For Your Eyes Only

by Sandra Antonelli

  “Gee, Lou, “ Kinsale snorted, “you sound like Detective Munch on Law and Order SVU.”

  Dokowski snorted back. “He’s a conspiracy theorist, and I don’t think anyone in the government is involved. I’m just saying this goes deeper and longer than anyone realizes.”

  Adams reached across the table and helped himself to a fourth slice of cake. “And you and Agent Heston are going to find out how deep. For me it’s basic surveillance and analysis.” He licked a blue rosette from his thumb.

  “I’m already on Grafton,” Kinsale ran his hands through his flattened hair.

  “I want to talk to her at some point,” Willa said.

  Kinsale put his hat back on. “Police report says she’s denying any involvement in the drugs or stolen goods.”

  “Set her up for me anyway, for eight-thirty tomorrow morning. SAC Oscar will be here at the end of the week.” Willa yawned for the fifteenth time. “I’ll see Brennan, Chandra, and Dichter before then.”

  “So, until SAC Oscar arrives, meeting every other day seems in order. Agreed?” Mitchell said.

  Willa nodded. “You won’t see much of me unless something new comes to light. You find something, you find me. I don’t want to waste any time here. Let’s do this fast and do this right.” She looked at the men around the table and let her gaze settle on Adams, “While speed is vital, let’s keep things as low-key as possible. If I can make a suggestion, take a cue from Agent Kinsale, Agent Adams. No one in this town wears a suit, so dress casual, blend in.”

  “You mean look like a geek?”

  “Just be yourself, Jerry.” Mitchell grinned.

  Dokowski jerked his chin towards a small TV screen that picked up the view outside the office. “Farley’s here.”

  Willa’s eyes shifted to the image of man who had been her boss in the early nineties. He tried to peer through the J.E.H. Research & Development sign painted on the frosted glass. The name was an FBI in-joke.

  She rose from her seat to let him in.

  It was snowing again. Fat flakes came down and landed on Los Alamos National Laboratory Interim Director Dr Donald Farley, a bear of a man clad in a short-sleeve polo shirt. Red-faced, he smiled warmly, showing one crooked front tooth that overlapped the other. Icy air blasted inside. He smelled of peppermint and greeted her with an unexpected kiss. Willa led him to the conference room, a little surprised and unsure if it was his sharp-edged bucktooth or the coarse whiskers of his reddish goatee that had poked her cheek.

  While they sat at the table, eating the rest of the cake and briefing the Director about the suspected espionage, it became evident that Farley’s flushed face was not a result of the cold. He was hot, a human furnace sweating the way some men his size did. Over the next forty-five minutes, heat blasted from Farley’s body. A glaze of perspiration made his forehead shiny. Over and over, his sweltering knee rubbed against Willa’s under the table. It made him seem jumpy, but there were other explanations for this behavior. He was uncomfortable on a chair that was too small for a man with his frame. The space at the table was cramped, and sitting in such close proximity to four other men stirred up a bit of homophobia.

  And it was possible, although not likely, that Farley was being what her grandmother called ‘fresh’.

  “Tomorrow,” Farley said, his overheated left knee sliding against Willa’s right thigh again, “Agent Dokowski and Willa will meet the security representatives from the Requirement Integration Team to review security measures for your location. Willa, you’ve got a DOE Q clearance, Sigma fifteen clearance, and a Z number, which is the same number you had when you worked here previously.” Farley sat back for a moment and steepled his fingers. “The Los Alamos police department nearly gave me a heart attack when they called. You got here fast. I hope that means your people get this sorted out just as quickly. We don’t want another Wen Ho Lee case on our hands. This investigation better be superior to that circus.”

  “That’s our aim, Dr Farley,” Adams said, standing. It was an indication the meeting was over.

  Willa gave the junior agent a nod and rose as well. He may have looked like Anthony Michael Hall’s Sixteen Candles, sex-crazed geek in an expensive suit, but Adams knew when, and how, to be professional. “We’ll keep you in the loop, sir,” he said. “You can contact me or Agent Mitchell whenever you feel it’s necessary. You have our cards.”

