by Toby Neal
Sophie looked up at him and smiled for the first time. “I never thought I would say this, but you’re not half bad as a therapist yourself.” He was standing too close, and his hand slid down her back. She broke away and walked back to the couch. “So what’s happening with the cult and the children?”
Dunn shrugged as he walked around to sit across from her, collecting his file. “Well, Jackson’s out of jail on huge bail, but his absence gave the children’s grandparents a chance to sue for custody, which is promising for them—they are currently with their grandparents, and as we know with custody cases, possession is nine-tenths of the law. Our client has cut us loose and closed our contract. She paid for us to find out what happened to those women, and we did. Now it’s up to the police to make their case.” He cleared his throat. “Speaking of Hilo PD. They really grilled me about who I saw when I took the shot to try to save you, and I had to admit I couldn’t positively identify Sloane.”
“So I’m the only eyewitness to what he did to me at the pit.” Sophie’s throat felt dry. “And to what he did to me when I was Mary Watson.” Being Dougal Sloane’s only living witness did not seem like a good thing.
“At the moment. According to Ohale, who called me yesterday, none of the cult members are admitting to seeing him the night you were shot—though they do admit he’s gone.”
“Don’t they think that’s a little suspicious? Who else would have shot me?” Sophie snapped.
“Of course. But info I have is through the cult’s attorney—you know how it is.”
“Unfortunately, I do. Well, thanks for bringing my laptop, but until I find a secure location to work, I won’t be able to use it.”
“You should consider what I said. About closure.” Dunn leaned forward, dangling his big hands between his knees. “You’re welcome back at the office whenever you’re ready.”
“I’m not ready.” Formless panic at the thought of leaving the apartment rose up to grab Sophie by the throat. She’d been plagued by nightmares and had trouble sleeping, and even taking Ginger out was difficult. “I may not be, for a while. Until after all my repair surgeries.”
“Bix told me to tell you to take all the time off you need. Our injury insurance will cover your leave, your health care. Security Solutions is keeping you on the payroll, but I wish it were more. Don’t let this injury put you on your ass in here, hiding from the world.”
“I’ll take that under advisement,” she said stiffly.
“Listen. I can tell by those circles under your eyes that you’re having trouble sleeping. If it’s any consolation, I am too. I went on many combat missions for the military, but retrieving your body from that pit and flying you back to Oahu—it did something to me, too.” Dunn’s gray gaze was intense. “I’m talking to Dr. Kinoshita about it…and the rest of my past. Please consider seeing her too.”
She wanted to scream. His trauma was only a shadow of hers, and Sloane was here on Oahu. “I think that’s enough of a visit for today, Jake.” Sophie stood, giving him no room for argument.
Dunn walked slowly to the door and turned back at the opening that she held ajar. “I’m not giving up on you. I meant what I said about that. Come back to work.”
“I’ll think about it.” She shut the door and leaned on it, closing her eyes just to breathe.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Sophie settled a small straw cloche-style hat onto her head and smoothed the black fitted sheath dress she’d ordered online, along with a pair of kitten-heeled pumps. Makeup, except for lipstick, was a waste of time, but a cherry-sized green Tahitian pearl at her throat gave a nice focal point for people to look at other than her face.
She was dressed a whole lot like Audrey Hepburn today.
Dunn was right. This look felt like it might be her style, and she couldn’t look less like an FBI agent.
“You ready in there?” Her lawyer tapped lightly on the bathroom door. Smithers had called her two days ago to tell her that the FBI wanted a meeting, and that she was getting on the next plane to come over and attend with Sophie. “Not going isn’t an option. This could be them escalating the situation—or, better yet, dismissing it,” Smithers had said.
“Coming.” Sophie gave herself a spritz of gardenia body spray, and opened the door. “Ready as I’ll never be.”
