Studying Scarlett the Grey

by Kelle Z Riley

  The stark look in her eyes told him she knew. And accepted her decisions. More officers arrived on the scene, along with the fire department, pulling them away from each other as procedure and necessity forced them to take different paths.

  Leaving him, once again, helpless in the face of circumstances.

  By the time Bree collapsed on her couch hours later, shower-damp hair clinging to her neck, two competing desires clamored for prominence in her mind. The first—a desire for food—argued that a packet of crackers and a soda from the PD vending machine didn’t qualify as a snack, much less sustenance after a long day of evading a kidnapper and bringing a killer to justice.

  The second—a desire never to move again—argued that not only was food overrated, but her limbs might refuse to work after the demands that had been required of them today. Her eyes drifted shut as she pulled the couch throw over herself and settled in for a nap.

  Mrwoww.

  Sherlock, it seemed, had thrown his considerable weight behind option number one. Food. When she failed to respond, he jumped onto the couch and walked over her legs, his paws digging into the stiff muscles like a vengeful massage therapist.

  “Not now, cat,” she mumbled, sinking back toward sleep. He reached her shoulder and stretched out, purring, his warmth easing the aches in her body.

  Sometime later, the sound of her phone pulled her from sleep. She shifted, dislodging Sherlock who thumped to the floor in a huff. “Hello?”

  “Hey.” James’s voice filtered through the speaker as warm and comforting as Sherlock’s body had been. “Can I come over?”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea tonight.”

  “I’ll bring comfort food. Whatever you like. Please? I need to see you’re okay.”

  Sleep loosened its hold on her and hunger reasserted itself with a vengeance. “Give me an hour.”

  “How about half an hour, give or take?”

  “Deal.” She ended the call and forced herself off the couch and into the bathroom. Matted—but clean and dry—hair hung in her eyes. She tugged the brush through it undoing the snarls until she could twist it up into a functional clip.

  Creases from the blanket etched her cheeks and dark circles lay heavily under her eyes. Her mother would have insisted she dress and apply makeup before receiving visitors.

  Bree settled for dragging on yoga pants and a baggy sweatshirt. James knew what he was getting with her. After the events of the day, she couldn’t summon the energy to craft the illusion of being bright-eyed, energetic, and beautiful.

  The knock at her door indicated she was out of time, anyway.

  James shouldered his way into the condo and pulled her into a hug before she had barely said hello. “You look completely exhausted,” he said, his voice soft in her ear. “And even so you are the most beautiful sight I’ve ever seen.”

  “You’re delirious.” Bree halfheartedly pushed against his chest but didn’t actually break the embrace. “I’m almost as frightful looking now as I was in the Zombie costume today.”

  “You’re alive. And unharmed. And therefore everything I could want.” He pulled back and eyed her critically, the once-over throwing his words into doubt. “You are probably also starving.”

  “How’d you guess?”

  “I’m a trained detective.” He took her hand and led her to the dining area in the kitchen where he unpacked the large shopping bag he’d brought. Scents of roasted chicken along with something buttery, yeasty, and decadent tickled her nose.

  “For starters, you dedicated a significant part of your day to thwarting a kidnapping and taking down a perpetrator with a piece of retail display equipment. Next, you spent hours answering questions at the PD where food options are nil. And finally, the sleepy sound of your voice when I called, coupled with these,” he touched her face where the blankets had left indentations, “tell me you crashed on your couch instead of eating.”

  “Damn, you’re good.”

  “That I am. Now sit. Eat. And reassure me that you’re doing okay.” He pushed her into a chair and opened the containers. A golden roasted chicken, tubs of mashed potatoes, buttered corn, and yeasty rolls beckoned. “I brought paper plates and plastic cutlery so there won’t be cleanup to worry about.”

  Sherlock scampered into the kitchen, begging for a share of the largess. Bree put some bits of chicken on a plate for him then served herself and James while the cat was occupied.

