by Gene Riehl
Monk glanced at the roses on the table by the front door. He started toward them but Lisa’s voice stopped him.
“I mean now, Puller. We have to talk right now.”
“Just a second. Give me a second, then we can talk all night if you want.”
He stepped to the table, brought back the roses, and handed them to her. She held them away from her body.
“What’s this supposed to mean?” she asked.
“That I’m sorry. That I’ve been … I’ve been …” He started over. “I’m trying to apologize. To explain.” Not an easy thing for an FBI agent to do, Monk wanted to add, but had the good sense not to.
“Why would you bother?” She took two steps toward the table by the door and tossed the roses on it, then turned back to him. “And when did you start explaining anything to me?”
“Right now. Tonight.” He reached for her hand again but again she pulled it away. Monk felt a flush of anger. “Look, Lisa, I’m doing the best I can here. You have to give me a chance.”
“I don’t have to do anything,” she said, before turning and heading toward the kitchen. A few steps from him, she looked back over her shoulder. “Right now I’m going to get myself a drink.”
Monk started after her, then looked down at the gun in his hand and the towel around his waist and went to the bedroom instead. He put the gun away, back on the top shelf of the wardrobe, then slipped on a fresh pair of Dockers and a black tennis shirt. He grabbed the empty glass from where he’d left it on the shelf next to the gun and headed for the kitchen to fill it.
Before he could get there, Lisa was already on her way to the living room. In her hands she carried the bottle of Glenlivet and a single glass. Monk followed her, and when he got to the living room she was sitting in one of the chairs that faced the couch near the big windows, pouring Scotch from the bottle into her glass, then setting the bottle on the small round table between the chairs. Monk took the other chair, poured a couple inches of Scotch into his own glass. He took a long drink and realized Lisa was watching.
“Well?” she said.
Monk set his glass on the table and leaned forward in his chair.
“I know I’ve been a little … a little distracted lately.” He paused as he considered how much he wanted her to know, how much of his preoccupation with the MRI and subsequent PET scan he wanted to burden her with. And what he might want to say about the bicycle accident he’d been so careful to hide from her. But before he could say anything at all, Lisa interrupted.
“I know you’ve been distracted, but that’s not what’s bothering me. That’s not what I want to talk about.” She paused. “There’s only one thing I care about right now and that’s Bethany Randall. And what kind of game you think you’re playing with her.”
He stared at her. “A game with Bethany?”
Lisa shook her head and rose from her chair.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“I’m not going to sit here and listen to you pretend to be so stupid.”
“Look, Lisa, Bethany needs my help. That’s it. Nothing more.”
She made a sound in the back of her throat. “Who do you think you’re talking to? I’m a woman. I know what she’s doing.”
But Lisa did sit down again.
“I’ve only got one issue,” she said. “One question.” Her voice softened. “Listen closely, Puller, … and think hard about your answer.” She paused for a moment, then stared directly into his eyes. “Are you going to continue seeing her? Are you going to keep running to her every time she calls?”
Monk reached for her. She pushed his hand aside. He sipped from his glass as he tried to think of a way to answer.
“It’s not that simple,” he began. “Bethany’s scared. I can’t abandon her.”
“So that’s your answer?”
Monk looked away for a moment, out the windows into the darkness. What was called for here was a lie. All he had to do was tell Lisa he understood her objection to Bethany and that he would agree to let her find help elsewhere. A simple lie would make the problem go away, but this was Lisa.
“You’re the woman I love,” he said, “but right now Bethany’s the one I’ve got to help. I know what you want to hear, but there’s no way to make this as simple as you’d like.” He paused. “Surely you didn’t expect anything else from me.”
She shook her head slowly, then rose from her chair. Monk could only watch as she walked toward the door, as she turned back to face him. She reached up and brushed the sudden tears from her eyes.
“I’ll come back for my clothes tomorrow, but right now I have to leave. Right now I can’t spend another moment with you.”
