Secret Agent Santa

by Carol Ericson

  Claire folded her hands in front of her, the rings on her fingers sparkling beneath the desk lamp. “What can I help you with?”

  Glotz placed a folder on the desk, flipped it open and positioned a photograph in front of Claire. “Do you recognize this man, Mrs. Chadwick?”

  Mike craned his neck over the shoulders of the agents but only got a glimpse of a young, dark-skinned man.

  “It’s Ms. Chadwick, and yes, I do recognize him. And you know I recognize him or you wouldn’t be uncomfortably shifting in those Louis Quinze chairs staring at me.”

  Mike gulped, his stomach twisting into a knot. Had Claire been keeping secrets from him?

  Glotz tapped the picture. “Can you tell us who he is, Ms. Chadwick?”

  She snorted. “You know who he is. The question is, why are you asking me about him?”

  Agent Finnegan hunched forward in his chair, his face red up to the line of his gray hair. “Tell us his name, Ms. Chadwick.”

  Mike cleared his throat. “Claire?”

  She held up a hand. “It’s okay, Mitch. This man is Hamid Khan.”

  “And you’ve been in contact with him?” Glotz’s calm tone contrasted with his partner’s aggressive one.

  Good cop, bad cop, but why were they playing this game with Claire?

  “Lately? Have I been in contact with him lately? No.”

  “You’ve contacted him before.” Finnegan jabbed a stubby finger in Claire’s direction.

  “Agent Finnegan...” Mike half rose from his chair, his hands curling into fists.

  Glotz cast an apologetic half smile in his direction. “We don’t have a problem with your presence, Mr. Brown, but please don’t interfere with our questioning.”

  Mike spluttered. He could be a protective fiancé, but not someone overly knowledgeable about FBI procedures. “Does Claire need a lawyer? I don’t like this questioning.”

  “I’m fine, babe.” She picked up the picture with both hands. “I contacted Hamid when I was looking into my husband’s execution at the hands of terrorists. Why are you asking me about him now?”

  “Hamid Khan was the man posing as a valet parking attendant at your party the other night. We have a composite sketch from witnesses.”

  Claire dropped the picture, and Mike sat up in his chair to try to get a look at the man again. He didn’t know any Hamid Khan, but why in the hell had Claire been in contact with terrorists?

  She recovered herself and folded her hands on top of the photo. “That’s impossible. I had been in touch with Hamid because of his uncle, but Hamid was no extremist. He was studying to be an engineer and wanted no part of his uncle’s radicalism. I was able to get him into the US on a student visa, but that’s as far as it went.”

  Finnegan pinched the picture between the tips of his blunt fingers and slid it from beneath Claire’s hands. “Maybe then, but this is now.”

  “I don’t believe it for a minute. I would’ve...” She stopped and huffed out a breath. “I would’ve known if he was someone capable of this—he wasn’t.”

  Mike’s muscles tensed. She was going to spill the beans about seeing the valet from the library window. These guys would’ve been even more suspicious than they were now if they discovered she’d lied about seeing anything from that window.

  Glotz slid the photo from his partner’s possession and put it back in the folder. “You’re not going anywhere in the near future, are you, Ms. Chadwick?”

  “No.”

  “If we—” Glotz steepled his fingers “—came back with a search warrant for any computers you own, that wouldn’t be a problem, would it?”

  The color on her cheeks heightened and her long lashes fluttered for a second. “No.”

  “Very good.” Glotz placed his hands on the desk and pushed up from the chair, still mindful that his ass had been planted on a chair that cost more than he’d see in one year’s salary.

  Finnegan stood up with much less grace and hunched over the desk. “Thanks for your cooperation, Mrs. Chadwick. If we need anything else, we’ll let you know.”

  With the questioning over, Finnegan had reverted back to his gruff but civil self.

  Mike hurried to the office door and swung it open. The tail end of Correll’s suit jacket disappeared around the corner of the foyer. Had he been listening at the keyhole?

