Crimes of Passion

by Toni Anderson

  That’s it. He would indict the editor-in-chief of TIME the first chance he got.

  ***

  MARA FOLLOWED CURT up the beach and back to the car, where he grabbed his bloody shirt and thrust it into her hands with firm instructions to apply it to the cut on her forehead. She didn’t know what his problem was. She felt fine. Maybe a little dizzy, but otherwise better than she had in months.

  So she’d lost a little blood and told him he was hot. What was the big deal? She noticed ample proof he was attracted to her. “A lifeguard could give us a bandage,” she said.

  “Yeah. And check you out for signs of a concussion. But I think you need something to drink first.” He sounded so serious. So boring. Her head didn’t even hurt. She was fine. Right now, all she wanted was to taste the salt water that rolled down his incredible chest.

  Who would have thought her own private savior would be built like a superhero? She’d bet he screwed like one too.

  “Mara, you need to stop. Jesus. Please.”

  She must have spoken aloud again. She needed to stop that. It seemed to upset him.

  He took her arm and dragged her up the beach to a burger stand. She ordered a Spam musubi—Hawaiian cuisine at its worst, but a snack she’d missed while in North Korea.

  Curt made her drink a bottle of Gatorade first. She couldn’t stand the stuff. Then the lifeguard who bandaged her forehead said she had to drink another one before attempting to eat. At last, Curt fed her small bites of musubi, insisting she eat slowly.

  Exhausted, she leaned against the man by her side. He argued and cajoled and coaxed her to drink more. Gradually, with each swallow, the world came into sharper focus.

  Sometime later, after drinking what had to be gallons of Gatorade, she felt less drunk but no less tired and wondered why Curt was shirtless. In bits and pieces, the last hours crystallized. The shot that had zinged so close to her head she felt the air flow against her scalp. Curt’s body covering her—protecting her again—on the staircase. Most of the drive to the beach made sense. It wasn’t until she was in the water that her memory became really fuzzy.

  Oh hell. If her memory was even close to accurate, she’d hit on Curt like a cheap drunk. She felt her face flush and closed her eyes. “Did I say aloud everything I think I did?”

  Still leaning on him, she felt his chuckle. “And then some.”

  “Keep in mind, I’m having a really, really shitty day.”

  “Noted and forgiven.”

  She met his gaze. His hazel eyes held concern and camaraderie. Somewhere during this crazy day, they’d become allies. “I feel better. Clearer.”

  “Good, because I don’t know my way around here. I need your input.”

  “Do you really think your phone was bugged?”

  “I think it had been turned into a microphone. We have to assume whoever is after you knows everything I’ve said today, up until the moment you pulled out the battery. Right now we’re stuck. We need a phone so I can arrange a flight for us.”

  “We can go back to a base—”

  “I’m done trusting the military. Whoever is after you got on and off the Marine Corps Base undetected and got on Hickam without a problem.”

  “Maybe he’s been caught.”

  “As soon as we get a phone, I’ll call Palea and find out.” He paused. “Which brings us to another problem. Palea’s phone is probably a microphone too. In fact, we have to assume everyone in my phone’s address book is compromised. Somehow I need to get in touch with Palea and tell him that.”

  “You can’t call anyone in your cell phone address book?”

  “No one.”

  “And we can’t go to a military base?”

  “Definitely not.”

  The enormity of their situation hit her. She’d liked it better when she was light-headed. “Christ, Curt. How are we going to get off this island?”

  TEN

  ROBERT BECK PACED HIS OFFICE, waiting for his son to check in. The day had gone from promising to hell with each attempt Evan made to repair Roddy Brogan’s screwup in allowing Mara Garrett to escape him in North Korea.

  Even though Evan had used a Korean explosive to take out the jet, with repeated failed attempts on Garrett’s life, no one would believe the North Korean angle for long, meaning Evan had compounded Roddy’s error to such a degree that it was hard to see a way in which Raptor wouldn’t be implicated.

