Sasha McCandless 02 - Inadvertent Disclosure

by Melissa F. Miller

  Most random crimes were random only in that the victim didn’t know her attacker. But they were targeted in that criminals don’t generally waste a lot of energy gaining access to their victims in a stranger crime. Two homes, side by side—one locked up tight, with good security lighting, the other with open windows, overgrown hedges, and an unlocked door—no contest.

  With the first floor of the building vacant, Sasha could have been a sitting duck. But, she took steps to remedy that. Changed her key code regularly; used a different code for the pad outside her office; locked herself in when she was working after hours. She couldn’t do anything about the landlord’s lighting choices, she thought, as she mounted the steps to her office in near darkness. She’d have to remember to clip a flashlight to her backpack next time.

  She moved cautiously through the darkened second-floor hallway and felt for the keypad by the door. She tapped the numbers and the soft electronic click told her the door had unlocked. She reached into the mailbox mounted beside the keypad and retrieved a fistful of mail.

  She hurried in, hit the lights, and locked the door behind her. She removed a Nalgene bottle from one of the backpack’s side pockets and filled it from the water cooler that sat next to her coffee maker. Then she took out her laptop and booted it up, flipping through the mail while it cycled through its startup processes.

  A legal magazine, a pamphlet advertising a CLE program, a Westlaw invoice, and an envelope containing a check from VitaMight.

  The payment from VitaMight reminded her of Showalter’s bizarre inadvertent disclosure request. She put the stack of mail to the side and rolled out her desk chair. She typed her password into the start screen, and sat staring at the screen and tapping her nails against the desktop while the electronic database that held a copy of the files on Showalter’s CD launched.

  “00476 through 00477,” she muttered to herself as she scanned the database for the document bearing those numbers. She hadn’t written them down when Showalter ambushed her earlier in the day, but her memory was sound.

  Her former coworkers had insisted she had a photographic memory, but that wasn’t the case. She just had a great memory—almost total recall. It was both a blessing and a hindrance. A blessing because she could, at will, remember a line from a deposition transcript, the amount of an outstanding balance, or her sister-in-law’s dress size and favorite color. A hindrance because her mind refused to prioritize or weed the information it retained. So, the pinpoint page cite to the leading case on an important issue had to share space with her best friend from third grade’s telephone number, which had been disconnected when her family moved to Iowa in 1985.

  Curiously, the one piece of data she couldn’t seem to retain reliably was the names of men she’d dated. When she ran into them, she’d panic—was it Jon or Joe? Mark or Martin? Someday, she figured to make a therapist rich delving into the issue.

  She found the document in the spreadsheet and double-clicked the numbers to open the image. An e-mail with a PDF attachment filled the screen. It was an internal e-mail Keystone Properties had sent to its employees inviting them to a pizza lunch for a candidate for county commissioner. The attached PDF was a color flyer with a cartoon picture of a stereotypical mustachioed Italian chef, holding a steaming pizza aloft. It set out the time, date, and location for the lunch, which had occurred nearly a year earlier.

  Could she possibly have misremembered the numbers?

  No question, it was irrelevant to her document request, but surely Showalter couldn’t seriously want this document back.

  She leaned back in her chair and stretched her arms over her head to think. What was even remotely interesting about this document? Not the pizza. It had to be the politics. She read it again. The candidate Keystone Properties was backing was Heather Price.

  She knew that name. She played back the previous several days’ interactions in her mind, spooling through her conversations with Russell, Gloria and her husband, the sheriff, Attorney General Griggs and Chief Justice Bermann, until finally she landed on Jed. Jed had told her Heather Price was the commissioner who had held Big Sky’s permits hostage until it contracted with her trucking company.

  Could it just be a coincidence that Showalter was desperate to get back an otherwise-innocuous e-mail that showed his client had supported Heather Price’s bid for county commissioner? Maybe Keystone Properties was also playing ball with Ms. Price.