  “You were amazing today,” James said, looking at her across his plate of untouched food. “Your escape from the car. Pulling the fire alarm. Taking Gordon down. A trained officer would be hard pressed to do as well.”

  Her cheeks warmed at his praise. “For what it’s worth, I understand where you were going when you said I shouldn’t have gotten in the car. But given the tight confines of the garage, breaking and trying to run didn’t seem like a good option.”

  “Cars can make decent cover, but firearms and gas tanks don’t mix well. Even so, I hated your choice. I just…I hate that you put yourself in danger. I wish I could convince you to step away. Work from an office analyzing data for the spy team. But…”

  He held up a finger to ward off her reply. “I’ve seen you in the field, now. You are good at what you do. Your work over the last days has made the world a safer place.” He sighed. “I’ll support you and your decisions. Just don’t ask me to like them.”

  Bree squeezed his hand, knowing what the concession cost him. “I promise, I’ll be careful.”

  They both turned their focus to their plates, Bree doing her best not to inhale the food. As she ate, he told her about his day, filling in the gaps.

  “Once Gordon knew there was no way out, he turned talkative. We’ll confirm everything, of course, but his narrative backs up your hypothesis. Does that make it a theory now?”

  Bree shrugged. “In this case, probably, yes. The parallels between the scientific method and crime solving kind of break down when a perpetrator confesses. But which hypothesis were you referring to?”

  “Good to know. And I was referring to your theory,” he emphasized the word slightly, “that the killer used nicotine as a poison. Gordon got the idea from Margie’s failed vaping experiments. He mixed liquid nicotine into Billy’s antibacterial gel then sat back and waited.”

  “He probably used a sublethal dose and waited for a toxic concentration to build up in Billy’s bloodstream. “She shivered. “That’s cold. Anyone in the garage could have been hurt.”

  “Not likely,” James said, shaking his head. “According to Gordon, no one else touched that stuff. In any case, on the night Billy died, he’d managed to bang himself up pretty badly and slathered on the gel. Gordon decided to stay late to see what happened. Billy returned to the garage, staggering—either from the nicotine or alcohol—muttering about a package in the Mustang. He popped the trunk, complained about feeling sick, then threw up. That’s when Gordon pushed him inside and slammed the lid.”

  Bree put down her fork. “You mean he just left Billy there, not knowing if he was dead or alive? I’m not buying it. Why go to all the trouble to poison someone and leave the job half done?”

  “That’s where Bill Jr. came in. Gordon spoofed the texts to get Bill to start the car, hoping that would finish the job and throw the suspicion on the younger man. If Gordon had kept his cool when you were in his office, he might have gotten away with it. Between the alcohol, nicotine, and carbon monoxide Billy was exposed to, we might not have had enough evidence to convict Gordon.” James’s lips curved in a cold smile.

  “But once he threatened you, we had him on kidnapping and assault with a firearm. I may also have thrown in something about animal cruelty, just for fun. In any case, it was enough to get him talking. And with a confession…he sealed his own fate.”

  “I still have questions. What, if anything, did Gordon know about the money laundering?” Bree asked when he stopped to take a bite. “When he was abducting me, h
e mentioned Billy being in league with the mafia. Claimed he was extracting vengeance or something for Billy’s crimes.”

  James shrugged. “He was annoyingly short on details about the money when Griffin and I questioned him. But once we had our confession, he didn’t stay in our custody long enough for us to get information on anything else. One of the Homeland agents took him away, claiming his links to potential national crimes superseded our jurisdiction.”

  “Which agent?”

  “They’re all between five-ten and six-two. Two hundred pounds, plus or minus a few, with most of the bulk hidden behind the grey suits. Not a smile among them. Dang near clones.”

  “Yeah, I had trouble sorting them out too.”

  They ate in silence until Bree’s initial hunger was appeased. She slowed but didn’t stop eating. “I can’t believe I was so wrong about Margie,” Bree said between bites. “I’m glad, of course. But she behaved as if she had something to hide.”

