The past weeks had left him exhausted. Besides interrogating suspects, he’d been getting used to giving instructions to the lead agents on the team, running searches about the Co-creators, and reviewing the autopsy files with the pathologists.
How could he convince Samuel to stop trying to boost his career and let him be what he was—an undercover field agent?
Drumming his fingers on the desk, he turned to face the screens showing the house—Joy Clayton’s house.
Now that made it worth getting to work every morning.
He used the remote control to rewind to the beginning of the previous day’s recording. “Coffee with milk, Splenda, and sugar; and she’s wearing the horrible T-shirt and sweat pants she calls pajamas.”
He smiled to himself when Joy Clayton entered the scene and his prediction came true. Two weeks into the same routine, he could tell the story with his eyes shut.
Testing high-tech surveillance equipment with Joy Clayton had become his guilty pleasure—the antidote to the boredom of being away from the action. Her cars were bugged, her cell phone and the house phone were tapped, and her computers were hacked. His team had also installed webcams to capture images of the perimeter of the house. Common areas from the inside of the house were covered after his tech team hacked into the cameras of her computers and baby monitor.
Okay, he admitted it; the cameras had been overkill—it was difficult enough to get a judge to authorize microphones. But this being his first time in a case with the lofty label of “National Security,” he couldn’t help wanting to play with all the toys.
And speaking of toys . . . Boy, she was a toy he wouldn’t mind playing with! He stopped fast-forwarding as she emerged from the room, already made up. What a treat to the eye she was with her collection of colorful work dresses. That day it was a teal wrap dress showcasing her curves and her shapely legs. She was the perfect balance of ladylike and sexy. She wasn’t his usual type—he’d normally go for a taller, bigger-breasted woman. But for lips like those, he’d make an exception.
Smiling at his own absurdity, he fast-forwarded through the morning routine scenes, identical to the day before. When the nanny arrived, Joy rushed through the door with husky little Arthur to drive him to school. The six-year-old boy always carried his Spiderman plush toy with him.
Richard skipped through the next few hours of the recordings, which were repetitive movies of the nanny taking care of the toddler twins. He stopped and looked at one of them laughing and running while unrolling the toilet paper behind him, and he couldn’t help chuckling. The two little boys looked very different—one blond and the other brunette—yet they worked in perfect coordination, like an evil team, to drive the nanny crazy.
He continued fast-forwarding until Joy came home at 5:30 p.m., and the three kids ran to greet her, squealing in delight.
The last part of the day was less predictable, varying from playground swinging, to improvised dance parties, to chases around the living room ending in tickle wars—he could not believe her energy. Someone was always falling or bumping into something and requiring a boo-boo kissing intervention. He also couldn’t believe what an affectionate and patient mother she was.
By the time the kids were in bed, Richard felt exhausted just from watching; but Joy still stayed up, picking up the mess, loading the dishwasher, and programming the coffeemaker for the next day. She disappeared into her room, and he sped through the rest of the night. That had been it.
With his eyes closed, he moved his head in circles to relieve the tension in his neck muscles. There was something about watching those videos that made him feel down. Maybe they reminded him of his stormy marriage and the days when his son was small. Maybe it was something about his own childhood years. Maybe not. The only similarity to his childhood in those scenes was that almost all his memories revolved around his mother. Like in those videos, his father never seemed to be there.
Samuel’s voice interrupted his thoughts. “Good, Richard! I see you’re taking your job seriously, even reviewing Clayton’s surveillance recordings by yourself. Any interesting findings so far?”
Richard stretched his arms, yawning. “None. This woman has the most boring life I’ve ever snooped on. Her past is squeaky clean. And my theory about her killing the husband to run away with a lover is out. There’s no evidence of a man in her life, and she’s obviously not expecting one at any minute, judging by the horrible nightwear she wears.” He turned the screens off.
“Anything at work?”
“That’s more complicated to monitor. The woman works in three different medical centers. And surveillance in any of them might be a liability issue, since she works with mental health records.”
“Richard, we’re not getting anywhere without firsthand information about her movements and contacts at work.”
Sighing, Richard nodded. “I know. The guys following her are doing their best, but they’re not allowed in some hospital areas without having to blow their cover. We called to inquire if they were hiring employees either at the Hospice House or her private office. They’re not. That wouldn’t solve the problem about the other places, anyway.”
“Then we need to find a way to have someone attached to her, to Joy Clayton herself, and not to the institution.”
“What do you suggest?”
Samuel thought for a moment. “Maybe if we take one of our youngest agents and have him or her impersonate a medical student, someone who’s requested permission to follow her around and observe her at work.”
“An undercover agent?” Richard’s face lit up.
Chuckling, Samuel tapped his shoulder. “I know you’re dying to be in the middle of the action, man, but forget about it. We’re not sending you.”
Grunting, Richard rolled his eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous, Sam. I’m too old to pass for a medical student, and she knows I’m not one.”
A text message chimed on Richards’s phone. It was Keith, one of his lead agents following Dr. Clayton.
