Look Twice (Ingrid Skyberg Book 8)

by Eva Hudson

  Jones testified that he’d been hired for his looks. His lack of family connections and low self-esteem—it sounded to Ingrid like he’d had therapy while he was on remand—were additional benefits. He claimed he was just as much a prisoner on the farm as the girls had been. “I’m real sorry to the ladies present,” Jones told the court, “but when Billy Boy couldn’t get hard no more, he was looking at losing more than his manhood, ya know? This was how he made his money. He needed a stud, and he found me.”

  Ingrid’s desk phone rang. “Mom, I have to go. I’ll call you tonight. Okay?”

  “Any time, Kroshka. You call any time.”

  Ingrid snatched up the desk phone. “Agent Skyberg.”

  “Ingrid, hi.”

  Her shoulders instantly relaxed at the sound of a friendly voice. “Ralph. Thanks for calling back.”

  “You got news?”

  “News?”

  “On Pinball?”

  “Ah, no.” Her brain was still in Minnesota. The noise coming from the bullpen didn’t help her concentration either. “I was after a favor… well…”

  “Spit it out.”

  “Do you remember when we first met?” That was the wrong thing to say. She could almost hear him blush. “You probably don’t remember—”

  “I have a very clear memory, actually.”

  Now she was blushing. “I asked you for a favor. I was new to the Met liaison role and I wanted to find out who my predecessor had worked with.”

  “This is sounding vaguely familiar.”

  “You don’t happen to remember who that was?”

  “Your predecessor at the embassy?”

  “No, the officer in the Met he dealt with.”

  “Ah.” There was a long pause. “Why do you need to know?”

  She wasn’t going to tell him about the photos. “Tying up some loose ends. I’m sure you told me at the time, I just wish I could remember now.”

  “What was your predecessor’s name?”

  “Mulroony. Dennis Mulroony.”

  “A bell is faintly ringing. Leave it with me.” He inhaled audibly. “Will I see you later?”

  “You bet.”

  “See you then.”

  Ingrid clicked to unmute Court TV when her door opened.

  “So, you are still here,” he said, beaming. “What do you say? Can I buy my hero agent some lunch?”

  11

  “Sol!” Ingrid got to her feet. “I didn’t know you were coming to London.”

  “Impromptu visit.” He was beaming. He was twenty or thirty pounds lighter than when she’d last seen him, and his beard was significantly grayer. “Madeleine’s speaking at a conference. The organizers were offering spouses a free airfare, and I thought, well, why not?”

  Ingrid shut down her computer and made sure her top drawer was locked. She grabbed her wallet.

  “You’re not going to need that,” Sol said. “This is on me.”

  Outside in the dreamy midday heat, he led her deeper into Mayfair where he’d made a reservation at Sabrina’s, an understated Italian restaurant that usually had a couple of paparazzi outside hoping to spot a minor royal or a major movie star. “Sabrina’s, eh?” Ingrid said as they walked briskly through the hazy streets. “Your bureau 401k is obviously serving its purpose.”

  “Well, I just thought I haven’t seen you since your heroics at the ambassador’s ball. I wanted to do something nice for you. Let you know there’s a lot of people in the bureau who are very grateful to you. We need all the good publicity we can get.”

  “We? You’re talking like you didn’t retire.”

  “Believe me, this job never leaves you.”

  Sol Franklin had been Ingrid’s Supervising Special Agent when she started work in London. He was part of the reason she took the job. He was friendly, and wise, encouraging and easy going and one of the few agents she had worked with who didn’t want to be higher up the ladder, or back working as a case agent. Sol had been a steady, nurturing presence in her career when that was exactly what she needed. Although the bearded, Jewish mensch looked nothing like the blond, Scandinavian father she remembered from her childhood, it didn’t take a psychotherapist to tell Ingrid that Sol was one of the many replacement father figures she had sought out in her life.

  The maître d’ showed them into a courtyard at the rear of the restaurant. Circular tables under calico parasols were dressed with stiff white tablecloths and polished glassware. The white painted walls of the terrace were clad in a trellis burgeoning with sweet-scented jasmine. In the heat, it could almost be Rome. Ingrid was glad to be wearing sandals.

