Look Twice (Ingrid Skyberg Book 8)

by Eva Hudson

  “Pretty shit right now.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s to be expected.”

  Ingrid leaned back, tilting her face to the dark sky and silently screamed.

  “What’s your hunch?” Sol asked. “You still think DeWalt’s the real Skylark? Or do you think Skylark has killed again?”

  She looked over at the spot where the black Nissan Qashqai had been parked. Her head rocked slowly with disbelief. She thought she had figured it out, that DeWalt was Skylark, that he’d framed Mulroony, and that he’d given her embassy ID photo to someone who would silence her, then used his Met contacts to ensure she got shot. “I don’t think I know anything anymore, Sol.” She wiped away a tear—she hadn’t even realized she’d been crying—and sniffed hard. “I mean, if he is, was, a Russian agent, then who killed him? The CIA? MI5?”

  “Or maybe the Kremlin?” Sol offered. “Perhaps they sensed the heat you’d generated and thought he’d served his usefulness? Better to silence him than have him confess.”

  “Oh, don’t worry, I’ve already been thinking that it was me who got him killed.”

  “Well, if you did,” Sol said, “it was because he was a Russian spy.”

  Ingrid sighed. “Right now, he was mostly a dad.” She looked at Lisa’s house and felt a stab of pain in her chest.

  “So,” Sol said.

  “So?”

  “So, I’m sending you something.”

  She really didn’t need flowers.

  “Don’t worry, it isn’t flowers. It’ll be in the office in the morning.”

  It took Ingrid three hours to walk back to her hotel. Ten miles through London streets she’d never been down before and would likely never see again. She was at St Paul’s when the first drops of rain fell, releasing a sweetness from the leaves that the trees had been holding onto for weeks. Rain was such a novelty that people stood under store awnings and gawked at the water like tourists staring at the aurora borealis.

  By the time she made it to Trafalgar Square, even her bra was soaked through, but when she finally reached the lobby of the Hilton at twelve fifteen she was almost dry. A brief summer shower that most people in the city would never know a thing about.

  When she woke, her calves ached. Running ten miles would have done less damage—she’d have worn the correct footwear for starters—so she joined the hotel’s morning yoga class and arrived a little later than usual at the office. When she emerged from the stairwell into the FBI’s suite of offices, the silence told her everyone already knew about DeWalt. As she walked the short corridor to the bullpen, she only heard one voice, and it was one she hadn’t heard in years.

  The entire Legal Attaché team was in the bullpen listening to Marsha Gibson, one of Ingrid’s instructors from Quantico, give a speech. Marsha noticed Ingrid’s arrival and smiled at her.

  Ingrid almost had to catch her breath at the shock of seeing Marsha again. She’d always known it would happen sometime, but Ingrid had thought they would meet at a training retreat or refresher course. Seeing Marsha in London was so… Ingrid reached for the right word. Unexpected? Unsettling?

  The rest of the team seemed as captivated by her as Ingrid had been at Quantico, listening to her talk in virtual silence. Marsha had always been gorgeous, but the extra years suited her. She had more definition in her face than Ingrid remembered, and more definition in her hips too. The muscularity she’d displayed in her thirties had become sinewy in her forties, and she wore a simple white blouse and tailored black pants with catwalk grace.

  “I know you’re all hurting today, so be kind to yourselves, okay? The Metropolitan Police are going to be here at nine a.m. and they’re going to want to speak to as many of you as possible. Some of you might know something that will help their inquiry, or something that would be of comfort to Jacob’s kids.”

  Ingrid looked over at Sam Sherbourne. He looked like he’d just been given a terminal diagnosis. Clearly, Lisa hadn’t called him last night. If Ingrid had been carrying her regular phone on her, she would have done so, and now it looked weird that she hadn’t. Ingrid scanned the ashen faces of her co-workers until her gaze rested on one in particular. Libby’s. She dabbed at her streaming eyes with a handkerchief as her bottom lip quivered. Ingrid took her anguish as confirmation that Libby had not only worked with DeWalt in Burlington, but was the girlfriend O’Shaughnessy had mentioned.

