by Cat Connor
My mind danced around the blurriness. Something in that picture of Markov, or whoever he really was, felt familiar. The eyes remained the same, but my imagination toyed with hair color and style. I was still sure he was the guy I tripped over in Richmond. Time passed more quickly as I played my little mind games, rather than staring blankly at the phone. Funny: a dead Russian one day and a marker pen with Russian writing on it another. What were the odds of that happening in the same week? A missing crash victim on the way from Richmond and a woman of the same name associated with a Richmond murder victim. Chlorine gas in the car and the smell of chlorine on all our victims: what were the odds?
The phone buzzed. I almost dropped it trying to answer the call. I read the caller’s name on the screen: Caine.
“Morning,” he rumbled. “Meet me at the Defense Department in Arlington, not the Pentagon. Head to Courthouse Road.”
“Is that where the computer is?” That just didn’t sound right. The ping came up as the Pentagon.
“Yes it is; our person of interest threw us a few curveballs trying to make it look like it came from the Air Force Department inside the Pentagon.”
“Smart.”
“We’ll see.” I knew that tone. That gravelly, understated tone Caine favored.
“I’m not going to like this, am I?”
“No, not at all.”
I ignored it, nothing I could do about it. “I need a temp to cover Sam. I want someone who’ll fit in and do the job without being babysat.”
“We’ll deal with that too.”
I hung up.
My lips felt cracked. Not surprising with all the wind lately. Mac ambled into the room looking happier than I’d seen him all week.
“You seen my ChapStick?”
“Next to the basin in the bathroom.”
“Thank you.”
“No problem.”
I rolled the ChapStick around between my fingers, popped off the top and applied it without using the mirror. I knew where my lips were; I’d had them a long time.
Sometimes it’s best to avoid mirrors. Times like this, when my eyes stared at me accusingly, I knew I wasn’t getting anywhere fast with this case, and I didn’t need to see that in the mirror.
Little Dakota sprang to mind. I needed to update his dad. I needed to ensure there was a total media ban on this case.
Lee bounded up the stairs calling, “Ellie, they found something.”
I flung open the bathroom door. Mac stuck his head out of our bedroom door.
“What?” we said.
“You were right, he was watching.”
“Pervert,” I hissed. “Dirty-filthy-killer-pervert!”
Lee bared his teeth. “We’re sending the bug boys over all the Northern Virginia crime scenes, looking for cameras.”
“He could have returned to retrieve the camera,” I said, thinking about Sam.
“Possible,” Lee replied.
At least he wasn’t asking how I knew about him watching. I have no answers for why I know half of what I know. Right then, I knew that the missing crash victim had something to do with this case. I couldn’t prove it. I didn’t even know what the link was, but I was sure there was one.
“Okay, Lee, it’s morning; head on over to Ruby’s. Ya’ll have fun now, ya hear.”
Lee grimaced. “Fun? Getting a warrant out of Ruby?” He drawled, “Even a blind squirrel finds an acorn once in a while.”
There was no stopping the smile that spread across my face. He’d been working with me way too long.
The first thing I noticed when I stepped through the front door was the absence of rain. The rain had finally stopped. Things were looking up.
Chapter Eighteen
Good Guys Don’t Always Wear White
Caine was waiting for us outside the building. Beside him stood a man I’d never seen before. He wore dark trousers and a long stylish overcoat in black leather – the softest, most covetable, chamois – Matrix style.
“Caine.” I drawled out my version of a half-assed greeting.
“Ellie, allow me to introduce Officer Misha Praskovya.”
The man stepped forward and grasped my extended hand with both of his. “Ah, the famous Special Agent Conway. It is an honor to meet you.”
I was taken aback by his pleasing accent and enthusiastic greeting. I shook off the goldfish expression I was sure I had on my face and animated myself. “Excuse me?”
“I am honored to meet you.”
“That’s what I thought you said.” I doubt I hid my confusion at his remark too well. “That’s very nice of you.”
