by DV Berkom
Numb, I set the phone down on the counter and stared into space. Lisa was fighting for her life and I wasn’t there to help. My own stepmother and sisters didn’t want me around, thinking that everything was my fault. I could have gone to Minneapolis, could have made a reservation to fly out of SeaTac that evening, but what was the point? I’d be lucky if Maureen would even let me see Lisa. She’d probably already given my name to the head nurse to bar me from visiting her.
“Is everything all right?” Sam’s voice echoed in the empty kitchen. I looked up, and my gaze met his. He stood in the doorway leading into the living room.
“Lisa’s worse.”
“What time are you flying out?”
I shook my head. “Maureen and my sisters don’t want me there.” Tears pricked at my eyes, and I wiped at them with the back of my hand. The loss of both Sam and my family in the space of a few minutes was too much to bear. The kitchen walls closed in on me, claustrophobia clawing its way to the fore.
I had to get away, had to leave, now.
Fuck them. An ember of long-buried anger ignited at the outright loss of Sam and my family, such as it was. Not that I cared what Maureen thought, but my two older sisters feeling the same way stung. Somehow Maureen had turned them against me. They’d at least been willing to talk on the phone at Christmas and birthdays. And why didn’t my father just leave Maureen? My mother and she were polar opposites. We’d all been surprised when Dad had popped the question.
Too bad my real mother was gone. I could’ve used her wisdom about now.
Sam walked over and wrapped his arms around me. At first I stiffened, but then leaned into the embrace, thankful for that small measure of comfort as my world crashed down around me in bright, fiery flames.
Twenty-Six
SAM AND I decided to take an extended break, and I moved to a hotel downtown. My life was a mess. In addition to giving Sam space, I needed new scenery, something to take my mind off things. Traffic and people and Seattle’s hectic, hive-like activity seemed like just the ticket.
All the fury I had toward Angie’s betrayal had nowhere to go—she’d disappeared and wasn’t answering her phone. Implosion was imminent unless I could find a distraction. Rather than mope around my room, I spent the next three days at the Seattle Public Library—that pantheon of progressive Dutch architecture and some engineer’s primal, unleashed imagination—using their Wi-Fi to search for more information on Pro-Pharma and Mick Dobson.
Pro-Pharma’s corporate headquarters boasted a platinum LEED certification for responsible and sustainable building practices—the highest level granted by the US Green Building Council. The completed structure had been used as an example for projects around the world and was a great source of Seattle pride. According to an article in the Seattle Times, not only was Pro-Pharma’s corporate headquarters one of the greenest buildings in the Pacific Northwest, but it had a security setup that would have made the Pentagon weep.
Aside from the usual Wikipedia entry and a few articles written for online business magazines like Forbes and Fortune, information on Dobson, the CEO of one of the largest pharmaceutical companies in the Pacific Northwest, was surprisingly sparse. Nowhere did it say where he lived, other than the greater Seattle area, or what charities he supported, or supply any identifying information. To add to the problem of locating the guy, he also wasn’t on Facebook, Twitter, or any of the other social media sites I checked. After deploying all the ideas in my arsenal to track the guy down, I still came up empty. And I couldn’t go to Sam with this, not now. I decided to call Jax, our IT guy, to see if Jason Whitmore’s computer had anything on it that I could use. But Jax was uncomfortable with what I asked him to do as it involved a local company with a good reputation, so he declined my request to hack into Pro-Pharma’s website.
In my quest for avoidance, I’d made it a habit to stop off at the hotel bar for a drink before calling it a night. Although considered an upscale lounge according to Seattle standards, Rudyard’s generous happy hour attracted people from all walks of life. Stopping by for a drink helped me pretend that all the laughing, animated people in the bar were prospective friends, and that I had a home to go to and a family that loved me.
