by Toby Neal
“’Course you are. I never had a doubt.”
“Hey. I could just be a deadbeat, go back to a life of crime.” Consuelo pushed her bottom lip out in a mock pout.
“Ha. You know you never were a normal criminal.”
“Well, did you know my English project is my memoir?”
“I knew your lawyer was negotiating with all those Hollywood people interested in it.”
“I know I can’t profit from it, which is fine . . . But I like the challenge of writing.” She produced the introductory pages and handed them to Lei. Lei had noticed the stark beauty of the girl’s writing when she read her journal last year, and now the opening pages of the memoir brought a lump to her throat.
“Wow, Consuelo. You really have a way with words.”
“So that’s what I’m going to major in. Journalism.”
“That will make Wendy Watanabe happy.” They grinned at each other. Watanabe was a ruthless but passionate TV reporter, and she too visited Consuelo regularly. Her fundraising efforts had procured Consuelo the best defense lawyer in the state.
“Yeah, and now I’ve got Wendy doing writing workshops with the girls here. She’s organized editorial help for us. We’re all writing our memoirs, not just me.”
Lei glanced up and looked around the room at girls of every size, shape, and shade—all troubled teens who’d hit the wall of the law. “I bet there are some good stories here.” She felt her own chest tighten with a moment of memory—if her aunty Rosario hadn’t taken her in, she might well have ended up here herself.
There but for the grace of God go I, she thought. It was something her father, converted to Christianity in prison, often said.
She set the pages back down on the table. “These are very good. But then, you knew that.”
“Thanks. It’s my chance to explain everything, and I don’t want to miss it. Mr. Fernandez is sort of acting as my agent; he said I can choose any charity to give the proceeds to. That’s perfect. I can always write something else and make money on it.”
“That’s the spirit. So do you hear from Tyler?” Tyler, Consuelo’s boyfriend, had been subject to some tougher sentencing and was incarcerated in California.
“We write. But he’s kind of depressed. We’re just friends now.”
Angel had fought her way free of the clutches of the other girls, and she trotted back to Consuelo. Lei watched their affectionate reunion.
“Do you still ever think of suicide?” she asked suddenly. Her mind had wandered back to the case.
Consuelo looked up, her dark eyes hard. “What do you think? I’m in prison, and I’ve got a record that will follow me when I get out. I’m broke and my parents are dead.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be so abrupt. I have a case that involves suicide, and I’m trying to understand it better.” Lei had had her own brushes with those dark thoughts, but they’d led in other directions—to self-injury. She looked down at the faint white lines of scarring on the insides of her arms.
Consuelo stroked the little dog, who’d flopped on her back in the girl’s lap. “I wanted to die when I was first captured. I thought my life was over.”
“I remember.”
“I actually thought I could will myself to die. But that’s not how it works, is it? Every day I kept waking up. Now I just let the thoughts pass by. I observe them. Dr. Wilson taught me how. Thoughts are not reality. They’re just thoughts. It’s helped me to realize they aren’t the truth.”
“Told you she’s a good therapist.” Dr. Wilson, Lei’s former therapist, had worked with Consuelo on and off since her capture. Lei thought about the Hale case. “If you’d been feeling that way, and you’d had someone agree to help you commit suicide when you couldn’t do it yourself for some reason, would you have taken advantage of that?”
A long beat passed while Consuelo stroked Angel’s belly, scratched under her tiny pointed chin. Finally she looked up at Lei. “I wouldn’t be here today.”
“Thanks,” Lei said. “This actually helps me with a case.”
“Weird convo, but glad I could help.”
“Back to your rooms; it’s the boys’ time!” Auntie Marcie called, and with good-natured grumbling, the girls got up from the couches. Consuelo stood, handed Angel to Lei.
“Thanks for coming.”
“You’re welcome. Thanks for loaning me Angel.” They smiled at each other, and Consuelo straightened her uniform and walked back to her friends, hips swinging, shiny black hair bouncing.
