by DiAnn Mills
“When was the last time you spoke with Mr. Formier?”
“He texted me last night and said he’d changed his flight to early this morning.”
“Did he state why?”
Patterson blew out his exasperation. “Needed to discuss Nehemiah.”
“We’d like to see his files.” Did Patterson have something to hide, or had his lawyers advised him to be cautious?
“The subpoena?”
“We’ll make sure you have it.” Grayson would have said more, but there was no point in angering Patterson and closing down an interview. “How did Taryn Young get along with other employees?”
“Her supervisor was convinced she had issues.”
“Formier?”
“No, her immediate supervisor, the one the FBI spoke with earlier.”
“We’ll want to talk to him and the rest of the team. What were your dealings with Ms. Young?”
“As I stated earlier, this comes as a shock. She’s always been professional. Cooperative. Highly intelligent. Dedicated to Gated Labs, or so I thought. Ethan supported everything she did. I had no fault with her work until this hiccup.”
“Anything else?”
“She’s earned several awards, known worldwide for her various projects. I never knew of a problem until this morning with the software.”
“I want to talk to her supervisor.”
Patterson nodded and picked up his cell phone. A few moments later Grayson and Vince were introduced to Haden Rollins, a thirtysomething man who wore an Italian suit like a male model. And he knew it.
“What can you tell us about Taryn Young?” Grayson said.
“Have you arrested her yet?” Arrogance brimmed from his dark eyes. “One of our own is dead because of her.”
“Pure speculation at this point,” Grayson said. “For the record, I’m asking the questions here.”
Vince coughed. Up to now, he’d listened while Grayson led the conversation. “We can do this here or at our office,” Vince said. “You choose.”
“Cooperate,” Patterson said. “I want this matter resolved.”
Rollins brushed his jacket sleeve. “She led the team for the Nehemiah Project. Competent, but she has a quirky personality. Paranoid, in fact. Didn’t trust her team.”
“I want the names of those people,” Vince said.
Rollins nodded. “Friday night we discovered she’d disabled Nehemiah. Those using it were forced to use an older version.”
That wasn’t exactly how Young had explained it.
“I told these agents we have our best people on the problem,” Patterson said. “It’s only a matter of time.” He pointed his pen at Vince. “When she’s found, I want a full explanation.”
Vince slowly stood and paced the room. He turned to Rollins. “What did she have to say about Francis Shepherd and her marriage? We found nothing, no photos or information that connected the two.”
“She’s a private person. Actually, to my knowledge, she has no close friends within the workplace—”
“Except Ethan Formier, who’s now dead,” Patterson said. “He’d been in Mexico on a project.”
“What was his business there?”
“Consulting.”
“We’ll want the verification,” Grayson said.
“You know how to get it,” Patterson said with a smirk.
Vince continued to pace the length of the conference table. “Mr. Patterson, why do I think you and Mr. Rollins aren’t being completely honest with us? Do you have any idea how many people died today? How many more are injured? Unaccounted for?”
“And we have no idea if Young’s role here at Gated Labs even fits,” Grayson said.
Patterson stood. “I regret the loss of lives and property today.”
“Sit down, Mr. Patterson. I see how caring you are,” Vince said.
Vince needed to hide his tough-guy routine. Being on the same page worked better than tossing grenades. Grayson picked up the ball. “We’d like to interview Young’s team members, beginning with any she had conflicts with.”
“The first would be Kinsley Stevens,” Rollins said. “She’s waiting in her office.”
From the moment Kinsley Stevens entered the room, she gave a new definition to sashay—more like seductive. With a toss of her blonde hair, she emitted power from every inch of her body. Beauty and brains must help her maintain a high-level position within Gated Labs. Easing into a chair beside Rollins, she revealed a low-cut silk blouse and crossed her pant-covered legs.
She moistened her ruby-red lips. “Why am I here?”
