by Eva Hudson
Ingrid sat up. “Really?”
“Let’s just see, shall we? Now,” she swatted a bee from in front of her face, “you better tell me what was in those photos.”
Ingrid jangled with nerves. He was probably after the bike. Maybe he was the scout and the guy with the refrigerated van would pull up shortly. Motorcycle thieves always used refrigerated vans as the insulation isolated the GPS trackers from surveillance.
“The photos,” McKittrick prompted.
Ingrid told her about the skylark and the starling, the Post-its and the birthday cake, but left out any mention of Mulroony and the fact she’d found the camera in the ceiling void.
“Is this some promotion assignment?” Natasha asked. “Is this how the FBI works out who should get a corner office these days?”
A pastel-colored Fiat 500 turned onto West Park. Both women watched as is slowed and searched for a parking space.
“And you really don’t know who’s set you this little challenge?”
Ingrid grunted in the negative.
“It sounds like you’re in an episode of the Nancy Drew Mysteries,” McKittrick said. “Or whatever that show was called. You’d think I’d remember, given it was almost entirely responsible for me wanting to become a detective.” She glanced down at her phone to check it was still recording. “And this roll of film was just left on your desk?”
“Pretty much,” Ingrid lied.
“You think it’s a really elaborate treasure hunt and at the end of it is Ralph Mills holding a diamond engagement ring?”
Ingrid couldn’t be bothered to repeat that he was married, and happily so. It wasn’t even worth mentioning that her romantic feelings for Ralph hadn’t registered on the Richter scale for a very long time. “I don’t know where it’s leading,” Ingrid said. “But I’m intrigued enough to follow.”
A woman in her thirties got out of the Fiat, beeped it locked, and walked briskly toward number thirty-six. She reached into her shoulder bag and pulled something out. Keys, most likely. Ingrid wished she had binoculars, but they weren’t the sort of thing you took to the park if you wanted to look like a regular sunbather.
“You think this might be O’Shaughnessy?” Natasha asked.
Ingrid was concentrating too hard to reply. The woman kept her head down, adjusting the strap of her bag as she walked. She glanced up at number thirty-six, then walked straight past it, opening the gate of the neighboring house before putting a key in its front door.
“Disappointing,” McKittrick said, picking up her phone. She tapped the screen a few times, then pressed play on the footage she’d just recorded. “Want to look at this with me?” She held it out for Ingrid to see, and Ingrid kept switching her gaze between the phone and the house, not really concentrating on either.
“Well, honey, I’d say you’ve got a fan. Or perhaps a stalker.”
Ingrid glanced at McKittrick. “Really?”
McKittrick picked at something in her teeth with her tongue. “What gives, Nancy Drew? Should I be calling 9-9-9?”
Ingrid snatched the phone, zoomed in, and studied the man in the car. “I’ve got absolutely no idea who he is.”
“You and I both know that doesn’t mean you don’t know why he’s here.”
“Well, it must be the bike, mustn’t it?”
“He can keep an eye on your precious steed sitting on a park bench,” McKittrick said. “There’s a reason he’s sweating inside a tin can on a day like today.”
Ingrid knew she was right. She scrambled to her feet and handed the sarong back to McKittrick. She picked up her helmet. “Watch the house for me.”
“Sod that, I’ll be keeping my eye on you.” She gestured with her phone. “And my finger will be hovering over the nine.”
Ingrid strode across the scrubby park, gripping the chin guard of her helmet, ready to swing it at the man’s jaw. She pulled her phone out of her pocket and called Zeke on speed dial. She got his recorded message. “Zeke, it’s me. The moment you get a chance can you run a check on a black Nissan Qashqai, license plate GA07 PPL. Call me right back.” She didn’t miss a step as she slid the phone into her back pocket and approached the edge of the park. She jumped over the low wooden fence and walked straight to her Ducati. She ran a protective hand over its curves, then carried on toward the Nissan. The driver was white, male, zipped up tee, forties. Retro rockabilly hairstyle. She was close enough now to see his eyes were wide. He fumbled with the ignition. Ingrid picked up speed, crossing the road in three strides. She tapped on the passenger window. The motor thrummed into life. He glanced in the rearview mirror, refusing to look at her, and turned the wheel. The hot tires squeaked on the melting blacktop. Ingrid jumped back as he pulled away, but not before she saw what was on the passenger seat.
