Now Skeet was the one to look mystified. His mystification was a lot more convincing than hers. Either he was acting, or he didn’t know about Detective Jeter or the missing Nathan Dial.
“Are you moonlighting for the state police?”
“No.”
“Well, you act like it. Last I heard, the hostage situation at the Starliner Motel was the FDLE’s case. So what were you doing questioning anyone, period? What part of ‘paid leave’ don’t you understand?”
So that was it? When she’d gone into the neighborhood behind the Starliner Motel, she must have offended someone with her questions. Maybe Mark’s parents didn’t like her talking to him.
Skeet dropped his feet and leaned forward. “You’re on leave pending the conclusion of an investigation into an officer-involved shooting concerning a reckless discharge of a firearm. You cannot represent this department, you cannot go out there playing detective like you’re Nancy Drew.”
That hurt. When Jolie was a stars-in-her-eyes rookie in the sheriff’s office, she had expressed her desire to become a detective. Skeet started referring to her as Nancy Drew. Behind her back, but she’d heard about it.
“You are to cease and desist until the officer-involved shooting investigation is over. Am I clear?”
“Yessir.”
“Because if you keep it up, if you continue to flaunt this department’s regulations, the state’s regulations, you will be summarily fired.”
Just then—of course—her phone chirped.
“What’s that?” demanded Skeet.
Jolie checked the readout. “It’s my neighbor. I bet you my cat got out again.”
“Well, now you’ll have plenty of time to take care of things like that,” Skeet said.
The minute Jolie was outside the building, she took out her phone. She punched in the number of her caller as she walked to the car.
“This is Special Agent Belvedere,” he said without preamble. “You wanted to talk to me?”
Jolie told him what she wanted to know. It didn’t take long, because she knew she wouldn’t get much.
“I can’t talk about that.”
“I don’t mean specifically. Just generally. Your general impression.”
Silence. At least he didn’t hang up. Jolie added quickly, “As little or as much as you would like. I just want to know your observations regarding the subject, Luke Perdue.”
“This is part of your investigation into Chief Akers’s death? That’s a little far afield, isn’t it?”
As her Irish grandmother would say, in for a penny, in for a pound. “I know, but it’s important to know what his state of mind was.”
“The chief’s, or Luke Perdue’s?”
“Both.”
Another pause. Then Special Agent Belvedere said, “If you’re talking about Chief Akers, I heard suicide was ruled out.”
“It hasn’t been ruled out.” Another lie. For a brief crystallizing moment, Jolie realized just how far off the reservation she’d strayed. “You can see why Chief Akers’s state of mind would be affected by the outcome of the hostage negotiation.”
“Damn rumor mill. Okay, I’ll only say this once, just to characterize the situation. And I insist you do not repeat this. The subject—Perdue—gave us all the signals that he would surrender.”
“Surrender? You sure of that?”
“I’ve been in hostage negotiation for fifteen years. It was only a matter of time.”
“Are you saying he wanted to be taken into custody?”
“No. I’m saying he was desperate to be taken into custody.”
“You were pretty sure he would have released Kathy Westbrook and surrendered himself to the authorities?”
“Not pretty sure. Positive. I hope this helps.” Jolie could almost hear him check his watch. “I’m late for an appointment. Are we through here?”
“Yes, we’re through.”
He said, “It’s too bad.”
“Too bad?”
“I know how I felt when it ended the way it did. You can bet Chief Akers felt the same. It could have affected his state of mind.”
“That’s what we think,” Jolie lied.
“Good talking to you, and now I really have to go.”
As she closed the phone, Jolie heard a car door slam and footsteps approaching. She looked up and there was Kay.
Kay crossed her arms over her chest. “I want to show you something.”
Her voice was too high, and her face looked pinched.
“Is something wrong?”
“Wrong?” Her nostrils flared, and white lines bracketed her mouth. “Oh, you could say that.”