FORTY-FIVE
She had no intention of letting it get down to close work, but Sung Kim wasn’t about to get beat because of a lack of preparation.
Sitting at a plain wooden table in the cellar of her modest safe house—an unfinished brick and drywall basement that ran the length of the house—she started with her favorite handgun. The flat-black nine-millimeter Beretta 92G Elite had the best features of the more famous Brigadier model, but Sung Kim preferred the serrated surface of the fast-cycling semiautomatic’s front and rear slides. The sure grip of the serrations provided the lightning-quick racking of the action that could mean the difference between living and dying. But most of all she liked the removable sights. She wouldn’t need the sights for hand-to-hand combat, and if the Nakamura job came down to looking into the prime minister’s eyes when she killed him, there wouldn’t be an instant to spare. When seconds mattered, there wasn’t anything worse than snagging a weapon on your clothing.
Sung Kim had considered a bigger weapon, of course; you could never have too much firepower. But the only real option in her gun vault was the Heckler and Koch MP7A1, and the stubby machine pistol newly adopted by the German KSK was too big to be concealed. She could get it into the ammunition bunker beforehand, that wouldn’t be a problem, but she’d have to carry it the rest of the way, and she couldn’t walk around the farm with a sprayer like that. Besides, if she got into a shootout with Nakamura’s bodyguards, no amount of power would help. She was every bit as good as they were, but they’d have guns just as big, and against their numbers she wouldn’t have a chance.
She slid forward in her chair and reached for the unloaded Beretta, lifted it gently—a professional never allowed a fine weapon to slide across the wooden surface of a table—and set it on a rag in front of her, a red rag impregnated with the sharply alcoholic tang of Hoppe’s Gun Cleaner. She reached into the gray metal toolbox to her left and pulled out a set of Allen wrenches, selected the right size, and used the wrench to remove the front sight first, then the Novak-type rear sight. Sung Kim hefted the weapon, enjoying its clean look without the sights. She raised it and dry-fired several times. The G configuration—so important in combat—enabled the hammer lever to return to the ready-to-fire position the instant she pulled the trigger, another speed advantage whose value could not be minimized. Then, finally, Sung Kim smiled.
If worse came to worst, her weapon would be just as prepared as she was.
FORTY-SIX
Lisa put off going back to the loft for her clothes as long as she could.
An hour after she’d bolted out of the loft last night, she’d begun to regret it. She’d made her point, she was sure of that, but it was never her intention to leave Puller for good. All he’d done was refuse to abandon Bethany Randall, and if she were honest with herself, Lisa had to admit she’d known his answer before she ever asked the question.
She remembered Dr. Annie Fisher, the woman Puller had been in the process of breaking up with when Lisa entered his life. Had it been so different with Annie? Lisa would never forget how angry she used to get when Puller dropped everything to rush to Annie Fisher whenever the woman fell off the wagon, but she hadn’t broken up with him then. This thing with Bethany was no different, so why was it bothering her so much this time?
The an
swer came just as quickly as the question, although Lisa hated to admit it.
The fact was she’d been in the thrall of first love back then. She’d yet to see even the tiniest flaw in Puller Monk, but that was no longer true. Boy, was it no longer true. Puller was tough to love, Lisa had become forced to admit, and that made it even tougher to understand her fear that Bethany was stealing him away. She shook her head. She wasn’t sure she wanted him anymore, but she was goddamned certain she didn’t want Bethany Randall to have him.
Behind the wheel of her bureau Grand Prix, Lisa was just turning right on P Street when she saw the red Infiniti coupe parked in front of the loft building. Her eyes widened, her hands gripped harder on the steering wheel as she jerked it to the left and managed to continue up Ninth Street instead. She drove a full block beyond the building, then pulled over to the curb and turned the engine off.
Christ, she thought. He was here again?
The man who wouldn’t take no for an answer was right in front of her house again?
Clearly he was making a point today.