Call intercepted between the subject and a man called “Leonard.” He’s holding “a disc” for her and wants to be paid in cash “or else he’ll have to sell it to someone else.” She deviated from her usual route and is driving toward Palm Tree Cape.
He showed the text to Samuel, who frowned. “This sounds important, Richard. If I were you, I’d go personally.”
“I agree.”
Richard texted Keith back.
I’m on my way.
* * *
Minutes later, Richard reunited with Keith. Joy had stopped in an outdoor plaza and had entered a small video game store tucked between a Publix Supermarket and a Bealls Outlet. They watched her with their digital binoculars as she talked to a teenage store clerk.
She talked to the long-haired kid while extracting some money from her purse. It appeared to be only a few bills, not much to pay for blackmail. The young man put a flat, rectangular box in a plastic bag and handed it to her. She waved goodbye and walked out of the store.
“Whatever he sold to her is inside that bag,” Richard said. “We have to find out what it is.”
Joy arrived at her car and was about to enter it, but then she seemed to change her mind. After closing the car door, she briskly walked away, still holding the plastic bag.
“Where’s she going now?” asked Keith.
“I don’t know, but she’s coming straight in this direction . . . Spread!”
They walked away from each other and simulated minding their own business. Richard was heading to his car when he heard Joy’s voice. “Richard?”
Too late. She saw me. He faked surprise. “Dr. Clayton? What a coincidence!”
They shook hands.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
He made up a story. “I’m getting Nana some cookies from the grocery store. What are you doing here?”
“I came to pick up a vintage video-game for my son for his birthday. I was going to celebrate my find by grabbing lunch from t
he grocery store deli.”
Richard thought quickly. He needed to find out what that box really was. “Do you mind if I join you?”
“Not at all.”
They walked together to the store and ordered some sandwiches from the deli. She ordered hers to go, but Richard asked, “Would you please eat with me at one of the tables? There’s something important I’d like to talk to you about.”
She seemed hesitant. He searched his mind for a convincing argument and, remembering something from their last conversation, added, “The last time we ran into each other, you said that there were no coincidences and I was sent to give you a message. Now it’s the third time I’ve run into you, and I’m freaked out. I need to figure out what message you have for me.”
Her eyes lit up. “Sure, let’s find a table.” He was relieved to see she’d bitten the bait.
After picking up their trays, they sat at a booth, facing each other.
He leaned forward. “So, tell me, Joy, what’s my message?”
While he talked, he hid his right hand under the table, sending a text message to the other agent outside.
I got her. U get the box.
Joy laughed softly. “I have no way of knowing. We have to get a conversation going and see where it takes us.” She thought for a moment. “Tell me about yourself. I told you the story of my life the other day, and I know nothing about you.”
“Well, I’m from New York, straight from the Bronx—a Yankee fan until the day I die. I’ve lived in Fort Sunshine for five years; before that, I lived in Tampa for three.” He found himself sharing superficial details from his real life instead of fabricated facts. It must have something to do with using his real name. Or maybe it was the fact that she’d caught him off guard, looking more gorgeous than ever in her amethyst dress, and his brain had slipped into date mode.
He kept talking to keep her distracted as Keith walked into the deli and sat at the booth back-to-back with hers, setting up his laptop. Surreptitiously, Keith removed the rectangular box from the plastic bag she’d placed on the seat next to her and extracted the disc inside, loading it in the computer.
Richard kept the conversation going by asking her questions about her kids, and then she started asking about his. There was no point in fabricating a story and risking Nana contradicting the information, so he admitted to his thirteen-year-old son. He joked about his oath to never marry again after his divorce.
He made her laugh, sharing stories about his despise for the town. “After spending most of my life in New York City, Fort Sunshine’s too organic for my taste. I still can’t get used to finding black snakes on my front lawn and spotting alligators in the ponds and creeks. But the worst part is the population demographics. Everybody here is a thousand years old.”
She chuckled. “But that’s the best part of Fort Sunshine! Here, I never feel old. Anybody under the age of eighty is a babe!”
They laughed.
Sighing, she stood up. “Well, Richard, I should get going.” Her hand reached for her purse on the seat.
“No, wait!” Richard caught her arm to stop her from grabbing the now-empty bag.
She looked at him, surprised. He quickly made up something. “I had an inspiration. I think I got what the message is about.”
Interested, she sat again. “And what is it?”
He frantically thought about what to say and blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “Well, before we said goodbye that day, you said I was a good listener and that if I ever thought about a career change, I should consider the psychiatry field.”
She frowned, as if trying to recall. “I was kind of making a joke.”
“Yes, but now that I think about it, it’s an interesting coincidence. I’ve actually been going through some career burnout and was thinking about a change.”
“Really? That’s amazing!”
She’d bought it, so he went on. “Yes, I’m thinking about going back to school. I’m obviously too old to go to medical school now and become a psychiatrist, but I don’t know, maybe psychology.”
Her look was skeptical. “What would make you become interested in this field at this stage of your life? Hopefully not my silly comment.”