  Leaving the others to collect the paperwork and clean up coffee cups and cake, Willa walked the Lab Director outside to his car. Farley brushed the snow from the windshield of his red BWM sedan and paused before he climbed inside. He put his hand on her elbow and bent forward slightly. A light scent of peppermint still tinged his breath as he said, quietly, “Maybe it’s wrong of me, but I hope this is just another missing, non-existent disk oversight like back in 2004. I know it makes us look sloppy, but that’s a better alternative than having an employee who’s stolen government secrets.”

  “Yes. That would make it easier.”

  “You know, you could have knocked me over when I was told you were leading the investigation. I had no idea you worked in a covert position. I had no clue you’d ever been embedded in the Lab’s counterintelligence unit. No clue at all.”

  “It’s good you never suspected. That way no one else will either.”

  “Where are you staying? Are you in town or are you driving up The Hill everyday?”

  “I’ve got an apartment over at Ridge Park.”

  “Nice area over there. Are you in one of the townhouses?”

  “No, an apartment that faces the canyon-side townhomes.”

  “Are you on the ground floor?”

  “No. It’s a loft.”

  “I imagine you have a view then?”

  “Not really. I can see the Omega Bridge from the balcony, but I have to get the right angle and look in between the townhouses.”

  “Sounds nice.” Farley sighed. “In a way, it’s a shame it has to be something like this that brings you back to Los Alamos, Willa. Your 2008 paper on implementing scalable quantum computing was impressive. I’m pleased, very pleased to see you again. If you ever want a job at the Lab, if you get tired of the FBI, I’m sure I could find something for you.”

  He smiled, his hand shifted from her elbow and Willa’s spine snapped straight.

  Farley had pinched her ass.

  5

  John pulled his Subaru Forester into the garage. A moment later he moved to the rear, ready to haul out bags of juice and liquor. Dying sunlight hit the back window of the vehicle parked under the carport across the street. The flash of brilliant light caught him square in the eye, blinding him. He left the groceries where they were and waited until his sight was no longer slashed by blue.

  Through slowly fading blue-white blotchiness, he saw movement near the carport. Retina burn could play tricks with shadow and shade. The automobile over there looked a lot like the indigo Volkswagen from this morning, but it was hard to tell with the bright streak hindering his vision. The figure jerking something out of the trunk seemed to have a halo.

  John tilted his head and let his peripheral vision take over. While the halo wasn’t real, the woman was. She was as real as the icy air that stung his nose, as real as the huge suitcase she wrestled with, and he laughed.

  Blinking, the juice forgotten, he ambled towards her like a cowboy. The words were out of his mouth before he even realized he’d said them. “Maybe we should hurry up and get married because people don’t run into each other like this unless it’s meant to be.”

  Willa set a heavy suitcase on the ground behind the Jetta and turned. Uncle John stood three feet away. He was rubbing his eyes. An honest to God flutter rippled through her stomach. How could a day that had such a friendship-ending low and bizarre, ass-pinching middle suddenly have an absurdly giddy high? She bit back a giggle. “Shouldn’t you be on your knees when you make a woman an offer like that?”

  “The ground’s wet. Can I give you a hand with your luggage?”
r />   “I thought you were a cop not a bellhop.”

  “Maybe I just want to see where you live.” He reached for the suitcase handle.

  She’d let him rescue her with the flat tire; that was enough. “I can manage, and you can watch and learn.”

  “I’m a fan of the hands-on, experiential model of learning.” John hoisted the bag.

  Willa studied him for a moment. His beard was ridiculous and his hair was smushed flat on one side, as if he’d slept on it, but the grin he wore was her undoing. She hadn’t asked for help and somehow that made a difference. She was perfectly capable of doing this on her own, but knew she wasn’t going to. She pointed. “It’s that apartment, the brown loft right there.” She grabbed a box of household goods and started towards the stairs.

  “Well, howdy neighbor,” he said, following along.

  She looked at him over her shoulder. “Neighbor?”

