by TG Wolff
“Ms. Fielding? Jessica? This is Lois Winston. You all right in there?”
My hand was pressed to the gorge in my hip. “Yes ma’am. Just…waking up.” Yeah, I was that lame.
“All right, then. There’s plenty of towels and hot water. I’ll have breakfast waiting when you’re ready.”
I brushed my teeth twice to scrub off the fur coating my tongue. The shower rinsed away the dried bourbon sweats and had me smelling like a girl again. I dressed in Jessica’s carefully coordinated separates and only hesitated when I lifted the wig. Jessica was flying today, and she was a blond in her ID picture.
My flight was landing as I sat to tackle a chick coop’s worth of eggs plus bacon and potatoes. Lois was a goddess. Buford contributed Bloody Marys. “Hair of the dog that bit you?”
I took the offered glass. With a salute, I drank. Good dog.
With a lot of fast talking and a burn to the credit card, I got on the last flight to DC. It gave us time to look at Dr. Liu’s proposed scope for the Phase 2 grant. Revision five.
I had proofread many grants and papers for Gavriil. This one was well written even if, in my opinion, the promised outcomes were very pie in the sky. Grants were competitive; you had to sell yourself and your ideas to the grantor. Even in science, it pays to be sexy.
Buford dropped the paper he’d been reading on the table. “It’s been a year since Gabe died. I don’t know. Maybe I’m just old and crotchety but that young woman puts me off. Gabe had confidence in her. That should mean something, shouldn’t it?”
“It should, but the fact that it doesn’t means something, too. You live by your gut.”
He chuckled, rubbing his protruding belly. “Always have and it’s never been wrong.” He was quiet for a long moment, staring at the proposal. “I’ll approve it, I suppose. The theory is solid, and it builds on Gabe’s work. I transfer the grant now, and we start over. This is too important.” He covered my hand with his. Squeezed it. “We better get you going.”
I sat in my seat, jostled by the taxiing plane, feeling hollow. I thought of my own relationships with my coworkers and what Gavriil knew of them. Some days, I spent more waking hours with coworkers than I did with my husband. It was natural to know details of each other’s lives. I was close to the people I worked with first at the agency and then with the kids. Hell, one was squatting across the fire escape from me. I could forgive myself for misreading Buford. His blow up with the Italian cop? Grief. Loud, boisterous, booming grief. The argument with Gavriil at the conference? It was the culmination of the emails. Two good men, two sharp minds on completely different pages like some high science Abbott and Costello routine.
WHO’s on first—that’s the World Health Organization.
WATT’s on second—as in kilowatt hours of power.
I don’t H2O’s on third—no water, no life. At least on this planet.
Buford’s emails bothered me. A lot. Dix got into the details enough to confirm they were not sent from Gavriil’s university account but a masked phantom account. Could my husband have done it himself? Could? Yes. Would? No. This is the difference between working in the abstract and knowing your victim.
Gavriil devoured the theory of science but was totally disinterested in technology. He procrastinated getting a smart phone until his students’ phones shamed him. In the division of household chores, setting up new devices fell on my side of the line. Home computer, DVR, Netflix, the radio on this new car, etc., etc., were my areas of responsibility. (More than a fair trade as he took the laundry.) Gavriil could have figured out how to send masked emails to Buford, but he would never care enough to spend real time at it when he could be doing something productive. It was even less likely he wouldn’t have mentioned it to me at some point.
So who sent them? Everything leaves a digital thumbprint, no matter how faint. It was the little bits of information buried deep within the file structure that could help someone with the rights skills and tools find the needle in the haystack. Dix had the skills. I had the patience to let those skills work.
I needed Dixon and Ian to generate a lead because I was running into a dead end. Buford Winston didn’t hire Hugo Franzetti. Carlo Giancarlo was still looking for the driver of the yellow car. Next step would be to resurrect the conference list and scrutinize every name for connections to Gavriil. There was little to work with on the attack on Quili Liu. I hadn’t gotten a plate or a picture. It was on Dix’s to-do list to tap into the traffic cameras and get an ID. I had to presume the events were all connected until I could prove that they weren’t.
