by D. D. Ayres
There was a very good reason for that. She’d made it up. Didn’t know why. Self-protection in the face of six feet of sexual danger?
“I—oh!” He’d flexed his hips against her, opening her just enough that she had to take a careful breath to keep from begging him to hurry up.
And then he kissed her and the world went away.
***
“You look like you had a bad night. Was it the chili dogs? I think it was the chili dogs. I ran out of antacids around three.”
Her assistant, Zoey, stood before Georgie wearing a tiny bikini top and cutoff sweats with the hems rolled up to “do me” territory.
Georgie shook her head as she prepared her equipment for the day’s shoot. “Put on a shirt. And unroll the hem of those shorts if you want to work with me today.”
“But it’s Special Ops day. Hear that?”
Both women looked up to see a military helicopter swooping in low on the horizon. Just to show off, the men unfurled ropes and began rappelling out of the chopper one after the other, each with a dog wrapped securely around his neck.
Georgie’s camera was up and she was shooting before she had time to register all the details. “Zoey. Shirt. Now.” She spat the words out even as she continued to record the impressive arrival.
Life for her was what she captured behind her lens. Sometimes it seemed that her photos were more real than anything else in her life. Capture and hold. The camera allowed her to do that. Real life had a way of slipping out of her grasp.
Like Philip.
When she finally lowered her camera Yardley was standing beside her. “Did I thank you for this weekend?”
Georgie gave her a sideways glance. “You owe me.”
Yardley laughed, throaty and sexy and carrying in a way that drew the attention of anyone who heard it. She had come out to greet the soldiers, something she had not been able to do for each and every law enforcement officer and firefighter the day before.
At that moment, a man driving a jeep sped past behind them and blew his horn. Yardley frowned. “What was that for?”
Georgie pretended to examine her camera so that Yardley wouldn’t see the blush warming her cheeks. “He was one of my subjects yesterday, remember? He was just saying hello. His name’s Philip Dexter.”
“That’s not Philip Dexter.”
Georgie looked up at her friend. “What do you mean?”
Yardley raised a hand to shield her eyes, watching as the jeep sped away. “The only Philip Dexter I know is piloting that chopper.”
Chapter Two
Two months later. Washington, D.C.
She had been robbed.
Georgie stood perfectly still in the entry of her one-bedroom apartment on I Street in the heart of the Foggy Bottom district of the capital. Only her eyes moved, darting everywhere at once as alarms went off in her brain. Her apartment had been tossed. Books felled from shelves lay scattered like broken-winged birds on the floor. Every drawer she could see from where she stood had been pulled open and left hanging. Every surface had been cleared of the things that made her apartment home. The cold trickle of fear that began somewhere south of her eyes gathered energy as it splashed through her body.
Get out!
She didn’t second-guess her lizard-brain reaction. She dumped her luggage at her feet even as she reached for the front door and backed out onto the landing.
“I want to report a robbery.” Her hand holding her cell phone shook. “My apartment’s been robbed.”
“Is this a robbery or a burglary, ma’am?”
“What are you talking about? Someone came into my apartment while I was gone and tossed my place.”
“That would be burglary, ma’am.”
“Whatever. Get someone over here. Now!”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The police arrived after half an hour. By then Georgie had gathered the courage to walk through her apartment, photographing the wreckage of her life.
She had taken photos of disasters many times, especially in her early years on the job. From hurricane damage to burned-out buildings to floods, the tactile evidence of vibrant lives reduced to so much broken glass, wood, ceramics, and brick. This time the wreckage was personal, and it hurt like a thousand paper cuts, a new one opening wherever her eyes focused.
So unnecessary. Nothing was missing. Not her TV or DVD or CD player. Only her tools for work: her cameras and her desktop.
After a few minutes Georgie realized she was no longer able to focus for the dry sobs heaving her chest. She dropped her camera to dangle about her neck and went to lean against the front door to wait.
The police were efficient and quick, one officer asking questions and taking down an initial inventory of what was missing. It was over quickly. This was D.C. There was no harm done, from their point of view. Just a huge mess to clean up. Almost anything else going on in the city this evening was bigger news and more threatening. Coming home to an invasion where the stolen items were insured just about guaranteed that she wouldn’t hear from the D.C. police again. She didn’t begrudge their attitude. But now she understood in a new and intimate way how stunned and frightened the subjects of her disaster photography must have felt.
Objectivity was required to be a good photojournalist. The camera had always given her that distance. Tonight she felt stripped and violated, and wondered how long it would be before she got back to feeling like that intact person she had been before she opened her door.
There seemed no good place to begin the cleanup. She’d been home an hour and she didn’t want to stay here a second longer. But before she left to check into a hotel, she decided to clear the entryway. She picked up the newly framed 16 by 20 inch photograph that had been knocked from the wall. The glass was smashed and lay in gemstone pieces at her feet. Miraculously, the black-and-white surface had not been nicked or scratched. It was the photo of a man sprawled facedown on a bed. Taken from the foot of the bed, the photo made a landscape terrain of long, well-muscled legs and thighs slipping in and out of shadow. In contrast, morning light had caught and given a twin rising-moon quality to the high, taut curves of his male buttocks before the triangular torso with wide shoulders sloped away into deep shadows that obscured his head.