“You’re getting pretty adept at those Americanisms.” Bettina Smithers wore a sleek red suit, gold winking at her ears and throat, contrasting nicely with her mocha skin. The lawyer looked every inch a competent professional—from somewhere other than Hawaii. “If you didn’t have that little bit of an accent, I’d think you were a local.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Sophie said. “It takes years to be a real kama’aina in Hawaii.” She walked past Smithers, practicing some calming breaths and drying her sweaty hands by slipping them into the slash pockets on either side of her hips. She retrieved her purse and slid on her sunglasses. “Let’s go.”
“Not so fast.” Francis Smithson got up from the desk in the corner and came to put his hands on her shoulders, kissing her cheek, careful to avoid her lipstick. “You look gorgeous.”
“You’re my daddy. Of course you’d say that.” Sophie blinked through tears she’d been fighting all day. The stitches had come out yesterday and she’d been fighting the depression, a blinding headache, and anxiety about going out of the apartment.
“I second that. You’re gorgeous. The scars add character, an element of mystery and danger,” Smithers said now, smiling. “They say, ‘no one better mess with me.’”
Sophie smiled. “And no one better. I have the best lawyer in LA by my side.”
“You sure you ladies don’t want me to come too? For moral support?” Her father seemed rather taken by Smithers, and clearly wouldn’t have minded a little more time with the stylish litigator.
“Not appropriate for this meeting, Frank, but perhaps you could meet us for a celebratory, or a consolation drink after, as the case may be?” Smithers raised elegant brows. Her father accepted with alacrity.
Sophie decided she would be coming straight home, and would leave the two of them to that drink alone, whatever the outcome of today’s meeting.
Rising in the familiar elevator to the tenth floor of the FBI offices in the Prince Kuhio Building in downtown Honolulu felt like déjà vu—but like a life that had happened years ago. The New Agent Trainee at the check-in desk buzzed them into the locked hallway.
“I was keeping an eye out for you.” Marcella emerged from her office and gave Sophie a quick hug. “You’re in Conference Room A.”
“Oh good. Friendly interrogation room.” Sophie’s smile felt like a tic.
Marcella raised her brows, smoothed her chocolate hair back. “Waxman pushed for this meeting. We’ll talk later.” She ducked back into her office, and Sophie saw why—Special Agent in Charge Ben Waxman, her former supervisor and mentor, approached. Slim and dapper, the SAC was followed by his right hand man, Agent Gundersohn, a hulking Swede with a passion for detail.
“Ms. Ang.” It was strange not to have Waxman call her Special Agent. His steel-blue gaze flicked over Sophie, who kept her hat and sunglasses on. “It’s good to see you up and about. You were down for the count the last time I saw you, and we were all concerned. You’re looking terrific.” Waxman’s greeting sounded forced. Gundersohn said nothing, per usual.
He’d visited her in the hospital? She had no recollection of it.
“This is my attorney, Bettina Smithers,” Sophie said.
“Well, we have someone from Legal coming too, but it’s strictly a formality.” Waxman turned on a heel and led them past several offices and meeting rooms to Conference Room A.
“Strictly a formality?” Smithers preceded Sophie into the cozily decorated room with its homelike seating arrangement around a coffee table. “Except for the part about you suing Ms. Ang for ownership of her program, and sending two Internal Affairs agents to her door.”
“That investigation has ended, I�
��m happy to say.” Waxman sat on one of the armchairs and Gundersohn held down one end of the couch. That left the loveseat facing them for the two women.
Sophie hadn’t spent a lot of time in this room, but she’d watched plenty of footage recorded in here. Everything they did or said was being recorded and observed. The furniture, slightly off-kilter and too far away from the coffee table, was bolted down, contributing to a subtle sense of unease. She’d briefed Smithers on the psychology of the room’s setup, but even knowing the purpose of the room’s deceptive appearance, she had to resist an urge to resettle the loveseat at a better angle or scoot forward. She made herself sit back quietly and fold her hands in her lap.
Smithers extracted a small black device. “I’m recording these proceedings.”
“And we are as well,” Gundersohn rumbled. “As I’m sure Ms. Ang told you.”
