by Rick Acker
“Wow, what does he have you working on now? I know about the Golden Gate turbine project and I’m working on the remigration project, but I was thinking there must be some other stuff going on with all these people.”
He rubbed the bushy mustache that graced his upper lip. “Oh, I’m working on lots of things, but I don’t want to take up your time during the work day. Shall we have lunch? There is an excellent Chinese place just down the street. It is called Asian Express.”
She had been to Asian Express three times during her last stint at Deep Seven, and it was no Tang Dynasty. In fact, she had eaten better frozen Chinese food. “That would be great. When do you want to go?”
“Shall we say 12:15? I would not want to keep you away from your desk for too long on your first day.”
How thoughtful of him. “Sure. I’ll meet you in the lobby.”
Rajiv left, and Allie went back to work. She picked her first sample and started pulling documents in groups of ten. The first five groups held nothing interesting, but the sixth time was the charm: her net caught a juicy-looking memo titled “Resolution of Grasp II Problem.”
She went to the file room and pulled the hard copy of the memo, which bore the legend “CONFIDENTIAL: LIMITED DISTRIBUTION.” She stuck it into a stack of random documents and hurried back to her desk, trying hard not to look like she was hurrying.
Five minutes later, she was hunched below the protective walls of her cubicle, her shaking fingers paging through the memo. It was about one of Deep Seven’s ships, the Grasp II. About a year ago, the company discovered that it had been writing off the value of a bunch of equipment on the ship at too high a rate. That meant they had been claiming too much in deductions. And that meant they owed a bunch of back taxes and penalties to the IRS.
Her heart slowed down as she read. This wasn’t exactly a good document for Deep Seven, but it didn’t look like the sort of thing that would get anyone killed. Not even an annoying IT geek. She’d seen this sort of thing at plenty of companies— some bookkeeper messes up, the firm spots the problem later, and they’ve got to figure out how to tell the feds. They might have to pay some penalties and someone might get fired, but it shouldn’t be a big deal. But, on the other hand, maybe there was more to this than a single bad tax return. Maybe this was the tip of some iceberg that she didn’t see yet.
Allie flipped through the memo again and decided it was a keeper.
She poked her head up and scanned the surrounding area. No one around except the never-ending foot traffic in the hall.
She pulled her cell phone out of her purse and was about to take a picture of the first page when she noticed the time on her phone’s display: 12:20.
Nuts! Nuts! Nuts!
She stood up quickly and hit her head on the branches of the fake tree. It shook violently—and something fell out of it. She looked down at the off-white Berber carpet. There it was: a small black object no larger than a pen cap. She bent over and looked at it. It was a tiny video camera.
The floor suddenly felt uneven beneath her feet and she almost staggered. It all made perfect, sickening sense. The isolated cubicle, him telling her to work independently, the project she had been given. Everything. It was all a trap. They would bait her into doing something to confirm that she was a spy. Then snap!—the jaws would spring shut. She’d disappear just like Samuel Stimson, erased from the face of the Earth.
55
CONNOR’S COMPUTER CHIMED SOFTLY, ANNOUNCING THAT HE HAD A NEW e-mail. His leather chair creaked as he swiveled from his desk to his computer stand and pulled up his in-box. The message was from “Bahama Girl” and was marked urgent. The subject line said “Call this number now.” He opened the e-mail, which contained a phone number he didn’t recognize and the message, “Use a pay phone.”
He grabbed a pen and a pad of Post-Its from his desk and wrote down the number. But then he stopped. He stared at the e-mail, beating a rapid tattoo on the arm of his chair with his pen.
The firm had given him clear instructions: once he withdrew from representing Devil to Pay, he was to have no further contact with Allie. He would be the key witness in the Deep Seven’s case against Doyle & Brown, and he could not do anything that might undermine the firm’s defense. That, of course, included staying in contact with the very client that he claimed had betrayed him.
He had explained all that to Allie. And to make sure she understood, he had even given her a description of the line of cross-examination questions he would get if he didn’t stay clear of her. It would go something like this:
—Mr. Norman, you claim that Devil to Pay lied to you, correct?
—You claim that you had no idea that Ms. Whitman was using your services to pursue a fraudulent lawsuit against Deep Seven, isn’t that right?
—In fact, you say were shocked—shocked!—to discover that she had planted falsified invoices at Deep Seven, right?
—So, of course, you refused to have anything to do with her once you discovered her betrayal, correct?
—Oh, so you kept in touch with her?
—You even continued to help her?
—Are you familiar with the expression ‘actions speak louder than words,’ Mr. Norman?
He slowly pulled the Post-It off the pad, crumpled it in a ball, and threw it in the wastebasket.