  John jerked a thumb backwards. “I’m in the blue townhouse behind us. When we’re done, would you like to come over and borrow a cup of sugar?”

  “I don’t use sugar.”

  “Milk, then?”

  “I drink my coffee black.” Willa started up the staircase.

  John was a few steps behind. “How about flour?”

  “Now what would I do with flour, bake? Do I look like I bake?”

  “How about you just come over for dinner?”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not? I can help you move everything in.”

  “This is it, and I have work to do.” She balanced the box against her hip and unlocked the door to her apartment.

  “It’s nearly five. What sort of job keeps you working after five?”

  “The one I just started today. The one I rushed off to.”

  “And what do you do?”

  “I’m a baker.”

  Chuckling in a series of small sniffs, John watched her shove the door open then tug the keys from the lock. “Six-thirty. Just let yourself inside and yell, ‘honey, I’m home’,” he said.

  “I didn’t say I’d join you.” Willa went inside, taking the open carton to the kitchen.

  “You’ll come,” he said behind her.

  “I will?”

  “Oh, yes. You won’t be able to help yourself now. I’ve piqued your curiosity.”

  She set the box on top of a black granite countertop. “Really?”

  “Sure. We keep running into each other, and you’re wondering, is it fate, is it destiny, is it the dawning of the Age of Aquarius…”

  “Fate and destiny are the same thing. You’re one of those freaky I-want-to-believe, Roswell UFO people, aren’t you?”

  John put the suitcase down. “You have been wondering about me. I bet you’ve been thinking about me all day long. I’m touched. Baking skills, beauty, and an inquisitive mind. What more could a person ask for?”

  “An escape hatch.”

  He chuckled, a breathy sound puffing out of his nose. John looked around the apartment. A countertop separated the kitchen and dining area, which opened into the living room. A cathedral-loft-style master bedroom looked down on the living room. A short hallway led to another bedroom and a bathroom. There were boxes on the floor and clothes still on hangers had been draped over the sofa and chairs. A pile of manila folders and a laptop sat on the coffee table. “I like what you’ve done with the place. Early American Slob.”

  “Obviously you know nothing about furniture styles. There’s not a stitch of real wood in this apartment, which means it’s ‘Post-Modern American Slob’.”

  “So you’re educated in the arts?”

  “Well, I’m educated, but the arts part… To be honest I wouldn’t know Georgian from Chippendale.”

  “That’s simple,” he waved a hand, “a Chippendale dances naked.”

  She laughed. It was musical, rising to a high note at the end, and John smiled. He liked the sound. “Is it just you here then?”

  “Yep.”

  “Did you grow up in New Mexico?”

  “Nope.”

  “Aw, come on. You know this works better when we cooperate. I’m not a serial killer or a dentist yanking out your molars. You know so much about me and you’re only giving me crumbs.”

  ”I don’t know anything about you.”

  “Sure you do. I’m Uncle John. I’m a cop. I live right across the street. You know I like New Mexican food, whereas I don’t really know you, at all, but I’m willing to take a chance on you, Queenie. So, take a chance on me. Take a chance,” he pointed to his furry face, “on me.”

  “I’m not sure what to say when your musical taste includes ABBA.”

  They were separated by a granite-topped breakfast bar, a cardboard box full of pots and pans, and two bags of groceries, but Willa would have sworn she felt his puffy laugh caress her cheek. The little tickle stirred in her tummy again.

  John smiled, nodding, “Say yes.”

  This, plus Mitchell’s boob-fixated gaze, and Adams’ fascination with the ba-dink-a-dink Farley had goosed, made Willa think her hormones had gone into overdrive, oozing out pheromones in some kind of last-ditch effort to attract a man before all her eggs shriveled up and died. It was completely preposterous, yet it was the only explanation she could think of for why she smiled back and said, “All right. Yes.”

  “Hoo-boy! I hope you like Indian curry.”

  “I do.”

  “This is working great, isn’t it? Okay, so here’s a secret no one knows about me.” He lowered his voice to a whisper for a moment, “I can’t whistle. Your turn. I tell you things, you tell me things. About yourself. Quid pro quo.”

