Now You See Her

by Merline Lovelace

  “Sergeant Roth!” Gripping Diane’s hand with both of his, he gushed all over her. “I’m so honored to meet you. I’ve been following the news reports of that terrible incident. You were so brave.”

  “Not really.” She eased free of his grip. “Just trained to react in an emergency situation. Lieutenant Spade was there, too. She put herself at risk to warn the rest of us.”

  It was my turn for a two-handed squeeze.

  “I think you’re both incredibly brave.” Jon shuddered dramatically. “I couldn’t imagine what I would do in a similar situation.”

  The guy’s grip was surprisingly strong. He might be able to take down an attacker if he had his back to the wall.

  After Susannah introduced herself, the two attendants led us through a set of bronze doors into a wide, airy forecourt illuminated by skylights and fragrant with the scent of vanilla. Susannah swept two embossed folders off a marble counter.

  “We’ve prepared a suggested agenda based on the services you indicated you might be interested in when you made the reservation, Sergeant Roth. Or may I call you Diane?”

  “Diane, please.”

  “And I’m Samantha.”

  Nodding, she handed us the folders. “There’s a complete list of all our services in the changing rooms. If you see anything you’d like to add to the agenda we’ve prepared, just say the word.”

  “Will do.”

  “You’re in room three, Samantha. Diane, we’ve put you in four. You’ll find robes and shower shoes in each. Jon and I will wait for you here. Take your time,” she added with a smile. “We’re at your complete disposal for the rest of the day.”

  Diane and I headed for our assigned rooms. Mine was larger than the living room in my apartment. More elegant, too, unless you’re really into shabby chic. Curious, I flipped open the embossed folder and skimmed the agenda. It looked good. Very good. Until I compared it to the list of services in the bound book set on a table next to a pitcher of water with floating lemons.

  Holy crapola! Three hundred dollars for a seaweed wrap? Two-fifty for a hot sand pumice? I could go out and roll around in the desert for nothing!

  Gulping, I knocked on the connecting door to Diane’s room. When she poked her head through the opening, I held up the price list.

  “Have you looked at this?”

  One glance, and she was as shell-shocked as I was.

  “Good Lord!”

  “You’re sure our sessions are free?”

  “That’s what they said. Let me double-check.”

  She was back a few moments later.

  “Yep, it’s all free.”

  I took my lower lip between my teeth and almost made a meal of it. My gut told me I shouldn’t do this. Very belatedly, I’ll admit. What can I say? I’m a lieutenant. Even with that excuse, I’m embarrassed to confess I might not have thought twice if not for those exorbitant prices.

  They reminded me forcibly that DARPA follows the Department of Defense’s strict guidelines vis-à-vis dealings with contractors. We’re not supposed to accept a free lunch or cup of coffee from individuals or firms doing, or seeking to do, business with the military. As far as I knew, this high-priced spa wasn’t angling for a contract with any of the military units in this region. Still . . .

  “I’m having second thoughts about this, Diane.”

  “Why?”

  “My team and I conduct tests that could result in lucrative contracts to both businesses and private individuals. I probably shouldn’t accept free services. It could be construed as a conflict of interest.”

  “I don’t see how, unless you guys test spa products and services.”

  “Actually, we have tested some far-out creams and lotions. And,” I added as I thought more about it, “I know of at least one antiaging cream on the market today that began life as a DARPA-funded research project. They were trying to synthesize human elastin to speed the healing of war wounds and reduce scarring.”

  Lips pursed, she considered that for a moment. “I see what you’re saying. But I’m not in a position to offer anyone a lucrative contract.”

  “True. Tell you what. You go ahead and enjoy yourself. I’ll call one of my team and ask them to come get me.”

  “Hang on a sec. Let’s talk about this.”

  Frowning, she came into my changing room and hitched a hip against a counter arrayed with stacked towels, a neatly folded robe, and slippers.

  “I think you may be overreacting. These merchants just want to thank me—thank both of us—for preventing what could have been a bloodbath.”