  Sasha rocked back in her chair and thought it through, chewing on the end of her pen as she did so. It hung together. Showalter still wasn’t getting his document back, but at least it made some sense.

  She reached for the phone to call and break it to him, then she froze. She thought she heard the jangle of the bells over the exterior door downstairs.

  The only other people who had the code were Connelly and the landlord. Connelly, having learned the hard way, knew better than to startle her. The landlord was best described as absentee. It was unlikely to be either of them.

  With her hand suspended midway to the phone, she listened hard. Heard nothing. She was just spooked from the incident in the judge’s chambers.

  She picked up the phone and began to punch in the numbers. She thought she heard the faint squeak of floorboards.

  She placed the receiver back in its cradle, careful not to make any noise, and crept to the door. She strained to hear over the thump of her heart.

  There was no reason the landlord would be there after hours and no reason he’d be sneaking up on her.

  The door’s locked, she told herself. Just wait it out.

  She pressed her ear against the door. The door to the street creaked on its hinge and the bells rang again. Someone was there, and he was going back outside.

  Her gut told her it was a trap.

  She fought the urge to fling open the door and run down the stairs, outside to perceived safety. The impulse to flee was almost irresistible. But, of course, she was safer staying put.

  She rushed over to the window and looked down on the sidewalk below. There was no one walking away from the building in either direction. She looked across the street, searching for a lone figure. She watched for several minutes. Couples, holding hands, on their way to dinner. A group of college students, loud and laughing. No ninjas.

  She told herself it could have been the wind. On a gusty night like this, it could shake the door hard enough to dislodge the bells.

  She picked up the phone to call Showalter, but her hands were still shaking from the jolt of adrenaline. She put the phone down and paced around the office like a trapped animal.

  She considered calling Connelly and asking him to come pick her up. He’d do it, of course. Then she tossed her head, snapping her ponytail behind her. Don’t be pathetic, she told herself, you are not going to call your boyfriend to rescue you like some hysterical female.

  She dragged the yoga mat out from under her desk and unrolled it. A moon salutation would slow her heart and calm her down.

  She starting from standing and raised her arms overhead. She did a deep backbend and imagined the anxiety and fear rolling off her arms onto the floor. Then she folded herself forward, hands interlocked and arms outstretched in front of her as she brought her forehead as close to the mat as she could.

  Her heart slowed to a normal rhythm. She released her hands and came up into a high lunge. The fear had vanished.

  She worked through the rest of the poses, finishing in the same standing mountain pose she’d started from.

  She rolled up the mat and returned it to its place under the desk, then she took a long drink of water. She was glad she hadn’t called Connelly and blabbered about being scared.

  She shut down the laptop and stuffed it into the backpack. After she wriggled the pack onto her shoulders, she turned out the lights and stepped out into the short hallway. She tested the knob to make sure the door locked behind her then started down the hallway.

  CHAPTER 29

  Sasha hurried down the darkened hall
way to the stairs and took them lightly, one hand sliding along the railing. She could see the door, illuminated by the emergency exit light hanging above it.

  Almost there.

  Her feet hit the landing at the bottom of the stairs and she moved forward, toward the door.

  A tall figure stepped out from the entrance to the empty deli space to her left and stood between her and the exit, blocking her way. The exit sign shined down on him, casting a red glow on his sharp, bony face, feral eyes, and long, stringy ponytail.

  Jay. And this time he didn’t have a stick in his hand. He had a gun.

  She stood, motionless, and waited for him to tell her to put her hands up. Then it would be a fluid series of moves and she would have his gun while he had a broken trigger finger and, unless he was luckier than Connelly had been, a broken nose.

  “Turn around,” he said, gesturing with the gun.

  She was going to need a new plan.

  She did as he said.

  He moved close behind her and pulled her wrists together behind her back. In a fast, fluid motion he snapped a set of handcuffs around her wrists.

