Scorched

by Laura Griffin

  “Spill it. I’m good at this.”

  “I don’t have any confessions. I just—” She closed her eyes. “Let’s just say it was a shitty day.”

  She glanced up at him. His expression was serious now and she looked down at her glass.

  “I’ve never seen a man die before. It was—” She swallowed the lump in her throat and glanced up at him. What on earth was she saying? She was talking to a combat veteran. She closed her eyes and sighed.

  “Hey.”

  She looked down at his hand, which now covered hers on the bar.

  “Don’t do that to yourself. He deserved what he got.”

  She looked away.

  “Man stepped in front of a truck. That’s way better than he deserved, if you ask me. He killed himself.”

  “If I’d arrested him successfully, he’d still be alive.”

  Derek shook his head, and she watched him, wanting him to talk her out of her depression over this. She couldn’t get that sickening thud out of her head.

  “Trent Lohman had one of the best law-enforcement jobs in the world. He was part of an elite group. He blew it.”

  She looked at him, and part of her knew he was right. But she still felt guilty.

  Derek leaned closer. “He carried a badge and a gun. People trusted him, respected him. He deceived and manipulated people, probably right up to the end.”

  Elizabeth drew back.

  “Am I right?”

  She fiddled with the glass, turning it on the bar.

  “What’d he do, try to talk you out of it? Try to cut you in on his deal?”

  She cleared her throat. He called my bluff, she wanted to say. But she didn’t say that because she didn’t want it to be true. Maybe it wasn’t true. Maybe she really would have arrested him if he hadn’t run. She definitely would have tried. Would she have succeeded? She wasn’t sure. And that was what haunted her. All that training—months and months of it—and when the stakes were high, she hadn’t even been able to make a simple apprehension.

  She closed her eyes. To her complete mortification, she felt tears forming. He patted her hand, and some of the tears leaked out.

  “God.” She laughed nervously and swiped her cheeks. “I’m sure this is exactly what you wanted to do tonight. How’s that leave working out for you?”

  “Yeah, it’s been eventful.”

  “Driving to Utah,” she said. “Running through alleyways. Spending hours locked in a car with Frost.”

  “Hey, Vernon and I are pals now. He didn’t tell you?”

  “Really?”

  “Nah, not really. He hardly said a word to me all morning. And I have to say, I would have much rather you’d been the one to slap those cuffs on. But, all in all, my leave hasn’t been bad. I’ve gotten to end it having drinks with a beautiful woman.”

  She snorted.

  “What?” He pretended to be offended.

  “You SEALs are tenacious.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  She smiled and took a sip. She was feeling a little better, actually. Her shoulders were starting to loosen, and she felt warm all over. She knew it was the Tanqueray. But it was also the man. He was way too cocky and an outrageous flirt, but somehow he made her feel better.

  “Why are you being so nice to me?” she asked.

  “Nice?”

  “I mean, besides the obvious.”

  He leaned an elbow comfortably against the bar. “What’s obvious?”

  She rolled her eyes.

  “You know, you’re very cynical about men.”

  “Sorry. I don’t mean to be a bitch.”

  “No, it’s good. I should get you to talk to my little sisters. The bullshit-detector gene totally missed them. Scares the hell out of me.”

  She smiled. He’d just admitted he’d been bullshitting her this whole evening. At least that’s what she thought he’d just admitted. Her brain felt a little fuzzy. Actually, a lot fuzzy.

  She leaned down and picked up her purse from the floor and pulled some money out.

  “You don’t want to finish that drink?”

  “I’ve had enough.” She stood up and caught herself on the bar. He grabbed her elbow but didn’t make a big deal about it as he pulled out his wallet and left money on the bar. Nice tipper. It was right up there with good teeth on her mom’s top-ten list.

  Go home, Elizabeth.

  She made it to the door with impressive poise and stepped out into the damp night air. A view of the bay was visible between two buildings, and she noticed the lights of the bridge poking up through the fog.