  “She did. She doped Billy’s gummy bears with vodka.” James flashed a grin, causing the dimple to pop out in his cheek. “Her plan was to get him addicted enough to the candy that he’d eat it during the day and get suspended for being drunk at work.”

  “Evil.” Bree contemplated a second helping of potatoes and gravy, but decided she was comfortably full. “Just like her suggestions to me for thwarting an overbearing boyfriend. Evil, with a touch of the absurd, and a flair for the dramatic.”

  “That about sums her up. Griffin handled the final questioning once your partner pulled me out of the meeting. I learned she’s in the clear. Making alcoholic gummy candy doesn’t break any laws that I know of.”

  “Speaking of Tugood, what happened to him? I could swear my com cut out even before Gordon had me remove it.”

  James filled her in on the details that brought him to the garage. “I lost it when that bird flew in squawking your safe word. Good thinking to teach her that.”

  “I guessed she’d go to the place she considered home. Lucky for me it was a good guess.”

  James shrugged. “She wasn’t your only guardian angel today. I still can’t figure out how Tugood tracked the movements of the car, let alone how he saw you escape it and run into that store.”

  “It’s—” She broke off before the words left her mouth. It’s need to know. Tugood’s frequent phrase. She shook her head to clear it, hating that she couldn’t tell James everything. “It’s probably something to do with the Homeland guys. I’m sure they have multiple means of tracking vehicles and individuals.”

  He stared at her, assessing. Finally he shook his head and reached into the bag, extracting two chocolate fudge brownies. He passed one to her with a slight smile. “I’ve noticed something about you,” he said, mischief coloring his voice. “Your eyes narrow and the edges crinkle when you’re being evasive. I thought you might, how would you put it? I thought you might need to know.”

  Chapter 30

  “I know we agreed on your fees earlier,” Jack Trayder said when he met with Bree and Matthew the next morning at the diner. He pushed an envelope across the table to them with one hand while signaling the server for coffee with the other. “But given the circumstances, I think you deserve more.”

  “We did our jobs,” Matthew said.

  “Yes, and no. I asked you to see how happy my employees were and to determine if there was anything amiss with the accounting. You uncovered links to international money laundering and solved a murder.” His face greyed and his lips turned down. “I still can’t believe what Billy got himself mixed up in. He was my friend, but… I owe my business to your investigation.”

  “For what it's worth, Bree and I can both vouch for you. There was nothing in our investigation that showed you to be complicit or even knowledgeable about the crimes.”

  “Even so, Billy and Gordon…” He shrugged. “They were two of my oldest employees and I feel like I failed them.”

  “They failed you,” Bree insisted. “Billy chose to get involved in a get-rich-quick scheme and Gordon made his own choices too. They lived and died as a consequence of their own actions.”

  Coffee arrived and Jack took his time sipping before agreeing with Bree’s assessment. He prefaced his words with a heavy sigh. “I know you’re right, but it doesn’t make it easier. Now I have to decide what to do about the car rental business. Keep it? Or wash my hands of it?”

  “I can’t help with that decision,” Matthew said while he pocketed the check. “It’s above my pay grade.”

  “I’ll tell you who can help.” Bree focused on Jack. “Your team. Magnus, Juan, and even Bill Jr. know what was working and what wasn’t in the rental business. And you have Michael Michaelson. He’s young, but he has a good head on his shoulders and a nose for business. I suggest you invite him to lunch one day and listen to his ideas.”

  Jack nodded. “I do have a good team.”

  “They respect and care for you and Trader Jack’s too. I’ll grant you have some quirky characters,” Bree bit back a smile, “but everyone remaining is invested in helping you and the business succeed.”

  “So, where do we go from here?” Jack asked. “Should I plan a big reveal like they do on TV to let the team know Cat Holmes was an undercover boss?”

  “Maybe keep that to yourself,” Bree replied. “You never know when she’ll be needed again.” With that, they arranged a time to deliver their final report and said good-bye to Jack Trayder and his emporium.