The girl had style, there was no doubt.
Lei waved goodbye to Aunty Marcie and left, a little surprised at the glow of happiness she felt to be in Consuelo’s life, to be making even a little difference with these tough teen girls through her limited contact.
On the way back over the steep and winding ribbon of the Pali, Lei put her Bluetooth in her ear and speed-dialed Stevens.
“Twice in one week,” he said. “I’m going to get spoiled.”
“I know. I missed you. Just got done visiting Consuelo. She’s working on her memoir.”
“That’s going to be worth reading.”
“I think so too. Wouldn’t be surprised if someone wants to make a movie out of it. Anyway, she’s doing well.”
“Was there a doubt? The girl’s tough.”
“Not really. You know, she kind of gave me food for thought on my case.” Lei told him about the situation with the suicides. “She confirmed that if she’d had someone to help her die, she would have. And just think of these suicides. If there’s some sort of assistance going on—many of them will be dying too soon. Or when there might have been a solution of some kind.”
“Are you sure there isn’t just one ‘angel of death’ offing people who say they want to commit suicide?”
Lei considered this new idea, tapping her fingers on the top of the steering wheel as she navigated a steep curve. Far away below, the ocean gleamed under a silvering of moonlight, Honolulu spread out before it in a net of lights. “I don’t think we considered that scenario because of the print of one victim appearing in the scene of the other one.”
“Well, maybe the doer knows there are enough inconsistencies to draw some attention. The print could be some sort of misdirection.”
“I don’t know. Really, all we have are two dead bodies with anomalies—nothing conclusive—suicide notes that are genuine, and both victims having memberships on this fishy website. I’m not even sure the case is hanging together at this point. Ang seems convinced, though. What would you think of a program that could mine all the different law enforcement databases for commonalities in a case? Nationwide?”
“Impossible,” Stevens said. “Too much security, too many different and incompatible databases. But if it could be done, and the interagency problems resolved, incredible.”
“That’s what Ang’s working on. Girl’s some sort of genius with computers.”
“Awesome potential. You fixing to have another friend?”
“Don’t know. I like her, but she keeps to herself.”
“Speaking of keeping to yourself, and being sick of it, have you given any more thought to what we’re going to do when I’m free?”
“I don’t know. It’s so hard. One of us has to give something up with work.”
“I know. But I’ve been thinking about you. Remembering.” The deep note in his voice activated longing, a throb that spread outward and beat in her veins. The feeling, instant as fire blazing through a dry field, rippled down the insides of her arms, and she squeezed the steering wheel, hard.
“I’ve been trying not to think of you. That way. Any way.”
“It’s not working. What are you wearing?”
Lei laughed. “I’m driving. I have two dogs as chaperones. And I’m wearing the usual Bureau pants and shirt.”
“I meant—under that.” His voice dropped lower.
Lei gulped, speechless. “You first.” She couldn’t believe they were having this conversation. Pho
ne flirting had never been their thing—but desperation led to invention.
“Well, I got off work and went surfing. I just got back, took a shower. Got a towel on.”
Lei’s nipples tightened with a tingle akin to pain as she pictured his long corded arms, the light sprinkle of chest hair over his wide chest, the ripple of his abs ending at the towel.
“This is torture. I hate you,” she said.
“Yeah. I wish you were here. If you were, I’d put you in front of me and unbutton that white blouse. Slowly. One button at a time.”
“No,” she breathed, turning off the freeway onto the side street that would eventually lead to her house. “I’m driving. Stop.”
“You have to call me back. Later.”
“Okay. I will. And keep the towel on until then. I’ve always liked you wearing less.”
This time he was the one to hiss though his teeth. “Don’t know if I can wait for you.”
“You better.” She put her foot down and sped home.
Sophie circled her mixed martial arts coach, Alika Wolcott. Marcella had canceled again, some excuse that meant she was seeing her new boyfriend. Sophie kept her stance low, and when Alika finally made a move, throwing a roundhouse kick, she caught his leg and tripped him to the ground.