“Kay—”
“Would you come with me?”
“Is Zoe all right?”
“Like you care.”
“What’s this about?”
“It won’t take up much of your time. I promise.” Kay stalked to her Navigator, her shoes ticking on the pavement. Turned back when Jolie didn’t follow. “If you were ever my friend, ever my friend at all, you’d come with me.”
No choice. Jolie got in and Kay swerved out of the parking lot.
On the road Jolie asked, “You want to tell me where we’re going?”
“It’s a surprise.”
They went east on Highway 98. Jolie tried to figure out what had Kay up in arms, but the only thing she could think of was her talk with Zoe. Would Zoe go running to her mother, just because Jolie asked her about Luke’s last night with Riley?
Unlikely. Zoe would have to be a real pushover to tell her mother every little thing. But something had made Kay like this. The tight lips, the whiteness around her nose and mouth, her designer sunglasses blocking Jolie out.
In Port St. Joe, they turned onto Fifth Street and Jolie guessed where they were headed. Her parents’ house. The one that was on the market. Jolie had no idea why, but she could feel the tension, feel the anger about to spill over. It scared her. She thought that maybe Kay was this close to flying into a rage.
In front of the house, Kay slammed the car into park. The air conditioner was like a fog, clinging to Jolie’s face as she looked past the windshield at the shabby yellow cottage. “Would you mind telling me what this is about?”
Kay turned to look at her. Unseeable behind the large Dolce & Gabbanas. “I should have known better. You spoil everything you touch. You use people, Jolie. I tried to build a relationship with you, and you just used me to get what you wanted.”
“What are you talking about?” But Jolie knew that on some level what Kay said was true. She did use people. That was part of her job, and she was good at it. But always it was for a righteous cause. She’d been right to browbeat Zoe. That was what this was about. She’d hurt Zoe’s feelings. Zoe had run to her mother. But what hung in the balance? The death of a young man. A cover-up. The potential abuse of power going to the highest levels of the United States government. Her family’s complicity—
“My own daughter won’t speak to me.”
“Why? Because I asked her a few questions?”
“Riley kicked her out last night. She cut her dead.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You’re sorry! Like that means anything. Zoe’s heartbroken. This was her best friend! She was escorted off the property like a common criminal, all because of you!”
Wait a minute. There were a lot of things wrong here. Jolie wanted to defend herself. Why had Zoe told Riley anything at all, if she knew it would upset her? Why was Riley so angry? Surely Kay could see the relationship was abusive, if Riley could go off the deep end like that. All sorts of thoughts crowded through her mind. But what she said was, “Why are we here?”
“Because it’s time you knew the truth.”
“The truth?”
Kay pulled the keys out of the ignition. “Yes, the truth.”
Jolie followed Kay up the walk to the house. There had been a garden, but no one had kept it up and the plants were yellowed and sickly. A squat garden gnome s
tood by the door, jolly and sinister at the same time. Jolie remembered the long crack in the front window, like a graph line. “Kay, I came here already.”
Kay punched a code into the Realtor’s lock on the front door, and they went inside. “You go ahead,” Kay said.
At that moment, Jolie felt she could be in danger. As a cop, she had a sense for that moment when things changed, and this was one of those moments. “No, you go ahead.”
Kay did.
When Skeet summoned her to his office this morning, Jolie had left her replacement firearm behind. She didn’t want to get into a fight with him over it, in light of the fact that her service weapon had been confiscated. But she still had her Walther PPK .380 in an ankle holster. It would be a little harder to access, but she was glad for the backup.
They went through the house. Jolie doubted Kay was capable of violence, but it was second nature for Jolie to question assumptions. Wary, she kept her eye on Kay’s purse. She knew Kay carried. She had a small snub-nosed revolver, a “girl’s gun.” Kay moved with jittery purpose. They landed in the kitchen, the old round-shouldered refrigerator humming. A card from the realty office sat on the round table. Kay picked up the card, which had been folded in half so it stood up in a triangle. She took out a McPeek Realty pen and scribbled something on the card.