He turned back to his desk and stared down at the brief in front of him, but he couldn’t focus on the words on the page. Allie knew he couldn’t talk to her, but she wanted him to call anyway. What if she had found what she was looking for? What if she had the goods on Deep Seven and was on the run now? What if she was in danger?
He grimaced and looked back at her e-mail. Call this number now. Use a pay phone. Urgent.
“This had better be good,” he warned the computer. He fished the Post-It out of the trash and shoved it in his pocket. There was a pay phone down by one of the neighborhood Starbucks.
Pulling his coat on as he walked out of his office, he called to his secretary. “Going out for a cup of coffee, Lucy. Want anything?”
“A raise.”
He grinned. Some variation of this dialogue was part of their daily routine. He’d miss it if he ever left. “If they’re out of those, how about a maple-nut scone?”
“That’d be great. Thanks, Connor.”
Ten minutes later, Connor was standing at the pay phone, sipping black Italian roast and waiting for Allie to pick up. The phone rang four times. Five. Six. Seven.
What would he say if Tom Concannon walked up and asked whom he was calling and why he wasn’t using his office phone? Chill sweat prickled his forehead and he looked up and down the street, wishing he’d picked a phone that was less conspicuous or further from the office.
Eight rings.
Enough. He put his finger on the receiver cradle and was about to press down when he heard a clattering sound followed by Allie’s voice. “Connor?”
“Yes. What’s up? Why did you e-mail me?”
“I almost got caught!” Her voice was a hoarse whisper, full of quavers. “They’re watching me. My boss, Franklin Roh—he hid a tiny spy camera over my desk. I was this close to taking some pictures of a document with my cell phone. If I hadn’t found out before I started snapping away— I don’t want to think about it.”
“So you’ve got evidence? You know what they’re hiding?”
“Well, not really. All I found so far is that they had a tax issue. But I can’t go back in there! What if they know?”
“That’s too bad, Allie, but there’s not much I can do about it. And I thought we agreed that you were on your own, that you wouldn’t contact me. Were you not clear on that?”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t think about that. I just… I’m scared and I needed to talk to someone.”
“Talk to someone else next time. Call Julian.”
“Okay, I will. I’m really sorry. But since I’ve already got you on the line—”
Connor felt his blood pressure rising. “Listen, if they kne
w about you, they never would have brought you back into the company. That would be incredibly dumb. Maybe Roh suspects, but that’s it. He knows Devil to Pay had an inside source at their company. He knows it’s not Julian because he never worked there. He might think it was you. Or he might just like to spy on female temps.”
“But I can’t go back to Deep Seven, can I?”
Now he realized what was going on. She wanted him to give her a pass, to tell her she could give up. An angry breath hissed out through his teeth. “Well, that’s for you to decide, isn’t it?”
Pause. “I was just hoping—”
Connor heard a familiar voice and turned to see two Doyle & Brown paralegals emerging from Starbucks. He could see them through the open glass and brass doors, but they hadn’t noticed him yet.
“Sorry, gotta go.” He hung up the phone and ducked around the corner. No one called his name. At least he wouldn’t have to come up with an explanation on the spot.
As he walked backed to the office, Connor’s irritation grew. There had been absolutely no reason for Allie to do that to him. None. She knew a lot better than he whether she was in serious danger and ought to bail. She knew contacting him would hurt him. But she did it anyway. Why? So that she could feel better about herself when she did what she had already decided to do. How incredibly selfish.
His steps slowed as he remembered the fear in her voice. The pleading. His anger began to leak away. He pictured the sweaty, bland Franklin Roh watching Allie on a hidden camera as he licked his lips with that bright red tongue.
That bothered him. He stopped and drained the rest of his lukewarm coffee, then wadded the cup into a tight ball and threw it hard into a nearby trashcan. Well, whether it bothered him or not, there was nothing he could do about it. It was up to Allie now.
Allie stood a few feet from the pay phone, sucking on a cigarette and trying not to choke. She didn’t smoke, but there was a pay phone at a convenience store ten yards from the smoking area outside Deep Seven. And it was out of view from the Deep Seven building.
The smoke stung her eyes and tasted awful, but she made the cigarette last as long as possible. Maybe Connor would call her back. Probably not, but maybe.
Minutes crawled by as the acrid blue smoke curled around her and the cancer stick slowly burned down to its filter. The phone stubbornly refused to ring.
Why had she e-mailed him in the first place? Because she started panicking and stopped thinking. She had fired off the message with nothing more than a half-formed idea that he’d get her out of this horrible box she was in. She would tell him about the camera and he would immediately suggest—no, demand—that she get out of Deep Seven. He would somehow take over the situation or get the government involved or something.
Stupid. Painfully, utterly, indescribably stupid. She had screwed up yet again. All she had managed to do was get Connor to yell at her again. And she had deserved it.
