For Your Eyes Only

by Sandra Antonelli

  Her hair. She’d almost forgotten. She brushed past him, left him in the doorway, and went down the small staircase into John’s kitchen. “Oh. Before our truce, in her second-to-last act of vengeance, Alicia switched my shampoo,” she said, as she headed for the French doors off the dining room.

  He followed her. “Well, switch back to what you used before because that’s … uh … uh … uh...”

  “Ugly?”

  “I was going to go with hideous.”

  “John likes it.”

  “John wants to get in your pants.”

  The bright smile that had faded as the day moved along returned to dazzling, but she controlled the giggle that tickled her throat.

  He started laughing, the noise big and beefy. “Why, Willa! You mean he got into—”

  “I swear to God, say it, and I’ll crush your balls like a cockroach under my shoe.”

  “Your feet are too small to do me any damage.”

  Eye narrowed, she turned around. “You really want to find out how much damage I can do? I’m an FBI agent. I have training. I can hit you and not leave a mark.”

  She’d meant to be funny, but his smile vanished the second he’d heard FBI.

  “I know,” he said flatly, his face dark. “I know how hard you can hit. I’m not sure I’ve forgiven you for that yet. “

  Willa looked down at her hands for a moment. Her nails were ragged. She could really do with a manicure. “Come on, let’s get down to it.” She stepped out onto the deck and waited for him to join her.

  Sunlight hadn’t yet reached the back yard, and it was quite cold in the shade. Back to back meetings, a vat of coffee, and the nature of this get-together with Dominic kept Willa’s adrenaline running high. She barely noticed the temperature, while fifteen seconds in the shade was all Dominic could stand.

  “Christ, I’m freezing,” he said and shoved the cell phone he’d ‘forgotten’ into his pocket. “Can we do this inside, or will that look too fishy?”

  ”This is safer. Let’s compare notes first, tell me what you came up with, what you noticed, however tiny.”

  With an annoyed mumble, he shoved his chilled hands beneath his armpits. “The only thing I noticed, the only thing that popped out, was the names. I’m in there seven times, Dichter three, Chandra ten, you have four and your findings were published. You got Zhang, Hurry, Merrill, neutron-beam short-pulse laser, condensed matter, hell, even Don Farley’s bottom-up fabrication gets a mention.”

  “Some of the documents are declassified.”

  “And unrelated to TQS simulations, supercomputing, or quantum computing. Come on, a hybrid antimicrobial protein and the California wine industry? What’s that got to do with anything?”

  Willa began to pace. “Related or not, it won’t be long before the other agents working on this pinpoint everyone who had access to any of the data or could get access to data. There has to be something we’re missing here.”

  “What about David Alexandre?”

  “Have you remembered something else about him?”

  “Yeah. I talked to him a couple times about Game Theory. There’s a document discussing Game Theory and some experiment results.”

  “Game theory.” She rubbed her temples. “Game Theory’s not related to anything. It’s so damn random. It points to nothing.”

  “Have a closer look at Jackie Grafton,” he said with weak hope and an even weaker smile.

  She stopped pacing. “About that. Jackie’s not involved, Dominic.”

  “What do mean she’s not involved? Of course she’s involved! She’s an assistant at the Lab. She has acc—”

  “She was an assistant. She quit two years ago.”

  “But the stuff—”

  “Was found in her house. How it got there is another matter. Her brother, Rory has been living there. He and his buddy cooked meth and had amassed quite the collection of stolen electronic goods. It’s being catalogued by one of our team and the local police. On a hunch, I suggested my team have a deeper look at Rory, but the evidence that Jackie had anything to do with either crime is circumstantial. What I did was find a possible path, a likely link between Jackie and anyone who had anything to do with the research and documents found on those drives. The best link I came up with was you, Dichter and Chandra, a couple of secretaries, tech guys, and Lab assistants. There’s another pattern to this. I just haven’t found it yet, so I’m taking this in another direction. I’m digging deeper into Rory Grafton’s life, hoping something will pop up. Right now Chandra and Rory give us time before someone starts putting more of this puzzle together and has a closer look at you.”