  “I know. But the major at our headquarters who got fired for letting a private think tank reimburse him for travel expenses probably thought they just wanted to thank him, too.” I gave the fluffy, stacked towels a glance of real longing. “I sure hate to miss out on all this, but . . .”

  “So stay. Get detoxed. Be pumiced.”

  “You stay. I’m going to pass, Diane.”

  Her frown deepened. On Trish or Joey, it would be considered a sulk. “You want to tell me how I’m supposed to enjoy myself after you’ve laid on this massive guilt trip?”

  “I’m sorry. That wasn’t my intention.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s the result.” Still sulking, she pushed away from the counter. “I’ll get my purse and we’ll go.”

  Susannah and Jon expressed massive disappointment at our abrupt about-face and tried to convince us to reschedule. I declined. Diane said she would call them. Maybe.

  A different air permeated the rental car during our drive back to Fort Bliss. Not cold, but definitely chilly. It warmed a little when Diane pulled up outside the building that housed my office.

  “I’m sorry about this,” I said as I reached for the door handle. “I should have thought it through when you first suggested going to the spa.”

  “That’s okay. I’m disappointed, but I’ll get over it.” She hesitated, her wrists looped over the steering wheel. “You mentioned taking Trish to the opening of the new Tyler Taylor movie if I couldn’t. Turns out I can’t, but I’ll understand if you’d rather back out of this deal, too.”

  “No, really. I’d love to take her.”

  I might have been overstating the case a bit. Miss Trish and I hadn’t exactly hit it off. Too late to back out now, though.

  “The movie complex sent me a hundred-dollar gift certificate,” Diane said with a rueful smile. “I won’t ask if you want to use it.”

  “This will be my treat. I’ll call you later in the week to confirm the time.”

  PEN, Rocky, and Dennis O’Reilly expressed surprise at seeing me back after I’d told them I was leaving for the day. Sergeant Cassidy expressed extreme disappointment that Diane Roth hadn’t accompanied me inside for another visit.

  I have to admit to mixed feelings as I entered my office cubicle. Part of me said I’d done the right thing by refusing such an expensive gratuity. Another part sneered and warned that I’d gone over to the dark side. A strange, dangerous place fraught with so many rules and regulations that I’d never find my way into the light again.

  What the heck happened to the old Samantha? The reckless, I’ll-jump-in-first girl? The laughing, flirty cocktail waitress who grabbed life with greedy hands?

  The Air Force, I concluded glumly. That’s what happened. Responsibility. Authority. The burdens of leadership. Mourning for my lost self, I thumped my hat and purse on my desk.

  I was in no mood to fiddle around with more test reports. Or the equipment I’d left lying on my desk. I started to shove the items aside, but the thin paper printout hanging from one like a tail snagged my attention.

  Frowning, I called over the partitions. “Hey! Who’s been playing with the Sniffometer?”

  Pen scooted her desk chair back and stuck her head around the divider between our offices. “No one. Why?”

  “The reading on this printout is all over the place.”

  “Weren’t you demonstrating it to Sergeant Roth before you left?
”

  “Oh. Right.”

  Pen scooted back to her desk. I sank down at mine and studied the wild zigs and zags on the printout. According to the Olfactory Somatosensory Indicator, Diane’s odor emissions during her short visit to my office had swung from a median level of calm to extreme agitation to fear.

  Well, hell! Now I felt like a total jerk. Not only had I ruined her day at the spa, I’d had to bring up that business about her in-laws’ murder. Worse, I’d posed the possibility of a link to Oliver Austin. Even theorized he might have been trying to get to her through her children.

  I’d seen the evidence of Diane’s physical reaction to that theory firsthand. I didn’t need the Sniffometer to verify the mere idea had scared the living crap out of her.

  I might have let the whole thing drop right there if the last, small segment of the printout hadn’t registered odor emissions strongly suggestive of untruthfulness.

  Forehead scrunched, I tried to reconstruct our conversation. What would she have lied about? Wishing evil on her in-laws? Feeling guilty about that? Insisting Austin wasn’t capable of such a vicious act?

