Indispensable Party (Sasha McCandless Legal Thriller No. 4)

by Miller, Melissa F.

  He checked his pocket for the vial and buttoned his overcoat.

  He stepped out into the hall and locked the door. Behind him, he heard the Brandts’ door open. He allowed himself his usual moment of annoyance at the fact that his so-called ‘penthouse’ apartment shared the top floor of the building with one other four-thousand square foot ‘penthouse,’ which forced him to deal with neighbors. Then he smoothed his expression into a smile and turned to greet whichever Brandt was intruding on his privacy this time.

  It was the wife. Marilyn or Marly or something with an ‘M.’

  “Good morning, Mrs. Brandt. You’re not going out in this weather are you? A little thing like you might blow away,” he said in a pleasant, mildly flirtatious voice.

  He’d learned that she responded well to flirting. The husband liked to talk about the markets and the Nationals. But the wife just liked attention.

  He couldn’t see her smile through the fuzzy scarf that covered her lower face, but her eyes crinkled, so he knew she was pleased by the banter.

  “Oh, Colton,” she said in a scarf-muffled voice, “how many times do I have to tell you to call me Marla? I’m just going to run out to the Whole Foods before the storm hits. We can’t get caught without organic grass-fed beef in the fridge, now can we?” She laughed self-consciously—whether at her foolish storm preparations or her yuppie eating habits, it wasn’t clear.

  “Well, you be careful out there, Marla. I hope there’s not a run on beef.” He jabbed his key back into the keyhole.

  “Are you coming or going? I can hold the elevator.” she offered.

  “No, no. You go ahead. I just realized I left my cell phone charging. It wouldn’t do to be without that on a day like this,” he lied.

  “Oh, are you sure? I don’t mind waiting.”

  “Please don’t. I don’t want to be responsible for your getting caught out in the blizzard,” he said over his shoulder. He opened the door and went inside, closing it quickly to cut off further conversation.

  He leaned against the door and waited long enough for the stupid cow to catch the elevator and leave the building. He detested having to socialize with people not of his own choosing under the best of circumstances. He particularly wanted to avoid it while he was carrying around a vial full of death. He didn’t trust himself not to give into the temptation to open it and fill the elevator with the virus just for his own amusement.

  Besides, knowing that Marla was gone would give him an opportunity to take care of another task before he braved the weather to acquire a gift box and plan his little surprise for Serumceutical.

  After giving her a sufficient head start, he returned to the hallway and thumbed the elevator call button. During the smooth, quick ride to the lobby, he fished out the mailbox key.

  He strode through the marble lobby with his head down to avoid further conversations with idiots. When he reached the twin mailboxes that served the penthouse apartment—set slightly apart from the other, smaller boxes—he stood with his back to the security camera and inserted the key into the box on the left.

  A small stack of mail stood neatly in the metal box. He flipped through the utility bills, brokerage firm statements, and junk mail. He was looking for something reasonably important, but not time sensitive, and preferably addressed by hand—a holiday card, a party invitation, or a thank you note.

  Finding nothing in the day’s mail that met his needs, Colton closed the door and locked the box, leaving the mail inside.

  CHAPTER 22

  Connelly parked in a mostly empty surface lot. He and Sasha crossed the snow-dusted lot toward the attendant’s hut, Connelly with his usual quick stride, Sasha cautious, testing the uneven ground for ice with her four-inch heels. Connelly had rolled his eyes at the footwear when she’d gotten dressed. He suggested she wear boots instead.

  She’d pointed out that these were boots. Black, leather, knee-high boots.

  So, now, she assumed he wasn’t slowing his pace in a deliberate effort to say I told you so without having to utter the words. She trotted to keep up.

  Connelly exchanged a twenty for a ticket and told the attendant to stay warm.

  “You, too. If the city declares a snow emergency, they’ll tow a bunch of cars here. Just so ya’ know. Might get yerself parked in.” The attendant said in a bored tone and jammed his hands in his pockets and shrugged down into his jacket.