  “If any of you want to come and talk to me, my door—Jacob’s door—will be open,” Marsha said. “I’m going to do my best to get up to speed on your assignments and investigations, but I’ll end by saying that I would have been delighted to have been posted to London under any other circumstances. I look forward to getting to know you all.”

  The crowd dissipated, their chatter rising like steam from coffee, and they slunk away to their rooms and cubicles. Half the team headed for the commissary. Ingrid followed Libby into the criminal division, but before she got there, Marsha called out. “Ingrid!”

  Ingrid turned back to see that Marsha was smiling nervously.

  “I have something for you.”

  The closer Ingrid got, the harder she found it to maintain eye contact. How was it that Marsha still made her feel awkward after all this time? Ingrid didn’t know how to say hello. Did they shake hands? Kiss on the cheek? Embrace? They settled on a mutual nod. “Well, this is a surprise,” Ingrid said.

  “A good one, I hope.”

  A memory of a hotel room in Virginia danced through Ingrid’s thoughts. “Of course. You’re replacing DeWalt?”

  “Temporarily.” She was holding an envelope. It had been folded several times and the corners were turned and scuffed. Their hands touched as Ingrid took the letter, sending fire leaping up her arms and into her chest. There was a single handwritten word on the envelope: Skyberg. The tail of the Y had a distinctive loop. She looked up at Marsha’s soft brown eyes and her mouth opened slightly. Ingrid ripped it open.

  She knows everything. You can trust her.

  Sol

  “Later?” Marsha said. “Tonight?”

  Ingrid’s mouth was parched and she couldn’t answer.

  “Tonight?” Marsha repeated.

  Ingrid nodded. On her way back to her office, she passed the bulletin board where she had pinned the photocopy. She looked down at the envelope. Skyberg. Skylark. It was the same loop on the Y. Sol had identified the skylark. The room seemed to melt, the floor to undulate. He told her he had been sent to dissuade her from investigating. Yet, by naming the skylark, he had ensured she kept pushing. Ingrid held a hand against the wall to steady herself.

  When the room stopped spinning, she returned the note to the envelope and put it in her pocket. She stood in the doorway to her office and observed Libby, who sat looking straight ahead, tears falling. Ingrid closed the door behind her and approached Libby’s desk. “You were close, huh?”

  Libby looked up at her, the movement of her eyes releasing another cascade of tears.

  “You worked together in Burlington?”

  Libby nodded.

  “You know, that’s Jen’s old desk. I’m willing to bet a hundred bucks there’s a box of Kleenex in the bottom drawer.” She walked around to Libby’s side of the desk and crouched down. “I think they’re in here.” She handed Libby the box then leaned against the edge of the desk. “When did you last speak to him? To DeWalt?”

  Libby wiped her nose. “Yesterday afternoon. We had plans to catch up, but he called to cancel.”

  “How did he seem?”

  Libby glanced toward the ceiling to blink back her tears. “Not suicidal, if that’s what you mean.”

  “You don’t think he killed himself?”

  “I don’t think he could have.” Libby dabbed her eyes. “You know much about his divorce?”

  “No, can’t say I do.”

  “Well, I don’t know another man who fought so hard to stay close to his kids.” She shook her head. “There ain’t no way he’d walk out on those boys.”

  I
ngrid crossed her arms. “Or you?”

  Libby’s head whipped round and she studied Ingrid.

  “Isn’t that why you came to London? For him?”

  Libby let out a gasp. “It was that obvious?”

  Ingrid shook her head. “No. I only guessed because he said something about ice cream.”

  Libby smiled. “Rocky Road?”

  “Yep, that’s the one.”

  “Man, he loved him some Rocky Road.” Her lip trembled and then the tears came again. Ingrid let her cry. Touching Libby’s shoulder felt too intimate. Instead, she chose proximity to demonstrate her solidarity and stayed at Libby’s side like a Labrador. “We dated way back when. Past couple years we’ve been talking a lot on the phone. And now my youngest is starting college—”

  “Your youngest?”

  Libby managed a smile. “I had my two early. So, me and Jacob thought we’d see if we had what it took.” Libby’s chest seemed to empty out, and she fell forward. Her head dropped.