  “We need to talk,” he said.

  He grabbed her by the shoulders and pushed her into the retail space. He guided her into a chair that sat at a dusty laminated table.

  The deli owners had sold off most of their fixtures before they’d vacated the space, but a few tables and chairs were left behind, scattered across the room. Standing guard over them was an empty, unplugged drink cooler, its SoBe juice sign darkened and its door hanging ajar.

  She ran through the scenario in her mind. She was in an abandoned building with a suspected killer who had previously attacked her. Connelly would eventually start looking for her; but he would likely call her office line, get no answer, cross it off the list of places to look, and search elsewhere. Less than ideal facts.

  Fighting her way out had just become a remote possibility. She’d have to put her oral advocacy skills to work and talk her way out.

  “Jay,” she began, “I don’t think you’ve thought this through.”

  He smiled. “No?”

  He took a seat across the table from her and splayed his long, thin hands out across the table.

  “Is this the part where you show me the error of my ways and convince me to confess to killing Judge Paulson and turn myself into that idiot pig sheriff?”

  She smiled back, ignoring the cold stainless steel digging into the undersides of her wrists.

  Well, yes, it was. But, when he put it that way, it sounded like a fairly lame plan. It was, however, the only one she had at the moment.

  He didn’t wait for a response.

  “Here are the flaws with your plan, if that is what you’re thinking. First—and this is a pretty big one—I didn’t kill Judge Paulson. And, as if that weren’t enough, second, your ill-advised press conference may have compromised my investigation. The Bureau’s not going to be happy about that.”

  He leaned back and smirked as comprehension flooded her face.

  “The Bureau? You’re with the FBI?”

  Relief coursed through her body in a wave. She figured she was in some amount of trouble, but she wasn’t going to be raped or killed or both.

  “Correct. I apologize for the ambush, but this is an unofficial visit. Given your propensity for violence and apparent belief that I’m a killer, well, the cuffs seemed advisable.”

  She decided not to point out that he also had a propensity for violence.

  “Am I under arrest?”

  “Not at this point.”

  “Then, how about you take off the handcuffs? I promise not to beat you up again.” She smiled.

  He shook his head. “Hilarious. No, sorry. I didn’t track you down just to have you take off on me. This thing is big, nationwide. I can’t risk you doing any more damage than you’ve already done.”

  She considered forcing the issue. He had no legitimate reason to keep her in restraints. But, she was too curious to hear about his investigation to push it.

  “So, you’re undercover?”

  “Correct. And you and that moronic sheriff have jeopardized a massive domestic terrorism investigation.”

  “You’re investigating PORE? As suspected terrorists?”

  “PORE and others. McAllister has been on our radar since ‘08, when the natural gas boom hit Clear Brook County in a big way. McAllister seized on hydrofracking as the issue that would catapult him from drum circles in the woods to the national spotlight. We watched and waited, looking for an opportunity to infiltrate his organization. Once he started the website, boom, I had my in.”

  “I thought PORE was nonviolent.”

  Russell had told her that, until the attack on her, the most destructive act PORE had undertaken was when Danny chained himself to a collection tank, which resulted in a work stoppage for most of a morning while the crew and the state troopers looked for a pair of wire cutters to cut him free and drag him off the property.

  No one had been harmed but Big Sky had been furious. The company pressed trespassing charges and threatened to file a civil suit as well, claiming it had sustained lost profits of nearly a quarter of a million dollars because of his stunt. According to Russell, Danny had hired Marty Braeburn to negotiate a quick confidential settlement and the criminal charges had gone away, as well.

  The FBI agent had a different view of Danny Trees’s shenanigans.

  “PORE’s original focus was on economic terrorism, aimed at harming the oil and gas companies’ bottom line, but, as you experienced firsthand, they’ve recently moved on to destruction of personal property and physical attacks. In addition, they’re loosely affiliated with a network of similar cells, spread throughout the country. Some of their compatriots in the Pacific Northwest have ramped up the violence recently.”