An expert liar, both in undercover missions and his personal life, Richard had learned to make a lie more believable by interweaving it with some truth. He started with a real story. “When I was younger, I wanted to be a psychologist. Becoming a policeman wasn’t my first choice.” He could see the interest reborn in her eyes. “I couldn’t afford a master’s degree, so I ended up settling for this type of job.”
Buying time, he paused before continuing. “As I’ve learned over the years, there are interesting overlaps between the two careers. When you’re an investigator, you have to become an expert in people’s behavior, learning to think how they think in order to anticipate their movements. You also have to develop the ability to listen carefully to decide which part of what people are saying is true.”
She went silent, as if digesting his words. Richard’s heart was pounding. What’s taking Keith so long?
“Interesting,” she said. “I wish I could help you in your decision process.”
“Maybe you can.” Richard had a real inspiration. Samuel might be pissed; but the opportunity was too good to pass up, and it would solve their biggest problem with investigating her. “I need to ask you a favor. Would you allow me to shadow you at work during the next few weeks? It would help me grasp what practicing a career in mental health is about and whether it’s the field for me.”
“Shadow me?” Her wide-open eyes were difficult to read—was she pleased or scared? She considered it. “There are confidentiality issues to account for, and the patients need to consent; but I guess it’s not impossible. I had a UCF medical student shadow me once. But what about your work?”
“I’m already scheduled to take a personal leave to be available for Nana in the next few weeks.”
She seemed reluctant. “Richard, I owe you a favor and would love to help you out. But I think you’d be better off following a counselor, instead. I can talk to a friend who’s a psychologist—”
“I’d rather learn from you,” he insisted.
Seeing she was still hesitant, he resorted to his charm, giving his voice a begging tone. “Please! I know you’re extremely busy, but I’m willing to earn the time I’ll be taking from you by functioning as your personal assistant, your driver, even your babysitter . . . anything! If you had that message for me, you should also be the instrument to help me carry it through. Don’t you think so?”
Joy was quiet for a moment and then asked, “Have you ever been in therapy?”
The question caught him off guard. “Excuse me?”
“Have you ever seen a counselor or a psychologist yourself?”
He hesitated. “You mean while working for the police?”
“No, I mean about working out your childhood issues.”
“What childhood issues?” He tensed up.
She smiled. “You say you have an interest in psychology, and you’ve never looked at your own childhood issues? That’s the first thing we have to do to enter this field.”
“What makes you think I have any?”
“We all have them. No parent has ever been perfect one hundred percent of the time. Therefore, we all have wounds.”
Richard felt unsettled. “I believe what’s past is past. I don’t see a reason to dig in it. I prefer the type of counseling that’s about what’s bothering you now.”
“I see. You’re more interested in behavioral therapy rather than psychoanalysis.”
“Uh . . . sure. That’s what I mean . . . I think.” Relieved, he saw that Keith was sliding the disc box back into the plastic bag.
Almost instantly, a text message reached him. It was a real video game.
Joy kept talking. “Most modern psychotherapy combines psychoanalysis and behavioral therapy. The approach of ‘just change the way you act and move
on,’ in most cases, isn’t enough. We first need to understand the past in order to get rid of our automatic tendency to repeat it.”
Deciding to pursue the new twist in the conversation to his advantage, Richard gave her his most charming smile. “See? That’s why I need you. There’s so much I don’t even know I don’t know.”
Joy chuckled and frowned at the same time. “Okay, you can count on me.”
He thanked her profusely, and they said goodbye with a handshake, agreeing to meet at the Hospice House the next day at 10:00 a.m.
He enjoyed the pleasant view of watching her walk out of the store.
Well, there went his only solace. It may have been harmless to admire her from a distance when he thought he was only humoring Samuel for a few weeks. But like it or not, he was now up to his neck in the O’Hara case. Joy Clayton was now off-limits, even for the most innocuous of his joking, lusty thoughts.
Chapter 6
Every time Richard embarked in a new undercover mission, he temporarily transformed into the character he was incarnating, to the point of almost forgetting who he really was. His main tool was creating and memorizing background stories. This time, the character had to be carefully crafted to include the pieces of information that elderly Nana knew about him and could mention in front of the doctor. Luckily, Nana didn’t know what he did for a living; but she knew of his childhood in the Bronx, his ugly divorce, his son, and his infamous stubbornness. He weaved those pieces in with the lies and truths he’d already told Joy, along with a few made up lofty virtues, aiming for a character likable enough to earn her trust. The resulting product was “Richard Feilds,” a character dangerously similar to Richard Fields but kinder, more sensitive, and more enlightened—kind of himself on a first date. The FBI provided fake IDs and carefully crafted an online persona, busy social media included, corroborating his made-up existence.
Richard arrived purposefully early to his first day at the Hospice House. While waiting for Joy, he volunteered to help the staff do small jobs, such as faxing documents and scanning records, to win them over. He soon found himself surrounded by a small crowd of admirers batting their eyes at him and laughing too loud at his jokes.
Beyond Physical Page 5