  “Oh, Libby, I am so sorry.” She probably wasn’t even over the jetlag, and the reason she had come to London was in a police morgue. “When the Met get here, you do know they’ll want to talk to you. They’ll have a record of the call between you yesterday afternoon.”

  Libby nodded and wiped her nose again.

  “Did DeWalt say why he was canceling your meetup yesterday?”

  Libby shot her a look. “He wasn’t canceling. He was rearranging.”

  “Of course. That was thoughtless of me.”

  Libby knew she had snapped. “He just said it was work.” She sat a little straighter. “Work seems to have been real tough for him the past two weeks. You used to do his job. Do you know why things suddenly got so bad for him? I was going to move into his place, but the day before I flew, he said he’d asked the relocation team to get me a hotel. Said he was working all hours and with the jetlag and everything, he said a hotel was a good idea.” Libby looked up at Ingrid. “I know what you’re thinking. That he had someone else, but I’ve been to his apartment several times. There was only one toothbrush there. No long blond hairs on the couch.”

  Ingrid grimaced. “I promise you, I wasn’t thinking that. And, no, I don’t know why things might have been different for the past two weeks.” Apart from the fact he seemed to know I thought he was a spy. Ingrid looked at her hands. “He might have mentioned something about Russia,” she ventured, hoping Libby might take the bait. “He say anything to you?”

  Libby’s eyebrows knitted. “Russia? No. He said he was getting a lot of pressure from ‘the powers that be’.”

  “Washington?”

  Libby wrinkled her nose. “No, no. Someone in London.” Libby pulled out another tissue from the box. “You think he was caught up in something?”

  “I, er.” Ingrid didn’t know what to say.

  “He said he had to do what he was told.” Libby’s Adam’s apple moved as she swallowed. “One thing about Jacob DeWalt, if you know him well, is you should never tell him what to do. Stubborn as a goddamn mule.”

  The phone rang on Ingrid’s desk. She crossed the office and picked up. “Agent Skyberg.”

  There was a delay on the line. “Skyberg? I was expecting Skylark.”

  30

  Ingrid needed to think fast.

  “Where are you?” she said.

  “Um, ah. The Sofitel. At Heathrow.” He sounded confused. “Who is this, please?”

  “You called me. You know what number you dialed?” The change in her tone had stopped Libby’s tears.

  “The US embassy? Correct?”

  “You know who I am?” Ingrid grabbed a notebook and pen.

  “You said your name was Sky-something.” He had an Australian accent.

  “And you are?”

  “James McAvenny. I’m a journalist with the Sydney Morning Herald.”

  “Well, James, I’ll need verification of that. I’m sending a car for you. Make sure you’ve got your ID and paperwork and I’ll see you in an hour.” Ingrid ended the call, then dialed the garage. She ordered a car to collect McAvenny before phoning the front desk and requesting access to the immigration interview rooms.

  “What’s happening?” Libby asked.

  Ingrid wasn’t sure if she should level with her. “An informant just made contact. I need to set up a secure interview.”

  “Anything I can do to help?”

  Ingrid tipped her head to one side. “I think you’ve got enough to deal with right now. Maybe you should take the rest of the day off?” Ingrid realized she didn’t want Libby around. After the deletion of the phone message, and her loyalty to DeWalt, she wasn’t sure if she could trust her.

  Libby shrugged. “And spend the day in my hotel room? I’d rather be here.”

  “Of course.” Ingrid attempted to keep the disappointment from her voice. “Is there anyone I can call for you? Anything you need?” She knew her tone sounded artificial.

  Libby looked blank. “I have no idea.”

  “Well, if you think of anything…” Her priority was now the arrival of Mr. McAvenny, but something Libby said had sunk its teeth into her and was rattling her like a dog with a chew toy. “Listen, what you just said about DeWalt, about Jacob, getting pressure from ‘the powers that be’, you know the Met are going to want to know details?” Ingrid leaned forward, propped up an elbow on her desk and rested her chin in her hand. “Do you remember anything else?”

  Libby closed her eyes and kept them shut for several seconds. When she opened them, she focused on Ingrid, assessing her. Her head began to nod slowly. “You want to close the door?”