The door opened. An older man with a neatly trimmed white goatee and charcoal-gray suit entered. “Aloha, all. I’m Peter Jameson, Esquire, from the FBI’s legal department.”
As soon as he was seated beside Gundersohn, Smithers squared off.
“I hope there’s a good reason for dragging us in for this meeting. Ms. Ang is still recovering from extensive injuries, as you can see.”
Sophie took the sunglasses off, and Waxman’s regard fastened on her face. “I’m fine. Ms. Smithers is just concerned for me.”
“And we apologize for the inconvenience,” Jameson said smoothly. “I think you’ll be pleased with the purpose for this meeting, which is to dismiss claims and legal action against Ms. Ang and the computer program known as DAVID.”
“This is indeed good news.” Smithers eked out a smile and accepted a clipboard with a stack of papers on it from Jameson. She began to read through the papers, pen in hand.
Sophie made eye contact with Waxman at last. “What brought this on, sir?”
Waxman shook his head, smiled. “Call me Ben, please. After all this time.”
“Ben. What brought this on?”
He lifted his hands. “We had no claim on the program. I convinced the higher-ups of that at last. Besides, without you to run it, the DAVID program is useless even if we could eventually work out all the legal issues involved with the program’s ability to gain access to other law enforcement databases to do its searches.”
“Why did you put me through all that, and why stop now? You’d likely win.” Sophie’s voice sounded bitter, even to her own ears.
Smithers snorted loudly. “I wouldn’t count on that.”
“Your lawyer’s right. And we were wrong to push it this far.” Waxman leaned forward, straightened his tie. “We miss you around here. If we could reinstate your benefits and seniority with the Bureau, perhaps even a raise, would you come back?”
Sophie took a moment to consider it—her familiar IT cave, routines, the job challenges that were primarily behind a computer. “No. I’m sorry, Ben. I loved working here, but it’s not a fit for me anymore.” She hadn’t realized the truth of this so deeply until this moment.
Waxman’s gaze was kind, and sad. “I wish you would reconsider.”
“I’d consider coming in to contract with you and the team for special assignments,” Sophie said. “But no. I’m enjoying the challenges of being out of the lab…for the most part.” She gestured ruefully to her face and tried a smile, but that hurt too much.
“These agreements look to be in order.” Smithers’s voice was brisk. “Except for the part about never using DAVID again, at any time, for any reason. We will not be signing this contract. Ms. Ang has a right to continue to utilize her proprietary software.”
“DAVID poses a threat to the security of every national database, and part of our mission as the FBI is to address those kinds of threats,” Jameson said.
“We will not be signing this contract. We can revisit the terms if you remove that clause.” Smithers stood up. “Ms. Ang, we’re done here. We will not be responding to anything less than a court order banning DAVID’s use.”
“Then I will be filing a motion to that effect in Federal as well as state court.” Jameson’s hands flickered around the coffee table, gathering the rejected contract pages Smithers had let fall. “DAVID is a threat to national security.”
“Such hyperbole. Now I know the kind of inflammatory language you will use in your motion, the hysteria you will try to incite—and how prejudicial that is to my client.” Smithers stood and crossed her arms.
“Well. Ms. Ang is a foreign national.” Jameson also rose. He twitched at his lapels, his hair.
“Ms. Ang is not a foreign national, as you know perfectly well. She has dual citizenship in Thailand and the U.S. She is the daughter of a United States Ambassador, for goodness’ sake. You will not get far with this slander.” Smithers paused to reload. “Ms. Ang has an obligation to obtain the necessary consents for DAVID to access law enforcement databases, and she will pursue those consents through the proper channels. But you don’t have the right to deny her that process.” She picked up her purse. “Let’s go, Sophie.”
Sophie met Waxman’s gaze. “I almost trusted you there, Ben, for a moment.”
“I didn’t know about that clause. And this is not personal. This was never personal, this thing with DAVID.” Sophie had never seen Waxman’s face so stark. “We should talk about this. Privately.”
