Ella clears her throat, pushing her empty plate away. “Actually, I was about to pull us out of this conversation.” She gestures across the table, to Cooper, who’s sitting next to me. “Since we have fifteen minutes or so left before Nick arrives and we have to hit the ground running on the Wellington case again, I think we should quickly review any updates regarding your secret side project, Cooper. In case something’s come up?”
Ah. I should have seen this coming.
Cooper’s secret side project, also known as Operation Mole Extraction. In the wake of Primrose Avenue, when my entire team was hospitalized with serious injuries for weeks, the only person who was physically well enough to begin the hunt for the mole inside DSI, the one who ratted us out to Marcus, was Cooper Lee. Despite the fact that Cooper himself almost got killed by Ammit that night (and has the surgical scar on his shoulder to prove it), he took up the detective mantle and began an internal investigation for the mole.
In secret, mind you.
We didn’t find out Cooper was working on the issue until the team was reinstated for active duty, and when the nervous little archivist first spilled the truth, Ella was furious. Because if the mole had discovered Cooper was searching for their identity, he could have ended up seriously hurt, or worse. Since we don’t know who the mole is, we have no idea whether they’re a basic spy passing notes to people outside DSI, or a highly trained intelligence agent willing to kill anyone who impedes their mission.
But to Ella’s surprise and disdain—and my own—Cooper wouldn’t back down.
Shooting Ammit on Primrose Avenue must have flipped a switch in Cooper, because he stared down Ella Dean without a hint of fear and told her, straight up, that he was in charge of the mole investigation, and if Ella wanted to take it, she’d have to pry it out of his cold, dead hands. I was honestly scared—of Cooper—on that rainy Monday morning when he and Ella faced off in Riker’s office. And then I was shocked—by Riker—because the captain agreed with Cooper Lee.
And his reasoning was sound.
Out of all of us, Cooper is the least likely to be under continual surveillance by the mole. He’s not a detective, so he’s not often working in the field, and he’s rarely the first person to handle relevant evidence in major cases, if he’s given the chance to analyze evidence at all. Isolated down in Archives most of the time, Cooper appears to be irrelevant when it comes to the inner workings of the Criminal Investigations Division. At most, the mole knows that Cooper is friends with some of the members of Team Riker. But lots of noncombatant agents are friends with detectives, so that tells the mole nothing.
Long story short: Cooper’s relative invisibility makes him the best choice to conduct the secret investigation into the identity of the traitor in our midst.
Long story even shorter: Cooper Lee, Mole Hunter.
Cooper sets the last piece of his taco down and rubs his chin, thinking. “Well, since last Friday, I’ve been reviewing all the office security cam footage from the night of the Primrose battle. See, while we were eating at the diner, Captain Riker called dispatch and ordered them to send a plainclothes team to Primrose. The team was attacked by Marcus’ colleagues about eight minutes later. This means that the knowledge of Riker’s call to dispatch had to travel to the mole, and the mole had to relay that information to Marcus, all in less than eight minutes.”
“I’m not sure I see where you’re going with this,” Ella says. “The timeline sounds oddly fast, but if the mole was monitoring the dispatch logs, then it wouldn’t matter…What’s with that face?”
Cooper struggles to hide a particularly smug smirk. “After I ruled out the mole as being a dispatcher, using the, well, illegally obtained personal phone records Captain Riker so graciously provided, I pulled the dispatch logs for the night of the Primrose battle. Originally, I was hunting for access data, trying to see which computers in the office, outside of dispatch, if any, were used to view the logs within that eight-minute timeframe. If I could narrow it down to a handful of computers, I thought, I could use the security cam feeds to shorten the list of mole suspects to only the agents who were in the immediate vicinity of those computers at the time Captain Riker phoned into dispatch.”
“Right,” Desmond says. “Makes sense. But that didn’t pan out?”
“No,” Cooper replies. “Not the way I thought it would. Instead, I found something way more interesting.”