  Surprised, Ingrid got to her feet and gently pressed the door shut. She returned to her own desk. “What is it?”

  Libby’s face hardened. “How do I know I can trust you?”

  Ingrid was a little taken aback. “I’m an FBI agent. I’ve taken oaths.”

  “People break promises all the time.” Libby shredded the Kleenex and rolled the shreds into tiny white balls. “Two weeks ago, I was at home in Boston getting on with my life. Ten days ago, he says he needs me. A week ago, I’m on a plane. I thought he couldn’t live without me.” She ran a finger under an eye. “Now it turns out I’m just an old fool who thought he still loved me.”

  Ingrid wasn’t following. “Libby? What did DeWalt say, exactly?”

  Her features were cold. “He wanted me to spy on a spy.”

  Ingrid took a sharp intake of breath. “Me?”

  Libby nodded very slowly. “Yes.” The final ‘s’ hissed like a snake’s. “So now I’m thinking you got him killed. So, Agent Skyberg, what do you think I should say to the police now?”

  Ingrid maintained eye contact as she picked up the phone. She dialed an internal number. “Hi, it’s me. Can you come to my office?” Ingrid replaced the receiver slowly, then stood up. “First things first, you’re going to find out soon enough that I was at DeWalt’s building when he died. I saw him fall.”

  Libby gasped. She covered her mouth with her hand.

  Ingrid leaned against the edge of her desk “I was there because I thought he was the spy. I’ve been working on something and he’s been stalling on me.”

  Libby’s face crumpled. “I- I don’t understand.”

  Ingrid folded her arms. “The night before last, at the Tilbury raid, I thought he had tried to get me killed. I went to his home to confront him, but I never—”

  “Got the chance.” Libby finished Ingrid’s sentence. “Is that why you asked about Russia?”

  There was a light knock on the door, and it opened slowly. Marsha Gibson popped her smiling face through the gap. She had reapplied her lipstick and tidied her hair. When she saw Libby’s tear-stained face, Marsha’s smile contracted. “What’s going on?”

  Ingrid turned her attention to Libby. “Did he say something about Russia?”

  She shook her head. “No. Never.”

  Marsha closed the door. “I’ll say it again, what’s going on?”

>   Ingrid’s mouth slanted into a half-smile. “You want to take a seat?”

  Marsha sat in Ingrid’s chair. “I’m listening.”

  Ingrid paced as she talked. “Have you two met, by the way?”

  Marsha raised a shoulder. “No, no, I don’t think so. I’m Marsha Gibson.”

  “I heard as much when you gave your little speech.” Libby sounded hostile. “Libby Greenwood.”

  Ingrid picked up pen and started twiddling it between her fingers. “First things first,” she said, “Libby’s only been here a week. DeWalt asked her to come work with me.”

  “Okay.” Marsha watched Ingrid as she walked.

  “To spy on me. Libby was in a relationship with DeWalt.”

  Marsha’s eyebrows shot up. “Okay,” she said again.

  “Libby thinks I’m the spy. And, she thinks I got him killed.”

  “Ah.” Marsha turned to Libby. “Please excuse us for one second.” She gestured for Ingrid to join her in a corner of the room. “Shall we?”

  “You trust her?” Marsha whispered, her head bowed next to Ingrid’s.

  “Nope, not really.” Ingrid felt Marsha’s breath on her cheek. “I don’t think we like one another very much. But she thought I was a spy, so go figure.”

  “You think she knows who killed DeWalt?”

  “I honestly don’t think so.” Ingrid looked up into Marsha’s wide brown eyes. “There’s something else.”

  “Yes?”

  “I need you to second chair an interview in about forty minutes.”

  “Who’s the suspect?”

  “Someone who just called and asked for Skylark.”

  Marsha’s eyes widened. She took Ingrid’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “Okay, then. Let’s deal with Libby.” Marsha straightened up and turned. “Libby, I’m very sorry for your loss. I appreciate that today you’re going to find it hard to focus, but I think there’s a good chance you may know why Jacob DeWalt died yesterday.” She perched on the edge of Libby’s desk. “I want to ask you some questions. Is that okay?”