  If Evan couldn’t silence Mara before she left Oahu, his son would have to take the fall for the company. The outcome was the last thing Robert wanted, but Evan had known the risks of failure. And now he couldn’t help but wonder if his son’s feelings for the woman had contributed to the fiasco.

  His secure line rang, and Robert snatched the phone without hesitation. “My shot went high,” Evan said without preamble.

  “Didn’t you use the scope? That fucker cost ten grand and should have delivered.”

  “We’re in Kona conditions. I forgot to adjust the humidity setting.”

  Now he was certain. Evan still had feelings for Mara and couldn’t be trusted to get the job done. “You know what this means?”

  “I’ll get her, Dad. I know her better than anyone. I can find her even though Dominick’s phone went dead.”

  “His phone isn’t sending signals? Did he realize you were listening?”

  “I was too busy hauling ass off the base to listen. But I know Mara. I know exactly where she’ll go next.”

  Yes, but will you follow through? “Where will she go?”

  “Jeannie Fuller’s house. She’s Mara’s best friend. I bet Mara is wondering why the hell Jeannie lied about what happened that last morning.”

  ***

  BACK AT THE CAR, MARA DUG through her duffle bag and pulled out a shirt for Curt. The shirt, a men’s size medium tee decorated with the unofficial JPAC symbol—a skull on one side with the words, “Search, Recover, Identify” above a globe and trowel on the other—conformed to Curt’s insanely amazing abs like a second skin. “God, you look hot in that.”

  Concern returned to his handsome features. “I thought you were better. We can rest longer or get you more Gatorade.”

  She shuddered. “No. More. Gatorade.” She touched the butterfly bandage on her forehead. The bleeding had stopped, and her mind was clear. “I’m fine. Wits present and accounted for.”

  He frowned. “Then no flirting, Mara.”

  The utter lack of warmth in his voice irritated her. He’d been so sweet—so not him. She hated the return of the cold prosecutor. “Why? Afraid you’ll respond? Oh, wait, I forgot. You can’t respond, because you aren’t human; you’re a shark.”

  He narrowed his eyes and leaned into her, backing her against her dusty car. “I’m human all right, Mara. And the same adrenaline that’s flowing through you is also coursing through me, making me want very human things.” He reached up and cupped her chin, his mouth only inches from hers. His thumb brushed across her bottom lip, and she needed to catch her breath as heat flooded her system. “But there’s one thing you need to remember. I will send your beloved uncle to prison. No matter how much adrenaline urges us to be stupid, we can’t forget who we are.”

  He was right, damn him. Who he was made the attraction she felt for him indecent. In her uncle’s world, loyalty was everything.

  And yet, her uncle was wrong about him. Curt embodied integrity and human decency. The simple fact that he’d flown to North Korea to save her should have been proof enough, but in the last few hours, he’d demonstrated compassion and caring that belied his reputation.

  She’d battled hero worship from the start and used the fact that he was prosecuting her uncle as a shield, but for her, the fight was lost. “I know who you are,” she said. “You’re the man who saved me from a firing squad.”

  His pupils dilated, telling her he harbored similar foolish desires. “Don’t, Mara. Don’t make me out to be anything other than an envoy.”

  Apparently, he was more skilled at resisting
desire. Well, he did have a reputation for control. She pressed her palms flat against his chest and pushed him back. “You were nicer when I was light-headed.”

  “Me? No. You were hallucinating. I was my same asshole self.”

  She smiled as she locked the car. She knew the truth. “So, what do we do now?”

  “We need a place to hole up for the night. There is no way we’re getting off this rock today.”

  “My landlord has a small fishing boat. I keep an eye on it for him when he’s on the mainland and have a key. We can sleep there.”

  “Good.” He nodded toward the shopping center across the busy divided roadway. “I’m guessing we won’t have any trouble buying a prepaid cell phone at that mall.” He pulled out his wallet, and she noted with chagrin the leather was damp. He counted his cash; the wet bills stuck together, slowing the process. “I’ve got nearly three hundred dollars, enough for a phone and minutes—and we’re going to need a lot of minutes—but that’s all. We’ll have to get cash from an ATM after we buy the phone.”