  “You sound like Hannibal Lecter in Silence of the Lambs.” He looked at her intently. ‘Quid pro quo, Clarice’.”

  “That’s the worst Anthony Hopkins impression I’ve ever heard.”

  “Like yours is better?”

  “You haven’t heard it yet.”

  “I don’t know if I want to.”

  John put his palms on the granite and leaned forward, “Do you know what I am doing, Miss Kenton? I am placing my mind elsewhere while you chatter away.”

  “Close. My last name’s Heston, not Kenton. And who was that supposed to be?”

  “That was Anthony Hopkins. Haven’t you ever seen Remains of the Day?”

  “That was Anthony Hopkins? Here’s a news flash for you, Detective. Not only can’t you whistle, you sure as hell can’t do an English accent either.”

  “Oh, dinner tonight is going to be so much fun.”

  “Fun?” Willa lifted a skillet out of a box. “Sounds like you’ve got a few ideas.”

  He shrugged. “Some of them could be patented.”

  She hefted the skillet. “Something tells me if I come to your place I’m going to need protection.”

  His mouth twitched once. John cleared his throat and began to walk backwards towards the door. “I’m going to be a gentleman and assume that meant you’re still apprehensive about me being a serial killer. See you at six-thirty, Clarice.”

  The secret stash of cash Witchy kept in the weighted bottom hem of the living room drapes added up to a pitiful sixty-seven dollars. Alicia let out a screech louder than the blustering winds outside.

  Sixty-fuckin-seven-dollars?

  Sixty-seven dollars was a tank of gas. Sixty-seven dollars was a haircut. Sixty-seven dollars was one night out with a guy.

  Alicia swore. Usually she took only a few bucks—a twenty, something that wouldn’t be missed—but twenty out of sixty-seven was hard to overlook.

  Aw, screw it. She’d just take the whole wad of money and add it to her special project fund. She had big plans for the week. and every little bit helped.

  A scratching noise snapped her attention to the kitchen, to the door that led out to the garage. She froze.

  The wind. It was just the wind blasting everything outside. The scratching was nothing more than the piñon branches on the patio roof, but Alicia stood perfectly still, the money and heavy butt
erscotch-colored fabric in her hands as she listened, straining to hear the slightest movement, the sound of a car returning, a key in the door, a shuffle of feet.

  She knew Witchy wasn’t dumb. The old crow was aware her stepdaughter came around when no one was home. Sometimes Alicia would find a receipt showing her tuition had been paid for the semester, a note regarding how to contact the old bat, or an envelope containing this month’s allowance. Whenever she dropped by, Alicia made sure she left enough clues, enough mess, but the last thing she wanted was to have to face her stepmother’s cool gaze or—God forbid—have another conversation with her.

  Oh, this was so damn stupid. Why should she be afraid of getting caught in her own house? And it was her house. She’d lived here long before Witchy had moved in and ruined her life. It didn’t matter what the lawyers said about the property and estate being held in trust until she was twenty-one. When she was ten and her parents divorced, her dad had told her this house was always her home—hers. He’d said the same thing when she was fifteen and a half and he’d married his second wife: ‘This house is yours.’

  In two more years, the shoe would be on the other foot. She’d be living here, and Witchy would be in some crappy apartment in Albuquerque.

  Until that day, Alicia was going to stick with the course of action that had served her so well over the last eighteen months. And this week, when classes let out at UNM and spring break started, she’d execute another part of her plan.

  Alicia stuffed the sixty-seven bucks into her pocket and smiled.

  The healing, puckered gash ran up the inside of his left bicep and curved around to the top of his shoulder. John examined it in the mirror and probed gently.

  Eight weeks ago, Albuquerque TV stations had picked up word of the arrest-gone-bad and broadcast the story all over the news. The Santa Fe New Mexican ran a story suggesting a cover-up of repeated police brutality by the Los Alamos Police Department, while The Los Alamos Monitor, the local paper, ran three editorials demanding Detective John Tilbrook be fired from the Los Alamos police force.