by Kathryn Shay
He shook his head. “You gotta know this.”
She said nothing.
“I was incorrigible, I think they called me. My mother couldn’t handle me. And Superman came to the rescue.”
“You don’t like him, do you?”
In undercover work, it was important to stick as close to the truth as possible. “He’s Mr. Perfect, for one thing. He’s so straight, it makes my shoulders hurt just watchin’ him.”
She rolled her eyes this time.
“No, seriously. Sometimes I’m afraid he’ll crack, keepin’ up that rigid front.”
“What’s your mother like?”
He thought of Donuta Ludzecky—her round bosom, her hearty laugh, and the way she messed up his hair and took his cheeks in her hands. He missed her big-time. He didn’t have to fake the longing in his eyes. “She’s nice. Strict, but has a soft streak.” He zeroed in on Kelsey’s beautiful features. “Just like you.”
She ignored the comment, which was probably good. “Do you get to see her much?”
Not enough. Maybe I could go down to Queens this weekend... “I see her.” He said it tersely, to get off the subject, and stood. “Look, I appreciate what you’re tryin’ to do, but you aren’t gonna save me, Ms. C.”
“No one can save you but yourself, Luke.” She stood, too. In her heels she was only a few inches shorter than he.
“I’ll keep that in mind.” He raised his chin. “Can I ask you something?”
“You can ask me anything. I may or may not answer.” Again, the twinkle in her eye.
What’s going on with you and Mike Wolfe? “Your father. Are you close to him?”
“In some ways, I’m very close to him.”
“Can you be honest with him?”
“Um...no. Not really.”
Luke just stared at her.
“What about your father?” she asked.
All of a sudden, Luke felt claustrophobic, even though the March sunlight streamed through the windows and the room was bright and airy. “My father’s dead.”
She grasped his arm. “Oh, Luke, I’m sorry.”
The heartache in his eyes was real.
“Did you get along with him?”
“Not until it was too late.” He glanced at the clock, then back at her. Her hand stayed on his arm, squeezing comfortingly. The air between them crackled. “Speakin’ of late, I gotta—”
“Luke?” The stern voice came from the doorway. “Aren’t you supposed to be making up yesterday’s Math class?” He turned to find Stonehouse in Kelsey’s doorway. The man’s color was high. His eyes focused on Kelsey’s hand, which was still on his arm.
Shit.
o0o
Joe strode into Suzanna’s office, clearly upset. “Sorry I’m late.”
She glanced up at him, still bowled over by the revelations of last night. They’d planned to meet today, but couldn’t schedule time together until almost four. “No problem.” Leaning back in her chair, she studied him. His gray suit and light gray shirt were impeccable, as usual, but his striped tie was a bit askew and he looked more...rumpled than usual. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m going to kill that kid!”
Rising, Suzanna circled the desk and closed the door, although anyone overhearing that particular comment would think it fit right into his cover of frustrated uncle. Even after mulling it over all night long, Suzanna still couldn’t digest what was happening in her school.
As she sat down again, she watched him. “What’s he done this time?” Now that she knew Luke wasn’t a troubled kid, amusement tinged her voice.
“Showing off. Getting Kelsey Cunningham to feel sor—” Joe had been pacing like a commander with undisciplined troops; he stopped when he got a good look at Suzanna. “What’s the matter?”
Smoothing down her teal suit—she’d picked it today because of its brightness—she asked, “The matter?”
Slowly, he crossed to the desk and leaned over, bracing his hands on the top. She had to keep herself from shrinking back. Covered in cashmere-soft wool, his shoulders looked huge from this angle. She could detect the growth of dark beard beginning to shadow his jaw by this time of day. “Your face is drawn, and your eyes are almost...haunted.”
“Are all Secret Service agents so melodramatic?”
He didn’t take the bait, the detour, the rerouting of their conversation. Instead, and shocking her, he reached over and grasped her chin, lifted it.
She would never have expected such gentleness in those strong fingers that pulled triggers and slapped on handcuffs. “Suzanna.”
“I...I didn’t sleep last night.”
“At all?”
She shook her head. The gesture dislodged his hand.
He dropped onto a chair across from her. “Why?”
Lawrence used to tell her she was cool as a cucumber in difficult situations, except for her eyes. They blazed amber fire, he’d said. Agent Stonehouse could get scorched by the look she gave him. “How can you ask that? I found out at ten o’clock last night that my school could be the next Columbine, there are two Secret Service agents playing I Spy in my building, and there’s nothing in hell I can do about any of it.”
As if choosing his words carefully, he waited to answer. “That’s not true. You can be a big help to us.”
“Then why didn’t you let me in on the undercover plot at the outset?”
He said nothing. Just tented his hands and stared at her.
Finally she sank back in her chair. “All right, I know why.” She smoothed down her hair, which was drawn into a tight knot at her neck, and fiddled with a silver hoop earring. “It doesn’t matter, anyway. All that matters is that we get your help.”
“It matters.”
She held his gaze, said no more.
“You were better when I left last night. What’s bothering you today?”
“The Secret Service Safe School Initiative, the FBI profile, and the Department of Education’s analysis.” She pointed to a pile of papers stacked haphazardly in front of her.