  “We need to talk, Watson,” Matthew said as they entered the Sci-PHi complex through the main doors. He skirted a heavy, stooped, old man wielding a dustmop across the parquet wood floors of the building. “Let’s chat in my office before you go back to the labs.”

  Her stomach did a slow dip and roll at those words. We need to talk and chat in my office had always been code for something gone horribly wrong, either in a relationship or at work. She swallowed her trepidation, unwilling to play victim to anyone, ever again.

  By the time they reached his fourth-floor office, Bree had her emotions in hand. Matthew, his face unreadable, seated himself behind his desk. She stared at him, refusing to make the first move in whatever chess game he played.

  Minutes passed. The occasional twitch of his jaw—normally a prelude to spoken words—came and went in silence. Finally a smile tugged at his lips.

  “Seven months,” he said.

  She held her tongue, waiting him out.

  “Versus two and a half years.”

  Still she waited.

  Finally she broke the silence—the longest since they’d entered the bunker/office where Tugood ostensibly worked. “What are you talking bout?”

  He leaned forward, his eyes coming alive. Intense, darker than usual, and as unreadable as storm clouds. “That’s how long you’ve trained for this position, versus how long the average training time is for a Navy SEAL.”

  “And that’s what you were?”

  “Need to—”

  “Never mind.” She slashed the air with her hand. “What exactly is this chat about? Have I failed you or the missions in some way?”

  His jaw went slack and his brow puckered. “Failed? Is that what you think?”

  “Come on, Matthew. You’re acting as ominous as Buckster Davis when he was ready to fire a protegee,” she said, citing the former boss whose murder had brought Matthew and Bree together.

  “Don’t compare me to that sniveling cretin.” He pushed his chair back and stood, pacing in front of the bookcases that hid a secret elevator to the Tech Ops center. “You’re the one who told me you’d see this mission through. A week ago.” He turned to her. “Now it’s done. And I need to know if you’re giving up our work to pursue a relationship with the LEO.”

  That’s what this was about? A heated conversation the night they found cash in the Crown Vic? Bree replayed the scene in her mind. I don’t give a damn about what happens between the local cop and the woman I—. Matthew’s words sound
ed loud and clear in her memory. The woman I trained. But those weren’t the words he’d intended to say.

  She observed him carefully as he rounded the desk to rest one hip on it, intruding into the space where her visitor chair rested. His face morphed into a placid, emotionless expression, but his hands held tension as if he fought to keep from curling them into fists. “I promised I’d support your choices, whatever they were. Decision time. Are you staying? Or leaving?”

  “The more relevant question is whether you’re staying or leaving. Didn’t you found the Sci-Spy business to catch the one who got away?” She shrugged. “With Zed cooperating and in a protection program, isn’t your work done?”

  He shook his head, tension in his frame easing slightly. “Zed is just the tip of the iceberg. Sasha is still on the loose, likely coordinating a cash collection scheme that makes the money exchanges at Jack’s emporium look like small change. There are other operatives to intercept. Other schemes to stop. New targets and methods. The work is never done, Watson. Individual agents may stop, but the mission always goes on.”

  “And is the world safer because of what we do? Or are we deluding ourselves?”

  “Both, I suppose. The world may never know what we do, but our small portion of it is safer. At least for a while.”

  “That’s enough for me.”

  The look in his eyes warmed. “For me as well.” He returned to his place behind the desk and pulled out his phone. “There’s a briefing in Tech Ops at sixteen hundred hours.”

  “Four o’clock, Matthew,” she said emphasizing the time in her normal way. “I’ll see you at four o’clock.”

  Kiki waylaid Bree on her way back to her office in the lab complex. “Hey, lady, you ran off early yesterday before the party got into full swing. Is everything okay?”

  “Nothing serious. Just some time sensitive things I had to handle.” Bree rolled her eyes, then softened the look with a laugh. “Family stuff. Dad tried to build a catapult to launch candy at the Trick-or-Treaters, and he wanted me to help with the final adjustments. By video conference. On Mom’s iPhone.”