  Dominic had been making a clicking sound with his tongue and Willa realized it was because he was trying to form words. “Wait a minute!” he said finally. “You put me on the list of suspects?”

  “Yes. I had to. They’ll find out about your oversight.” An icy breeze lifted her hair and Willa’s little laugh came out just as frosty. “Do you understand? With the way things are since 9/11 the Justice Department wants to prosecute people and they don’t care who you are. Hell, they started proceedings to charge the old CIA director for storing classified memos on his home computer before he got a pardon from President Clinton. They investigated the former Attorney General for mishandling classified material too. Jesus, if I can’t keep on top of this, if we can’t figure out who had the means and put the focus on that person, then they’ll find the one mistake you made and they’ll run with that. They will charge you. Not with sedition, espionage, or treason. They’ll call it negligence and mishandling of classified information. And they’ll charge you. They’ll dig into your life and dredge up things you want to keep to yourself. It will all be out there. Your wife will be out there. Your son will be out there. How else could I protect you but to make you a suspect?”

  “Kyle?” Dominic suddenly looked taller, his spine rigid.

  Willa nodded. She considered the things the suspects had in common: their clearance levels, work on TQS simulations, members of the Quantum Institute, and Jackie Grafton. That’s what held them together, made them suspects. It wasn’t until Dominic dropped his head into his hands that Willa realized there was something he’d never mentioned, like the other two men had. How it mattered, if it mattered, she didn’t know. “Astro, did anyone come to you and ask you for money to help with Jackie’s bail?”

  “Kyle,” he muttered.

  “Dominic!”

  His head snapped up. “Huh?”

  “Did anyone come to you and ask you for money to help with Jackie’s bail?”

  “No.” He swiped a palm over his mouth. “Shit no.”

  She exhaled. “Her boyfriend asked Dichter and Chandra to help out, but he didn’t ask you.”

  “Is it important?”

  “I don’t know. It could be. It’s curious, but mostly it was just a thought, a random thought.”

  “Like you said. It’s all so goddamned random.”

  “I’ve wondered if maybe the randomness means something.”

  “Like what? Your funky brain telling you something at last?”

  “No. I don’t have a clue. This is colorless to me. I was hoping to God you’d see something.”

  “So what do we do now?”

  Willa chewed on her lip for a moment. What she had in mind could work, but she wanted to approach it from another perspective—one she hadn’t considered ‘til a minute ago. There could be another connection between Rory Grafton and Chandra. “We change direction, like I said last night. I was going to talk to Chandra this evening. He’s giving a lecture. Maybe this will work better if you talk to him.”

  “You want me to talk to Chandra?”

  “Yes.”

  “About what?” Dominic plopped onto the bench beside John’s pots of dirt and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. He looked pale.

  “Jackie.”

  “I thought you said Jackie wasn’t involved.”

  “She’s not involved, but she’s th
e lynchpin, the catalyst that set this off. Maybe it has something to do with money, with blackmail or something. Chandra couldn’t get away from me fast enough when I asked him about her the other day. But I don’t know. Besides Rory Grafton, Chandra’s our best option.” As Willa explained how he could question Chandra, more color drained from Dominic’s face. When she finished with the details, he was ashen, as if carved from a slab of Arctic marble.

  ”I have to tell my wife,” he said, as stony as he looked.

  “No, don’t. Wait. If it all goes the way I think it will with Rory, you won’t have to tell her anything. So wait.”

  “I don’t think I like this plan at all.” Sunlight hit his face, exposing circles under his blue eyes. “You know how you told me I should be scared?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, I’m fuckin’ terrified.”

  They had a plan. The plan was in motion, and Willa felt the edges of worry ease ever so faintly. This was something she could work with and be marginally confident about. Marginal confidence was a tonic not unlike John Tilbrook. John… There, she’d thought about him again, equated some teeny-weeny thing to the wonder of John, which wasn’t part of the plan. Concentrating on the damned plan instead of thinking about the little mole she’d discovered behind John’s left ear was turning out to be a challenge.