After a particularly unproductive day hunting for information, I almost bypassed the bar, intending to go to my room and hang out under the covers for the rest of the evening. My self-pity meter was in the red zone and I didn’t feel up to giving myself a pep talk. When I reached the elevator and the doors pinged open, I hesitated. The thought of spending the evening alone in my empty, sterile room sounded worse than making the effort to visit the bar. With a deep sigh, I turned around and made my way to Rudyard’s.
I sidled up to the sleek mahogany bar and ordered a margarita on the rocks. The bartender fixed my drink and had it on a cardboard coaster in front of me in seconds. I paid, tipping her accordingly, and took a sip before checking out the early evening partiers.
The lounge’s low lights and subtle earth tones flattered everyone, which probably made it great for getting lucky, especially if a liberal dose of alcohol was involved. Most of the patrons were in groups of three or four, with a couple of larger tables of six and nine. Many were animated in that uninhibited way a person gets after a long day at the office and a couple of stiff drinks. A dark-haired woman in her mid to late twenties wearing heavy makeup and black fingernail polish sat in a dimly lit corner of the room, engrossed in a sticker-covered laptop on a low table in front of her. Out of everyone in the bar, she looked the most interesting. I probably would have approached her for a chat if she hadn’t been sequestered in a far corner. Her position in the bar and closed-off body language screamed leave me alone.
Resigning myself to people watching, I struck up a conversation with the bartender, whose name was Greta. Greta’s story was typical of bartenders throughout the country; she was working her way through college, getting her master’s degree in environmental science, and bartending was the best paying job with the quirky hours she needed to finish her studies. When I jokingly asked her if she knew anyone who could hack into a national pharmaceutical company’s website, she shook her head.
“Sorry. Now if you wanted to know how to rig a compostable toilet, then I’m your girl.”
“That’s all right, darlin’. I do.”
My stomach twisted and I squeezed my eyes shut at the sound of that evil southern drawl. I sighed as I opened my eyes and stared at my drink.
I’d never be rid of her.
Serves you right. You were the one who put out the call for an assassin. I resisted the urge to tell my good girl to shut the hell up.
Wariness evident on her face, the bartender glanced nervously from Angie to me, and after collecting money for Angie’s drink, made herself scarce.
Without looking at Angie I asked, “What are you doing here?” With calm deliberation I took a sip, control in every movement.
“Well, darlin’, you’ve been spendin’ a little too much time by yourself lately. It’s unhealthy, if you ask me.”
I set my drink on the bar and turned to glare at her. “You’ve been surveilling me?”
Angie’s smile grated on my nerves. “Well, of course, sugar. After everything that’s happened, I thought it best.” She returned the glare. “Can’t have my best pupil checking out, now, can we?”
Hot, bitter anger toward her climbed like lava in my chest. Not wanting to make a scene, I picked up my purse and slid off the barstool, intending to go up to my room.
“Leaving so soon?” Angie clucked at me, disdain obvious in her voice. “I’d think you’d want to hear what I have to say.” She put her hand on my arm. “It concerns a certain CEO we both know.”
I froze at her touch. My face grew hot with unexpressed rage. “Take your hand off me. Right. Now.”
She complied. “Well,” she huffed. “That’s no way to treat someone who has gone through great lengths to find what you’re looking for.”
I took a deep breath and let it out, s
lowly. “And just what am I looking for? An address?”
“No, silly. Even better.” She nodded at the dark-haired woman I’d seen earlier near the back of the room. “I have her.”
I looked across the room at the woman with the black fingernails. Her gaze was riveted to her laptop, oblivious to the world around her.
“And who is that?”
“Her name is Eve and she’s very good at obtaining information. Especially information that can’t be found.”
“And I should be ecstatic that you’re trying to help because you’re an upstanding citizen who cares deeply for humanity?”
Angie narrowed her eyes. Her heart-shaped face and long, narrow nose combined with the sharp green eyes made me think of a fox. The rabid kind. She was just missing the foam.
“No. You should be ecstatic I haven’t uploaded the video I took of you yet. You should also be ecstatic because I’m going to help you get revenge on Dobson.”