  The fog comes on little cat feet.

  “What’s that?”

  She glanced up at him. Had she said that out loud? It was definitely time to go if she was reciting poetry. She glanced up and down the street.

  “Where’s your car?”

  She looked up at him.

  “Not that I’m not suggesting you drive anywhere.” He put his hand on the small of her back and guided her toward the direction they’d come from.

  “So you’re just wondering . . . ?”

  “I like to gather as much intel as possible at all times.”

  A little warning bell went off in her brain. So he can close in on the target.

  “Think I’ll cab it,” she said.

  “Where’re you staying?”

  Good question. “Uh—”

  “I’m over at the Dragon Inn.” He nodded across the street at a rundown-looking motel.

  “Yeah, right.”

  “Seriously.”

  She glanced at the motel again. It was a tall and narrow brick building with a tall and narrow sign out front in red neon.

  “You are not staying there.”

  “Sure I am.”

  “It says ‘No Vacancy.’”

  “I got their last room.” He stepped closer, and his broad shoulders blocked out the streetlights. Elizabeth’s heart started to pound as she gazed up at him. The breeze whipped into her jacket and pressed her blouse against her skin, but she felt the heat of him right in front of her. He reached down and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “Want to share it with me?”

  Her throat went dry. Before her brain could form a response, he leaned down and kissed her mouth, very lightly.

  She didn’t move. She gazed up into those dark eyes and felt a magnetic pull. She imagined what that three-day beard would feel like against her bare skin, and her heart started to pound even faster. But then she imagined him getting up in the morning and leaving without a backward glance.

  “Come on,” he whispered, and through the haze she felt that pull again. “Say yes.”

  CHAPTER 23

  Kelsey’s eyes opened at the sound of the phone, but she’d already been awake. For the past hour, she’d been lying there with Gage’s arm draped over her waist, waiting for the inevitable number to appear on the clock.

  Gage sat up and switched on the lamp. “Where is that?”

  “My purse.”

  He dragged her purse off the chair and pulled the phone out. He looked at her. “Ben.” She reached across him but he answered it. “Yeah.” He looked at her again. “She’s right here.”

  Kelsey gave him a reproachful look as he handed her the phone and got out of bed.

  “Hi, Ben. What’s up?”

  “Sorry to wake you.” He sounded miffed. “Some interesting developments this morning.”

  She looked at the clock. It was 5:20, so that meant 7:20 at the Delphi Center. He was in early.

  “I did a phone dump and a credit-card check for Trent Lohman.”

  “Trent Lohman’s dead.”

  “I know. I talked to Gordon Moore. But listen to this. You want to hear what his second-to-last credit-card purchase was before his death?”

  Kelsey sighed. “What?”

  “An economy-class plane ticket for July fourteenth that goes from Washington-Dulles Airport, through New York–LaGuardia, and then on to Hong Kong.”
>
  She brushed her hair out of her eyes and tried to orient herself. “That’s in two weeks.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, that makes sense, right? Did Gordon tell you about the Hong Kong bank account? He was probably going there to get his money.”

  “Yeah, I know, but you want to hear his final credit-card purchase?”

  “What’s the problem?” Gage asked, zipping his jeans. He folded his arms over his chest and propped his shoulder against the wall.

  “Something about Trent Lohman,” she told him. Then to Ben: “What was the purchase?”

  “This transaction was yesterday morning. He bought a first-class plane ticket for the red-eye flight from San Francisco International to Washington’s Reagan International Airport.”

  “So?”

  “It was the last seat on the plane. He paid an arm and a leg for it and it has him landing in Washington this morning at 7:19 A.M.”

  “Yeah?” She still wasn’t following.

  “Kelsey, think about it. It looks like he planned to spend the next two weeks on the East Coast. Not only that, but in the very city that Mark and Gordon and everyone in Homeland Security seems to think is Ramli’s target location for an anthrax attack. And not only that, he planned to be in three major East Coast airports during that time frame. But where is he not going? Where is he so eager to get away from that he buys an outrageously expensive ticket so he can hop on a red-eye?”