She smiled when it was hung back in place. Doing that much made her feel better.
She began picking up her books, careful not to step on any and break their spines. Many of them were expensive oversize photography books, what most people called coffee-table books. They were art and inspiration to her.
The second knock on her door made her jump. The man in a suit on the other side of her peephole flashed a badge before she opened her door.
“The police already sent someone. I’m sorry but I don’t need a detective.”
“We aren’t the police, ma’am. We’re federal. I’m Special Agent Clinton. With me are Special Agents Hanson and Blackwell.” He indicated the man and woman with him, also dressed in suits. “Can we speak with you about your break-in, ma’am?”
Georgie glanced again at the badge that said FBI. Yet her nerves were shot and trust was long gone. “How did you know about my break-in?”
“May we come in, ma’am?”
Instinct said no. Her apartment had already been broken into and then she’d allowed the police to search through her apartment. This felt like one violation too many. Maybe she was being paranoid but she felt justified in hesitating.
She saw elderly Mrs. Walker emerging from the elevator and pushed past her uninvited guests into the apartment’s third-floor common hallway. “Good evening, Mrs. Walker. I’ve been burglarized. These law-enforcement agents have just told me tenants may want to take extra precautions.”
“Oh, my dear child.” Mrs. Walker came toward her. “Are you all right?”
Georgie took the woman’s hand in both of hers. “Yes. Just thought you should know. You see, I’ve got law enforcement with me now.” She half-turned so that the elderly woman could get a good lo
ok at her visitors. “But thanks. Good night.”
When Mrs. Walker had turned away Georgie shot the three persons standing on her threshold a triumphant glance. She had taken back a little control of the situation. “You may now come in.”
“Thank you. We’d like to ask you a few questions.”
Surprisingly, the FBI claimed to know nothing more about her break-in beyond the fact of it. If they’d spoken with D.C. police, they weren’t letting on. Nor would they answer her questions of why they were interested.
Special Agent Clinton made her go through the list of routine questions a second time. Finally, after taking twice the time it had taken the police to gather the same information, he said flatly, “Do you mind if my partners look around?”
Georgie shrugged from her perch on the arm of her sofa. The two other agents had been covertly eyeing her place for the past half hour.
“You say nothing of irreplaceable value was taken. Yet your apartment was ransacked with ruthless efficiency. That would suggest that someone wanted to find something specific. Or wanted to frighten you.”
“Consider it mission accomplished.” Georgie had had the same impression and yet the D.C. police had said she was lucky. No one had torched her place or left graffiti or randomly damaged her belongings. Some definition of lucky.
“Do you have many enemies?”
The question surprised Georgie. “I don’t have any enemies.”
“Everyone has enemies.”
“The last enemy I knew about was Howie Berkowitz who claimed I stole his science project idea. That was eighth grade. I doubt Howie’s still thinking about me.”
Mr. FBI didn’t smile. “You work with politicians and other people who are very sensitive about how they are portrayed in the media.”
“How do you know what I do?” She had mentioned she was a photographer, not whom she photographed.
He smiled. “Googled you on the way over.”
“Nice. Did you get an enemy list, too? Maybe try antonyms for Georgiana Flynn.”
He smiled. “A sense of humor is good. Means you’re not that shook up.”
“Don’t believe it.”
“So, what could this person or persons have been looking for? Did you take compromising photos of some pol or a dignitary?”
“I’m not paparazzo. Think New York Times not tabloid.”
“All the same, you are in the unique position to have even accidentally snapped a picture that the subject might not want circulated.”
“If you know something I don’t then you’d better tell me because the only thing I’ve noticed is that whoever broke in didn’t take anything of value except to me personally. My cameras and computer equipment are expensive but replaceable.”
“What about your photographs? Where do you keep them?”
“In the Cloud, like everyone. Everything, including editing, is done digitally these days. I don’t have a room of deteriorating celluloid, if that’s what you’re wondering.”
“If someone was looking for photos you took last week at the Russell Senate Office Building, where would this person need to look?”
“In hindsight. There are no pictures.” Special Agent Clinton looked skeptical. “My camera malfunctioned. I didn’t realize it until the event was over.”
“Don’t you carry several cameras, in case something like that happens?”
“Yes. But I didn’t notice a problem because my favorite camera seemed to be working just fine. It turns out the microchip was corrupted and didn’t record the shots I was taking. I didn’t know that until I got home and tried to download them.”
“What did you do with the corrupted chip?”
“I—wait a minute.” Georgie stood up. “There’s something going on you know about that I don’t, right? What’s this all about?”
“You’re doing fine, Ms. Flynn. Just keep answering my questions. When we’re done I’ll answer what I can of yours.”