“I don’t need or want your help.” I threw back the rest of my margarita and started for the door.
“Not one more step, sugar.” The warning in her voice had me rooted to the spot. Would she actually use the video?
Of course she would. Like it or not, I was Angie’s bitch. I had to play her game. For now.
At least until I could get the video and destroy it.
“Or what? You’ve already taken the one thing from me that was worth a damn.”
Angie slid off her stool and came to join me. “Oh. You must mean Sam.” She waved at the air. “Don’t you worry about him, hon. He’s better off, don’t you think? He doesn’t need a shit magnet like you around, does he?”
Humiliation mixed with a spark of anger flamed my cheeks. I wanted to argue with her, but I had to admit she was right. Sam was better off. Chacon was dead, so no one was going to try to sneak into the house to kill Sam in his sleep. Angie would presumably leave him alone as long as I played her game.
Face it, Kate. You’re both where you need to be. On your own.
“I’m sure you feel as though you have nothing to lose, and that’s just how I want you in order to pull this little operation off.”
“What little operation?”
Angie grinned, the Cheshire Cat making another appearance. “You’ll see, sugar. You’ll see.”
Angie grabbed her drink from the bar, and we made our way across the busy room to talk to Eve.
“This is Kate.” Angie set her drink down on the table in front of her. “She has a business proposition. Mind if we sit down?”
Eve gave me a look that said I had better make the interruption worth her while or I’d be talking to security. I wondered if she knew what Angie did for a living.
“Knock yourself out.” The room’s temperature dropped a couple of degrees.
Angie sat on her right. I took the club chair to her left and made myself comfortable.
“So you’re looking for someone with computer experience.” Eve’s brown eyes had a fathomless quality that made her hard to read.
“Actually, I’m looking for someone with a talent for hacking websites. Angie here suggested I talk to you.”
Eve kept her eyes trained on mine. “I don’t think I’m your girl. I don’t know how to hack anything except maybe that blockbuster movie you don’t want to pay to see.”
I glanced at Angie, who dipped her head, encouraging me to keep going.
“Useful, I’m sure,” I continued. “But what I’m really looking for is someone who could hack a major pharmaceutical company’s site.”
“Which one?” There was a glimmer of interest in Eve’s eyes.
“Pro-Pharma.”
Eve arched an eyebrow. “Not that I’d be able to help, but you’re going to need a good reason to go after those guys. They’re local. Most folks think they’re a different kind of pharmaceutical company.” She used air quotes around the words “different kind.”
“Oh? Why is that?” Angie asked.
Obviously, Angie hadn’t done her research.
“Just look at the hype. They’ve built their reputation on being progressive and responsible. They recycle. They participate in the community. They donate drugs to those in need. Pretty much the perfect business model for emerald-green Seattle, right?” She shrugged. “You know what they say around these parts—think globally, shop locally.”
“Hate to burst any preconceived bubbles, but I have reason to believe that the CEO, Mick Dobson, is responsible for dozens of fentanyl overdoses in Seattle.”
Laptop forgotten, Eve’s gaze riveted to mine. Obviously, I had her attention. “I’m listening.”
Angie leaned back as I told Eve about Lisa and Jason, and a partial explanation of what we’d uncovered through Chacon about Pro-Pharma’s link to the tainted painkillers. Eve leaned forward, a determined look on her face.
“Obviously you aren’t Homeland Security or FBI.” She glanced at Angie. “This lady here wouldn’t dream of betraying me or my people. Would you, Miss Angie?”
Angie smiled and sipped her drink, answering my unasked question of whether they knew each other.
Eve sat back in her chair. “Why not take this information to the DEA?”
“Because they move too slowly,” I said. Maybe this woman really could help me get to Dobson. “They have to build an airtight case that will stand up in court. I don’t. I want to stop this asshole from putting more drugs on the street before someone else is killed.”
“What’s your plan?”