  Maybe he wasn’t, but he might have associated with others who were. Special Agent Blue Eyes from CID headquarters said the man was being investigated for unspecified activities while in Afghanistan.

  My fertile and admittedly overactive imagination took off. Chin in hand, I stared at that damned printout and formulated all kinds of wild theories.

  What if Austin had been so bitter about Roth’s rejection he decided on revenge before he rotated back to the States? Or maybe while he was in the VA hospital. He could have conspired with an equally sick or possibly a criminal accomplice to go after her kids. And when that didn’t work, he came after her himself.

  I didn’t have a shred of proof linking Austin or a cohort to the murders in Kissimmee, Florida. But I did have a very sexy law enforcement sweetie to bounce these uneasy thoughts off.

  UNFORTUNATELY, my law enforcement sweetie wasn’t available for consultation. I got the word when I checked the messages on my answering machine after work that evening.

  “Hey, Samantha. This is Mitch. I didn’t want to disturb you at the spa. I figured you were wallowing in mud or wrapped in seaweed with cucumbers plastered all over your face.”

  I wish!

  “Just wanted to let you know I’m jumping a plane for San Diego in an hour. I got tagged to work a task force evaluating the president’s initiative to prevent Mexico’s drug wars from spilling across our borders. Don’t know how long this is going to take. Guess I’ll see you when I see you.”

  Guess so.

  I called in a delivery order at Ding How, my favorite Chinese restaurant. I’ve gotten hooked on their fiery General Tsao’s chicken. It’s flavored with a sauce that tastes suspiciously similar to extra hot chili sauce. What can I say? They do Chinese different here in West Texas. Actually, now that I think about it, they do just about everything different in West Texas.

  While waiting for supper I changed into my usual at-home attire of comfortable sweats. Then I shuffled around the apartment looking for Special Agent Blue Eyes’s business card. Took me a while to find it. I remembered transferring it from my uniform pocket to my briefcase before we’d left the test site. From there it had leaped between the pages of Elle, where I’d evidently used it to bookmark an article on spring fashion trends. In case you’re wondering, amethyst and celery are the season’s hot new colors.

  The doorbell rang while I was finishing the article. I laid the card on my coffee table and went to pay for the delivery. The card sat there while I chopsticked chicken from the carton and entertained serious second thoughts about contacting Agent Blue Eyes.

  I’d skated on any fallout from deploying the NLOS system the night of the shooting. Now I was getting all worked up over the unverified results of another quasi-test, also conducted under uncontrolled conditions.

  Besides, what did the results indicate? Only that Diane reacted with justifiable surprise and fear at my suggestion the attacks on her and on her in-laws might be connected. And maybe shaded the truth about something.

  If I had to bet, I’d put my money on that bit about hating herself for hating the Roths. She would have to be a whole lot more forgiving than the rest of us ordinary mortals to not be pissed at someone who was trying to take away her kids.

  The chopsticks halted inches from my mouth. I sat there frozen, a chunk of spicy chicken hovering in the air as a really nasty thought boomeranged inside my head.

  What if . . . ? What if Diane was so pissed, this Austin guy thought he’d do her a favor? Like arrange for someone to take out the in-laws. Get them off her back once and for all. Become Diane’s instant hero, then go all vengeful when she wasn’t properly appreciative.

  No! I shook my head and almost stabbed myself with the chopsticks in the process. No way! If Austin had so much as hinted at a vicious plan like that, Diane would have gone straight to the authorities.

  Wouldn’t she?

  The fact that my churning brain cells even formulated that thought shocked the heck out of me. It also made me feel distinctly queasy. I lowered the chopsticks and dropped the chunk of chicken back in the carton.

  An image of the Roths’ elegant lakeside home leaped into my mind. They’d had money. Lots of money. And I remembered Diane mentioning that Trish and Joey were their only grandchildren. So who inherited their estate?