  Ingrid recognized one of the diners at a table in the corner. He was an obese, heavily tanned man in his sixties who combed his thinning hair over his greasy head. He wore more jewelry than most women and his shirt was open at the neck to reveal a tangle of chest hair. His name would come back to her, but he had been in the headlines recently. A fraud trial. Some kind of retail magnate. He was talking intently to a younger man in an expensive shirt and aviator shades.

  “Anything to drink?” the waiter asked.

  “Acqua frizzante,” Ingrid said. “Al limone, per favore.”

  “I forgot Italian was one of your languages,” Sol said. “I hope you just ordered a bottle of Gavi.”

  Ingrid gave him a half smile. “Some of us aren’t on vacation. Sparkling water, but you should definitely have a drink drink.”

  “In that case, I’ll just have a glass of Gavi. A large one,” he added before the waiter could ask. “Hopefully you can translate the menu too.”

  Their conversation meandered easily through DeWalt’s promotion and her time as acting SSA, Madeleine’s conference and the events of the ambassador’s ball, though they stumbled when Sol awkwardly consoled her over Marshall’s death. There was only really one topic Ingrid wanted to talk to Sol about, but she was unsure how wise it was to bring up: Mulroony. She hadn’t yet mentioned the photos to DeWalt, but if there was a chance they related to an active plot, then she needed to know how to get him to take a discarded disposable camera of dubious prominence seriously.

  Behind Sol, a table of four noisy coworkers ordered their third bottle of wine. With each top-up they got a little rowdier. They occasionally pointed at the sweaty retail billionaire in the corner, and then dropped their voices to whispers. If an actual celebrity was in the restaurant, they would probably ask for a selfie.

  “Sol?” Ingrid put her fork down, a stuffed sardine fillet on the end of it. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Sure.” He dabbed some puttanesca sauce from his beard.

  “It’s kind of weird that you’d show up, because I can’t actually think who else I could ask about this.”

  The lines on his forehead bunched between his eyebrows. “I’m intrigued.”

  Ingrid took a slow sip of water, taking a last opportunity to weigh up the wisdom of saying anything. “Remember Mulroony?” A tremble rippled over her skin as she crossed the Rubicon.

  His eyes narrowed. “I do.” He spoke slowly, quietly.

  “Do you know what happened to him?”

  He looked down at his plate before replying. “Why are you asking, agent?”

  Ingrid’s pulse pounded under her shirt. “Something came up.”

  “Something?”

  “Are you not answering my question because you don’t know?”

  “I may have retired,” he dropped his voice to whisper, “but I’m still bound by my signature on State Secrets Act.”

  “So, you do know what happened to Mulroony?”

  Sol leaned back in his seat. He glanced at the noisy table before returning his attention to Ingrid. “Why now, Ingrid?”

  “I inherited his caseload, didn’t I? I think I’ve stumbled across something that feels significant.”

  “Significant how?”

  They were both willing to call and raise, but neither of them wanted to show their cards.

  “Well, see, I don’t really kn
ow because no one,” she raised her eyebrows to emphasize her point, “told me what happened to him. And when I look for his records to find what did happen to him, it turns out there aren’t any records.” She picked up her fork. “You were his SSA at the time, Amy Louden was the Special Agent in Charge, and you’ve both left the bureau since then—for very different reasons, obviously—so I don’t know if this information I have is significant, or who to pass it on to. Do I give it to DeWalt?” She popped the sardine in her mouth.

  Sol’s pupils dilated behind his glasses. “No,” he said carefully. “No, that would not be a good idea.”

  Okay, that was at least a straight answer. “Do I get to know why not?”

  Sol took a sip of wine. “Because he doesn’t know why Mulroony disappeared. This information you have. Does it relate to national security?”

  Ingrid shrugged. “I honestly can’t make that judgement because,” she leaned in, “I don’t know what Mulroony did or where he is. But let’s just say that what I found out does impact national security, how do I escalate this if I can’t share it with DeWalt? Do I tell you?”