He laughed, making his dark blue, almost black, eyes gleam. I felt the edges of unearthliness creep in. He looked every bit as if he’d stepped off the cover of a Mills & Boon novel. A scream resounded inside my head. I didn’t do romance novels. Make it stop.
He let my hand go and turned to Mac.
I breathed again.
A car door banged and Lee hurried to join us, just in time to hear Officer Praskovya say. “Even in Russia we have heard of the beautiful Agent Conway.”
Now he’s just freaking mocking me. Mocked by a Russian: now that was a new twist on my day. How would anyone have heard of me?
Mac and Lee beamed like dorks and appeared incapable of speech. So I spoke. “You’ve heard of me?”
“Yes, you think the world hasn’t heard of you?” It was hard to tell but I think he was genuinely surprised at my reaction. Or else he was good at making fun of people. “We have heard of you and the Delta Team and, of course, your poetry prowess, the way you used the sales of your book to start the Foundation.”
Up until that moment, it had never occurred to me that we were internationally newsworthy. It was hard enough getting local media to take an interest in the Foundation.
I dismissed his comments as politely as I could, “That’s flattering I’m sure, but right now we have a pervert to interview, you’ll have to excuse us.”
I shot Caine a get-me-away-from-him look and all he did was twitch. A sneaky suspicion crept up on me. This Russian had something to do with our case. Another Russian link.
I addressed Praskovya, “Why are you here?”
“Destiny,” he replied. From inside his coat he produced a copy of our book. “May I trouble you for your autographs?”
Mac took the book, pulled out a pen and signed inside the front cover, then passed the book and pen to me. My brain was racing to fathom the situation. But even to me, standing outside a defense building, signing an autograph for a Russian officer seemed beyond extraordinary. I still didn’t have an answer! I signed the book and gave it back to Praskovya. I couldn’t see a way out of it.
I shook my head. “No, no, why are you here in front of the Defense Department building?” I resisted the urge to elaborate further by adding, ‘Why are you in my face, carrying a copy of our book?’
“Your case and my case share an overlap,” he said. Smooth didn’t describe him.
“Shall we?” Caine said, walking towards the entranceway. We followed him. I slowed to let Mac catch up and walk with me. Lee caught up with Praskovya. I had the feeling he was going to stick to him like white on rice.
We followed Caine down several corridors and finally into a fluorescent-lit, open-plan office. An armed guard stood inside the doorway. He nodded to Caine. I counted seven workstations with computers. The area was devoid of personnel.
Caine stopped at the fourth desk from the door. It faced out into the office and was unremarkable except that the computer was the only one running. He put a latex glove on, touched the mouse and cleared the screen saver. The picture on the screen was an internal view of The Butterfly Foundation website – not the public access area – but the areas we used, with access to all personal information on clients.
“Certainly looks like our perv used this machine,” I stated. Praskovya stood too close to me. I felt the warmth from his body. To say I found it disconcerting was an understatement. I moved
over so I stood closer to Mac.
“Your perv is female,” Caine replied.
“Female …” I repeated, “Does she work here?”
Praskovya spoke, “No. She borrowed an identity to get in here. She needed the use of the computers here to hide herself while she did what she needed to do.”
“Why here? I’m sure she could use another computer, one easier to access, for instance.”
“When you are on foreign soil you go where you are comfortable. She is comfortable in defense areas.”
“We know this how?”
“She’s an integral part of a case I have been working on for three years.”
“Three years? Who is she? The Jackal?” I really wished I hadn’t gone there with that comment. Visions of Bruce Willis as a fat greasy Canadian mixed with the more pleasing Richard Gere as the Irishman Declan Mulqueen. I knew who I preferred. Damn my mind and its movie-style interruptions. I wanted to dally on the Richard Gere memory but it was not the time.
“She is not Jackal. Who is this Jackal?” Praskovya said, impatience overshadowing his initial charm.
“Never mind, nineteen-nineties movie … it’s a book too, The Day of the Jackal. Frederick Forsyth wrote the original … a great read. As a state security agent, I’m surprised you haven’t read it; it’s about the attempted assignation of a European president.”
