Kevin Wilson was in town. Kira drove to his office, planning a sit-in if necessary. To her surprise, he was not only in the office, but within minutes, a staff assistant led her to him.
Wilson stood as she entered. He looked handsome enough on TV and in the news, but in person, he was jaw-dropping. He reminded her of a middle-aged Robert Redford with rugged good looks, a trim, well-toned physique, and reddish blond hair with a hint of gray at the temples. “Kira Holt.” He flashed a politician-perfect smile as he held out his hand. “Are you related to Judge Holt?”
“Yes, he was my father.” They shook hands. “You knew him?”
“Slightly. Have a seat.” He gestured towards a chair as he sat behind his desk. “Your father and I were in the Navy together. You have my deepest condolences. I understand he was a good man, and a great judge.”
“Thank you, Senator,” she murmured.
“I’m told you’re with the FBI,” he said. “What can I help you with?”
She said she was looking into the death of Gene Oliveros. “He was also on the Saratoga in the late seventies.”
His eyebrows lifted. “He was?”
“Do you remember the day this was taken?” She showed him a copy of the photo of the seven men.
As he looked at the photo, his face turned ashen. “I don’t remember the day, precisely, but I was obviously on shore leave. Is there a problem?”
“Three of the men in that photo have died within days of each other. Gene Oliveros, Scott Jones, and Judge Daniel Holt—my father. All three were killed in horrible ways.”
He looked stricken. “I heard about two deaths, but … Scot
t Jones is dead? You’re sure?”
“Yes. Mr. Jones’ death happened today. Some will say it was a horrible accident, but I don’t think so. You’re in that photo; it’s why I’m here to see you, to warn you.”
He frowned. “You think these deaths weren’t accidents or suicides?”
She nodded. “Do you know any reason why those men, or any of you, would be targeted?”
He pressed his lips together. “No. I wasn’t friends with any of them. I learned your father and I were in the service together, but I don’t remember him from the ship, or having that photo taken. I suspect I just happened along, stepped into the picture at the last minute.”
“I see,” she said, taking back the photo.
“That part of the world is known for honor killings. If someone was insulted, maybe they’re just now taking revenge.”
She shook her head. “Something more is going on here.”
“Whatever.” He sounded displeased and twisted his signet ring several times. “I would appreciate it, Ms. Holt, if you would keep that photo away from the press. This is the sort of ugliness that can lead to false smears. If my name becomes linked to these deaths in any way, I will hold the FBI responsible.”
“Anything you can remember about this photo or these men might help,” she said. “I want to know why my father died, Senator Wilson, and who killed him.”
“I told you, that photo means nothing to me.”
She hesitated a moment, but then decided to go ahead and ask. “What about Yosip Berosus?”
His eyes widened with surprise. “Never heard of him.” He checked his watched. “I’m afraid I have a meeting now.” They both stood.
“If anything comes to mind, please contact me directly.” She handed him her card.
He put it in his pocket. “Goodbye, Agent Holt.”
She left the office. As much as she wished it were otherwise, she realized the person who seemed to know the most about all this was Michael Rempart. She called his cell phone. It rang several times, but he didn’t answer. She left a message.
When he didn’t get back to her after an hour, she tried again, and then several more times throughout the day and evening, always with the same result.
Chapter 24
Vancouver, B.C.
“So, now your women come to my house!”
Linda Li’s sharp voice woke Jianjun. It was only ten-thirty in the morning. He wondered what in the world was going on. Linda proceeded to yell at him in Mandarin.
Jianjun burrowed deeper into his bed, but his wife’s piercing voice was like a corkscrew in his ears. Finally, he sat up and blinked, trying to adjust to reality after a pleasant dream.
He’d been awake until five A.M. learning about the men in the photo Michael had sent. One story led to another, all quite interesting, and definitely more interesting than his home life. “What did you say?” he mumbled.
“Wake up!” Linda shrieked. “Some American woman is in my living room. She wants to see you. I tell her you’re sleeping, and she says, ‘Wake him up. It’s important.’ But she won’t tell me why. I can imagine! You and your so-called boss, running all over the world, gone for weeks and months at a time! And now! So help me, Jianjun, if she’s pregnant, you can pack up and never come back.” Jianjun’s desire not to have children was a constant sore point in their marriage. But he couldn’t see bringing a child into such an angry household.
“Stop!” Jianjun rubbed his eyes and stood, hiking up his pajama bottoms which tended to dip a bit low on his thin hips. His thick black hair stuck straight up. “Your imagination gets crazier every day. I have no idea who or what you’re talking about.”
Linda folded her arms and fumed at him. She was petite and wore her hair in a short pixie cut. To Jianjun’s eye, she was a “kinda” woman—kinda attractive, kinda smart, kinda okay. He was also sure she hated him, but was either too proud or too stubborn to admit it. And he knew he disappointed her.
That he didn’t care spoke volumes.
He put his feet in his slippers. “She’s in the living room?”
“Didn’t you hear me? Now you don’t listen to me at all, do you?” It was difficult to speak through gritted teeth, but she managed.
“Tell her I’ll be right there. I’ve got to wake up, first.” He padded into the bathroom to take a shower before dressing.