  Not the kids. If they had, Diane wouldn’t be struggling to make ends meet. Unless the Roths had set up some sort of trust that the kids couldn’t tap into until they came of age.

  Okay, now I was getting ridiculous! In the space of a half a carton of General Tsao’s chicken, Diane had gone from being a heroine to a potential beneficiary who would benefit from her in-laws’ brutal murders.

  Disgusted with myself, I dumped the remains of my dinner into the garbage disposal and flipped the switch. I should have ground up Agent Blue Eyes’s card along with the chicken and brown rice. The damned thing was the last thing I saw before hitting the sack later that night. It was still there when I swooped my purse off the coffee table the next morning on my way to work. I stood there, debating long and hard, before stuffing the card into my purse.

  I waited until after my regular morning confab with my team to make the call. As usual, they all crammed into my cubbyhole of an office. Pen with her tea and two pencils projecting from her head like antennae, Dennis O’Reilly in his perpetually wrinkled Dockers and plastic pocket pack, Sergeant Cassidy in ABUs like me.

  Rocky is the only one among us who tries to dress as a professional. Sadly, his sartorial choices don’t reflect his engineering brilliance. The green paisley sport coat and pencil-thin black tie he’d donned this morning only emphasized his nervous personality.

  I’d put the Sniffometer back in its case but it was still there, sitting on my credenza beside the NLOS system. I knew darn well that if I switched the thing on now and wanded myself, it would show my major histocompatibility complex was emitting a full spectrum of sensory indicators. Everything from doubt to denial to guilt for even thinking Diane could be in any way involved in the death of her in-laws.

  “Are you with us, oh Queen of the Quacks?”

  “Huh?”

  Dennis nudged his glasses up with a pudgy finger and gave a long—and totally sarcastic—sigh.

  “We have to send our final field test report to Dr. J by Friday. We’ve all provided you our input. Do you need anything else?”

  “No, I’m good. I’ll finish my summary this morning and zap it to you guys for a final look-see before the report goes forward.”

  First, however, I had to make a phone call. To steel myself for what loomed in my mind as an act of betrayal, I surreptitiously dumped my tea and snuck down the hall for a cup of coffee. The java provided the jolt I needed to place a call to CID headquarters.

  “I’d like to speak to Special Agent Richard Sinclair, please.”

  “Who’s calling?�
�

  “Lieutenant Samantha Spade.”

  “May I tell Agent Sinclair what this call is in reference to?”

  “The Oliver Austin investigation.”

  Blue Eyes came on the line a few moments later. I expected at least a hello. What I got was a terse question.

  “Are you on a secure line?”

  “No.”

  “Hang up, go to the CID detachment on post, and call me back.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  WONDERING what the heck I’d gotten myself into, I cranked up the Sebring and drove to the CID detachment. Comb-Over Guy wasn’t there (thankfully!) but one of his fellow agents was on the watch for me.

  She met me at the door and took me straight back to the detachment commander’s office. He gave me a strange look, then vacated his office so I could use his direct line to CID headquarters. The ensuing conversation was almost completely one-sided.

  I talked, Agent Sinclair listened.

  I stopped, he remained silent.

  I cleared my throat, he asked for the name and phone number of my supervisor.

  I gulped. “Why do you need that information?”

  “Because I want you in my office ASAP. I’ll talk to your boss to make sure it happens.”

  It happened.

  Less than five minutes later, Sinclair called back and said he’d just arranged an e-ticket for a 12:20 p.m. Delta Air Lines flight. I could print out the boarding pass there at the detachment. He also informed me a rental car would be waiting when I arrived in D.C. and I was to drive straight to CID headquarters at Fort Belvoir, Virginia.

  “But . . .” As far as I knew, there weren’t any direct flights. “Given at least one stopover and the time differential, I won’t land before eight or nine tonight.”

  “I’ll be waiting. Your boss wants to see you, too. We set up a meeting with him tomorrow. I’ll brief you on what you can and can’t tell him.”

  Hooo-boy. A session with Dr. J. Just what I needed to cap off a hurried jaunt back East.