Praskovya smiled. “It is interesting inside your head, I think.”
Yeah yeah. “And how does this woman affect our case?”
Praskovya replied, “Whoever she’s trying to find has something to do with the Foundation.”
“She was found then lost again,” Caine said. “Anything about that car crash you called in a few days ago seem off to you?’
I stared at Mac. His inscrutable expression gave nothing away. I swallowed hard hoping to dislodge the lump in my throat before speaking, “Yes. The whole thing. I don’t think I wanted to believe it had something to do with us but I couldn’t shake the feeling it was about us. I was thinking Mossad originally, and obviously that was way the hell off the mark, but my next thought was Russian.”
Praskovya perched on the edge of the desk and spoke again, “Markov found her. She killed him and escaped.”
“And he was?” Apart from being the guy I tripped over in Richmond. I looked at Mac. His eyes bore the knowing look that came from listening to my ramble earlier about the Russian/New Zealander.
Praskovya continued, “Russian police working with Interpol, tracking terrorists.”
I looked at Caine. “You’re telling me there are Russians tracking someone in our country and we didn’t know about it?”
Caine glowered. “Were and we know now.”
Could it be any more complicated? The cloak and dagger shit was making my head spin. Russian police using a New Zealand passport; I was pretty sure I didn’t want to know how that came about.
I turned my attention back to Praskovya. “She’s a terrorist?”
“Yes, and more; she is finding a serial killer.”
“A terrorist looking for a serial killer? To what end?”
“Yes, looking for. We think recruitment.”
That one word transmuted my blood to arctic crystals. A terrorist wanted to recruit a serial killer. This was exactly what I needed, not! Fan-fucking-tastic.
Caine’s phone buzzed, he excused himself. When he came back he told us Officer Praskovya was working with us and would replace Sam.
It was an announcement more than anything else and there was zero room for my opinion on the subject. Caine left to get back to his meetings and paperwork.
I tried to get a handle on Misha Praskovya. Apart from the whole escapee-from-a-romance-novel thing, he seemed pleasant enough; obviously his credentials checked out and he was competent, or Caine wouldn’t drop him into my team.
He addressed Lee, “You are Lee, yes?”
Lee nodded.
“You know computers?”
Lee nodded. “Do bears shit in the woods?”
Praskovya looked confused. It took a minute for him to comprehend, then he moved right along. “Can you check the history on this machine? Can we see everything she was looking for?”
“Probably.”
“Do it now.”
Lee looked at me. I shook my head.
Praskovya repeated, “Do it now!”
I interrupted, “That’s not how it’s done here. I need the computer experts to look at this machine.” I sensed Mac smiling and could almost guarantee Lee was having a quiet smirk. Obviously, Praskovya didn’t know Mac was our resident expert in all things to do with social networking and computers. He could probably have used his skills to uncover some info from the machine in question but although Mac was with cyber, he wasn’t a computer forensics technician, which was really what we needed. I couldn’t take the chance of evidence being declared unusable for whatever reason. Best to leave it to the experts.
The Russian knocked the desk hard with his leg and the monitor wobbled. Praskovya complained, “Too much red tape: have Lee do it.”
Who the hell did he think he was? Mr. Tall Dark and Hunky couldn’t just swoop in and start ordering my team around. I needed to stop thinking of him in Mills & Boon terms before the whole scenario took over and led to my inevitable committal to a psychiatric facility.
“That’s not how it’s done,” I reminded him.
Praskovya said, “Ridiculous! Get them now.”
“Wait.” I didn’t care how pretty his Russian accent was: I wasn’t about to have orders barked at me!
In an open display of anger, he slammed a heavy sticky-tape dispenser onto the desk, “For what?”
My voice was firm and polite. “Either you wait and shut up, or you leave. This is my case.”
“You are wasting time.” He banged the dispenser onto the desktop again, the force making the monitor shake. “We must stop her.”
“I hate to burst your bubble … but she is not my main concern.”
“She is the best lead you have to your killer, and I know how she thinks.”