“I don’t think so.” Georgie looked around her apartment, at the two agents who had begun sifting ever so gingerly through the mayhem of her living room. Clearly, something was going on that she didn’t understand. Agent Clinton had not given her a clue as to what it was. She didn’t like this one-sided conversation. She was the victim. “I want to know what’s going on. Or, do I need to call my attorney?”
“We’d rather you didn’t do that.”
“I bet you do.” She pulled her phone from the pocket of her jeans. “And since you’ve not given me any reason why I should continue to answer your questions, I’d rather you leave. So, do what you need to do while I do what I need to do.”
Mr. FBI man stared at her while she punched buttons on her phone. When she put it to her ear, he reached out and snatched it from her. “Ms. Flynn, we suspect that you are the focus of interest for a domestic terrorist.”
Georgie’s mouth dropped open. And then sharp laughter burst from her, startling the others in the room. “Oh, for god’s sake. You can’t really think that.”
Mr. FBI didn’t smile. He clicked her phone off and handed it back to her. “We’ve been watching you for a while. You took pictures last week at an event where an unexploded bomb was discovered. We have reason to believe that the photos you took that night are what your burglar was after.”
The feeling went out of Georgie’s legs, dropping her back onto the sofa arm. “You’re serious?”
“Why did you leave town the morning after the event? No one has known where to find you, not even your colleagues.”
“The FBI spoke with my colleagues about me?” We’ve been watching you for a while. This was bad.
“Where did you go on such short notice? And don’t say relatives, Ms. Flynn.”
Georgie tried to do some quick calculations in her head. They had spoken with her contacts at the news services she regularly sold to. Perhaps they even had contacted her family about her whereabouts.
“I went to the Ozarks. Eureka Springs to be exact.”
“We couldn’t find a record of you purchasing a plane ticket.”
“I drove. Borrowed a friend’s car.” It occurred to her she had at least one colleague who had sought to protect her privacy by not giving them that information. She owed Frank a good bottle of Scotch.
The same idea must have occurred to her interrogator. “Whose car did you borrow?”
“I’d rather not say at this time.” Frank had enough problems without an angry FBI agent hassling him.
Clinton stared at her. “Your trip wasn’t scheduled. In fact, you blew off two scheduled jobs and just disappeared the day after the event you claim you don’t have photos for. What made you run, Ms. Flynn?”
“I didn’t run. Well, not exactly. It’s personal.”
“Something not go as you planned?”
She ignored the taunt. “I’d had one of those weeks where nothing goes right. The camera malfunction was just part of it. And then I got this e-mail rant from a guy. I just decided I needed to go somewhere entirely different and take pictures of legs.”
“Do what?”
Georgie could have bitten her tongue. Why had she said something so personal to a stranger? She shrugged. “When I want to clear my head I go somewhere I’ve never been and where I know no one, and I take pictures.”
He made a note. It probably said psycho artistic type. “What’s his name? The ranter on your blog?”
Georgia took a deep breath. “Secret Admirer.”
Clinton paused, his stylus hovering over his phone. “What?”
“That’s the name he goes by online. He’s a fanboy of my photos. He reads my photography blog and is my most ardent responder.”
Mr. FBI didn’t even blink. “What did you say his name is?”
“Secret Admirer. Seriously, that’s how he signs his account.” Georgie felt the irrational need to defend her cyber fan. “I know it’s weird. But he’s been a fan a long time. Probably four years now. Sometimes I think he knows more about my professional life than
I do.”
“Why do you say that?”
“He’s much more detail oriented about my work than I am. He knows every time a photo of mine is printed or shows up online. He even keeps up with where they are reused online, or in print. There’s so much cyber theft that my photos show up in China and India without attribution all the time. But he’ll track it down and send me proof. He really gets worked up about my stolen or unattributed work.”
“That seems extreme.”
“I know.” Georgie nodded, and pocketed her phone. “It was starting to creep me out. Especially these last couple of months. He was furious that I didn’t win a Pulitzer this year. One of my photos of the bomb—” A hard shiver rocked Georgie. “Oh god.”
“Was that the bombing at George Washington University last year?”
Georgie nodded, feeling a little sicker with every moment.
“How did you happen to be in the right place at the right time to get those photos?”
“This apartment is only a couple of blocks away from the university. I heard the explosion, grabbed my camera, and ran.”
“Toward a bomb blast? And those pictures just happened to put you in the running for a Pulitzer. Lucky you, huh?”
One of the other agents moved in close to whisper to their leader.
Georgie barely noticed. New shocks were quaking through her. The FBI wasn’t just looking at her for information. They were including her in their suspect list.
She reached again for her phone. “I really think I need to make a call to my attorney now.”
“If you insist, I’ll have to ask you to have him meet you downtown.”
She looked up. “You’re arresting me?”
“Let’s say you’re a person of interest in an ongoing investigation.” He let that thought sink in before he went on. “There’s just one other thing I’d like your permission to do before we take this to a more formal setting. I’d like your permission to call in a K-9 explosives detection team.”