Rollins focused on the young woman. “Kinsley, these two men are FBI agents investigating Taryn Young.” His tone indicated irritation. “I know you’re grieving Ethan, but they have a few questions.”
“I see.” She stared into Grayson’s eyes without a blink. “I’m very concerned about Taryn and her shutdown of the software. Now the media are linking her to the bombing.” She paused. “Have you located her or Mr. Shepherd?”
“We’re close,” Grayson said. “Tell me about your work with the Nehemiah Project.”
“Taryn was the team leader.”
“Why would she disable it?”
“I have no idea. Companies were already using the program. Our work was essentially complete.”
“Any bugs?”
“There are always issues. How can I help the FBI?” She tilted her head. “Do you need access to my computer? I have my laptop and cell phone in my office.”
This woman knew the meaning of cooperation. “Tell us about your personal relationship with Taryn Young.” Grayson poised his pen.
“Off the record?”
“Sure.”
She sat military straight and folded her hands. “She’s a brilliant designer. The project was her baby, and she hand-selected the team. I considered myself fortunate.”
“What else?”
She glanced at Rollins as though asking for permission.
“Miss Stevens,” Grayson said, “do you have additional information for us?”
She nodded. “Taryn criticized everything I did. I never understood why. But the friction made it difficult in the workplace. Then she accused me of tampering with her computer.”
“Did you?”
She stiffened. “Of course not. I think she wanted me fired.”
“Why?”
Rollins cleared his throat. “Kinsley is highly qualified. I intended for her to be the team lead for the next project. Taryn didn’t take that well.”
Grayson let the information roll around in his head. If Young had provided the software to someone outside of Gated Labs, then she would have needed to keep her position secure. Getting along with her peers was important. “Were there problems with other team members?”
“You’d have to ask them,” Stevens said. “We’re a closemouthed group. It’s a necessity with the high levels of security.”
Coworkers always talked. “Oh, we will.” Grayson turned to Rollins. “Please bring in the next team member.”
Stevens rose, but Grayson gestured for her to wait. “Miss Stevens, Agent Bradshaw will escort you to another office while we conduct interviews.”
She eased down, fury lines creased across her forehead. “Are you insinuating I haven’t spoken the truth?”
Grayson met her question with cold professionalism. Rollins indicated others had problems with Taryn Young, and he intended to find out who and what. “Just like you, I have a job to do. Is there anything more you’d like to tell us?”
She rubbed her palms. “I have a photo of Francis Shepherd.”
CHAPTER 9
7:50 P.M. MONDAY
Think, Taryn. Don’t let emotions paralyze you.
She couldn’t feel her heart beat or her feet touch the pavement. How long and how far had she walked? She hurried across the street in the midst of traffic. Horns blared. Brakes screeched. She didn’t care. Claire’s mutilated body stayed fixed in her mind. The blood . . . The d
ay had been filled with so much blood.
The police needed to be contacted. Leaving Claire alone at the studio seemed heartless, but Taryn was afraid. Her fingerprints were everywhere. Why should she be surprised her name would be linked to one more brutal crime? Since her cell was missing, she had to find a pay phone. . . . When had she last seen one? Shep called them a relic of the past. She needed her husband to help her work through this nightmare.
Taryn hoped Zoey hadn’t witnessed her mother’s death. Or had she? Where was Zoey? The little girl must be with Lydia. That made sense. Claire could have scheduled a late-afternoon photo shoot and taken Zoey to the sitter’s. Taryn pushed logic into her thoughts. But truth packed a hard punch—the poor child was now motherless.
Today’s tragedies didn’t involve codes and numbers that she could delete with a keystroke. Reality never responded to Shift or Backspace. Real life had to be met with strength, and hers had just run out.
An office building towered before her. But the time neared eight. As she’d feared, the doors were locked. A block down, a Starbucks was nestled in a shopping strip, its green-and-white sign glowing like a beacon. Maybe it had a pay phone. She slipped the sunglasses back on and made her way inside the café. Normally the aroma of freshly brewed coffee perked her up. But not tonight. The darkened view of her surroundings handicapped her. She wanted to be in control, and her disguise diminished her vision.