A photo of her. One she was very familiar with. It was the same image used on her security pass at the embassy.
20
Ingrid arrived back at the embassy, desperate for the air conditioning in her office. She mentally abandoned thoughts of an evening run—way too hot—and instead planned on doing fifty laps of the Hilton pool.
“Oh, hello.” Ingrid pulled up at the sight of a forty-something woman sitting at Jen’s old desk. She dumped her bike gear in her locker. “You don’t look like Zeke.”
The woman stood up. She had broad features that hinted at a native American heritage and there was something of the grade school teacher about her. Homely. Ingrid imagined her baking on the weekends and reading Daisy Steiner books in the evenings. “Libby Greenwood.” She extended a hand. “Your new assistant.”
“What happened to Zeke?” She shook Libby’s hand.
“Ezekiel? I believe HR said there was an issue with his work permit.”
“Really?” Ingrid couldn’t believe she’d lost another assistant. She’d really liked Zeke. At least it hadn’t been anything to do with his epilepsy. She tugged at the damp fabric of her tee, suddenly feeling red-faced and sweaty. “Sorry, I’m not making a good first impression, am I? It’s too hot to wear anything more under the leathers.”
Libby looked at her like she’d just crawled out of a swamp.
“I have a change of clothes in my locker.” Ingrid pulled out a shirt and a pair of slacks. “I’m Ingrid, by the way. But you probably already know that.” She emptied her pockets and placed her phone and wallet on the desk. “That sounds like a Boston accent.”
“You are correct.”
“With those vowels, I’m guessing you can’t have been in the UK all that long.”
Libby looked at the clock on the wall. “About sixteen hours.”
Ingrid nodded at Libby’s computer. “And you already have access to the system?”
“Correct. HR gave me a sign in.”
“Did you also get the tour of the building?”
“No, ma’am.”
Ingrid bristled. “Just call me Ingrid. We can arrange a tour for later in the week. Have we met before?” Ingrid yanked off her tee and quickly threw on the shirt.
“I don’t think our paths have crossed.” Libby perched on the edge of her desk.
“I thought we might have worked together before.” Ingrid slipped out of her shorts behind the privacy of her desk. “You’re slightly familiar. You work in Cleveland?”
“No, just Burlington, then Boston. Then DC.”
“Ah, that’s probably where I’ve seen you. I spent four years in DC.” Ingrid zipped up her pants. She decided to stay barefoot to let her feet cool down.
“Which squad?” Libby asked.
“VCAC.”
Libby winced. “That must have been tough.”
Ingrid pressed the start button on her computer. “It was. I think four years is the limit for most agents working violent crimes against children.”
Having taken Zeke through the role already, Ingrid didn’t much relish the prospect of inducting another assistant into the labyrinthine ways of the Criminal Division. “Listen, I’m really sorry, but I flat out don’
t have time to take you through everything right now. I have an appointment I just can’t miss.” She scanned her emails and instantly saw three things that demanded immediate replies. Even they would have to wait. “Can you do something for me?”
“That’s what I’m here for.”
“I left a message on Zeke’s phone, yours now, I guess, about an hour ago. A request for a license plate. Can you look into that for me?”
“Sure.” Libby looked at the phone and its complicated console of lights and colored buttons.
Ingrid saw her confusion.
“Press the orange button then, when you hear the tone, dial eight for the messages. Then you’ll need a code.” Ingrid thought for a second. She’d only been through this a week ago. They chose Zeke’s starting date. “Zero-seven-one-one. Then it’s the regular one to repeat, two to save, three to delete.”
Libby picked up the receiver while Ingrid gathered together her notebook, Dictaphone, pens and anything else she might conceivably need for her meeting.