I rap my finger against the side of the Coke can. “Care to enlighten us?”
The smirk breaks free, and Cooper chuckles. “I found something I originally overlooked: the information pertaining to Riker’s call wasn’t entered into the log until twelve minutes after the call came in. It turns out that dispatch was short-staffed that night, so instead of having one dispatcher fill in the log while another sent out Riker’s orders, like usual, a single dispatcher did both. And because Riker’s orders were important, that one dispatcher, Sheila Hillman, called the plainclothes team first. She didn’t fill in the log until after the plainclothes team confirmed their arrival at the Primrose house. Which means that Hillman was still writing the log file when the plainclothes team was attacked. And since the dispatch log doesn’t update until new files are marked complete, the mole couldn’t possibly have seen the log file until after the plainclothes team was already under attack.”
Desmond whistles, impressed, and sets down the remains of his taco. “That means the mole must have physically overheard the call. Either they were in range of the dispatch room at the time, or…”
Amy growls. “They have our dispatch lines tapped.”
Cooper shakes his head. “Nope. Already checked for that. The lines are clean.”
“So the mole must be on the security cams somewhere in the immediate vicinity of the dispatch room,” I say. “Given the layout of that room and the surrounding hallways, there’s no way they could have entirely avoided the camera spread. We’ve got that fucker. Somewhere on those security tapes is the mole who nearly killed us all.”
Cooper absently rubs his shoulder, a tic he developed after his surgery to fix the ligaments around the joint that were torn in half when Ammit rammed a car into him. “I’ll find the mole. I promise. All I need is a little more time, three days, maybe less, to screen all the relevant cam footage and confirm the mole’s identity, and then you can take that bastard down for good.”
Amy nods. “That’s the spirit. Now how about we—?”
There’s another knock on the door.
It’s not soft this time.
“Well, that was an illuminating discussion,” Ella says. “But it’s time to get back to work.”
Chapter Five
Sometimes, working in my particular profession, I feel like I’ve seen and heard and experienced every bizarre thing there is to see, hear, and experience in the entire universe. And then, someone screams over the phone, in a pompous Boston accent, “We’re being attacked by levitating zombies!”
And I suddenly remember that I don’t know shit.
Twenty minutes before that phone call, we hold a short meeting with the boss. And his boss.
As predicted, Riker doesn’t wait for someone to answer his knock. He pushes the task room door open with his elbow and shuffles in, his fancy magic cane sword thumping against the carpet. (I still don’t know where he got that thing. Erica denied any involvement, and the captain just smirks whenever I pester him about it.) He pauses halfway through the door, eyes the mountain of case files, what’s left of the Mexican food, and his exhausted team, plus Cooper, sitting cramped around what space remains on the table. I can see he wants to sigh at the pitiful sight, from that telltale twitch of his eyebrow, but he restrains himself and shoves the door open the rest of the way.
Which reveals Commissioner Bollinger standing behind him in the hall.
Crap.
Everyone at the table rises in respect for the commissioner, who’s hardly ever seen in public. I think I’ve passed him in the halls, like, twice in the entire
time I’ve been at DSI, including my academy days. The head honcho is an elusive man, spending most of his time cooped up in his enormous office, where he diligently plays the chess game that defines what DSI can and cannot do, down to the doors we can knock on for every investigation. Bollinger pulls all the jurisdictional strings behind each case, bargains with Mayor Burbank after each mistake, and finagles more pennies out of the legislature for each yearly budget.
Ninety-nine percent of the time, Bollinger’s the most important man in the building. So to see him step away from his multitude of responsibilities to visit our lowly task room is a bit of a shock. To a degree, it makes sense—Aurora’s never been the target of an attack on the scale of the Wellington Center “bombing” before—but at the same time, you’d think the commissioner would be way too busy to show up here and speak with us himself. He could have called, or sent over one of his ten administrative assistants.