  “No,” he said deliberately. “I am no longer authorized. If you think this is serious, you absolutely cannot tell me.”

  “Do I take it to the Legat?”

  Sol chewed the inside of his lip. “It would really help if you told me what it is you’ve found.”

  Ingrid looked down at her plate. She tried to work out how she could talk about the photos without sounding like a crazy person. “I found some notes,” she said. “Handwritten notes.” It felt like a good lie. “The light was flickering and so I tried to fix it. I found them hidden behind a ceiling tile.”

  Sol scratched his beard, trying to cover the surprise with his hand. “And what do the notes say?”

  Again, she didn’t want to sound like someone in need of a psych referral. “They appear to be in some sort of code.”

  “Hmm.” Sol raised an eyebrow. “And you’re sure Mulroony wrote them?”

  “Not entirely, but he’s the most likely candidate.”

  “And where are these notes now?”

  “Locked away.”

  Sol rapped his fingers lightly on the table. “Okay, I’m going to tell you something, but—”

  Behind Sol, a drunken coworker pushed his chair back. Its legs caught in the paving stones and clattered onto the ground. He swayed slightly, grabbed the table to steady himself and pulled on the tablecloth sending two glasses of wine spiraling to the floor. The splintered pieces scattered across the stone slabs. Silence descended like a heavy mist. The entire courtyard froze. Then the drunk man’s friends started clapping and the waiters scurried toward them.

  Ingrid put down her knife and fork.

  The drunk man turned on his heels, shoved a waiter out of his way and staggered toward Ingrid and Sol. Ingrid pushed her chair back, readying herself. Chatter returned, rising slowly from the tables like coils of steam. The man stumbled past them. Ingrid feared he wouldn’t make it to the bathroom before he threw up. Then she realized what he was really doing.

  “Excuse me,” she said to Sol and stood up, just as the drunk man swiped a glass of red wine off a table and lurched toward the retail magnate. He threw the wine at him, catching the side of his face, spraying his open-neck shirt.

  “You fucking thief…”

  The magnate was too fat to get up, so he shifted his body weight away from his attacker and fell sideways off his chair into the raised flower bed. His dining companion erupted out of his seat and aimed an uppercut to the drunk man’s jaw. The drunk arched his back to avoid the blow, then swung an arm at his assailant. Ingrid grabbed his arm, turned him round, and yanked his wrist up behind his back.

  “What the fuck?” He sprayed spittle as he spoke.

  Ingrid pressed her knee onto his right calf, forcing him down into a kneeling position. She instinctively reached to her waistband for handcuffs—muscle memory—but only found the phone in her back pants pocket.

  The entire courtyard was silent apart from the obese man’s whimpering. His dining companion stood motionless, fist still raised, jaw hanging loose. Diners poised with forks mid-air, waiters like statues with bulging eyes.

  “Give me a hand here, will you?” Ingrid said.

  The tension dissolved. Diners took out their phones and started filming. Sol got to his feet and together they lifted the fat man back onto his chair. Waiters dashed toward them. More appeared from inside the restaurant. The table of drunks mumbled half-hearted apologies.

  “You okay, sir?” Ingrid asked the fat man. His shirt was stained from collar to elbow. “I think you may be bleeding.”

  He was too shocked to speak.

  “No, signorina, it is you who is bleeding,” a waiter said.

  Ingrid looked down. Her ankle was covered in blood. A piece of the shattered wine glass was still protruding from her skin. She hadn’t felt a thing.

  Back at the table, she grabbed a napkin and wiped away the blood as a uniformed police officer barreled into the courtyard, followed by the maître d’. Within five minutes, the drunk had been arrested, his friends had made an embarrassed exit, the glass splinters had been swept up and retail entrepreneur had offered to pay for Ingrid’s lunch. Complimentary limoncello was distributed to every table.

  Sol raised a small glass of yellow liqueur. “To our heroine.” He took a sip and immediately screwed up his face. “Wowser, this stuff is lethal.”

  Ingrid figured she could allow herself a small shot of alcohol. To steady her nerves. Besides, limoncello made her so nostalgic for the semester she had spent in Florence as a student. “Cin cin.”