“Oh, shoot.”
Ingrid turned sharply, her eyes wide. Libby was pressing buttons on the phone’s keypad. Dread rippled over Ingrid’s skin.
“I’m so sorry,” Libby said. “I know you said one to repeat but I must have fat fingers.” She held the phone to her chest. “I can’t believe I did that.”
“You deleted the message?”
Libby closed her eyes slowly and kept them closed. “Yes, ma’am. Now I’m the one not making a good impression. Can I call IT? Can they recover it?”
“You can try.” Ingrid tried to remember what she could about the Nissan. She really needed to get going. “If they can’t, call the Met—”
“The opera?”
“The Metropolitan Police.”
“Ah.”
Ingrid scurried over to Libby’s desk. “Somewhere here are the codes you need.” She scanned the documents in a neat stack in one corner. “I think this is it.” She handed Libby a laminated sheet. “You ask for the ANPR team–”
“ANPR?”
Ingrid felt herself getting wound up. She didn’t have time for this. “Automatic number plate recognition. They’re number plates here, not license plates.”
“Okay.”
“You’ll be asked for one of these authorization codes.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And ask them to trace a black Nissan Qashqai—”
“How are you spelling that?”
“Google it.”
“Okay.” Libby sounded defensive; Ingrid realized she was getting snappy.
“License plate—”
“Number plate.” Libby smiled.
“Number plate ends with PPL, I remember that, on or around West Park, E16 about an hour ago.” Ingrid inhaled deeply. “Think of it as a little test.”
“What’s ‘E16’?”
“A zip code. The Brits call them postcodes.”
“I have a lot to learn.”
Ingrid scooted back to her own desk and picked up the copy of the Evening News Zeke had gotten hold of. “I’ve got another little task for you.”
“Name it.”
“There’s an article in here,” Ingrid thrust the newspaper at Libby, “about a party at a nightclub called Mojito Joes.”
Libby saw the paper was five years old, and drew her lips into a tight circle.
“Can you find out everything you can about the club, who owns it, who goes there, and then compile a report on everyone the article mentions attended that event.” Ingrid checked she had everything she needed in her shoulder bag and then slipped her feet into the shoes under her desk.
“Anything in particular you’re interested in?”
Ingrid slung her bag over her shoulder. “Hmm. Yes, actually. See if anyone’s got any ties to Russia.”
Libby smiled at her. “You need me to log this on the system? Tie it to an investigation? Or a case file?”
“Oh, wow, that would be very efficient.” Ingrid was a little taken aback. She checked her phone—still no reply from Sol—then placed it in her bag. “But, um, no. Just email it to me. It’s background,” Ingrid said. “I’ll get in early tomorrow, walk you through everything.”
Ingrid checked her watch. If she could hail a cab right outside, she had a few minutes to spare before her meeting with Andy Scott MP, the Secretary of State for Justice. It was normally a position held by an MP who was also a qualified lawyer, but he was the first former police officer appointed to the role. She now had so much more to ask him about Mulroony than when she’d made the appointment, she wasn’t quite sure where to start. He had made it clear he could only give her ten minutes. In her experience, that was enough time to get answers to two questions. She had the cab ride to figure out which two.
Ingrid glanced up at the TV monitors hanging from the ceiling above the bullpen desks, her eye drawn to the feed from KEIS. The Minnesota channel was making a lot of money on the James Jones trial. She pitied the reporter who had to do live feeds to multiple news outlets every hour, especially when the court wasn’t even in session and there was nothing new to report. But on the off chance he had something new to say, Ingrid lingered for a moment until she decided to visit the restroom before she left. As she turned, she saw Agent Munsden walking toward her. She did the mental arithmetic. If it was a quick conversation, and if the taxi driver knew the way, she would still make her meeting.
“Sir?”
Munsden smiled at her. “Skyberg.”
“You got two minutes?”
Never one for unnecessary words, Munsden opened up a palm and indicated they should step to one side. Ingrid, suddenly nervous, realized she didn’t know what she was about to say.
