by Tim Tigner
35
Bad Connection
STARING AT HIS COMPUTER SCREEN, Tory felt the blood pressure building behind his eyes. He was the worst kind of mad—mad at himself.
He’d blown it big-time by failing to make a connection in time.
His laptop displayed three photographs side by side. The first was the picture he’d taken in the mortuary. The intruder he’d spared. The man still breathing because Tory wasn’t a wanton killer—or one to kick a hornet’s nest. If the intruder had truly been an FBI agent, his murder would have incited a swarm of investigation likely to leave Tory stung.
Back at the crematory, with his foe doubled over and an easy escape at hand, showing restraint had seemed so sensible, so professional, so wise. But that was before he made the connection.
The face in the second photo on his laptop display matched the face in the first one. It was a twin found by his computer program—and it came coupled with the name Zachary Chase.
Chase was actually ex-CIA rather than current FBI. In some ways that was better, in others worse. Especially in light of the third photo.
The third photo put the whole replacement project in a new light. Or rather, an ominous shadow. It was the picture David had snapped at a stoplight in Santa Monica. A picture of his motorcycle man. A man Tory now knew to be Zachary Chase.
Tory had made the connection just seconds ago while staring at photos one and two. At first, second, and even third glance, the tousled-haired, scruffy-faced, leather-clad motorcycle rider from Los Angeles bore little resemblance to the clean-shaven, suit-sporting, bespectacled man with slicked-back hair that Tory had encountered in suburban Virginia. But when he placed the pixels side by side and focused strictly on the faces, the resemblance was unmistakable. They were the same person.
How was that possible?
What did it mean?
Tory did not know. Not yet.
That was a serious problem.
Tory refused to make another bad move based on incomplete information. Irksome as it was and painful though it might be, he had to let prudence rule. He would place the remaining replacements on hold until he figured out what Zachary Chase knew.
36
The Start of Something
THEY DIDN’T KNOW WHERE TO GO, so they stayed in the booth at Denny’s, paying their rent one snack or beverage at a time. The server seemed accustomed to this freeloading behavior—and happy to accommodate. There were plenty of empty booths during the witching hours, seats with no prospect of generating tips.
While Skylar sat in shock, Chase filled her in on everything he knew. He seemed to sense that she needed time to absorb the unbelievable turn of events, and obliged her by doing the talking. He told her about bumping into his roommate at Berret’s, and the motorcycle chase in L.A. He described the stakeout at the bar, and spying from an adjoining room. Finally the funeral home, the fight with Tom, and the loss of his cell phone and gun.
Skylar felt whiplashed, mentally speaking. Physically, she literally felt whipped. That was what lines of burns felt like, whip marks. And unfortunately the worst ones were on the parts of her body in contact with the red vinyl booth.
She was at once tremendously grateful to have been rescued from the nightmare of all nightmares, and disappointed that her promised new life had been a scam. She was furious with Tom and frustrated with herself. But at that moment, right there in the booth, the emotion peaking above all others, was rage. The desire to retaliate, to do unto others as they had done unto her.
Skylar found the reaction unsettling. She wasn’t a violent or vindictive person. In the back of her mind, she knew the unfamiliar emotion was the culmination of pent-up frustrations. A burning desire to take back control. It bothered her, but she decided not to fight it. Not now. Tomorrow she might wake up with an entirely different perspective. Today, with her skin still smoking and her pulse still pounding, she would indulge her inner demon.
She looked across the table and met Chase’s gaze. He was watching her, serene and silent, eyes edged with concern. They were good eyes, kind and patient. A bit more gray than blue at the moment, and sparkling with the light of a bright mind. “I’m going to help you catch him,” she said.
He didn’t scoff or warn of danger. He didn’t frown or sigh. He said, “I thought you might. And, to be honest, I hoped you would.”
Skylar found herself taken aback. “Why did you think I might? I never saw myself doing anything like this.”
“You were about to join the CIA. That’s a pretty good indicator. And you told me you’re also a professional triathlete and firefighter.”
“Former,” she corrected. “On both accounts.”
“Neither are for people who shrink from a fight.”
She’d never thought of herself that way. As a fighter. Sure, she loved the personal challenge of triathlons. In her opinion they were the ultimate expression of physical fitness. Firefighting was a convenient way to help people while paying the bills. Lots of time off to train, with decent pay and great benefits. The physical demands and potential danger barely registered on her radar. They were a shrug. Perhaps that was Chase’s point.
She moved on to the second half of his statement. “You hoped I would?”
“Operations are much easier when you have a partner. It’s not purely an additive function, it’s a one-plus-one-equals-three situation. Two perspectives, two sets of hands, plus a sounding board. That assumes a competent partner, of course, but I have no doubts.” He gave her a wink.
She appreciated the touch of levity. “Even after seeing me duped by Tom?”
“My roommate was very intelligent, wicked smart as one of our classmates used to say. But Tom tricked him, too.”
Hearing that made her feel a bit better. Slouches didn’t get into Princeton. “So what did Lars and I have in common? That’s the place to start, right? Backtracking to Tom’s greater objective through a common denominator?”