  Fine. Willa allowed herself three minutes of dreamy John thoughts, let her mind drift over the man and his little mole. She had no idea where they headed, but she knew the potential was bright, ripe and ready to be picked and savored. There was no telling what sort of commitment John was interested in, or if he wanted any commitment at all. She only knew she was ready and wanted to have a relationship, a word a lot of men—Dominic for instance—often found intimidating and ran screaming from as some kind of self-preservation.

  John wasn’t like that. He wasn’t afraid.

  When her thoughts floated over the things a relationship entailed and she imagined choosing invitations and sampling cake with fondant icing, she knew it was time to leave fantasy behind and shift back to the uncomfortable part of reality. Wistfulness could wait. She had a job to do. Dominic was more pressing than a beautiful daydream.

  Copies of the arrest reports for Elvin Buck and Rory Grafton sat on top of a box in the small office downstairs. Glasses on, Willa carried the carton into the kitchen to settle in to re-read the files and cross check them against Chandra’s and Jackie’s. She was looking for a pattern, any pattern. Unlike his sister’s file, Rory Grafton’s police record was fat and heavy. Taking a seat on a stool, she plunked the file on the countertop and flipped to the last three arrest records. If luck were on her side, she’d find some tidbit of information on Rory, something that connected him to Chandra, something that meant Agent Adams could sit in the room with him, like she had with Jackie, and have a nice, friendly chat.

  Willa made a face. That part of the plan was suck-a-lemon sour to her, but it made sense to have Agent Adams do the honors. She knew the man would be thorough, but she disliked giving up the control, the ability to point out the direction and keep the focus off Dominic.

  Half a page into Rory’s file the doorbell dong-dinged.

  She removed her glasses.

  It wasn’t Adams or Tom. It wasn’t Farley with an armload of tulips, muffins or chocolate. It was John with a big fat grin on his face. He stood at the threshold, both arms stretched out in the door’s frame, and he was wearing a suit, a rather expensive-looking, charcoal gray, Sunday-go-to-church suit. The tie against his pale blue shirt had been loosened along with the button at the neck.

  Willa had the urge to grab that tie, yank off that jacket, and rip the buttons off that shirt, but tearing off his trousers was a matter that she found perplexing because of the slim black belt he wore. There was just no way to shred off a belt.

  “It dawned on me,” he said, “when I was on my third cruller, not listening to my mother talk about how annoyed my sister was with me, that I remembered I asked you to call me for lunch if you had time, and I realized I never gave you my number to let me know if you had time. Do you have time to eat?”

  “No.” She nodded, reached for his belt’s small buckle and jerked him inside.

  “I’m not really hungry either,” he said. His mouth sank onto hers, he shrugged out of his jacket, and he kicked the door shut as gray wool fell to the floor.

  He kept on kissing her as he undid the little fasteners on her blouse, while she’d scrabbled at his belt, unbuttoned his pants, and tugged his shirt free. Hot, Queenie’s fingers were hot on his cool skin. She tasted like coffee and lipstick recently applied.

  Right hand fumbling in a pocket, left arm around her waist, he lifted her off her feet and began to walk backwards, in the general direction of the couch. His arm didn’t bear her weight well, the muscle protested and sent a ribbon of pain up his shoulder. He set her on her toes just shy of the chosen furniture, which was okay because his pants had dropped to the top of his shoes and if he’d gone any farther he would have tripped. He broke the kiss and looked down at her. He’d exposed the nude demi-cup bra she wore. The delicate swirl pattern of the fabric added a pinker tone to her hard nipples. He smiled and drew a finger over one erect peak. “Boy howdy, you’re very nearly naked.”

  She shivered. “And your pants are around your ankles.”

  “Lucky thing I saved this first, huh?” He held up a little black foil square emblazoned with The Condom Companion. “Sean gave me a box of these after mass, which see—”

  Dong-ding! Dong-ding- Dong-ding- Dong-ding!

  “Oh, no,” Queenie moaned, her forehead plopping against John’s chest. “Not now. Not yet!”

  Sniff-sniff-sniff. “What is it with that thing whenever I’m here?”