What other options were there? That wasn’t a rhetorical question. I was running out of suspects, out of theories, and out of energy. I wasn’t ready to go home yet. I drove without a destination, hoping inspiration would find me. The area became familiar. I parked on the grassy respite in the middle of a metropolis.
“Hey, baby.” Squatting down, I plucked the tender weeds growing over my husband’s resting place. “Sorry it’s been so long.” Next to him, the earth had been mounded over where my body lay. “I went to Oklahoma. You should have told me Buford wasn’t an ass.”
My butt settled on the cool grass. I leaned against the headstone. I’d come so far, learned so much but still felt miles away from the end.
I didn’t know my next move.
Gradually, I became aware of the light…or lack thereof. Night had descended. I lifted my head and, ow, my neck rebuked me. My back was none too pleased, and my hips refused to get into the game. I rolled to all fours and crawled up the headstone until I stood upright-ish. My phone fell from my pocket. I bent to pick it up thinking I would have to pass this on to the CIA as an interrogation method.
I pressed a kiss to the stone. “Save me a seat next to you. Remember to put a good word in for me at the gate. I love you.”
I moved slowly across the uneven ground, shuffling my feet until my hips thawed. My phone had stayed quiet throughout my visit. It wasn’t respect or even good luck. It was still in airplane mode. I swiped the necessary digital buttons and brought it back to life.
Dixon and Ian had called and texted. Twenty times.
Ian answered on the first ring. “Where the hell have you been?”
My time with my husband was private. “I’m on my way back to the building. What’s going on?”
“Your boy genius and I just figured out who put the recovery order out on you. It’s not good, Diamond. It’s Sam Irish.”
“Well, shit.” I was shocked when I shouldn’t have been. His behavior at my funeral was bad news. He didn’t buy my charred corpse routine. “Did you get a number for him? An email?”
“Better. The kid got an address.”
I snorted in disbelief. “Like I believe Sam Irish could be found that easily.”
“It wasn’t easy, Diamond.” Ian’s voice hardened in defense of Dixon. “He’s using an alias, Patrick O’Malley. And we verified. I called him myself from a clean phone, pretending it was a wrong number. It was him.”
“Where?”
“Baltimore.” He read the address.
“My own backyard. What a tiny, messed up world we live in. Well, it would be rude not to—”
“Don’t go there, Diamond,” Ian said hastily and with authority he didn’t have.
Irish and I had a long, sorted, sometimes steamy, sometimes violent history. Ian had been on the fringe a time or two. He had reasons for his opinion of Irish, but he didn’t know him the way I did. “When did he post the job?”
He sighed dramatically, a none-too-subtle reiteration of his disapproval and acceptance of the inevitable. “The day of your funeral.”
I laughed. There was nothing else to do. “Irish had made me worth more alive than dead.” And then something clicked in place. “Ian, you never told me the details of what happened to you. Could it have been Irish?”
He sucked wind. “I don’t see how. I met Tamara in France years ago. Whenever we were in t
he same place, we got together. I wasn’t expecting her but, well, was happy to pick up where we left off. We were reconnecting when two men entered the living floor. The primary alarm tripped but it had been glitching and I was distracted. A secondary alarm tripped but not early enough. It got ugly, fast.”
“We saw the end result. What were they after?”
“They never told me. One asshole came at us with a sap. Knocked me stupid. Tamara was out cold. They worked me over. She woke up and went after them. She was naked and screaming and drew them away. It dawned on me she knew the score. While she had them distracted, I limped into the bathroom, to my escape route. One of them came after me. I had a backup gun hidden there. The asshole didn’t want to kill me. He had a gun but used his fists instead. I put him down then went for the hatch. I heard a gunshot as I closed the door behind me.”
“You and me have history together,” I said. “If I was searching for me, you’d be on the top of my list.”
“Fuck me,” he said in agreement. “Do you think they staked my building out to see who came for me?”