  Kelsey was fully awake now.

  “You want to know who else made last-minute plans to hop a red-eye last night?” he asked.

  “Who?”

  “Marissa Ramli and her daughter, Leila. They took the eleven-forty P.M. to Chicago.”

  “What’s in Chicago?”

  “Who knows? That’s not the point. The point is—”

  “You think everyone’s looking at the wrong coast,” she said. “You think his target is San Francisco.”

  • • •

  A persistent bleating noise pulled Elizabeth from sleep. She lifted her head up and pain exploded behind her eyes. She groped for the phone as the blurry red clock numbers came into focus: 5:37.

  “LeBlanc.” It sounded like a rasp.

  “Special Agent Elizabeth LeBlanc?”

  She sat up slowly and switched on the lamp. She didn’t recognize the voice. Ditto the bedspread bunched around her waist.

  “Speaking.”

  “With the FBI?”

  “This is Agent LeBlanc, yes. Who is this?”

  “This is—” Static. “—Shamus. Sorry to just now be returning your—” More static. “—and now St. Croix. I hope I’m not waking you.”

  “Dr. Shamus?” She tried to think around the intense pounding in her head. “I’ve been trying to reach you.” Her gaze landed on a pair of cowboy boots on the floor beside the chair.

  “My apologies, but I’ve been away on my honeymoon. Is there something you needed? I have six messages.”

  Elizabeth watched, shocked, as a giant shape moved on the sofa. Memories flooded her: the pub, the drinks, an old-fashioned elevator with one of those doors that pulled shut.

  Derek swung his legs off the couch. He raked his hand through his hair and looked at her.

  “Are you there?” came the voice over the phone.

  “I’m here.” Elizabeth took a quick inventory. She was dressed, but what the hell had happened? And why did she have a deep-rooted certainty that she should feel embarrassed right now?

  “Um . . . thank you for calling me back, Dr. Shamus. I was . . . Actually, I need to ask you about several of our agents. They called you recently about a project you consulted on. The D.C. Metro.”

  “Agents Lohman and Reece.”

  “Reid.”

  “Right. Reid, I guess it was. Yes, I spoke to them at length. They needed information—” Static. “—more questions?”

  “I’m sorry.” She rubbed her forehead. “Could you repeat that?”

  Silence.

  “Hello?” She stood up. “Dr. Shamus?” Elizabeth stared at the phone in her hand. The call had dropped.

  She glanced across the room at the man watching her intently.

  “That was Dr. Shamus,” she said inanely.

  “The Berkeley guy.”

  She looked at the phone again. She looked at Derek. “Last night . . .” Her stomach knotted. “Did we—”

  “No.” He gave her a sharp look and reached for his boots. As she watched him pull them on, she remembered an endless corridor with red carpet. She remembered a heady combination of lust and nerves and, again, embarrassment.

  “Nothing happened at all?”

  He sighed. “Not unless you count puking your guts up on the way over here.”

  “You’re kidding,” she said, but her brain was kicking into gear now, and she had a sudden memory of kneeling in a bed of ivy while a hand gripped her arm.

  “Oh my God. I threw up on your shoes, didn’t I?”

  He didn’t say anything, and she wanted to sink through the floor.

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Forget it. What’d the professor want?”

  The phone in her hand rang, and she rushed to answer it. “Dr. Shamus?”

  “Again, my apologies. Some of the places we’ve dropped anchor are a bit rustic. You were asking about the rail project?”

  “Yes,” she said. “The Bureau is investigating a potential terrorist threat.”

  “So they told me.”

  “I was wondering what part of the Metro, specifically, the agents questioned you about?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Agent Lohman in particular—was there a specific area you discussed with him? An area you thought might be more vulnerable to attack?”

  “The D.C. Metro?”

  “Yes.”

  “Agent Lohman didn’t ask about D.C. We talked about Bart.”