“How could this not be personal? DAVID is an extension of my abilities. First you tried to steal it, then to kill it.” Sophie tugged the brim of the cloche lower, to hide her eyes. She felt an actual pain in her chest as she followed Smithers out.
She’d loved Waxman, just a little bit, and she hadn’t known it until it was over.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Mary Watson pulled up in front of her rundown apartment building three weeks later. She held open the door for Ginger to hop down from the cab, and gave the floppy brim of her hat a tug, pulling it down firmly to hide her face.
Ascending the exterior metal stairs, Sophie felt oddly disconnected from her surroundings. She’d had a post-shooting debrief and several more meetings with Dr. Kinoshita, Security Solutions’ psychologist. The petite Japanese psychologist’s words had helped her sort out what was going on. The panic she’d struggled with about leaving the apartment and the persistent sensation of unreality were all part of post-traumatic stress.
“But it seems to me that you were going through something of an identity crisis before you were shot,” Dr. Kinoshita said, keen brown eyes gazing at Sophie’s mutilated face unflinchingly. She leaned forward to touch Sophie’s hand. “I’ve read your file. You escaped an abusive husband into the FBI, where you learned to fight and defend yourself, eventually bringing him down…but you never learned who you really were. You were married so young, to a sadistic man—how could you discover what the rest of us have a chance to, when your goal was survival? What has happened to your face is a metaphor, in a way, for the changes that you’re going through. You’re in the middle of becoming someone new, and what you will ultimately look like, be like—who you’ll be with as a romantic partner, what you’ll do for a living…all of it is in flux.”
Two rounds of laser scar removal had helped minimize the edges of the skin graft area, but one side of her face was still raised, oddly contoured, and a different color than the rest of her facial skin. The prosthetic cheekbone had settled “as well as could be expected,” according to Dr. Littleton, but now her eyes were off-kilter: one appeared higher than the other, and tight skin pulled it wider. Sophie’s hair was still too short to cover the bald area of the skin graft as it went up into her temple, so she continued to wear hats.
Her face would never be the same.
Dougal Sloane was still at large, and she’d found she couldn’t relax in her father’s apartment, even with the building’s security detail and the other measures she’d installed after the previous breach.
Too many people knew where she lived. The only thing she could think of that would make her feel safe was
to be someone else, somewhere else, off the grid.
Her father, of course, had not agreed with this plan. “You’re having some sort of breakdown,” he said. “And it’s understandable. Just keep going to that therapist you’re talking to. It seems to be helping.” But in the end, he’d had to return to work in Washington. The minute he was gone, Sophie packed her backpack, a few more things from the penthouse, and here she was again. Mary Watson.
Sophie reached Mary Watson’s door and fumbled out her keys, unlocking it. There was no good reason for the feeling of relief she had to be in this place versus her father’s luxurious penthouse. This building had no doorman, no security but the motion detector and extra locks she’d installed—and still it felt more like home than the penthouse.
Ginger gave a happy bark and bounced into the apartment as Sophie bent to pick up pamphlets and flyers left on the mat by Jehovah’s Witnesses, a car detailer, and a pizza joint.
She stepped inside and locked the door behind her, engaging the extra security measures that she’d installed—and then she paused, sniffing the air, and turned.
The apartment smelled fresh, not musty. Marcella had asked for a key to the place, and she must have stopped by.
Sophie took a few steps in, to peer around the dividing wall beside the door. One of the windows over the sink was open, allowing a breeze. A tablecloth printed with palm trees covered a small round table with a couple of chairs in the kitchen alcove, and a vase of red and yellow ginger both brightened the place and sweetened the air. A small futon couch with a coffee table had been positioned in front of the glass sliders, and when she peeked into the bedroom, she gasped at the sight of a pretty bedroom set in rattan, with a mirror on the wall.
Tears filled her eyes and she covered her mouth with a hand. Marcella must have done this, and her father had probably paid for it. She was loved.
Sophie lowered the backpack of clothing she had brought from her father’s apartment, and set the laptop that was still her lifeline to the online world she knew so well on the table, where a note was folded and tucked under the vase of flowers.