Her shouting last time—the day Puller had caught the two of them in the Infiniti—had both startled and infuriated the man, but it hadn’t dissuaded him. Clearly the son of a bitch wasn’t giving up. As she sat there, Lisa’s breathing slowly returned to normal. He’d accomplished one thing, she admitted, but it wasn’t the effect he was hoping for. She wasn’t beguiled by his persistence. She was angry. A hell of a lot angrier about him than she’d ever been before.
Lisa opened the door and slid out of the seat. Looking around to make sure he hadn’t driven around the corner, she started walking toward the loft, toward the locked gate in the wall at the rear of the building. If she could get through that gate unobserved she’d be fine. She could use the same back entrance she used last night, the same stairwell she’d used when she walked out on Puller. Lisa stepped up her pace as she covered the block and a half to the gate. She slipped the key in and turned the knob, then darted through and closed the gate gently behind her. She didn’t bother to look around. If the man in the Infiniti had seen her, he’d be calling her name.
Inside the loft she was careful to stay away from the windows, went instead to the bedroom, to the wardrobe across from the bed. She grabbed enough clothes for a couple of days. Surely she could patch up things with Puller by then.
She turned toward the bathroom to collect her things from there, but stopped dead when the phone rang. Damn it! He must have seen her, after all. She found herself holding her breath as the phone continued to ring. Three times … four times … until the machine picked up and she heard the caller leaving a message. A male voice she didn’t recognize.
“This is Lieutenant Wade, McLean P.D. I’m trying to reach—”
Lisa picked up the phone. “Lieutenant Wade?”
“Ms. Randall?”
Lisa scowled. Ms. Randall? What the hell …?
“Hello?” the lieutenant said. “Is this Bethany Randall?”
“No, it is not,” Lisa said. Relax, she told herself. “She doesn’t live here. Why would you call here to reach her?”
But Lisa had a pretty damned good idea why. Just thinking about it made the back of her neck burn. In a flash all her good intentions about Puller went out the window.
“What about Mr. Monk then?” the lieutenant continued. “FBI Agent Monk. He around?”
“He’s not here, either, but at least he does live here.” Silence now, the lieutenant obviously waiting for her to elaborate. Lisa forced herself to breathe evenly before continuing. “This is Lisa Sands, Lieutenant Wade. I’m an FBI agent, too. Sorry for the attitude, but I’m still wondering why you’d try to reach Bethany Randall here.”
“Agent Monk called us yesterday. Asked us to keep an eye on her house, told us she’s worried about a stalker. Told us if we couldn’t reach her by phone, to try this number. That he would know where she was.”
Lisa’s forearm began to ache from the pressure of her grip on the phone. A stalker? She was the one with the stalker. She switched hands, held the receiver up to her other ear. The lieutenant was still talking. “… any idea where I might reach her?” he was asking.
Lisa took a deep breath and let it out slowly, but it didn’t help. This was fucking ridiculous. First the restaurant, and the two of them sashaying across the street to that bar, then Puller stays out all night before dragging home at dawn. Then she calls, and he literally pulls out of me to run to her. What the hell was he …
“Agent Sands?” The lieutenant’s voice jolted her back to the present. “Are you—”
“Yes, I’m here!” Lisa shouted. “For Christ’s sake, I’m still here! What is it you think I can do for you?”
“Hold on, lady,” he told her. “I don’t know what’s going on with you, and I don’t give a damn. Just tell me how to find Bethany Randall or Puller Monk.” He paused. “For the last time, do you know where they are?”
“No, I don’t, Lieutenant.” Lisa gripped the phone even harder. “But you can bet I’m going to find out.”
It didn’t take her ten minutes on the phone with the computer wizards at WFO to come up with Bethany’s address in McLean.
From the loft, Lisa called the congressional staffer she was supposed to interview this afternoon and postponed their appointment until tomorrow, then hung up and crept to the front windows. The red car was no longer there. She hurried to the back door, went through, and slipped down the stairs and out to the gate. After a quick peek, she hurried to her Pontiac and drove away. She caught Twenty-third Street, took a left and drove down to Constitution Avenue, then across the Theodore Roosevelt Bridge to the George Washington Parkway, and north to McLean. Traffic was fierce, and it took longer than it should have to get to Bethany’s house.