  Connelly shrugged back at him. “We’ll have to chance it.”

  They’d discussed taking the Orange Line to Arlington but had agreed it would be smarter to drive in case they needed to travel somewhere not served by the Metro system or the transit authority interrupted service because of the weather. They left unsaid their true concerns—carrying a loaded weapon on a D.C. Metro car was a questionable decision, at best, and mass transportation was an excellent delivery vehicle for anyone who wanted to release a chemical agent or, say, a deadly virus and have it spread quickly. The risk of being parked in by towed cars paled in comparison to those dangers.

  They walked out of the lot and crossed the street. A little more than halfway down the next block, Connelly stopped in front of a squat, nondescript stone building. Sasha pulled up short beside him.

  “Why are we stopping here? Do you need to get cash?”

  She gestured toward the ATM in the lobby.

  Connelly laughed. “This is it.”

  “This is what?”

  “Headquarters for the task force.”

  Sasha looked up at the building. She’d attended meetings at the Department of Justice’s headquarters for clients when she worked at Prescott & Talbott. It was an impressive limestone building that occupied a full city block. The entrances were flanked by pillars, and inscriptions about justice had been chiseled into the stone. Once inside, a visitor stood in a massive two-story entrance with a marble floor and ornate fixtures.

  The FBI Headquarters, which she’d also visited on behalf of a Prescott client, although nowhere near as elegant, was equally imposing. It was a massive concrete building set with row after row of small, bronze-tinted windows. It loomed over the street.

  She found it hard to believe that an important CIA task force worked out of a generic Arlington, Virginia office building with a bank branch and a deli on the first floor.

  “You’re not serious,” she said.

  Connelly leaned close and said, “It’s a blank building, Sasha.”

  “A what?”

  “This is a covert, inter-agency task force. They aren’t going to advertise its existence. The General Services Administration owns buildings all over D.C., Maryland, and Virginia. When an agency needs space for something it wants to keep under the radar, it’ll lease short-term space from the GSA in some anonymous building.”

  He opened the unadorned glass door and ushered her into an unremarkable lobby that matched the building’s facade. A small flagpole flying the American flag jammed in the corner behind the cheap-looking reception desk, and a glass mug filled with candy canes on the desk, were the sole decorations. Snow that had been stamped off dozens of pairs of shoes and boots melted into a puddle of dirty gray water on a rubberized mat inside the door.

  An ordinary middle-aged white man—not young, not old—sat behind the desk, tapping on a computer keyboard. If Sasha hadn’t known she was in a secret CIA location, she’d have accepted him at face value as a bored, under-motivated desk jockey. But looking closely, she noticed his erect posture, the thick muscles outlined under his sweater vest, and his alert demeanor.

  “May I help you?” he said blandly, addressing Connelly.

  “We’re here to see Mr. White,” Connelly responded.

  The man’s eyes flickered with recognition, but he merely murmured, “I’ll call up and let him know you’re here. What did you say your name was?”

  “Smith. Mr. and Mrs. Smith,” Connelly said.

  Sasha felt a laugh burbling up in her throat and coughed into her hand. Mr. White? Mrs. and Mrs. Smith? They were like
little boys playing secret agent. She looked around the lobby, desperate for something to distract her from her impending case of the giggles.

  The cough caught the attention of the desk worker. He opened a drawer to his left to reveal a stack of surgical masks sealed in clear plastic.

  “Are you feeling okay, Mrs. Smith?” he asked.

  Her amusement died in the face of the man’s urgent concern.

  “Perfectly fine. Just a tickle in my throat. The air in here’s dry,” Sasha lied.

  He peered at her, trying to decide if he believed her.

  “Honey, I’m going to run in and get a bottle of water. Do you want anything?” she said, touching Connelly’s arm and nodding toward the deli across the lobby. As she did so, she wondered if the deli and the bank were real or if the entire building was like the set of a play.

  Connelly shook his head. The man looked up from the phone and lifted a finger in a gesture that said wait a minute.