She wore a boxer’s padded helmet, split-fingered, open-palmed gloves, and tight Lycra athletic wear—not out of any vanity but to keep the clothing from getting caught and used against her.
Alika was large, at least six foot two and a hundred and ninety pounds, all muscle, from what she could tell, and considerably stronger than her pound for pound. That’s why she had to be more tenacious and agile—and she felt a frisson of triumph as she succeeded in wrapping herself around his back in a hold called the spiral ride.
Alika’s thick muscles bunched beneath her, and he flexed, breaking her grip. He held up a hand, indicating a stop to the action, and she moved away, sitting up on the mat and circling her arms around her knees.
He unclipped his headgear and took it off, kneeling on the mat. Black hair rippled back from his forehead; he was a light brown color too, but more golden than she. His heritage was Hawaiian and Caucasian, what they called hapa in Hawaii.
“When you do that hold, grasp your arm above the elbow.” Alika shook his head briskly and combed his hair out of his eyes. Sophie wished she didn’t keep noticing how handsome he was.
“Right,” she said.
“Let’s walk through the move. Grab me from behind, like you did.” They both got up. She moved in on him, feeling tentative as she noticed the ridges of muscle in his back. She reached across his shoulder—and the breath flew out of her lungs as he flipped her, to land hard on her back on the mats.
“Again!” he exclaimed.
Sophie sucked air back in, feeling a burst of anger, and bounded back up. This time she threw her weight and strength into grasping him. They grappled intensely for several moments, but Sophie ended up having to concede.
She rolled away from Alika and stood up. “I think I’ve got it.”
“We’ll try it again sometime. When you work out with Marcella, I want you to try that hold on her. It should work with someone closer to your size.”
Sophie narrowed her eyes at him. “You saying I can’t take you?”
“Not yet. And the day you can, I won’t have anything to teach you anymore, and that will be a sad day for me.” He grinned, and she smiled back, taking off the headgear. Her hair was cropped short, so there was no rearranging to be done. He was looking at the tattoos on the insides of her arms.
“What’s that writing? What do they say?”
“It’s Thai. I did it so I wouldn’t forget some things I’ve been through. They are just words.” She mopped her face with one of the thin gym towels, turned away toward the showers, but he followed her.
“What do they say?” he asked again.
“Hope. Freedom. Power. Respect. Courage.” She had no trouble reciting the words she’d had inked after her divorce was final.
“I like it.” He gave her shoulder a brotherly pat. “Thanks for telling me. I’ve been wondering about them for a while.”
That made her look down at her gym bag. The tattoos ran down the outsides of her thighs and insides of her arms—not the most suggestive of places; she’d done that so they could be easily concealed in a professional setting. But that meant he’d looked at her body.
He’d thought about it.
Sophie, don’t be ridiculous. The voice in her head sounded like her mother. He’d never be interested in someone so unladylike, a brawler like you.
“I was wondering about something. Are you going out with anybody?” His voice sounded a little uncertain. “You must be.”
She stilled, her hands in her gym bag as she stowed her gloves. She turned to look at him. “No.”
“I can’t believe it,” he said. “Greg was right. Are you gay, then?”
Greg was the gym manager. Sophie felt a wave of heat roar up her chest, and her rigid fingertips shot out to stop less than an inch from his throat, a gesture capable of crushing his larynx with a blow.
“You think because I’m single and a fighter, I must be gay? Take a look at your biases.” She spun to grab her gym bag, striding across the large warehouse space. Her ears felt hot.
They’d been talking and speculating about her. She could imagine the crude joking. She wished she could have a relationship, but the truth was she hadn’t been interested in anyone since her divorce—until this silly crush on Alika.
And now all she felt was angry and embarrassed. Better to go back to her computers, where she was never misunderstood or misjudged.