When she got there, Lisa pulled up in front of the modest house with the tree-filled yard and sat for a moment. She looked for Puller’s Saab but wasn’t surprised when she didn’t see it. There was probably a garage behind the house. She slid out of her car and went to look. In the alley she saw that she’d been right about the garage, but that it wasn’t going to do her any good. The garage had no windows. The doors were shut, so she had no idea what was inside. She stood under a tree next to the garage and thought about what she was doing. The drive to McLean had dulled her rage. It had been an hour since she hung up on Lieutenant Wade, and it was becoming tougher and tougher to hold on to her fury. Now she looked around and wondered if she wasn’t just another foolish woman, trying to hold on to a man in the thrall of someone new. You can’t beat “new,” Lisa reminded herself. It was impossible to compete with “new.” Maybe it was best just to let this go. To let Puller go if that’s the kind of jerk he wanted to be.
Lisa thought about the man in the Infiniti, her ex-fiancé from Texas, the biggest mistake she’d ever made in her life. The man who wouldn’t leave her alone, whose obsession with her had now turned into stalking. Wasn’t what she was doing right now the same thing? Wasn’t chasing after Puller exactly the same thing?
Just the thought of becoming a stalker made her turn around and start back to her car, but she hadn’t gone a dozen steps before she stopped. No, Lisa told herself. I won’t just walk away like this.
Not until I see for myself.
She turned toward the house, then strode to the head-high brick wall attached to the garage. She found a foothold and pulled herself to the top of the wall, rolled over, and slid down the other side, then hustled across the lawn and a few moments later stood quietly at the rear of the house. Elbowing her way through the bushes, she headed for the closest window. She crouched near the window, then raised up slowly, until she was looking straight into what she realized was the kitchen. There was nobody in it. Lisa looked to her left, at the corner of the house, and decided to try a window over on that side.
She started in that direction, but had barely cleared the corner when she heard a car, the sound of a car engine near the garage. Then she heard the garage door o
pening. She glanced at the wall she’d just come over, but she couldn’t use it to escape. Bethany would see her for sure. So she turned instead, and ran toward a dense group of bushes halfway down the side of the house. A moment later she was kneeling in the bushes, out of sight, shaking her head. How stupid can you be? she asked herself.
Now what the hell are you going to do?
FORTY-SEVEN
“Did I wake you up?” Eleanor DeWitt asked the next morning, although Monk couldn’t see how it could possibly be morning yet. “Sometimes I get a little carried away.”
Monk focused on the alarm clock on the nightstand next to the telephone. The red numbers of the LED display said 5:37. He hadn’t fallen asleep until almost two. Christ. He covered the phone with his hand and coughed to clear the fatigue from his voice, then struggled to sound semi-intelligent.
“I’m glad you called. What did you come up with?”
“You owe me a ream of paper … almost two, as a matter of fact. So far.” She paused. “Thomas Franklin is all over the Internet. His art collection, his company—Global Panoptic—and its subsidiaries all over the world.”
“Find anything on Evans Medical?”
“Nothing. Global has its fingers in a hundred pies, but none of them is your hospital company.”
“What about da Vinci … or any mention of a secret art collection?”
“Not yet. I’m going deep on him, Puller, as deep as I’ve ever been. It takes time, even with the machines I’ve got here.”
Monk hesitated before asking his next question. Years of training made it hard to trust anyone, but that kind of thinking was what was killing the bureau these days. Despite what J. Edgar believed until the day he died, the truth was that oftentimes you had to give up something to get something.
“North Korea,” he said. “See anything about a Global tie to Pyongyang?”
“Nothing on that—cyberspace is pretty much a vacuum around Pyongyang—but Seoul’s a different story. Global’s got money all over South Korea.”