  “Yes, sir. I’ll send them right up,” he said and hung up the phone. He focused on Sasha and said, “Mr. White is ready for you. I’m sure he’ll provide you with water.”

  She smiled at him. “Great. Thanks.”

  He turned his attention back to Connelly. “Take the elevator to the third floor. Someone will meet you.”

  Connelly crossed the lobby toward the elevator. Sasha looked around for a set of stairs but saw none. He jabbed the call button, and they waited in silence. A car arrived and the steel doors opened.

  As Sasha followed him into the elevator car, she wished she’d thought to ask if they would be under surveillance at all times, but she assumed the answer was yes. They remained silent for the short ride. Connelly reached over and squeezed her hand.

  The elevator thudded to a stop at the third floor, and the doors opened to reveal a young man. His ramrod posture, buzz-cut hair, and serious expression screamed I’m a G-Man. He was swarthy, with dark skin and eyes. He looked vaguely Middle Eastern.

  He offered his hand to Sasha and Connelly in turn. He had a firm, quick handshake. “Mrs. Smith, Mr. Smith. I’m Mr. White’s Assistant, Joey. If you’ll just follow me this way.”

  He turned and led them down the corridor, past three blank doors. At the fourth, he stopped and swiped a card through the wall-mounted reader. After the soft beep sounded, he pushed the door inward and ushered them into a waiting room.

  Three squat chairs lined one wall. A water cooler bubbled in the corner, next to a dusty plant.

  “Did you still need water?” Joey asked Sasha.

  She turned to him, surprised. How could he know she wanted water? As far as she knew, the man at the front desk hadn’t told him. She felt naked. Exposed.

  “No, thank you,” she answered.

  Joey shrugged and said, “In that case, let’s go in. Everyone’s waiting.”

  Sasha glanced at Connelly as if to say who’s everyone? She was off-balance, which was an unfamiliar emotion. She was accustomed to walking into conference rooms with a plan—a deposition outline or a negotiating position. Walking into a room filled with unknown parties and unknown agendas in a secret building was unsettling.

  Connelly seemed to be in his element, though. Much more so than he’d been navigating the corporate politics of the boardroom the previous night.

  They trailed Joey to another identical blank door, which opened into a large conference room. An elongated oval table of light wood filled most of the space. Black, cloth-covered desk chairs were crammed around the table, their arms touching. Over a dozen of the chairs were occupied. She scanned the assembled suits. The faces that looked back at her had a variety of hues, but they were all male.

  Joey stepped forward, about to introduce them, but he didn’t get the chance. An older, white-haired African-American man walked around the table and clapped Connelly on the back.

  “Leo, good to see you again. What’s it been—four years?” he said. His expression was somber but his voice registered genuine pleasure.

  Connelly smiled and shook the proffered hand. “Hank, I didn’t know you were involved in this effort.”

  He turned to introduce Sasha. “Sasha, Hank Richardson was the Special Agent-in-Charge of the FBI’s office in Minnesota. I worked on an anti-terrorism matter with him that the Marshal Service ran out of the Minneapolis Field Office. Hank, Sasha McCandless is Serumceutical’s outside counsel for this matter.”

  Hank’s handshake was warm and firm, but unlike some men, he didn’t seem intent on crushing the bones in her hand.

  “Pleased to meet you, Agent Richardson.”

  “Oh, please, call me Hank. Okay if I call you Sasha?”

  “Of course.”

  “And, Leo, you left just before I came over, so you may not have heard—I’m not with the Bureau any longer. I’m the Senior National Security Liaison at the Division of Homeland Security Investigations. So, basically, all I do these days is run these ad hoc inter-agency efforts.”

  “I hadn’t heard, but you’re a good man for the job, Hank,” Connelly responded.

  Sasha was impressed that neither Connelly’s tone nor his expression betrayed the fact that Senior National Security Liaison was the plum assignment he’d been up for just before he was unceremoniously axed for the help he’d given her the previous year.

  Richardson smiled his thanks; then he put a hand lightly on the small of Sasha’s back and guided her over to a brass coat rack near the window.