Kay finished writing and looked at Jolie, her breath coming quickly. Her arm draped over the shoulder bag, which rested high on her body.
Jolie looking for a quick move.
“Zoe told me she’s not going to Brown.”
“Why not?”
“She told me she doesn’t want to go, and I can’t make her.”
“What does she plan to do?”
“The big thing? The most important thing? Get back in Riley’s good graces. Be best friends again. She cried for an hour straight last night. All because of you. She…she threatened suicide.”
The thunder in Jolie’s chest grew. She saw Kay’s hand inch toward the clasp of her bag. “Do you believe her?”
“I don’t know. She was destroyed. What did you say to her?”
Jolie told her the truth. Eye on the shoulder bag, she told her that she asked if Luke knew about the passageway. If they had been spying on people at the cabanas. Thinking, it wasn’t that important. Thinking, Riley was overreacting. Thinking, you were a kid once, too.
“Are you investigating my family? Is that it? You befriend me, worm your way into my family, and then try to gin up something against us? Is this all revenge?”
“Revenge?”
She swept her arm out. “For this! For the squalid, stupid lives your mother and father led, all because she wouldn’t listen to reason? And now you’ve spoiled everything for my daughter. Just what do you want to know about my family?”
Jolie stuck with what she knew to be true. “I did not try to worm my way into your family. If you recall, I never even wanted to set foot on Indigo. I was not interested. And my parents loved each other—”
“Loved each other! You don’t know the first damn thing about their relationship.”
Kay held out the card, and Jolie took it. Kay had written “Belle Oaks,” on it, and underneath, “Tallahassee.”
“Belle Oaks?”
“Yes, Belle Oaks.”
“What is it?”
But Kay didn’t appear to be listening. She stared into middle space, in her own world—unaware of Jolie. She was working something out behind her eyes. Then her expression cleared, as if she’d decided on something. “Did you see the bathroom?”
“The bathroom?”
“Miss Baby Soap—did you see the bathroom?”
“Yes I saw it, the last time I was here.”
Kay said nothing. Went back into that middle space. Jolie could almost feel the electricity in the air between them. Kay was like an exposed wire. Jolie had the feeling that if they touched, she would get a shock.
Then Kay came out of it again. When she spoke, her voice sounded neutral, almost dead.
“Right now, the way I’m feeling, I could do you real harm. You know why I brought you here? No, you don’t.” She stopped. The air seemed to go out of her. “This is fucked.”
Jolie had never heard Kay use that word. “Kay? What’s this about?”
“I can’t. You deserve it for what you did, but I’m not like you. I’m not going to be the one to tell you. I can’t.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You’re the detective. You figure it out.” She hitched her bag higher on her shoulder. “This is the end, though. We’re not friends anymore.” She turned and walked to the front door, opened it, and was gone.
Jolie’s ears burned. What was Kay talking about?
I’m not going to be the one to tell you.
Kay brought her here to show her something. Something that would hurt her.
Jolie couldn’t fathom what she could have asked Zoe that would upset Riley so much. It was clear Zoe wanted to be Riley’s friend in the worst way. Kids, these days especially, could be devastated by bullying. They could think the whole world was falling apart, that their lives were worthless. Yes, Zoe could quit college over this. Yes, Zoe could contemplate suicide. Maybe Jolie had been so intent on the prize, she had forgotten that.
She looked at the Realtor’s card. It was made of good stock. Pleasant to the touch, excellent production values. Jolie looked at the inside again. Belle Oaks. Tallahassee. It meant nothing to her.
The bathroom. Jolie walked down the short hall to the open doorway. Kay had used the word squalid, but that description didn’t quite fit. The place was gloomy, sad, and small. Jolie had a hard time picturing young love flourishing here.