And yet, here he is.
Bollinger strolls into the task room behind Riker, gestures for us to sit down, and beams a smile that’s only half genuine as we sink back into our chairs. “Team Riker”—his gaze finds Cooper—“and Archivist Lee, good evening!”
“Good evening, Commissioner” bounces across the task room table.
Bollinger nods and drops the stiff smile, then tugs a bundle of what look like press passes out of an interior coat pocket. “I apologize for dropping in unexpectedly during your dinner. I know you all haven’t had much break time today.” He yanks off the rubber-band securing the passes and flips through them, counting in a whisper. “But I felt the need to, first of all, thank you for your hard work in the search and rescue operations today. I’ve heard that several of the victims you freed from the rubble are doing very well, and are expected to make a full recovery.”
Several, I think, but not all.
He clears his throat and continues, “Secondly, I wanted to drop these”—he waves the passes—“off for you personally. I’ve spent my few precious free moments today negotiating your access to, well, everything with the mayor. Since the state and federal governments will inevitably get involved with the convention center cleanup operations, and dare I say, interfere with our concurrent criminal investigation, I felt the need to go beyond our usual jurisdictional measures.
“These badges will give you unfettered access to any building in Aurora, including all government offices and police stations.” He hands one out to each person around the table, save for Cooper. Each pass has already been customized with our name and office profile picture. A stony-faced image of myself stares up at me from my badge, and I vaguely remember the day it was taken. All the new academy graduates, standing in a line down in General Admin, waiting to have their student profiles changed over to active agent status.
God, that feels like forever ago. Has it really been less than a year?
“These badges, by the way,” Bollinger finishes, holding up the last remaining pass, “are actually FBI fare. Burbank and I called in a favor with the Paranormal Squad over at Quantico, and they had these shipped express for you all. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you this, since that Reeves incident was clearly a one-off mistake”—a reproving frown forms underneath his gray mustache—“but please, use the badges wisely. And don’t act too cocky with them. We don’t want to make our friends at the FBI look bad. As you’re aware, we rely on them to manage our jurisdiction on interstate and international cases. So play nice with their gifts.”
“Of course, sir,” says Ella. “Everyone will stay in line. I’ll guarantee it.”
Bollinger’s stern lips curl up. “I’d expect nothing less of you, Detective Dean.”
Desmond raises his hand, like he’s in grade school. “Commissioner, will the FBI be sending in the Paranormal Squad to assist us?”
“Not directly, no.” The commissioner grumbles something under his breath, and though I can’t make out the words, I get the sense he’s had more than one argument about this topic over the course of his busy day. “Quantico is sending two Paranormal agents, Bismarck and Faulkner, to join the team being dispatched from the nearest field office, who will assist with the high-level cleanup operations here in Aurora. Bismarck and Faulkner should be available if you need additional resources, but they’ll also be expected to work full time with the rest of the field office agents. So I’m unsure how much assistance they’ll actually be able to render.”
Riker, who’s still leaning against the door, says, “Any reason for the minimal FBI response?”
Bollinger snorts. “Paranoia, what else?” He tugs the wrinkles out of his coat and swiftly turns on his toes, then offers the last access pass to Riker. “The feds are worried about the overall stability of Aurora’s supernatural infrastructure, given what’s happened over the past several months. They’re afraid if they pull in too many assets, it’ll attract so much media attention that, when some magical foe inevitably makes a grand overture, it’ll end up on the national news. Plausible deniability. It’s all about plausible deniability.”
“It always is, isn’t it?” Riker reaches out to take the pass, but Bollinger refuses to let it go.
The commissioner hums and says, “I do hope, Nick, that you won’t take this badge as an invitation to reinjure your knee for the umpteenth time. I’d hate to see you in the hospital again.”
“You really think I’m that reckless, Tim, after all we’ve been through together?” Riker cocks an eyebrow.