Angling his chin, he frowned. The hardened mask of his features frightened her, reminded her that this was a man who had probably killed people. “You asked me to get you the information.”
“Yes, well, I figured you’d be asleep at 3 A.M. when I downloaded it from websites.”
“I wish you’d waited until I could go over it with you.”
“Joe, I don’t need to be protected from this!”
His green eyes flamed some fire of their own. He was a man used to protecting. “All right. Talk to me about what’s upset you, other than my decision not to bring you on board right away.”
Frustrated, she pushed back her chair, stood, and crossed to the coffeepot; the pretty pink carnations near it brightened the late afternoon. She stopped to inhale their scent. “Want some coffee?”
He nodded. “Black.”
She fixed it as she talked. “Let’s start with the fact that this is a no-win situation. First off, these articles describe elements of a safe school. And we do most of what they suggest at Fairholm.” She came back to the desk, handed him his coffee, and sat down. She picked up a sheet from the pile of papers. “Focus on academics, promote good citizenship, offer help in dealing with kids’ negative feelings and show them how to work out a solution.”
“Yes, you do all that well. But it doesn’t hurt to do more.”
“Still, we were singled out.” She rapped her knuckles on the stack of papers. “Then, the Department of Education report indicates that in order to have a safe school, you need to have clear, fair rules that are reinforced by all personnel. But the FBI and Secret Service reports say that kids who bring guns to school often go after the people who meted out the discipline.”
“Some of the information is contradictory. People are searching for answers, Suzanna.”
“That same report tells you to be democratic with students and staff, to create a trusting environment where alienated kids can talk to thei
r teachers. I’ve done all of that. I’ve tried to make this place open and flexible, and I still end up at risk.”
He sipped his coffee and watched her. Most men would have interrupted by now, tried to tell her she wasn’t looking at this clearly. His listening impressed her. She hoped he was as good with the kids.
“And those risk factors could apply to every student in school. Even Josh.” Her voice wavered on his name. “His father died before he was thirteen. Christ, Joe, my son is no school shooter.”
He leaned forward in his seat. “No, and he wouldn’t be pegged by us. One risk factor doesn’t make him a candidate to be watched. Don’t misunderstand the statistics, Suzanna. The reports are merely saying if there are a high number of risk factors evident in one student, he may be on a pathway to violence.”
Her shoulders slumped and she sat back. “I suppose.” She nodded to the stack of information. “That FBI report? It recommends Gestapo tactics, Joe.”
He smiled. Again, she was affected by what it did to his harsh features. “The FBI does tend to be heavy-handed. Unlike the Secret Service, which is fair and reasonable.”
His levity drew a smile out of her. Then she sobered. “But anonymous reporting? Police officers in the school permanently? I’m not sure I can live that way.”
When she said no more, he asked, “That’s not all of it, though, is it?”
She shook her head.
“Tell me.”
God, could anybody resist that coaxing tone? He probably got hardened criminals to make signed confessions. “I’m worried about Josh.”
“Because I said last night he could be in danger?”
“Partly. He is a popular kid.” She could feel her face flush. “The FBI report noted, like you, that popular kids get targeted. What’s more...” Her throat worked convulsively. “That hit list. It just had Quinn on it. No first name.” Now her eyes teared. “What if...” Again she threw back her chair, rose, and went to look out the window. She swiped at her eyes. It was unthinkable. Obscene. Totally intolerable.
After a moment, she felt strong hands on her shoulders. For a brief space of time, she wanted to lean into those hands, against that broad wall of a chest, and let Joe comfort her. It had been a long time since a man had given her solace.
“Say it out loud, Suzanna. Fears that are spoken are easier to deal with.”
“I’m afraid that Josh could be a target of somebody’s violence. If I lost him, I don’t know what I’d do. I got through Lawrence’s death. I could never survive losing my child.”
He went absolutely silent behind her. Just the slight tensing of his fingers on her shoulders alerted her. Oh, God, she’d forgotten about his niece. Immediately she turned around. His hands remained on her. “Joe, I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”
Now his eyes were as bleak as a February dawn.
“You were close to her, weren’t you?” she asked.
He nodded.
“It must have been horrible.”
Bleak eyes got even bleaker.
“I’m so sorry.”
“I won’t let it happen to Josh.” His voice was strong. Determined. Hoarse with emotion. “To any kids at Fairholm. I’ll die protecting them.”
She nodded. His hands flexed on her. Then he rubbed them up and down her arms. “Better now?”
“Yes.”
He indicated the conference table. “Let’s go sit there. I brought some information, including the report that made us target your school. The more you know, the better you’ll feel.”
Seated, he drew out glasses and put them on. He was attractive in them.
The hours passed. He reviewed most of what she’d read, discussing it with her, explaining things she didn’t understand or might have misunderstood. His clarification, and his disagreement with some of the tactics, helped calm her.
At eight o’clock, he glanced at his watch. She wondered if he had plans tonight. And suddenly, she wondered if he had a family. Was he married?