“Not impossible. It took a while for us to put the pieces together.”
“I noticed.”
“Maybe you should wear one of those life alert bracelets, then I’ll know when you get the shit kicked out of you.” I smiled when he told me to do something physically impossible. “If they staked it out, they could have gotten the plate for my car, which is registered to a vacant lot under a real dead woman’s name. It’s possible they followed us to my building. Keep your eyes and ears open and security on.”
“I’m taking it seriously. What are you going to do?”
The type of people attracted to a hundred K aren’t dissuaded by a little thing like a death certificate. “Fulfill the order.”
“Think, Diamond. Irish doesn’t fuck around. If he put an order out with big money behind it, he’s expecting to get something out of it. What are you trying to get out of this?”
“A hundred grand.” This was going to be fun. “And bragging rights. I’ll call you later.” I ran to my car—hips be damned—started it, programmed the GPS, and peeled out of the cemetery. Ian was right, Irish played for keeps. Here I was, a woman with nothing to lose.
I didn’t have time to finish the thought before a text came through. Someone had left a message for me. After more key strokes than I’d like, Quili Liu’s voice floated into my car.
“This message is for Jessica, uh, Miss Fielding. This is Dr. Quili Liu. I am hopeful you will call me back. I feel I am being watched.” She left a number.
I dialed the number. “Hello, Quili. It’s Jessica.”
“I am so sorry to bother, so sorry. It was nothing.” She spoke quickly in her accented English. “There was a cat and Monte sometimes feeds him.” She prattled on from there. There was no trace of fear in her voice.
After her third apology, I interrupted and asked to speak with Monte. “How goes it?”
“Good. Very good. I’m teaching her to play the video game AnnihalNation. She’s got killer instincts.” It was cute, Monte had a playmate.
One hour and thirty-six minutes later, I parked on a street around the corner from Irish’s cul-de-sac. The neighborhood was high-end, with big houses on bigger properties. Still in Jessica Fielding’s favorite outfit, I strode down the sidewalk with the confidence of a woman who belonged on these exclusive streets, even if it was just to visit a friend. I rounded the corner and walked smack into a party alit with the bright red lights of the boys and girls in blue.
“Son of a bitch. What did you do, Irish?” I whispered to the night as I avoided a group of neighbors on a lawn. The cul-de-sac was crowded with a Baltimore SWAT truck and no less than six cars with spinning lights. More unmarked cars filled the curb line back to the main road. Men and women in full gear were in ready positions at strategic posts. No one joked or chatted. Radios crackled and echoed in the still night. This was the real thing.
I just didn’t know what kind of thing.
I sidled up to a young police officer at the back of the action, hoping to overhear the radio chatter. As I approached, the stand-down order was given. Tension snapped like a rubber band as a man in his sleep pants was marched out of the house, hands behind his head.
Sam Irish had the body of an MMA fighter. Hard angles and flat planes, looked damn fine in a suit, a pair of jeans, or his underwear. His auburn hair was long and unruly as it’d been at the funeral. His dark eyes were narrow and swept menacingly across the gathered multitude. With his hands behind his head, the muscles of his chest and abs were pulled tight, the lights of the police vehicles painting his body.
The air blistered with Irish’s curses as he was walked over to a cruiser and was placed in the back seat.
“I’m the fucking victim, you idiots.” Then the door was closed.
The officer stood at the door for a few minutes, Irish swearing at his back, then spoke into his radio and walked away.
I approached from the opposite side, opened the door, then slid into the stingy back seat and a torrent of expletives. “There’s no point in playing the victim, Mr. O’Malley.” I used a drawl infused with Oklahoma, just because it was fun. “This will go much faster if you just tell me your side of the story.”
“My side of the story?!?” His head spun on a swivel, black eyes slashing with fury. “My side of the story is you fuckers have—Jesus Christ! It’s you!”
Over his shoulder, the officer was returning. I slid back out the door. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be.” I winked, then closed him in.
Oh, Irish was not happy. His fist connected with the reinforced, shatterproof glass. His face was twisted and cruel; his mouth promised retribution of biblical proportions.