  “Gentlemen, if there’s nothing else, we’ll see you out. Claire and I need to take her son to the airport.”

  A maid appeared on silent feet with the agents’ coats.

  “Just don’t hop on any planes yourself, Mrs. Chadwick.” Finnegan hunched into his overcoat and saluted.

  When the front door closed behind them, Claire sighed. “What they’re saying isn’t true.”

  Mike shook his head as Correll came into view from the corner behind her.

  “What the hell was that all about, Claire?”

  “The FBI thinks they have the valet. It’s someone I was in contact with after Shane’s murder.” She flicked her fingers in the air. “It’s all garbage anyway. We need to get Lori and Ethan to the airport. Mitch and I will probably be out the rest of the day.”

  “Be careful out there, Claire. Those two agents seemed pretty serious. I knew the time you spent looking into Shane’s death would come back to haunt you.”

  She started up the stairs and glanced over her shoulder. “It’s not haunting me.”

  Correll shrugged his shoulders and gave Mike a pitying look. “She’s your problem now.”

  * * *

  ONE HOUR AND one tear-filled goodbye later, Mike accelerated out of the airport with Claire sniffling beside him.

  “He looked so grown-up with his little backpack.” She clutched his arm. “He didn’t look scared, did he?”

  “I haven’t known your son that long, and I’m no expert on little kids, but I don’t think a smile from ear to ear and hopping from one foot to the other on the escalator signals fear for a five-year-old boy.”

  She dabbed her eyes and then waved the tissue in the air. “I don’t want him to feel sad, exactly, but a little longer hug would’ve been nice.”

  “It probably won’t hit him until he’s at his grandparents’ in the middle of the night and realizes he can’t run into your bed whenever he wants.”

  Her hand returned to his arm. “I hope he’s not going to be scared.”

  “You said he had lots of cousins out there for the holidays?”

  “Yes, tons.”

  “He’ll be fine. Everything’s always better when you have kids your own age around.”

  “Did you?”

  He fumbled for his sunglasses in the cup holder. “Only child here. I almost had a younger sibling once, but my mother lost the baby after a particularly bad beating at the hands of my father. She never tried again.”

  Claire pressed a hand to her mouth. “I’m so sorry, Mike. Did your mother ever leave your father?”

  “Not until the day she died in a car accident—his fault. He was driving drunk and they were fighting. He crossed the median and wrapped his car around a lamppost. The wrong person died in that accident.”

  “H-how old were you when that happened?”

  “Seventeen.” He ran a hand over his mouth. “I almost killed the bastard, but my basketball coach got to me first. My dad went to prison, and I lived the rest of my senior year of high school at Coach’s house and enlisted in the marines the day I graduated.”

  The gentle pressure of her hand on his thigh brought him back to the present. “I’m sorry. That sure as hell falls into the too-much-information category.”

  She didn’t answer except to give his leg a gentle squeeze.

  Why had he spilled his guts like that? If he didn’t watch it, he’d be blabbing about his worry that witnessing all that violence as a child had ruined him for any kind of relationship. She was already worried about her own mental health; she didn’t need to start worrying about his.

  “So, what’s the plan? My hotel first to pick up the dr
ives, check on a response from Prospero and then head to the bank to secure the drives in your safe deposit box?”

  “Sounds good.”

  He rolled his shoulders to relieve the tightness that had bunched his muscles when he’d revealed his sob story to Claire. He needed to get this ball back into her court.

  “Do you have anything else to tell me about this Hamid Khan? I don’t think he’s on Prospero’s radar at all.”

  “Why would he be? Except for the connection to his uncle, he’s not an extremist.”

  “Who’s his uncle?”

  “Tamar Aziz. Are you familiar with him?”

  “Yeah, low-level guy, a driver, bodyguard type.”

  “That’s right, but he’s in the thick of things, and that’s not Hamid.”

  “How’d you get in contact with Hamid?”