“Shut up.” I couldn’t think with his incessant autocratic interruptions. How could someone so annoying have such a sexy voice? Guess there’s always a redeeming quality.
I didn’t care what he knew about the woman or the Unsub. How did Caine think he was a good fit for our team? Maybe he’d had one too many blows to the head. Okay, so I did care what Mr. Tall Dark and Hunky knows about the Unsub: shoot me. Damn him and his Mills & Boon ways!
Very carefully and properly, I said, “Mac, please call in the Computer Analysis and Response Team. Use the case number; we have Priority Request Status for this case.”
Not that it actually meant anything: Priority Request Status or, as we liked to call it, Probably Really Slow.
Mac nodded and walked to the far wall with his phone.
I turned my attention to Lee, “Did you get the warrant?” He didn’t seem to be far behind us, and I knew how difficult Rubenstein liked to be.
“Sure did. He was in a good mood and I got off lightly.” Lee’s face beamed. “I’d say he was a man who’d had a good night.” He winked. “His friend looked like he-she would be right at home in a Vegas chorus line.”
Not something I wanted to think about in relation to one of our judges; good work regardless. “Good job. Execute the warrant as soon as we’re done here.”
It didn’t matter how hard I tried to ignore Praskovya. I could feel my blood boil every time he moved, which was often. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, impatiently. I hoped he’d misjudge and his feet would somehow slip out from under him. It might have happened if I’d accidentally pushed something under his feet. I looked around but couldn’t find anything to do the job. Disappointing.
Mac returned. “Ellie?”
“Mac.” I tried not to snarl. I failed. “They coming?”
“Yep, CART said to touch nothing.”
I looked at Praskovya. “You hear that? Touch nothing
.”
“Yes,” he replied, kicking the desk leg. He dropped the sticky tape dispenser and picked up a staple gun. He tapped it on the desk and fiddled about with it.
“Praskovya, who is the woman you are after?”
“Selena Vadbolski.”
Again with the familiar first name. “And she is who?”
“A terrorist.”
I knew that already. I wanted to slam the staple gun into his head. I could feel my hands shaking as I forced them not to react to the instructions coming from my irritated nervous system.
“Why would she be comfortable here?” Being comfortable and being able to borrow an identity to get into a defense department building were two different things in my mind.
“She is ex-special forces.”
Lee whispered, “Spetsnaz.”
“How does someone who is ex-Spetsnaz become a terrorist who is chasing a serial killer to recruit him?” My hands shook even more; I really had to fight to keep myself from smacking Praskovya for being such damn hard work. “How does that happen?” I jammed my hands into my jeans’ pockets to try to stop the trembling. I had a feeling I was being shoveled the biggest load of manure yet. With so much shit falling off the shovel, my roses should be exceptional this year. My mind was spinning another thread and it wasn’t something I wanted to say aloud: ‘What does it have to do with me?’
Mac grabbed my arm and whispered, “Something wrong?”
“Oh, no, nothing.” Mac squeezed my arm. I glared at him. “Nothing is wrong, I need some air.”
I curbed the urge to flounce off screaming obscenities and slamming doors in my wake. Instead, I skulked away hoping no one else noticed my annoyance. Mac knew me well enough to leave me be for a few minutes.
No one was around. I checked the intersecting corridor: empty. There was a courtyard in front of me and the door stood open. I escaped out into the fresh air. I walked around the garden. Tattered flowers struggled to bloom despite the storm’s ferociousness. The grass underfoot was sodden and squelchy. Everything had suffered in the persistent rain; at least the courtyard offered some protection from the gale-force winds. A piece of paper twirled by my feet. Why couldn’t people pick up their trash? Did they have to crap on everything? I stomped on the candy wrapper, trapping it under my boot. I picked it up, scrunched it and threw it into a trash can three feet away. Lazy fucks. I could feel profound anger rising. Why was a terrorist in a forum, communicating with a young mother in Richmond? Who the fuck killed her; who killed Dakota’s mom? Fuck! I never had a chance to read those emails.