  “Who?”

  “BART. Bay Area Rapid Transit,” Shamus said. “In San Francisco.”

  • • •

  Rick Bolton stepped out of the J. Edgar Hoover Building and pulled a roll of antacids from his pocket as he made his way down the steps. Not even nine A.M. and already his ulcer was flaring up. He reached the intersection and crossed Pennsylvania Avenue.

  This was going to be one hell of a week, and it had barely begun. He hadn’t even gone home last night, he’d been so swamped with the anthrax letters. Just when he thought he might tear himself away, he’d received the news about Trent Lohman. Now he was headed into Tuesday in a rumpled suit and operating on only a few hours of sleep, stolen on the couch in his office.

  His phone vibrated in his pocket and he pulled it out. Florida area code, but he didn’t recognize the number. It would either be his ex-wife calling about the tuition payment that was due this week or his daughter wanting money for her summer trip to Belize. He let it go to voice mail.

  Bolton’s gut burned. No one—least of all his direct reports, who were supposed to help him—had a clue about the kind of stress he was under. Only a handful of people had any concept of the complexity of his job. They didn’t realize how layered and far-reaching these organizations were. Fighting terrorism wasn’t about eliminating one man or even one group. It was about stopping a disease before it spread unchecked into the world’s healthiest democracies.

  Bolton reached the National Gallery sculpture garden and slowed his pace. He noticed the National Guardsman, who looked about twenty, stationed near the entrance. He had been posted there to keep an eye on people—especially those with backpacks. The kid didn’t recognize Bolton. He had no idea that he was there today as a direct result of Bolton’s orders. He had no idea that Bolton was anyone noteworthy, that he’d dedicated the last twenty-five years of his life to serving his country, or that he’d racked up three ulcers, two ex-wives, and a double-bypass in the process.

  Bolton took a deep breath as he crossed the garden and tried to make himself relax. He sat on a concrete bench near the fountain and pulled o
ut his phone. He checked his watch. Not yet nine. He still had time, but he needed to keep it short and get back to his office.

  “Barney.”

  “Hey, it’s me,” he said. “What’s M&O Pharm looking like?”

  “It’s expected to hit eighty-two today,” the broker informed him. “You ready to get out?”

  “If it breaks one hundred, sell it off.”

  Silence.

  “Barney?” He glanced at the fountain that was generating a lot of background noise. Listening devices were everywhere in this town.

  “Yeah, that’s . . . unlikely to happen. Yesterday’s fourteen percent gain is huge for this company, especially with the recent decline in pharmaceuticals. They’re having a good run-up because of the anthrax letters and all this Seprax shit, but it’s expected to cool off as soon as the news dies down.”

  “Listen to me.” He glanced at the guardsman. “When it hits one hundred, dump it.”

  Pause. “All of it?”

  “Every goddamn share.”

  • • •

  Kelsey clenched her teeth with frustration as she navigated the beginnings of rush-hour traffic. It was just after seven o’clock.

  “How much farther?” she asked Gage, who was in the passenger seat for a change.

  “Looks like four blocks.”

  She glided into the right-hand lane but had to slam on the brakes as a delivery truck halted in front of her. She pounded the horn.

  “Go around,” Gage instructed.

  She waited for a break in traffic, then pulled around the truck and zipped into the right-hand lane.

  “Do you even know where you’re going?” she asked.

  “Derek said it isn’t hard to find.”

  She ran a stale yellow. They were en route to BART’s security headquarters, where Elizabeth LeBlanc urgently needed two extra sets of eyes to monitor video footage and hopefully pick out Adam Ramli from the thousands of Bay Area commuters now pouring into the system.

  “You’re going to make yourself late,” Kelsey said now. “Both of you. And this might not be happening today.”

  Gage didn’t respond, and she shook her head as she ran another yellow. She hadn’t been able to talk him out of this, and now they were speeding toward the epicenter of what might be a terrorist attack.