  Together they crossed the street. “Is it too much to hope we won’t be recognized?”

  “Probably. You’ve been tabloid fodder for months. Hell, a week ago, you achieved the publicist’s trifecta and made the covers of People, TIME, and Vanity Fair.”

  She dropped her jaw. “I was on TIME?”

  “Believe me, it’s not all it’s cracked up to be,” he said, deadpan.

  Mara laughed—a true belly laugh, and her first in months. Finally, humor subsided, she pulled him toward the garage-level cell phone kiosks located on the sidewalk outside Sears. They purchased a prepaid, no-ID-required phone and cleaned out Curt’s soggy wallet.

  Intent on finding a cash machine, they entered the department store and headed for the mall entrance at the opposite end of the store. Passing through the electronics department, Mara caught sight of the news and came to a dead stop. Every oversized flat-screen TV along the shelves showed the charred remains of the jet, smoldering on the Kaneohe airfield in crisp high-definition color.

  The fuselage of the Bombardier BD-700 was … gone. The largest remaining piece was the tail, canted at an odd angle on the tarmac, with only bits of the tail wings attached. Trained and accustomed to excavating crashed jets, she’d never come across one of that size that was so…pulverized.

  And she was supposed to have been inside.

  Curt’s hand gripped hers and squeezed.

  Footage of the wreckage was replaced by an AP photo of her uncle with her when he’d visited her JPAC team in Egypt. The Egyptian photo op had taken place during that happy window of time after his term as VP was over, but before Curt had convinced a grand jury to indict him.

  Mara hit the volume button on the set. A reporter described her work for JPAC as more photos of Uncle Andrew and her flashed across the screen—all taken when he visited various deployments.

  “Your uncle sure did like those JPAC photo ops. Did he get you the job at JPAC just for that purpose?”

  Irritation surged at the often repeated question. “Uncle Andrew had never even heard of JPAC until I started working for them. I earned my position there.”

  Pictures of Curt with the North Korean leadership came next. He looked handsome but vacant, and a glance at Curt showed a wry smile on his face. “I do look like an empty suit,” he said, sounding pleased.

  “You look stern next to the beaming dictator.”

  “Diplomatically, that was the goal. Remember the photos of Clinton with Kim Jong-il? He practiced that blank face with Chelsea and Hillary for days before the trip.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I spoke to him when I was en route. He helped prep me for the meeting.”

  She faltered. She’d met Clinton once, at her uncle’s inauguration, but didn’t expect he remembered her. She was a lesser relative of the second family and not part of the limelight elite, which had suited her fine. Knowing former and current presidents had taken an active role in obtaining her release was humbling.

  The reporter continued. “…as to why Ms. Garrett and Mr. Dominick are on the island of Oahu and not en route to Washington, DC, as originally reported, we have yet to receive an explanation. Back to you, Rachel.”

  Rachel Maddow smiled at the camera. “Rumors are running rampant in DC tonight as US Attorney Curt Dominick takes a vacation on Oahu with former VP Stevens’s niece right before jury selection begins in the Stevens’s trial. Is this a sign the power prosecutor’s case has fallen apart? Or is it a sign the prosecutor has fallen apart?”

  Curt let out a low growl.

  She tugged him toward the mall entrance. “C’mon. We need to get cash.”

  They quickly found a cash machine on the second floor of the mall. Curt looked at his watch. “Timing is critical from this moment forward. We need to be out of the mall in five minutes.” He slid his card into the slot and withdrew three hundred dollars. “Your turn.”

  She slid her card. “I need to check my balance. I haven’t used this account in months.”

  “Just hurry.”

  She typed in her PIN and navigated the menus. Seconds later, glowing white letters appeared on the small screen: Current Balance $505,912.56.

  ELEVEN

  MARA LEANED AGAINST THE ATM as though standing without support were impossible. Curt read over her shoulder. “Holy fuck, Mara.”

  “That money isn’t mine. I swear.” Her voice shook. “I should have five, maybe six thousand here, plus ten grand in savings.”