She was unlocking her car, a white Lexus SUV her father had given her for graduation from the FBI Academy, when she felt a hand on her shoulder. She didn’t think, she reacted—shot her elbow back into her attacker’s solar plexus, spun to swing the gym bag.
Alika had doubled up from the blow, and the gym bag caught him on the side of the head.
“Oh no!”
Alika tried to smile as he rubbed his head. “Should have called your name. My bad, sneaking up on you.”
“Sorry, Coach.” Sophie picked up her bag. “I just reacted.”
“Call me Alika. Well, I’m not going to worry about your defense skills, that’s for sure. I wanted to apologize. I shouldn’t have just—asked you like that. You’re so private.”
“I’m in the FBI. We don’t go around discussing our lives.” She stowed the gym bag in the SUV’s backseat. “I’m sorry too. I overreacted. I don’t like people talking about me behind my back.”
“It wasn’t like that.” Alika leaned on the car next to her. “You’re a great fighter, really talented. I was going to suggest we put you up in some matches. I wanted to see . . . what might be factors to deal with before I asked you.”
“There are no ‘factors’ but my job. And I’m pretty sure going into matches would just draw attention to myself, which isn’t good for an agent. So regretfully, I have to decline.”
Sophie found she really did regret it. She would have liked to see how she could do in the Women’s MMA fight circuit, but she was sure Waxman would consider it inappropriate. In her head, her mother agreed wholeheartedly.
“Too bad.” Alika pushed away from the side of the car. “You’ve got talent.”
“So I’ve been told.” But not with men. Not with relationships, and especially not in bed, where Assan had said, “Fucking you is like banging a mannequin.”
The words still hurt, though she knew, as a professional adult, that it was no reflection on her that she couldn’t get turned on by a man who beat her. Still, it had stolen her confidence at a time when she was too young to know better. Having Assan as her first and only relationship was no good measure of anything but heartache.
“See you next week.” He raised a hand as he walked away. “I’m off to ice my injuries.”
She smiled, but it didn’t make it all the way to her e
yes.
Fresh from a shower and clad in a towel, Sophie microwaved a glass casserole dish of pad thai noodles prepared by the housekeeper. She took off the towel and tossed it in the washer with the rest of her workout gear. The conversation with Alika, on top of the setback about using DAVID and her home computer setup, had left her with a dark feeling, a flatness. Tonight, and the days ahead, seemed without interest.
She padded naked across the living room, noticing the stellar sky, the twinkling lights, the ocean a black smudge in the distance. None of it did a thing for her. In her bedroom she pulled on a silky sleep tee and underwear and sat down in front of her home computer rig and fired it up, but the frisson of anticipation she usually felt getting “wired in” was gone. Tonight she was disabling the network.
It felt like facing an amputation.
“This is ridiculous,” she told herself aloud. “I have plenty I can do. I have a life.” The way the words sounded—like empty bravado—didn’t help.
DAVID beckoned, but instead of playing with the program, she saved it to an external drive as Waxman had asked. She logged into her departmental e-mail—and saw several e-mails from the DyingFriends site.
Targets had responded to her lure.
It wouldn’t hurt, just tonight, to respond to them from home. She could disable the network afterward.
She responded in ShastaM’s identity to three e-mails that DyingFriends members in Hawaii had sent. A few clicks of the mouse and inputting the e-mail addresses into her search program later, and she’d traced their computers and had three names and addresses for Lei and Ken to follow up on tomorrow.
Sophie felt energy come back at this bit of progress, and that gave her the strength to log into her network and disconnect her home computers from the FBI ones. DAVID was now neutralized and “on ice” for the review process, and she also no longer had access to her FBI workstation data—but there was no reason she couldn’t spend some time on DyingFriends, strengthening her identity there.
She left her angst behind as she disappeared onto the Internet, where she roamed free, powerful and bodiless. The world of her computers often felt more real, and certainly more comfortable, than any human company.