  She looked at him closely. He didn’t seem to be joking.

  “Okay, I’m pretty sure Danny slashed my tires, and I think you and Danny both pelted me with rocks, but everything else was you, remember? You tried to smash my windshield. Everyone else split, but Danny tried to stop you, Agent . . .”

  “Stock. Agent Jared Stock. The details aren’t important. McAllister participated in a violent attack on an unarmed woman in furtherance of his radical environmental agenda.”

  The laugh escaped before she could stop it.

  “Agent Stock, let’s be serious. He couldn’t convince you to stop, so he left. Then you attacked me with your stick. Or tried to, at any rate.”

  Stock’s nostrils flared. “What was that move you used? Jujitsu?”

  “Krav Maga.”

  He gave her a rueful look. “You caught me off guard.”

  “And, it’s a good thing I did. Otherwise, you’d have viciously beaten me, and the hapless Danny Trees would have faced terrorism charges for an attack incited by and ultimately carried out by a federal agent. Is that right?”

  “I’m not going to sit here and try to convince you of how very dangerous PORE and organizations like it are, Ms. McCandless. Your government has deemed domestic ecoterrorism to be a profound threat to national security. If you disagree, write your congressman. I’m here because I need you to convince the sheriff to find himself a new suspect and get that sketch of me off the news. I didn’t murder Judge Paulson, but someone did. Quite possibly, that someone’s a member of the PORE cell. That fits with the evidence allegedly found in my bag. Someone in PORE could have killed him then conveniently framed the guy who had disappeared.”

  “Which of the dangerous ecoterrorists do you suspect? Melanie? Or maybe Flower?”

  “As I said, I’m not going to debate national security with you. Will you help me or not?”

  It wasn’t as though she had much free choice in the matter, given the handcuffs and the gun. But the reality was, she didn’t have any power to help him.

  “If you saw the press conference, then you know the attorney general shut down my investigation. It’s over, Agent Stock.”


  He banged his open palm against the table. “Get him to reopen it. There’s a killer out there.”

  Sasha thought. “Did you search Judge Paulson’s office on Tuesday evening? Or try to get into his apartment later that night?”

  He met her eyes with a level gaze.

  “No. And, no. Up until the press conference I had no professional interest in the judge’s murder. I didn’t have any reason to believe anyone at PORE was involved. In fact, McAllister seemed to regard Judge Paulson as a fair judge—as close to a friend as the movement was likely to have among the local decision-makers. He was optimistic the judge would rule against Big Sky on the county commissioners’ decision to consider the drilling moratorium petition he’d presented.”

  “Then nobody affiliated with PORE would want to see the judge killed,” Sasha said. “Why do you think a PORE member framed you?”

  “Who else had the means and opportunity?”

  Lots of people, including Stickley and Russell, for starters, she thought, but kept it to herself.

  Instead, she said, “But no motive. You just said they considered the judge to be a friend. So, it stands to reason that PORE wouldn’t have any reason to see Judge Paulson dead. But, if Big Sky shared Danny’s assessment of the judge’s leanings, then the company might.”

  Stock shifted his weight in the chair and launched into doublespeak. “I can neither agree nor disagree with that working theory. PORE considered the judge to be friendly on the drilling moratorium issue. I have no information as to whether other issues before the judge might have caused a PORE member, acting alone or in concert with others, to murder him.”

  She stared at him. She got the distinct feeling that morass of qualifiers and cautions contained a message, but, she’d be damned if she could untangle it. She knew who could, though.

  “There’s someone you should meet.”

  * * * * * * * * * *

  Sasha walked into her condo with Agent Stock by her side. He’d finally agreed that the handcuffs were overkill, but he’d kept a firm grip on her right hand during the trip from her office to the condo. Which just showed how observant he was: she was a lefty.