Loved each other! Kay had said it with such contempt. Jolie looked in at the bathroom, glimpsed the cheap aqua tile she remembered from last time, when she took a cursory look through the house. The place had been cleaned, but she sensed an underlying grunge beneath the surface.
This was the real home of the Petal Soft Soap Baby. Her mother had bathed her in this bathtub. This room was nothing like the photo spread in the magazine—everything fresh and clean and white. This was the reality. Just two young people who loved each other and their baby—
She heard Kay’s scornful voice again. Loved each other!
Jolie pushed the door open further, thinking of her small family, “just the three of us” as her dad liked to say. She thought about what little childhood she’d had here. The Soap Baby’s house. No memories. The card Kay had given her pricked against her palm—Belle Oaks. A bad feeling welled up inside, and her hand clenched, crushing the card. Something hot and hard as iron clamped around her chest, making it hard to breathe.
Then came the thunderclap, the chasm yawning underneath her feet. The feeling she was being crushed to death, blackness dropping like a curtain over her eyes. Her heart rate jumped into the red zone, fear hurtling through every synapse and nerve.
45 MIKE CARDAMONE
WASHINGTON, DC
As he approached his building on F Street, Mike Cardamone glanced at the American flag flying above the mansard roof. It never failed to inspire him. He loved this country—its strength, its resilience, the fact that it was a beacon of light to the world—even if the world didn’t appreciate it. He climbed the steps briskly to the back entrance, glancing at the gold plaque by the door. Whitbread Associates, LLC. Suites 201 A-E. Discreet, not showy. Old Washington—exclusive.
He’d come a long way from trading fire with Iraqis in the heat and sand of Desert Storm. Even his stint at the CIA seemed like a century ago. He was where he wanted to be—the CEO of an up-and-coming security firm in DC.
His Jamaican administrative assistant told him the new advertising material was on his desk. Her name was Filigree, no kidding, and she wore bright colors, bracelets, and scarves; she gave everybody in the building the willies, but she was the best assistant he’d ever had.
He walked into his inner office and set his briefcase down on the chair by hi
s massive mahogany desk. He could look out the bay window and see the Old Executive Office Building from here, but today he barely noticed it. He had a lot on his mind.
Two boxes sat on the desk. He opened one of them and took a promotional booklet off the top of the stack.
“Whitbread Associates LLC is uniquely positioned to address the challenges of a perilous world, drawing on experience, ingenuity and versatility to meet the global problems of the twenty-first century. We offer a roster of incisive strategies that transcend the traditional values of the past, forging a new order in an increasingly uncertain world.
“Whether you wish to open new markets in out-of-the-way places, require due diligence on recent acquisitions, or seek new strategies for old problems, Whitbread Associates LLC offers a full roster of services.”
Then the bullet points:
“When a Dallas CFO was kidnapped and held for ransom, a Whitbread team was sent to recover him, with a net result of two dead kidnappers and a fortune saved.
“When a foreign minister of an oil-rich country needed counterterrorism experts to protect their oil fields, Whitbread Associates LLC stood guard.”
“When a well-regarded pharmaceutical company fell prey to product tampering, Whitbread Associates LLC tracked down the culprit, who is currently serving a lifetime sentence in a federal prison.
“If you have a problem, we can solve it.”
He read it over, smiling. They’d managed to squeeze everything into this striking six-page booklet: risk assessment; providing due diligence on prospective mergers; personal protection for foreign and domestic executives; stolen asset recovery; and protection of prominent individuals and companies from media attacks.
Only one thing bothered him. If the actions of one unit ever saw daylight, he might as well take these boxes of slick booklets and chuck them in a landfill.
One small division, burrowed deep within Whitbread LLC like the smallest Russian nesting doll, could bring down the whole company. Whitbread Associates did many things, every one of them at a high level. But one division—a paramilitary unit, a domestic version of the Joint Special Operations Command—had become a liability.
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