The sounds of laughter and conversation irritated her. No pay phone in sight.
She used the restroom and washed Claire’s blood from her hands. Bruises continued to rise on her face. A sense of filth resonated within her, and that feeling would not dissipate until today’s bomber and Claire’s killer were found. Once back in the café, she scanned the tables for police officers.
“Can I help you?” A young man grinned from behind the counter. His dimples must have earned him lots of tips.
“I have an emergency, and I’ve lost my phone.”
He pulled a phone from his pocket. “Use mine. Are you okay?”
She nodded and moved to a far table. Glancing to see that no one observed her, she pressed in 911. The police or FBI wouldn’t be able to trace the call to her. How far had she sunk to avoid those who were committed to protecting the public? The operator responded.
“I want to report a murder.” Her voice trembled. “Claire Levin, at her photography studio in the Galleria, near the mall. I found her in the back room a few minutes ago. The sign says Closed, but the door’s unlocked. Her equipment is missing, so I assume it was a robbery.”
“Where are you now?”
“I’m not sure. I . . . I couldn’t stay there.”
“What is your name?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“What’s the number you’re calling from?”
The operator had her number. “I don’t know.”
“Stay calm, miss. Don’t hang up.”
Taryn disconnected the call, fighting the desire to dissolve into a puddle of emotion. A woman laughed as though her coffee held a shot of brandy. A table of teens sipped on their syrupy drinks while texting. Didn’t they understand the world was falling apart?
She pressed in Shep’s number, but it simply rang. She ignored a call, assuming it was the 911 operator.
Next she called Lydia. “This is Taryn. I’ve got to be brief.”
The woman cried out her name. “Oh, the news is saying terrible things about you.”
“They aren’t true.”
“I know, dear one. Makes me angry. I want to call the FBI and tell them they have the wrong person.”
“Thanks, Lydia. Is Zoey with you?”
“She’s with Claire.”
How many times would terror wind a fiery trail through her body? “I just came from the studio. Someone has stolen her equipment, and . . .” Taryn’s voice cracked, and she sobbed. “I hate to tell you this, but Claire is dead, and Zoey wasn’t there.”
Lydia broke into wailing. “What’s going on? Claire is a good, kind person. Who would do such an awful thing? And where is our little girl?”
Taryn swiped beneath her eyes. “I wish I knew. Does anyone else ever keep her?”
“You know Claire only trusts you and me.”
Taryn didn’t say what rippled through her—the killer might have taken Zoey. Had it been a theft since Claire’s equipment was missing, or was it something to do with the danger unfolding around her? “I’ll find her and whoever took Claire’s life.”
“Where is your new husband?”
“I haven’t seen him since before the explosion.” Suspicions paralleled her rising panic. No. She refused to think Shep was a part of today’s chaos. “I called the police about Claire. Please don’t tell them I contacted you. I’ll be in touch.”
“God be with you. I’m praying for this to end and bring us sweet Zoey.”
Taryn ended the call. The barista studied her curiously, and she held up her finger to let him know she was nearly finished. What if he’d recognized her beneath the hat and sunglasses? As if anyone needed their eyes protected this time of evening. What if he’d already informed the police? Desperation mounted. She pulled Pastor Willis’s card from her purse and pressed in his number. A respected man could provide sound counseling, help her sort through the terrifying moments since this morning. The phone rang several times. She tried again. When no one answered, her insides knotted. A pastor always had voice mail. Right? And he specifically said this number also rang into his private cell so he could be reached day or night.