  “Well, take off your coats and I’ll introduce you to the rest of this motley crew. Leo, you may see some more familiar faces. We’ve assembled quite the cast of characters.”

  Presumably, Richardson was ‘Mr. White.’ Inarguably, he was in charge of the meeting. The others stood, as Sasha and Connelly shrugged out of their coats. Connelly took Sasha’s and hung it for her.

  Richard ushered them to the two closest unoccupied seats. Sasha dropped her pale blue leather bag on the chair and dug out a stack of business cards. She handed one to Richardson, who slipped his hand into his pocket and pulled out one of his.

  “You’re out of Pittsburgh, eh? Wasn’t that where you had your last posting, Leo?” Richardson said, squinting at the card.

  Sasha felt her cheeks redden, but she couldn’t tell from Richardson’s voice if he knew that she and Connelly were involved or if he really was remarking on an apparent coincidence.

  “That’s right, Hank. Sasha broke my nose then stole my heart,” Connelly said.

  Richardson nodded approvingly, and Sasha heard a few titters behind her.

  Connelly winked at her, and she knew she probably should be dismayed that this roomful of men now primarily viewed her, not as Serumceutical’s trusted attorney, but Leo Connelly’s travel-sized girlfriend. But, he was looking at her with such affection, that she couldn’t help smiling. Besides, being underestimated usually worked in her favor.

  Richardson stepped closer and said, “Broke his nose? I’m going have to buy you a drink and hear that story someday, Sasha. But now, we should get started.”

  He sped through the introductions in a cloud of names and alphabet soup agency designations. Sasha smiled and nodded, exchanging business cards as she went down the line. She would keep the cards in order and draw a seating chart on her legal pad, numbering the seats and writing in each person’s name where he sat. Then, she’d use the seat numbers to identify who was speaking when she took notes of the meeting.

  It was a trick she’d been using since she defended her first deposition in a multi-party case with more than a dozen attorneys seated around the table. It hadn’t failed her yet.

  While Connelly chatted with an ATF agent he knew from some training program, Sasha walked to the credenza at the far end of the room, where a pitcher of ice water and a line of plastic cups shared space with a carafe of coffee and a tower of Styrofoam cups. Although she’d just turned down an offer of water, she waffled for a moment then reached for the water pitcher and poured herself a cup. She rarely passed on coffee, but then, she r
arely felt as jittery as she had ever since she’d walked through the nondescript doors into the building.

  She caught Connelly’s eye and motioned toward the drinks. He shook his head no and finished his conversation with the guy from ATFA. As she walked back to her seat, she could feel the government attorneys—who sat together in a cross-agency cluster of legal degrees—watching her, assessing her.

  She drained her water and tossed the cup into the wastebasket by the coat rack. She reached the table at the same time as Connelly. Because the chairs were crammed so closely together, he stood back and let her slide into her seat first. Even so, her hip brushed his thigh as she swiveled past him and into the chair.

  She felt an electric charge, followed by a wave of embarrassment. It seemed there was no end to the pitfalls involved in representing one’s boyfriend’s company. She grabbed her legal pad and focused on creating her seating chart and scrawling in the names from the stack of cards she’d collected.

  Richardson, who had returned to his spot at the end of the table, leaned back in his chair and said, “Okay, folks, now that everyone’s been introduced, let’s get started. We have a lot of ground to cover, and I don’t need to tell you people the clock is running. For our guests’ benefit, I want to make it clear that, while I grew up in the Bureau, when I accepted the transfer to HSI, I did so out of a genuine desire to coordinate investigations such as this one among the agencies. These ad hoc task forces leave no room for pissing matches because they address critical issues—and this one is a doozy.”

  The room was silent, save for the hiss of the old steam radiator under the window. Richardson looked at Connelly and added, “Many of you know Leo from his time with Homeland Security. I just want to remind this group that his clearances did not survive his separation, and Ms. McCandless has no clearances. They’re here because Leo’s employer apparently has some information that may prove useful. It’s a one-way street, though. I’m sure Leo understands.”