Angie replied, “We’ve got a couple of ideas, but the first thing we need to do is track the man down and see what kind of information is available on him. If we can’t manage that, then there isn’t any way to continue.”
Eve nodded, apparently satisfied with her answer.
“Listen,” I added. “I can pay you. I’m not asking you to do this out of the goodness of your heart.”
Eve smirked.
“Think about it? You’d be doing a lot of people a huge favor. Maybe save some lives in the process.”
Minutes ticked by while she gave the offer some thought. I sipped my drink, giving her as much space as she needed to reach a decision. Angie remained quiet, watching both of us closely, like she was perusing a couple of bugs pinned to a bug board.
The noise in the bar crescendoed as the place began filling up. Greta disappeared behind a wall of customers, now three deep at the bar.
Finally, Eve gave a small nod like she’d made up her mind. She held out her hand.
“Looks like I am your girl, after all.”
***
I left Eve and Angie in the bar and took the elevator to my room. Eve said she’d get in touch the next day after she did some preliminary investigating. I assumed that meant checking my background as well as Mick Dobson’s. It would be interesting to find out what kind of information she’d be able to uncover about me. There was no need to hide anymore, but I still used the name Kate Jones, the alias I’d had the longest, which was a far cry from my original last name of Schroeder. In the beginning, I chose Jones in order to throw Salazar and Anaya off my trail and keep my family safe. It was either that or Smith, and I didn’t relish calling myself Kate Smith. Now that Maureen and my sisters had made it abundantly clear they preferred I kept my distance, there was no compelling reason to go back to using my real name.
Besides, my current passport, driver’s license, and credit cards were all under Kate Jones, which worked fine. The thought of buying another fake passport didn’t appeal to me. I wanted out of that life, had spent too many years trying to remember my name. I was good with Kate. Kind of liked her, in fact. A persona I could call my own.
Events leading up to my split from Sam along with the meeting with Angie and Eve in the bar raced through my mind, the thoughts searching for a place to call home. I didn’t like where they landed.
I was heading back into the mistake of a life I’d created before, and this time there was no choice but to do what Angie wanted. Once again, my imp
ulsive and impetuous nature had driven me away from Sam and into a life marred by vengeance, criminals, and death. I should have known once Angie had her hooks in me that I wouldn’t be able to make a clean exit. Why hadn’t I realized she’d find a way to blackmail me?
What I needed to figure out was why Angie was so interested in helping me find Dobson. Obviously she had ulterior motives. I assumed it had everything to do with money.
Not yet tired, I turned on the TV and flipped through the channels. So many channels, so little interesting content. I sighed and shut it off. Restless, I got up and walked to the window.
A light rain pattered against the windowpane. Traffic was scarce at that hour, although the occasional honk and screech of brakes floated up to keep me company. The lights of Seattle flickered below as a melancholy mood wrapped itself around me, threatening to swamp my determination to avoid thinking about Sam.
What have I done?
Bleak thoughts crowded my mind, shoving each other out of the way in an attempt to gain first position. Sam was the one person I could trust. The one person who had loved me in spite of my past. I’d ruined the tenuous connection we’d built.
What was wrong with me?
No matter what I did or how well-meaning I tried to be, I always found a way to screw things up. Especially when it came to love. Maybe I didn’t believe I was worthy. I gave that some thought but quickly abandoned the idea. My inner critic would have none of it.
Stop trying to psychoanalyze things. And for God’s sake, quit feeling sorry for yourself.
I’d never been too interested in self-analysis. It seemed indulgent, ego-driven. Leave the questions of motivation to philosophers and shrinks. Well, that, and the margarita didn’t help. With another sigh, I turned from the window.
Maybe after all was said and done, I’d find another place to live, some little house in a vineyard in Eastern Washington. Get a bunch of cats. Better yet, maybe I’d go back to Arizona. It was the last place I remembered being really happy. I could reapply for my old job driving Jeep tours. I drifted back to a happier time. Fresh air, new people, beautiful scenery, a great boss.