She returned the phone with a polite thanks and left the coffee shop. Where could she go to think? Dusk was approaching, and predators did their best work then. Exhausted, her body throbbing in time with her pulse, she needed a safe place where she could search for more information. She loved Shep, and he loved her. Once they were together, he’d explain what really happened this morning, and she’d tell him about the break-in at their condo and poor Claire and Zoey. The FBI would be satisfied and forgive what she’d done to the police officer. Without rest, she’d soon collapse. The need to find answers drove her more strongly than clearing her and Shep’s names.
Claire had told her about an Internet café four blocks from her studio. Gathering her wits, Taryn looked for street signs and pinpointed her location to backtrack. Her commitment to the truth and locating Shep deepened. Every car that drove past, every person she passed, upped the urgency in her spirit. The sign for the Internet café boasted neon red . . . the same color as blood.
Inside, she waited fifteen minutes before a computer was available. After paying ten dollars for an hour, she slid into a chair and brought the computer to life. She checked local news and cringed at her own picture. She hated the accusations.
One report listed her as a terrorist. Another as a person of interest and tied her to smuggling technology from Gated Labs to enemies of the US. Considered armed and dangerous. Her hand flew to her mouth.
No one mentioned how Nehemiah aided those exporting LNG or how she’d dedicated her efforts to protecting US infrastructure.
Taryn leaned back in the chair and stretched before focusing on the news report again. She fought the tears. Ethan was listed among the dead! How could this have happened? He was her friend and mentor. And now he was gone. He’d shared in her suspicions of Kinsley and Haden before he left for Mexico City, and he’d promised to investigate the matter. She stared at the computer screen, her heart hammering against her chest.
The death toll rose at an alarming rate. The number of injured recovered from the rubble continued to grow. More sites listed her as a bomber . . . killer . . . traitor. She clicked on the FBI’s website to read their press release. Thank goodness they didn’t make the horrendous claims of the media. If only she could send her mom an e-mail or call her.
She scrambled to find info about Pastor Willis. Another useless search. His church didn’t exist, and the address on his card was a vacant lot. She studied the diamond Shep had placed
on her left finger, promising his love and devotion. His smile said forever. Would he be horrified to learn the pastor was a fake, or did he already know? Shaking away the rising panic, she looked for proof of the things he’d told about himself. She had to learn the truth. Her fingers sped across the keyboard, seeking more answers. Even if the results shook her world.
Harris County had no listing of her and Shep’s marriage license application. He was not the man she thought she’d married . . . if she were married at all.
With the last finding, she left the café but had no idea where to go. She remembered a bus stop and made her way slowly in that direction. Once there, she slid onto a bench. No one waited with her. So very hard to think when her body was one mass of bruises, and she had nowhere to turn. But she could ride the bus until she figured out the next step. Lydia would be looking for Zoey too. Perhaps she’d call the police.
The truth . . . where was it? Could Shep really be trying to save her from some unknown evil? Or was he evil personified? The thought made her physically ill. Combined with the pounding in her head, her thinking faded in and out. She wanted to give up and let the police find her. She hadn’t done anything seriously wrong, but how could she prove it?
“Taryn.”
She froze. Shep! She whirled around. Bolting from the bench, she flew into his arms. He held her close while she fought the urge to sink into hysteria. The familiar scent of his woodsy cologne and the strength of his arms helped make the horrors of the day fade.
“There’s no need to board a bus.” He stroked her hair and back. “We have to talk about the miscommunication at the airport.”
She hesitated, a tug-of-war raging through her emotions. Miscommunication? “What happened this morning?”
“I got a last-minute business call. Urgent. I had to take care of it.”
Her mind screamed liar. “You left me at the airport without a word. On our honeymoon!”
“I tried to call you after the explosion.”
Shep . . . her husband, the man she loved. She’d looked for him since waking in the hospital. The FBI said he’d fed her a fictitious name. They displayed footage of him leaving the airport before the explosion. An image of Claire’s body flashed. The brutal savagery of all the dead and injured. And where was Zoey? The country believed Taryn was a traitor. Still, he’d not contacted her until now . . . in the dark.