  “It’s Mitchell and he’s about forty-five minutes early. Damn. We should have gone to your place,” she said, buttoning up her blouse. “We should have gone across the street to your place.”

  Still laughing, John pulled up his trousers and shoved the condom into a pocket as he headed for the bathroom down the hall to organize himself. He heard her muttering just before she opened the door to the caller. He stood in the bathroom, next to a stinky potted lily, laughing and listening as his blood flowed back to other parts of his body, but what he heard was more unexpected than the insistent ring of the doorbell.

  “You goddamned lying phony bitch!”

  Was that … Lesley?

  Exiting the bathroom, John hurried down the hall in time to see his cousin’s fist hit Willa square in the stomach, and then she was on her ass, on the floor beside his jacket, gasping for air while Lesley, petite as she was, stood over her and thundered something about excrement, fornication, and chipmunks.

  John raced forward to cradle Queenie. “Relax and breathe,” he said. He pulled her to her feet and began to rub her back. “Breathe, in through your mouth and out, Queenie. Relax and breathe.”

  “I … got … it,” she wheezed.

  “Lesley, what the hell?” John glared at his cousin. “What the hell are you doing?”

  Lesley looked up at him, furious, tears cascading down her face. “Me? What the hell am I doing? Oh, John. Oh, John. Ask her. Ask her what she’s done.” She stomped towards the open entrance. She gripped the doorknob. “Go on. Go on and tell him, Ms I’m-so-full-of-shit. Ms I’m-here-to-repair-our-friendship-and-make-it right between Dominic and me. Right. You’re so genuine.” Swiping at her running nose, Lesley sneered. “She’s so sincere, aren’t you, Willa? Tell him how honest and real you are and stay the fuck away from my husband!”

  The door slammed. Papers on the countertop fluttered. Then it was quiet for a moment. John stopped stroking Queenie’s back. She coughed. He stared at the jacket he’d left on the floor, one hand cupped over his mouth as he added two and two. “Aw, Queenie … No. Oh, no.”

  “No, John,” she said hoarsely, “It’s not what you think. I didn’t. I’ve never—”

  “Why?” He stared at her. “For that?
That’s all this was? Jesus, I knew it. I knew it and I didn’t want to believe it. For Dominic, this was all for Dominic.”

  “Yes, only not the way you’re thinking, not the way Lesley made it seem,” she said.

  Exhaling, John bent and picked up his jacket. “Are you going to try to explain?”

  “Yes.”

  “You have explanations for everything, don’t you? Alicia, your work, and this thing with Dominic… you can explain everything. I don’t think I want to hear this one. I don’t want to know. You keep your secrets.”

  “It’s not … this isn’t … this is secret… Don’t be angry. You don’t have all the facts. Sex has noth— “

  John raised a hand, squeezed it into a fist, and flexed his fingers, spreading them wide. He repeated the action. Voice low, he said through his teeth, “The facts. Screw the facts. I don’t want to hear the facts. Just … just … fuck off. Better still. You stay here and I’ll fuck off. That’s how you prefer it, isn’t it?”

  Frozen, Willa watched him cross the small space to the door, leaving it wide open after his departure. Ice-cold air blew in. She took two steps forward, to go after him, and faltered. Fuck off. He wanted her to fuck off.

  It was all over when it had only started.

  Fingers trembling, Willa reached out and closed the door. Head in her hands a second later, she shambled to the counter’s edge. Idiot. Fool. Dummy.

  Dominic had told his wife. Lesley knew everything now, and John knew only what he’d misinterpreted. His jealousy, the childish thing that had turned his hazel eyes green a few times before, meant he’d cast her in the most unfaithful light. She’d misjudged him as a nice guy, and he’d mistaken her for a calculating home-wrecker.

  What a colossal mistake, but what did she expect from knowing someone a handful of days? He’d admitted he was envious, showed signs of being jealous, but he was also apparently mistrustful—despite the fact his best friend was a woman. Willa had figured that meant she was safe from the usual judgment that a man and a woman couldn’t be friends because sex had to be in there somewhere, but she’d been duped. Like so many others, John fell into the group that deemed a close inter-gender friendship impossible.