  “Through some different channels. I got some leads from Shane’s interpreter. He’d been kidnapped along with Shane, but he was released.”

  “You play dangerous games, Claire—then and now.”

  “Maybe so, but Hamid was never a danger, and as you may have gathered, I almost blurted out that the valet I saw near the director’s car was most definitely not Hamid.” She swept the hair back from her face. “They’re getting bad information from someone.”

  “I wonder how the FBI came up with his name. They must’ve been looking into his activities thoroughly to come across your connection to him.”

  “If they are, they’re allowing the real perpetrators to escape.”

  “The real perpetrators who are somehow connected to your stepfather?”

  “Exactly.”

  “So your stepfather must’ve been thrilled to see the FBI show up on his doorstep and question you about Hamid Khan.” He reached out and dialed down the heat. He was starting to sweat under his layers of clothes—or maybe it was the subject matter.

  She tapped the edge of her phone against her chin. “Are you implying that Spencer himself somehow implicated Hamid?”

  “He knew you’d been contacting players. It’s no stretch to believe he knew their names.”

  Hunching her shoulders, she crossed her arms. “He’s probably been spying on me ever since he couldn’t have me committed for life.”

  “And you’ve been spying on him. What a game of cat and mouse.”

  “He’s going to think we’re a couple of sentimental fools coming back out to Brooktown.” She turned to face him, a smile playing about her lips. “How did you come up with that story, anyway? You proposed to me online? That’s romantic.”

  “Hey.” He smacked the steering wheel before pulling into the hotel’s circular drive. “I wanted to see the very spot where you were sitting when I popped the question. That’s romantic.”

  “If you say so.” She rolled her eyes.

  He pulled up behind a car and stuck his head out the window, yelling at the valet. “Is it okay if I leave my car here for about fifteen minutes?”

  “Sure. Do you mind leaving the keys in case we have to move it?”

  He killed the engine and dangled the keys out the window in exchange for a red ticket, which he dropped into the pocket of his shirt.

  The valet opened Claire’s door and she paused. “Do you think it might take longer than fifteen minutes if you’ve gotten a response?”

  “I don’t expect any feedback this soon. Besides, they have your car keys if they have to move the car.”

  With no response from Prospero, it took them less than fifteen minutes to gather his laptop and Claire’s thumb drives from the safe.

  He hauled a small carry-on bag onto the bed. “I might as well stuff the rest of my clothes in here and take them back to your place.”

  She pointed as his computer. “And the laptop? Do you think it’ll be safe at my house with Spencer there?”

  “Why would Correll want to poke around my laptop?”

  “You never know.”

  “Don’t worry. It’s as secure as Fort Knox, and I want to have it with me in case Prospero comes through with something today.”

  He slipped his laptop into a separate case and then wedged the case on top of his wheeled bag. “You all set?”

  “Yes. It’s not like I don’t trust the hotel safe, but I’ll feel a lot better when these are back in my safe deposit box.” She patted her bag where she’d stashed the drives.

  “Onward to Maryland, then.”

  On the drive east, they kept the conversation light—no abusive fathers, no nervous breakdowns, no terrorists. This was what he looked forward to in retirement. He’d never pictured a woman by his side before, but Claire’s presence felt right, felt good.

  By the time they reached the bank, he felt as if they were on a date—the small talk, the mutual discovery of the petty likes and dislikes that comprised a person, the palpable sexual tension that buzzed between them.

  In fact, he hadn’t had such a successful first date in a long time—or maybe ever.

  * * *

  WHEN THE BANK came into view, Claire’s stomach sank. For a short time with Mike in the car, she’d felt almost normal.

  She liked him, everything about him. Why did she ever think he was standoffish? He’d revealed quite a bit about himself today. The story about his abusive father had her heart hurting for the pain Mike must’ve endured as a child.

  Ethan would grow up without a father, but she’d make damned sure she’d surround him with love. Who knew? Maybe one day she’d meet a man good enough to be Ethan’s dad.