Her hope turned to ash with the cigarette, leaving an empty, sour feeling in her stomach. She stubbed out the butt and walked back toward the mouthlike front doors of Deep Seven, which gaped open to swallow her.
56
CONNOR GOT OFF THE ELEVATOR AND WALKED ACROSS DOYLE & BROWN’S lobby as he did every morning, briefcase in one hand and fresh black coffee from the Starbucks downstairs in the other. His mind was wrapped up in an important appellate brief that was due the next day, and he didn’t notice anything—or anyone—in the lobby.
“Good morning, Connor.”
Connor turned and saw Julian rising from a chair in the far corner of the room. “Hey, Julian. It’s good to see you. A surprise, though. What’s up?”
“Someone broke into my car last night.” His voice was level and matter of fact, as if he were reporting what he had for breakfast. “Yours too, probably.”
A chill swept over Connor and the brief tumbled completely out of his thoughts. “I didn’t notice anything this morning.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“But I park in a private garage. With security guards.”
“Did you drive to work?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, let’s have a look at your car.”
Connor led Julian down to the building garage. His silver Bentley convertible was right where he left it. As he approached, he looked for scratches around the lock or anything else that would show forced entry. But the car looked as pristine as if it were on a dealer’s showroom floor.
Julian bent down for a cursory look at the driver’s door and ran his fingers along the weather stripping at the base of the door windows. “Unlock it.”
Connor clicked his key and the car chirped. Julian opened the door and got down on his knees. He looked under the driver’s seat, then the passenger’s.
“Here we are.” He sat back on his heels and held up a small black box with a pencil-like antenna. “Standard GPS vehicle tracker.” He grinned and winked. “I assume this isn’t yours.”
Connor shook his head slowly. “That could have been a bomb.”
“But it wasn’t. Look on the bright side—they don’t want us dead. At least not yet.” He leaned back into the car and put the box back under the passenger seat.
“Hold on a sec,” Connor protested. “What are you doing?”
“If you take out this one, the next one will just be harder to find. Or they’ll decide that it’s too risky to track you and the next one will be a bomb.”
“Oh, I hadn’t thought of that.” Adrenaline clouded his mind and he shook his head to clear it. “This is all new to me. I’ve had PIs follow me a few times. One guy even went through my trash.” He nodded toward the open car door. “But that’s a first.”
“Welcome to my world.” Julian got up and clapped Connor on the shoulder. “This was pretty typical when I worked on the organized crime task force. You’re taking it better than I did the first time it happened to me. I couldn’t sleep for almost a week.”
Connor shut the Bentley’s door. “Your phone is bugged too. That’s why you drove down here instead of calling.”
“You’re catching on.”
Connor looked at his reflection in the dark window glass, thinking hard. “They don’t want us dead,” he echoed. “But they do want to keep tabs on us. Now why is that?”
“That’s how these people operate. Back when I worked with the task force, the mob was always trying to figure out what we were up to. They’d follow us into the john if they could.”
“Yeah, but they know what we’re up to.” Connor turned and leaned against his car so that he was facing his friend. “We’re withdrawing. We’re bailing out. We’re not a problem anymore. So why break into our cars and put trackers in them now?”
Julian shrugged. “Tough to say. Didn’t you have a PI following you after some other case was finished?”
“That was the garbage guy. But he was probably doing it because his client wanted to know who was behind Devil to Pay even though the lawsuit had settled. That would be valuable info in certain circles.”
“But now the whole world knows who Devil to Pay is, right?” Julian pointed to himself. “Wasn’t that the whole point of that little charade last week?”
Connor jerked to his feet as the puzzle pieces fell into place. “No, they don’t. Not entirely, anyway. I’m guessing that those fake invoices Allie put into their system could only be uploaded from inside the company.”
“Makes sense.”
“And they know you never worked for them. Maybe you broke into their offices, hacked into their system, and uploaded the invoices—but that’s pretty unlikely.”
Julian tugged at his beard thoughtfully. “They’ve guessed we have an inside source and they’re waiting for us to lead them to her.”
The unpleasant image of Franklin Roh watching Allie on a video monitor appeared in Connor’s head again. “That could be dangerous for Allie, don’t you think? She’s already contacted me once. She was careful about it, but still.”
“Yeah, we should
warn her.”
“How?”
They looked at each other in silence for almost a minute. Julian shoved his hands into his coat pockets and fidgeted with something. “Can’t think of anything,” he confessed. “You have any ideas?”
“Uh-uh. I—” Connor froze with his mouth open, and then his face broke into a wide smile. “Actually, I do.”
At 6:30 that evening, Connor pulled out of the garage and drove his Bentley across the Bay Bridge to the slightly seedy area of Oakland where Clayton Investigations had an office on the fifth floor of a red wooden building that needed to be repainted. There were empty parking spaces along the street, but there was no way Connor was parking his Bentley there.