Peter Munsden was in his last job before retirement. His average height and unremarkable face made him the worst sort of human to place under surveillance. He blended in to every crowd. However, the very characteristics that made him so bland had also made him one of the bureau’s best undercover agents. He was a chameleon who didn’t look out of place in the royal box at Wimbledon, or on a construction site, and he had a reputation as a diligent and determined agent.
“I have found something that may relate to the work of my predecessor, Dennis Mulroony.”
His features didn’t move. Everyone else pulled a face at the mention of Voldemort’s name. Either Munsden had the best poker face in history, or he’d never heard of Mulroony. He said nothing.
Ingrid searched for the right words. “I may have evidence that relates to his activities.” Ingrid was trying to be discrete in such a public space.
“Okay.” Munsden’s tone suggested he didn’t understand why she was telling him this information.
“Sir, do you know who Dennis Mulroony was?”
“Can’t say I ever heard of the fella.”
Ingrid sighed. “Sir, can we speak privately?”
“I’m on my way to a meeting. Is this not something for DeWalt?”
Maybe it was. At least DeWalt had heard of Mulroony. “Sure,” Ingrid said. Her posture softened. She could almost physically feel the opportunity slipping from her grasp. “Sorry to have taken up your time.”
Ingrid dug her fingernails into her palms and silently howled. Could that have gone any worse? She checked the clock. There was no time to visit the restroom. She saw the elevator doors were open so she ran down the corridor.
“Damn.” They closed just as she reached them, so she turned for the stairs. The ding of the second car arriving made her turn back, and she jumped inside.
“Off anywhere exciting?” DeWalt asked, striding into the elevator behind her. He had an iPad in one hand and straightened his tie with the other in the polished steel plate housing the call buttons.
“Ministry of Justice,” she said. “You look smart. Who are you meeting?”
“The deputy ambassador. You must have done this plenty of times when you covered this job.” He glanced at her. “Sorry. That sounded snarky, like I got the job and you didn’t. I didn’t m
ean it that way.” He pressed for the sixth floor.
“I hadn’t noticed.” She had, but she believed he hadn’t meant any offense. DeWalt wasn’t that kind of guy. “You’re going up?”
DeWalt pressed six again, then ground. “Sorry. You’re in a rush, aren’t you?”
The car lurched upward, then stopped.
“Please tell me…” Ingrid couldn’t even bring herself to finish her sentence.
DeWalt pressed the six button again. Nothing happened. “Do you think we’re stuck?” he asked.
“I really need to get to my meeting. It was the only window he had.” A circle of heat bloomed around her neck. “Can I?” Ingrid jabbed the button for the lobby. Several times. Then she pressed the alarm button. “What’s supposed to happen when you press this?”
DeWalt’s face rumpled. “I, er, I don’t know. I’ve never had to use it. You think a light flashes on the reception desk? Or in the maintenance department?”
Ingrid pulled her phone out of her bag.
“That won’t work in here,” DeWalt said. “At least mine never has. Something to do with them being iron cages.”
“Really?”
“That’s what someone told me. Apparently it’s common with buildings this old.”
She checked her phone. He was right. No service. “So, what? We just wait?” Ingrid ran a hand through her hair. Her scalp was already damp with sweat. “And we can’t even get a message out?”
DeWalt leaned heavily against the metal wall. “It took them four hours to rescue people last Tuesday.”
“You are kidding?” There was no disguising the alarm in her voice.
“Surely you can rearrange?”
“He said it was the only slot. It’s Andy Scott, the Secretary of State. He’s off to some intergalactic pow wow of justice ministers in two hours.”
“I remember Andy,” DeWalt said. “Worked with him off and on when he was doing counter-terrorism at the Met. What are you talking to him about?”
Ingrid saw him mentally scroll through the caseload he knew she had. Was now the time to level with him about Mulroony, even though Sol had expressly urged her not to? “It’s an old case,” she said, vaguely. “Scott used to be the Met’s point man for my division.”