Stacking the papers, he drew off his glasses and said, “Suzanna, the fact that we’re here should make you feel better. We can help avert an eruption of violence. Your situation isn’t critical—yet. There’s a difference between risk factors and imminent warning signs. We’re just trying to figure out who’s actually at risk here, and how to help them.” He waited. “And when we leave, we’ll have procedures and policies in place that will make you feel more secure.”
“Like what?”
Again, he checked his watch. “It’s complicated. Let’s leave it for another time. When can we talk more about this?”
“How about tomorrow?”
“All right.”
Then she shook her head. “But the school will be a zoo. NYSSMA—New York State School Music Association—is having solo fest here. We won’t have any privacy.”
“And Josh will be at your house.”
“Josh is away at an All State Student Court this weekend in Albany.” She sighed. “I want to talk to you about him, too, as a parent. You can to come to my house if you like. Any time is fine.”
He lazed back in his chair. “No plans for the weekend?”
“Tonight, my only plan is to go home and crawl into bed.”
Steepling his hands, he stared back at her. Suzanna would have given up a week’s pay to know what he was thinking.
o0o
Alone? Joe wondered, staring at Suzanna. Would she crawl into bed alone? It was on the tip of his tongue to ask, but he caught himself in time. What the hell was he thinking? Not only did he need to stay focused in this operation—and not be distracted by personal feelings—but like most agents he led a solitary life, and didn’t have the same needs, and opportunities to fulfill them, that normal men had.
Though right now, he felt those needs. Standing, he concentrated on his briefcase as if it were the lost Ark.
“Joe, you’re scowling. Is something wrong?”
The thought of you in bed is wrong.
“I didn’t sleep well, either,” he said glibly. He repacked his briefcase, then snapped it shut. Finally, he faced her. “I need to mention one more thing. This can’t wait.”
“All right, what?”
“Your safety. I don’t want to alarm you, but this kind of thing—staying here till eight at night, walking out alone, going home by yourself—isn’t acceptable. You can’t do it anymore.”
“Joe, I’m principal. I have night meetings.”
“I know, but you have to take precautions.”
“How?”
“Somebody needs to be with you. If there’s a board meeting, I’ll arrange for Maloney to accompany you to your car. On nights like this, I can be around.”
“Do you really think this is necessary?”
“Yes. Along with other precautions we’ll discuss tomorrow.”
Her shoulders sagged. He’d added more weight to them, but it couldn’t be helped. “Fine.”
They left her office, locked up, and detoured to the counseling suite to get his coat; they were outside in minutes. The cold night swirled around them.
“Jesus, this city’s freezing, even in March.” He shielded her with his body, placing a hand on her back as they made their way to her car. She seemed small and slight next to him.
“Where do you live?” she asked.
“Washington.”
“Of course.”
They skirted the slush from a recent snowfall, and some splattered up on her stockinged legs. She should have worn boots. “It’s warmer there this time of year, right?”
“Yes, it’s...” His voice trailed off as they reached the car she’d driven to school. She glanced at him, then tracked his gaze.
Josh’s little silver Beetle sat in her usual spot. She’d taken it this morning because her BMW was in the shop and her son left for Albany today. At first glance, nothing seemed amiss. Then she looked down at the tires.
“Damn, that’s all I need. A flat.”
He grasped her arm and moved clos
er. “It isn’t just a flat.”
“No?” She leaned on him, wary.
He nodded to the front of the car. The front tire was also deflated. He drew her with him around the left side. Both of those tires were down, too. He’d bet his pension on what he’d find when he inspected the tires. “Son of a bitch.”
She cleared her throat. “They’ve been vandalized.”
“Yes. Slashed with a knife, is my guess.”
She drew in a deep breath.
Would she fall apart? Would she cry?
Instead, she whipped out her cell phone and rummaged in her purse. Punched in a number she’d located in a directory. Waited. “This is Suzanna Quinn. I’m at the Fairholm High School parking lot. I need a tow truck.”
He watched her, impressed. She clicked off the phone and raised her chin. “Triple A’s coming to the rescue,” she said.
After a moment, he added, “So’s the Secret Service, Suzanna.”
Chapter Eight
Brenda Way couldn’t wait for the weekend. Usually, she dreaded the hours alone in her condo on the hill, where the quiet made her more wired than usual. But she was up bright and early Saturday morning at her computer; still dressed in her pj’s, she clicked into private files that nobody else could access. Conrad had taught her about computers. And about life.
She hadn’t dared work on the project at the office, and she’d been out too late last night at Snoop’s, the newsmen’s hangout one town over, to start the project then. Sipping her almost bitter coffee, staring out at the rolling hills that overlooked the valley, she organized in her head how she’d approach this task. Not working from notes, she began with the title.
Under Cover/Above the Law?
Undercover. She thought about Conrad. He’d been killed when he’d been checking out a story and had innocently walked into an undercover operation orchestrated by the RICO task force, the government agency that investigates and prosecutes the mob. Not knowing the circumstances had cost him his life. Her heart still ached when she remembered how he’d been ruthlessly gunned down. He’d want her to stop this current breach of justice. And wasn’t it fitting that she would be the one to benefit from one undercover operation when she’d lost so much because of another?