“You’re talking like someone with a business degree.”
“Finance from the University of New Mexico.”
Chase looked pleased, but not surprised. “Great school. I agree with your starting point, but I’m afraid it won’t get us far. Beyond age, IQ, and skin color, you and Lars don’t appear to have much in common. Not geography. Not profession. Not interests, organizations, or friends as far as I can gather. Have you been to L.A.?”
“I’ve done triathlons in California—Oceanside and Sonoma—but not Los Angeles.”
Stuck for the moment, they dropped into silence. Chase toyed with the remains of his cinnamon roll.
“Can you still track Tom’s car?”
“Not without my cell phone.”
“It’s not backed up in the cloud?”
“It is, but the serial number I plugged into the GPS tracking app won’t be, and I didn’t write it down. In any case, it was a rental. Tom will have returned it by now.”
Skylar switched gears. “What would happen if we went to the CIA? Told them what was going on.”
“They’d send us to the FBI, where we’d waste a few days answering questions, creating a file that would go nowhere. Impersonating a CIA officer is a federal offense, but if it’s not linked to a larger investigation, it won’t get any resources.”
Skylar was about to ask Chase how he knew that when she realized that she knew next to nothing about his background. Not where he lived, not what he did. He’d only talked about his college roommate—from which she surmised that he too had gone to Princeton. “What do you do for a living?”
“I’m between jobs.”
Me too, Skylar mused. “What was your last position?”
He popped a piece of cinnamon roll in his mouth. His expression was friendly, but he was clearly buying time to think. “Something similar to the job you were applying for.”
He was a CIA agent? “How long ago was that?”
“I was fired an hour before I met Lars at Berret’s. That’s why I was there. It’s the best bar around. Tom did his
research.”
She’d wondered about the coincidental roommate run-in when Chase had relayed the story, but hadn’t stopped him to ask. Now it made sense.
His answer led to her next question. A sensitive question. Skylar didn’t want to offend her knight in pomaded hair, but she had the strong impression that he was more of a man’s man than the overly sensitive type. “I’m sorry to hear that. Forgive my bluntness, but does that mean your bridges are burned?”
Chase cracked a grin. “More like the elevator. My issue was with management. Relations with my colleagues are fine. Why do you ask?”
“I’m thinking you might have friends you can ask to investigate?”
“That’s not what the CIA does. Our ‘I’ stands for Intelligence. It’s the ‘I’ in FBI that stands for Investigation. But now that you mention it, if my photos backed up to the cloud during the last twenty-four hours, then I’ll get a picture of Tom once I replace and sync my phone.” Chase automatically looked at his watch, then rolled his eyes when he saw his empty wrist.
It was still the middle of the night. Skylar didn’t need to look at her watch to know that. “And you could have a friend use that picture to identify him?”
“I could indeed. Of course, depending on who he is, she might be prohibited from telling me. She might even send me on a wild goose chase.”
37
Two for One
THE BREAKFAST SERVER opened the check folder for the third time to see if the requisite cash or credit card had appeared. Skylar couldn’t blame her. This was the start of the morning rush. The restaurant was filling with early-rising patrons forking omelets and pancakes into hungry mouths, fueling up for the day ahead—then leaving tips.
Chase pulled out two twenties while she watched, placed them in the folder, and handed it over. “Thank you very much.”
She nodded and was gone.
“Thank you,” Skylar said. “I doubt any change will be coming.”
“I wouldn’t dare wait around to find out.”
They walked out into the rising sun. Skylar stopped short just outside the exit.
“What is it?” Chase asked.
“I literally came within a few seconds of never seeing another sunrise.”
Chase turned to face east and waited silently by her side. She gave it a few beats, then resumed walking.
They returned to his blue BMW because that was the obvious move. The next step, however, remained a mystery. To her, anyway.
The night had been productive in a calm-down, don’t-get-killed sense, but operationally it had yielded no fruit beyond the possibility of having his friend at the CIA match Tom’s picture. At least none that Chase had shared.
It had hardened her resolve to see this investigation through. She had told Chase as much.
His reaction to her revelation had been pleasing.
She looked over at him now, expectantly.
He hadn’t yet keyed the ignition. “It’s not safe for either of us to go home.”
“Agreed.”
“But we have to go somewhere we can sleep and shower—then plot our next move.”
“Where would we be safe?”
Chase shrugged. “Anyplace outside Williamsburg should be fine. We might as well make it someplace conducive to creative thinking. What summons your muse?”
“Running, swimming, biking. A long hot bath or shower. A good cup of coffee. Why are you talking about creative thinking?”
“Tracking down and catching Tom is not going to be easy. The guy’s clearly an experienced operative. I have no doubt that he’s accustomed to actively thwarting his competition.” Chase drummed the wheel while he spoke. “We’re in for a battle of wits. I’m with you on the running and showers. Don’t have a lot of recent experience with swimming or biking though.”
“So where to? A national park? There are plenty of those around here.”
Chase stopped tapping. “Actually, Virginia Beach comes to mind.”
“Never been.”