  How many times had he heard a defendant swear the drugs/money/weapon wasn’t theirs? “Withdraw three hundred, and let’s get out of here.”

  As they hurried through Sears, his mind raced. They couldn’t talk once they were in the car—what if it were bugged? They had to plan now. “We need a new car. And I need to talk to Palea.”

  “I need to talk to Jeannie—”

  “Absolutely not. That’s exactly who they’ll expect you to turn to.”

  “They who?”

  Curt jogged down the escalator inside Sears. “I think it should be obvious by now. Raptor.”

  Curt was five stairs below her before he realized Mara had halted. “Why would Raptor be after me? They work for my uncle—”

  “Precisely.”

  “Dammit, Curt. Uncle Andrew would never—”

  He raced back up the escalator before they drew attention. “Mara, we don’t have time for this now! We need a plan. I need to call Palea and set up a meeting place with him. I can’t use the new phone to call him. Palea’s phone is probably compromised, just like mine was.”

  “From the ATM transactions, whoever is after me already knows we’re at Ala Moana. Make the call from here.”

  She was right. Their location was already compromised. He sprinted down the last few steps, and this time, she followed.

  They quickly located a pay phone. Palea answered on the first ring and let loose with what Curt assumed were foul Pidgin curses before adding, “Shit, Dominick, took you long enough to call!”

  “I need your help, Palea. But both your phone and mine are out.”

  “You know this?”

  “Yes. I’ll tell you more in person. Pull the battery from your cell, then call me at this pay phone from a landline. Can you do that in the next fifteen seconds?”

  “I’m on the Hickam airfield. No landline nearby. The shooter got away.”

  Curt swore, even though he’d expected both answers. “We need to meet someplace private. And I’ve got about thirty seconds before I need to get the hell away from here.”

  “Let me think.”

  He waited, tension coiling in his gut.

  Finally, Palea said, “I have an idea. Remember that time we were having drinks and I told you about my favorite movie scene?”

  Years ago, they’d met when he took classes at Quantico while Palea was training to be an agent. The laid-back Islander and the stiff Harvard Law student had struck an odd friendship. On one memora
ble evening over beers, Palea had vented about an FBI case that had gone sour in the courts. He’d then needled Curt with what he declared was his favorite movie scene of all time. “Yeah.”

  “One hour. Got it?”

  Curt wasn’t sure he did but hoped to hell Mara would. He hung up, then turned to her. “You know the scene in Jurassic Park when the lawyer gets eaten while sitting on the toilet? Where was that filmed?”

  ***

  KUALOA RANCH, THE MEETING PLACE Palea had cryptically selected, was located just off the coastal highway on the windward side of the island. Curt noted the deep lines of exhaustion around Palea’s eyes as they greeted each other in a secluded area far from the arched entrance to the valley.

  Palea’s day had been as long and eventful as Curt’s. His investigation into Roddy Brogan’s murder now included the exploded jet and the shooting. The military had resisted Palea’s assumption of authority on both bases, but with Curt’s backing, the secretary of defense and the attorney general had agreed.

  “Brah, I seriously hope you’ve gone lolo,” Palea said after they exchanged new cell phone numbers.

  “Me too,” Mara said. “But how else could they have known we’d gone to Hickam?”

  Palea’s answer was to fix Mara with a suspicious stare, but since she had been the one nearly shot in the head, the FBI agent’s suspicions of her had no traction with Curt.

  “Do you want me to arrange a flight?” Palea asked.

  “No. Anything through government channels will be traceable. I have a plan. I just need to make some calls.” He nodded to the Honda. “But we do need a new car. The flight I arrange probably won’t be ready until tomorrow, and her car is known to the shooter.”

  “Take my Bureau car.”

  “That’s risky. It’s got a tracking device?”

  Palea nodded. “All government vehicles do. Lay low until you’re out of here, and if anyone asks, I’ll say the Bureau car broke down. If they don’t know you have my car, they won’t have a reason to activate the device.”