“What? I can’t hear you…the glass…I can’t understand what you’re saying. Do you know sign language?”
“You’ll want to step back, ma’am.” The officer inserted himself in front of me. “This is an active scene.”
It was cute how he cared for my safety. Obediently, I took several steps backward. “He does look a bit rabid. What did he do?”
“Nothing, ma’am.” There was relief on his young face. “It’s over. It’s safe to return to your home.”
“Oh, I’m not a resident. Jessica Fielding, reporter. I picked it up on the scanner.” I leaned in conspiratorially. “Can you help me out a little? My editor has been on my case to make me prove I can handle the crime beat. He thinks I’m too young.” The cop had a baby face. I played the odds “too young” would be something he could relate to.
He glanced around, then lead me into a shadow. Irish pounded on the window again, shouting inarticulately. “A call came in reporting a hostage situation at this address.”
“Who owns the home?”
“Patrick O’Malley. When attempts to contact Mr. O’Malley were unsuccessful, the Baltimore SWAT team mobilized.” The cop was into it, adrenalin fueling his running mouth. “Following all department protocols, we attempted to engage with either the homeowner or the suspect. Eventually, we were able to make contact with Mr. O’Malley and the call was determined to be a hoax.”
“A hoax?” Funny how a prank of this type would come on this particular night. “Then why is he in the back of the squad car?”
“A precaution. For Mr. O’Malley’s safety.”
It was work not to laugh. He had no idea there was a lion penned up in that cage.
My phone chimed. A text from Dixon. Stay away from Baltimore for a while. He ended it with an angel emoji. My sweet, stupid, put-gas-on-a-fire angel.
“It’s called swatting,” the cop said, continuing. “People call nine-one-one and convince the operator a hostage has been taken or other violence is ongoing. The SWAT team responds, and well, scares the hell out of the unsuspecting victim before the hoax is revealed. It’s a crime local, state, and federal agencies take very seriously.”
“Do you know why it was done?�
�
He shook his head. “It’s usually a case of revenge for some social slight. It’s fun and easy for gamers and online societies. A girl won’t meet you, you SWAT her family. Some guy destroys your level fifty-seven village, you SWAT his family. It’s rarely about money.”
“What are the odds you’ll get this guy?”
“That’s above my pay grade.” He pointed with this thumb over his shoulder. “Do you have any idea how much money is sitting on this street right now?” His radio burst to life speaking in a code he didn’t know I understood. “I gotta go.”
“Can I quote you on this?”
He glanced over his shoulder again. “Better not. Good luck with your editor.” He jogged back to his car, preparing to release the lion.
I found a crowd and blended in. Irish’s narrow gaze searched for me, but I was just one in a sea of professionally bleached blonds. I texted my person with exceptional cyber skills. Tell me you did not use your own phone.
Instant response: No. I’m not 14
Me: Keep your head down. You don’t want to fuck with this guy.
Dix: He shldnt fuck with u.
Oh, my little cyber criminal was being gallant. Me: Ian know?
No answer. No answer. Dix: Does now. Dropped dinner. Big mess. Gotta run.
People milled about, walking in all directions around the ten-house cul-de-sac. The street had the hustle of a neighborhood block party despite the day being minutes away from turning into tomorrow. Irish stood on his front walk glaring at the crowd, not giving a flying fuck he was a few ounces of cotton away from buck naked. The neighbors noticed. Responses varied with gender and proclivity. Irish was a fine piece of eye candy.
I fell in behind a family walking past me, making myself invisible. Two houses away from Irish, I used the shadow of a hedge line for cover to the rear yards and quickly crossed to his. The back door was unlocked after I picked it; I accepted the invitation in.
The house was brightly lit, modern and tasteful. I walked through to the half bath in the center hall to observe Irish. Through the open front door, I saw him in a Superman pose, powerful against the dark night. I stepped back and began removing the pins holding the wig. His accent grew thicker the more pissed he became. The door slammed shut.