“I think Guinness considers it the longest pleasure beach in the world. I know they’ve got a three-mile boardwalk, and they host the annual East Coast Surfing Championship. I had to pretend to participate once as part of a training op.”
“You’re a surfer?”
“Not a very good one. That was the point of the training. Learning how to fake expertise.” Chase brushed the air, pushing the memory aside. “For our purposes, it will be easy to get lost there and pleasant enough. But I have to warn you, the weather will be muggy. Downright oppressive at times.”
Skylar felt the tangential realities of her situation begin to sink in. “How long is this going to take? What should I be preparing for? Financially I mean.”
She watched his expression as her words emerged. His eyes grew warm and his cheeks rose. “Being between jobs myself, I share your sensitivity. Let’s see what we can find.”
They found a Best Western Plus right on the beach. Rather than approach the reception desk, Chase led her through the lobby to the business center. They found two available PCs and the hint of an ocean breeze.
Skylar watched him call up the hotel they were in. He typed in the date and called up the prices. They were surprisingly cheap for someone used to Florida rates. “Online we can get the AAA rate. At the desk you need a card.”
She studied the screen over his shoulder. King rooms were $66 with AAA. Rooms with two beds were $75. Both the king and the double came with ocean-view balconies and free high-speed WiFi and included a full breakfast. “It’s much cheaper than Florida.”
He rose and offered her the chair. “Why don’t you pick whatever makes you most comfortable. I’m fine either way.”
Skylar didn’t need to think about it. She could feed herself with the money saved by sharing a room. Modesty wasn’t a question. Triathletes lost that during their first competitive race, skipping changing rooms to shave seconds off their times, and wearing skintight clothing knowing the cameras were constantly rolling.
But she still found herself hesitating to click the mouse.
She realized that his perception mattered to her. What would he think of her if she selected the double? Not about the implied consent, she didn’t get the impression that he had expectations, but what he’d conclude about her character. On the other hand, would he feel offended if she selected two king rooms?
This was silly, she told herself. He’d just saved her from being cremated alive. Chase had literally pulled her unconscious body out of the fire. “We’re not married, or even dating. In fact, I hardly know you. But at this point, I think it’s safe to say that we’re a team.” She clicked the double.
38
Satisfaction Guarantee
FELIX WELCOMED PIERCE aboard his new Christensen yacht and signaled the captain to set sail.
“I didn’t know captains came in the females-under-forty variety,” Pierce noted in an admiring tone, after turning his gaze back to Felix.
“They’re a rare find—but well worth the search. I’ve been on a bit of a binge lately, cutting the clutter out of my life.”
“Your old captain was clutter?”
“He did his job, but his presence didn’t bring me pleasure. That counts as clutter under my new operational paradigm. With Shelly,” he gazed toward the bridge, “I smile every time she welcomes me aboard.”
The two numbers guys had decided to yacht-pool to Aria’s for the Immortals’ meeting. Felix had suggested it. He wanted time alone with Pierce, both to brainstorm and to observe. The senatorial wannabe still topped his list of suspects.
They took the outside stairway to the top deck, where an empty 2009 Petrus bottle waited beside a full decanter and two Bordeaux glasses. Felix gestured toward an adjacent seat. “I thought this might smooth the journey.”
A waiter appeared while they were settling into the soft white lounge chairs. He poured the wine and vanished without a word. Felix clinked Pierce’s glass, then closed his eyes as the first sip passed his
lips. It boggled his mind that wine could be so satisfying and complex, whereas grape juice was just another drink. Such were the powers of yeast and time.
He opened his eyes after that satisfying swallow and got straight to business. “What’s your latest thinking?”
Pierce needed no clarification. The Immortals faced only one pressing problem. “I’m thinking we began our earlier analysis with a faulty assumption.”
This was exactly the kind of conjecture Felix hoped to hear. “How so?”
“We assumed that any outsider who learned of us would attempt to blackmail his or her way to immortality. That’s not necessarily true.”
Surprise and intrigue stirred Felix’s stomach. “You think we could have wronged someone so much that they’d pick revenge over eternal life? I’d think even the most jaded individual would find immortality irresistible.”
Pierce raised his glass to study the wine’s color and test its legs. He knew how to tantalize people during pitches. “That was my thinking at first as well, but only because I approached it from a personal perspective. More specifically, from the viewpoint of people like us. Businesspeople. Professionals. If you broaden your outlook, you’ll find that there are entire demographic groups who wouldn’t make that choice.”
“Seriously?”
“I can think of three. There may be more.”
Felix didn’t know anyone who wouldn’t want to live forever. But then, that was Pierce’s point. “Prime the pump for me.”
Pierce savored a sip of wine while Felix waited. “Our treatment does nothing for the terminally ill.”
Felix almost slapped his forehead. He had not thought of that. It was true though. Eos halted aging, but it didn’t stop the spread of disease. Who else? What other demographic?
He couldn’t think of anyone.
Pierce did not leave him hanging this time, but he couldn’t resist a bit of intellectual one-upmanship. “Do you remember the Trojan Tithonus from your Eos mythology?”