  Mike parked her car at the curb about half a block down from the bank. “I’ll wait in the car.”

  “I won’t be long—in and out.” She grabbed her coat from the backseat and put it on while standing on the sidewalk. Then she waved to Mike and slammed the car door.

  Entering the bank, she veered toward the end of the teller windows and stopped in front of Dorothy’s desk. Dorothy looked up from a computer screen, where she was helping a teller. “Be right there, Claire.”

  Two minutes later, Dorothy’s heels clicked on the floor as she approached her desk. She opened her drawer and withdrew a key chain, and then buzzed the security door for Claire.

  Claire joined Dorothy on the other side of the door and followed her down a short hallway to the safe deposit area. Dorothy used her key along with a code to open the main door of the safe. They both stepped through the door, and rows and rows of metal boxes stretched out on either side of Claire.

  “Twenty-two sixty-one, right?” Dorothy moved to the left and bent forward to insert her key into Claire’s box.

  “You have a good memory, Dorothy.”

  “Well, I did just open it earlier today.”

  Claire nodded and smiled as Dorothy backed out of the room. Maybe Dorothy’s memory wasn’t that great. Claire had been here yesterday, not this morning. She inserted her own key into the second lock on the box and slid it out of its cavity.

  She turned and placed it on the table that ran the length of the small room. She reached into her purse, her fingers searching for the two drives. Curling her hand around both at once, she pulled them out.

  She lifted the lid on the box and froze. Licking her lips, she tilted her head to check the number on the box and then glanced to her left to squint at the number on the empty slot.

  With her heart pounding, she plucked the first stack of bills, neatly bound, from her box and ran her thumb along the edge.

  Where had this come from? Even though she knew she was alone in the room, she looked around as if expecting to find an answer from the tight-lipped safe deposit boxes guarding their own secrets.

  She dropped the packet of money on the table and picked up the second stack of bills, again neatly bound. Four more bundles nestled in the safe deposit box, giving her a total of six.

  How could the bank make a mistake like this? She was the only person with the other key. She didn’t want to leave the bills in her box. She’d better bring them out to Dorothy.

  She dumped the mon
ey onto the table and scanned the room for a bag. Of course, the bank didn’t just leave those lying around, and she couldn’t walk into the main area clutching the cash in her hands.

  Her big bag gaped open on the table, and she started stuffing the stacks inside. She left her box open on the table and hugged her purse to her chest as she walked out of the safe deposit box room. The door slammed behind her as it was designed to do.

  She exited the door to the main area of the bank and turned toward Dorothy’s desk. That was when she saw them.

  A man and a woman in dark suits were talking to Dorothy, whose eyes were bugging out of her face. They bugged out even farther when she caught sight of Claire. Dorothy pointed at her and the man and woman turned in unison.

  A chill zipped down her spine and her step faltered.

  The two feds pivoted toward her, the female reaching inside her jacket.

  A flood of adrenaline surged through her. She clasped the purse tighter, wrapping her arms around the money and the two thumb drives still inside. Her long stride got longer. She put her head down and made a beeline for the door.

  “Ms. Chadwick,” the woman called behind her.

  Claire shoved through the glass doors and took off down the sidewalk toward the car. Mike must’ve seen her in the rearview mirror because the engine growled to life at her approach.

  “Ms. Chadwick, stop.” This time it was the male who yelled after her, but she had no intention of stopping for him, either.

  Despite her high-heeled boots, she took off in a run, extending her hand in readiness for the door handle. When her fingers tucked around the cold metal of the handle, she could hear the flurry of someone sprinting behind her.

  She tugged open the door and scrambled inside the car. The man had caught up with her and made a grab for her coat as it flew out behind her.

  “Claire?” Mike’s voice gave her strength and purpose.

  “Go, Mike! Just go!”

  That was all he needed from her. No questions, no answers.

  He floored the gas pedal and the car lurched away from the curb, flinging the door open and shedding the government man hanging on to it.