“All we’ve been through together is exactly the reason why I think you’re that reckless.” He releases his hold on the badge, letting Riker tuck it away in his own coat pocket. “But really, Godspeed, Nick. I’ll provide whatever resources I can free up to your team, and to Captain Sing as well, but the scale of this disaster is so unprecedented that, even with state and federal organizations swooping in to help, I worry I may not be able to get the manpower you need to handle all aspects of this case. If Burbank had taken the bait two years ago and signed the expansion plan, we may have had enough new agents to spare, but…”
“He’ll come to regret that veto, I suspect,” Riker replies. “Regardless, we’ll do our best, Tim. And we will solve this case.”
Bollinger smacks Riker on the arm. “I know you will.” He glances over his shoulder at us. “And best of luck to you all. I’m down for a quick nap before I head back to the mayor’s office. It’s so hectic in that building, I’m surprised the windows haven’t blown out.” He slips past the captain, out into the hall, but immediately pokes his head back in to address, surprisingly, Cooper Lee. “Oh, and Archivist Lee, did you receive the invitation email from the Moscow group? They sent me a message yesterday saying they were still waiting for your response.”
Cooper stiffens, his cheeks flushing red. “Yes, sir. I did. But I’m still weighing my options, so I haven’t responded yet. I’ll try to shoot them a provisional reply sometime tomorrow. I apologize for taking so long.”
“Don’t pressure yourself too much about it, Lee.” Bollinger shrugs. “It’s a temp position after all, so if you decide to participate, the Archives will still be waiting when you get back. I promise.”
Cooper manages a nervous smile. “I-I’ll think about it. Thank you for recommending me. I appreciate the opportunity.”
Bollinger smiles back, that half-fake number again. “Don’t undersell yourself, son. You were an obvious pick. They asked for talented researchers, and your name was at the top of the list. But I digress…” He steps fully out into the hall, looks to Riker, and resumes his serious air. “Now make sure your agents get some sleep, Nick. Even if you have to run shifts. They look exhausted as it is, and it’s only day one of the investigation. I don’t want anyone passing out in the middle of a fight and getting hurt. You know, like you did that one time?”
“Will do, sir.” Riker shuts the door in the commissioner’s face. Then he spins around, slams his cane against the floor, and throws a discerning scowl at Ella Dean. “Now where’s this fucking ‘riddle card’ that
injured you?”
“Oh, I put it there, Captain,” Desmond says, pointing to a plastic shopping bag at the opposite end of the table, which he stuffed the card in earlier, in case there was a time-delayed secondary ward embedded in the paper. “I’d advise being careful with it. Ella earned herself stitches when she touched it earlier.”
Riker hobbles over to the bag, not bothering to hide his limp in our presence. As he examines the card, holding the edges with the blue plastic pinched between the paper and his gloved hand, I lean close to Cooper and mumble, “What’s all this about Moscow?”
Cooper lets out a deep sigh. “The Moscow branch is launching some big R&D project, and they’re short on researchers.”
“So, like, the project is based in Moscow? They want you to move there?”
“Worse.” Cooper bites his lip. “The actual project HQ isn’t even at the DSI office in Moscow. It’s in some separate facility in Omsk, out in the godforsaken boondocks of Siberia.”
“That sounds…awful.” I tap my new special FBI badge against the tabletop. “I can see why you’d hesitate to jump on such an amazing opportunity.”
“I know, right?” Cooper rubs his red cheeks. “But they’re being really pushy about it. I’ve gotten six emails from them already.”
I shrug. “Say no.”
“I would, but…” He gives me an exasperated look. “The pay is high. Astronomically high. I don’t know exactly what the project is about—they’re being hush-hush on the subject—but whatever it is must have the potential to give DSI a huge advantage in some respect. There’s no way Moscow would allocate that much funding for anything that wouldn’t give our field agents a massive tactical boost. So, it really does seem like a cool project, and the location is probably for safety reasons, not to torture the research team…
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