  “Cin cin.”

  One tiny sip and she was back on an endless evening on Piazza della Signoria talking to Paulo, or was it Mauricio, in the warm night air about nothing and everything.

  “How’s your ankle?”

  “Seems fine,” she said. “You had been about to tell me something.”

  “Had I?”

  “You know you had.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “Look, it would help a lot if I at least knew what happened to Mulroony. I checked the trial records. There has never been one. I checked the prisoner records. He doesn’t exist there either.” She leaned in and lowered her voice. “Mulroony’s like a goddamn ghost. How does someone disappear like that? Why?”

  Sol cradled his chin. “Okay,” he said, “but not here. You don’t know who’s listening. You okay to walk?” He pointed to her ankle.

  “Of course.”

  “Come on then.”

  They finished their limoncello and stood to leave. As they walked between the tables, a woman grabbed Ingrid’s wrist. She turned sharply.

  “You shouldn’t have done it, you know that?” The woman’s hand was trembling. “That bastard,” she nodded at the fat man, “deserves whatever is coming to him.”

  Ingrid shook off her grasp. “I don’t know who he is, but he has as much right to eat his lunch in peace as you do.”

  Shock widened the woman’s mouth.

  “Have a nice day,” Ingrid said, then followed Sol into the restaurant. “Do you know who that guy is?”

  “Can’t say I do.” He opened the door for Ingrid. “But I’m damn sure he didn’t buy his Rolex on Canal Street.”

  There were even more photographers outside Sabrina’s than when they had entered, drawn by the police cars and unnecessary ambulance. A few took images of Sol and Ingrid as they hurried away.

  “Where are we headed?” Ingrid said.

  “Doesn’t matter,” Sol replied, popping a tab of nicotine gum in his mouth. They wended their way through the streets, heading vaguely east, away from the embassy to reduce the risk of bumping into anyone they knew. “I’m only telling you this because I care about you, you understand that?”

  Ingrid glanced over at him. “Sure. Understood.”

  “My aim is to keep you from doing something stupid, you hear? Mulroony was a traitor, a stain
on the bureau and one of the biggest screw-ups in our history.” Sol spoke quickly but quietly. “Here, let’s go down here.” They turned into a narrow alleyway that spilled them into a small cobbled square. “First off, I only know about ten percent of what happened. My clearance only allowed me to know the basics. But I know who leaned on me, and I don’t want them leaning on you. Okay?”

  He steered her at a pace through a maze of streets too narrow for cars.

  “The reason Mulroony wasn’t tried, the reason why you can’t find a record for him, is we never got a chance to arrest him.”

  That was not what Ingrid was expecting. She’d been picturing Guantanamo and orange jumpsuits. “Why not?”

  “Someone beat us to it.”

  Ingrid slowed as she absorbed the revelation. “Explain.”

  They emerged from the warren of streets onto Berkeley Square. Sol hurried across the road and opened the gate for her. Then changed his mind. Too many picnics, too many people. He piloted them south toward Piccadilly, then abruptly pulled up.

  “What is it?” Ingrid asked.

  “I need to look you in the eye.”

  “Are you trying to scare me?”

  He leaned closer. “Yes. Most definitely. The people who made him disappear could make it happen again. You weren’t there, so you don’t know what it was like. One day he didn’t come into the office. At first, we thought he was ill. Then we thought he might have choked on a pretzel in his man cave. But he had vanished. We reported him as a missing person, we investigated him as a missing person, and it was about three weeks later when an asset in the field told us what had happened to him.” He started walking.

  Ingrid resisted the urge to interrupt as they strode past the galleries of Cork Street.

  “He was about to be exposed as a double agent. The Russians yanked him before we could arrest him. I say ‘we’ loosely, I mean the Agency.” Sol pulled a handkerchief out of a pocket and mopped the sweat from his brow. “We’d had intel for a while there was a Russian asset inside the Met. It kind of made sense when we found out. Mulroony worked closely with the Met, just as you do now, and he’d been covering his tracks that way for years.”