“Tell her yourself!” The door to her own bedroom slammed shut.
Ten minutes later, he entered the living room in jeans, a white T-shirt, and flip-flops, then stopped and gawked. The woman before him was attractive, exceptionally attractive. In fact, downright beautiful … except for the scowl on her face.
She was tall, practically eye to eye with him. But his mouth went dry as his eyes skimmed over a toned and curvaceous body. Very nicely curvaceous, in fact. Her hair was red, and pulled back tight, but the bone structure of her face was gorgeous. He tried to swallow, but it was difficult with his mouth feeling like he had tried to eat cotton. Her cheekbones were pronounced, her nose small, her mouth lush, and her clear blue eyes seemed to look right into his head and know what he was thinking. Uh oh.
“Hello.” His voice scarcely worked. “You asked to see me?”
“You’re AceDragon?” she asked.
His left eye twitched. How did she know the user name for his secure computer network? “Who are you?”
“I’ll take that as a yes.” Her frown changed into a small, I’ve-got-you-now smirk as she walked to an easy chair and sat down. “My name is Kira Holt. Doctor Kira Holt. I understand you know quite a bit about my father.”
“You’re Kira Holt?” In person, she looked completely different from the scared, bedraggled woman in the black-and-white news photos. “Of course! How could I miss it, but you’re so much prettier than … I mean, I’m sorry, I don’t mean the photo in the newspaper wasn’t, uh ….” He stopped talking.
She looked momentarily perplexed by his rambling.
He sat on the sofa catty-corner to her, perched on the edge of the seat. “I’m sorry about the loss of your father.”
“I need to know why you’re looking into his life and the circumstances of his death.”
He opened and shut his mouth a moment. “It was by chance. Only by chance. I was doing a study of the U.S. Supreme Court—who the current judges are and those who might replace some of the very old justices. Your father was one of them. His name turned up time and again. Yes, I kept seeing it.” Michael had often complained about Jianjun’s propensity to chatter and repeat himself when he was nervous … or lying … but he couldn’t stop. “That’s why I was studying about him, but then I saw that he had died. I was surprised. Very surprised. And sorry, too … as I said.”
She gave him a skeptical stare. “I’m a consultant with the FBI.” Her tone carried more than a hint of warning. “You also looked into the death of Gene Oliveros. Why are you snooping?”
Jianjun scooted back against the sofa, wishing he could crawl under it. “FBI. That’s right, you do work for them. I knew that, I think. And you know about AceDragon, too, and that’s saying something because no one else knows. I should have put two and two together. And I would have except”—he almost confessed that when he looked at her, his brain seemed to shrivel to the size of a walnut—“except, I just woke up. I must still be a bit groggy. Yeah, that explains it perfectly. I mean, the FBI figuring out my hacker handle is one thing, but if you were just anybody and hacked me … Oh, well, there is the NSA too, I mean, they could have done it. Yeah, I guess such governmental computer spying isn’t illegal in the USA.”
She looked pained. “I’m not here to discuss hacking, Mr. Li.”
“Oh! That’s good.” He jumped up. “I think I need some tea. Would you like some? Or coffee? I know how much you Americans like coffee.”
“Tea is fine.”
He dashed out to the kitchen, filled a couple of cups with water, and put them in the microwave to heat. While they did, he took several deep breaths. Why was he
acting like such a jerk? Was it because his wife had called her “your woman”?
He should be so lucky.
He found a couple bags of some kind of black tea, and stuck one in each cup, then carried them to the living room and put them on the coffee table.
Milk and sugar, he thought. He ran back into the kitchen … and was halfway back in the living room when he went back again for a teaspoon. He put everything in front of Kira, then sat.
“Now,” she said, lifting out the tea bag by its string. She held it a moment, then placed it on the teaspoon. “Please tell me what’s going on. You didn’t only investigate Gene Oliveros. You also looked at the records of a U.S. Senator and several other powerful men.”
“I did nothing but look around at names I’d heard of,” he said. Her skin looked nearly translucent in the way of some people with red hair, and she had light freckles across her nose. They looked, he thought, kind of cute. “I was curious. That’s all.”
She looked directly into his eyes. It still bothered him, the way Western women did that, as opposed to Chinese women who tended to look up through their lashes. Or, maybe what bothered him was this particular Western woman with big, blue eyes that he could get lost in. He picked up his tea and then noticed his tea bag. He took an empty candy dish from an end table, put the bag in it, and took a big sip of tea. It was hot. Very hot.
He swallowed.
“You investigated seven men,” she said. “And they were the only seven you looked into the past three or four days. I know, because I searched for tracks that you might have been elsewhere. You weren’t—except to try to find a good price on some new computer parts. That aside, what I want to know is, why those particular men?”
Jianjun dropped his gaze. “No reason.”
“I don’t believe you.”
He didn’t like it that she thought of him as a liar. “Miss Holt. We’re in Canada.” His voice, even to his own ear, sounded much deeper and harsher than usual. And his heart beat so loudly, he was sure she could hear it. “You don’t have any jurisdiction here, so it doesn’t matter what you believe. I mean, with all due respect, of course.”
