“Look, Lieutenant, I know your relationship with our local CID detachment isn’t the best.”
“What did Comb Over tell you?”
He bit back a smile. “Enough. Seems you have a tendency to color outside the lines.”
I couldn’t argue that. Mitch and I had both done some independent coloring after my lab got torched. We’d been taken to task for it, too.
“We need your help on this one, Lieutenant. It’s big. Too big for you to talk about with anyone outside your direct chain of command. Or in it, for that matter. We’ll brief your boss. Tell him what he needs to know. As far as this investigation goes, you talk only to me.”
I departed CID headquarters with another cell phone in my purse. This one wasn’t as gee-whiz as my DARPA toy, but it would link me via a secure line directly to Special Agent Sinclair or one of his people.
A fat, round moon shone through the bare tree branches as I steered the rental back toward D.C. It was past midnight, and I felt almost as wiped as the team who’d been working this issue night and day for months on end. I didn’t envy them their task and couldn’t repress an uneasy feeling at having been sucked into it.
This drug business is just plain ugly. As a Border Patrol agent, Mitch is right on the front lines of the counter-narcotics war. He doesn’t talk about his job much. He doesn’t have to. The daily papers and nightly news reports about the cartel violence in Mexico and potential for spillover to the States are scary enough.
Now I had a whole new dimension of the drug war to worry about. One that might or might not involve Diane Roth. I tried not to think about it as I checked into the hotel room Agent Sinclair had reserved for me just south of the D.C. Beltway and crashed.
I arranged a seven a.m. wake-up call before I dropped into total unconsciousness. The call came. I answered. And promptly fell back asleep. I jerked awake again at 8:40 and let out a shriek. My meeting with Dr. J was set for ten.
I was out of the hotel and in the rental car in twenty minutes. Then, of course, I had to get lost twice on my way to DARPA headquarters. Not even the NAVSTAR navigational unit could aim me in the right direction.
“Turn left at the next intersection,” the smarmy voice intoned.
I flipped on my directional signal, only to spot an orange-striped barrier blocking the side street.
“Turn left in fifty feet.”
“I can’t turn left.”
“Turn left now.”
“Hey! I can’t!”
Gritting my teeth, I stopped to reset my current location and desired destination. I also pulled up the directions on my DARPA cell phone.
“Beam me home,” I snarled at the two instruments.
They did. But not before I passed the Pentagon and circled Arlington National Cemetery twice. Finally I turned onto Fairfax Street and spotted the towering glass and sand-colored concrete building housing the headquarters of the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency.
I had to get cleared by security to park in a visitor’s space in the underground garage. Then cleared to pass through initial screening. Then cleared again for access to the inner lobby. I’m not complaining, mind you, since this building contains more brains per cubic inch than anywhere else on the planet—all devoted to improving the combat capability of U.S. troops.
They come from some of the most prestigious universities, research centers, and think tanks in the country. DARPA reaches out to them via what I call the visiting professor program. The idea is to keep the U.S. in the vanguard of technology by luring these incredibly innovative thinkers away from academia for four or five years, then handing them massive budgets and unlimited authority to explore new ideas.
I gotta say, it’s working. I mean, where else would you find people determined to develop a ChemBot—a robot with an amorphous shape that’ll let it squeeze under closed doors or through cracks in a wall to collect battlefield intelligence?
Then there’s the Deep Bleeder Acoustic Coagulation Program being worked by the Tactical Biomedical Division. I don’t understand all the parameters, but the project’s stated goal is to field a portable, noninvasive, lightweight unit that would allow combat medics to identify and locate the full range of life-threatening bleeders.
That’s the thing about DARPA. Every time I get to grousing about my little team and the occasionally absurd inventions we test, all it takes is a reminder of our mission to put things in perspective. Despite my occasional—okay, constant—complaining, that mission is the main reason I’m still in uniform. And speaking of uniforms . . .
Before hitting the elevators, I ducked into a ladies’ room in the lobby to make sure my unruly auburn mane was still more or less confined and the end of the thick braid clipped up. God forbid a single hair should touch my collar. The Air Force considers that a disaster right up there with nuclear proliferation and global warming.
I re-tucked my light blue blouse in the waistband of my slacks and straightened my uniform jacket. My black pumps and black leather shoulder bag got a quick buff with a damp paper towel. A swipe of Georgia peach lip gloss, a stroke or two of blush, and I was ready for Dr. J.
Please don’t misinterpret these last-minute preparations. I certainly wasn’t hoping to dazzle Dr. Jessup with my military spiffiness. As my supervisor, he knows that’s pretty much a hit-and-miss proposition. I think it was more a country-cousin-comes-to-the-big-city syndrome. FST-3 and its two sister cadres don’t often rub elbows with the big guys.
Being a lowly lieutenant plays into the equation, too. The handful of military assigned to DARPA are mostly senior officers who bring hard-won tactical or combat experience to the table. What I bring is chutzpah.
Hmmmmm. Maybe that’s not such a bad attribute in a lieutenant. With that bracing thought in mind, I hitched my purse strap over my shoulder and breezed out of the ladies’ room. Moments later, I breezed into Dr. J’s outer office.
“Hi, Audra.”
The trim brunette with a wireless receiver hooked over her left ear looked up and smiled. “Hi, Lieutenant.”
Audra Hendricks is Dr. J’s executive assistant. She’s worked at DARPA for more than a decade, which is eight years and then some longer than either Dr. J or myself. She’s a lynchpin in my continual efforts to improve communications with HQ.
Translation: she covers my ass. A lot!
“Dr. J’s got someone in the office right now. As soon as they finish, I’ll let him know you’re here. Want some coffee while you wait?”
“Thanks.”
I helped myself at the credenza across from Audra’s desk and subtly pumped her for information.
“So the CID contacted the boss to arrange this visit, huh?”
“They did.”
“Did the call weird him out?”
“No more than any of the calls he receives regarding you.”
Was that good or bad? I was still trying to decide when the door to Dr. J’s office opened and a distinguished-looking gentleman exited. Distinguished, that is, except for his total lack of eyebrows.
I tried not to stare. Honestly. When he glanced my way and nodded politely, I also made a heroic effort to refrain from asking if he’d ever worked with one of my team members. Oh, what the heck! Restraint was never one of my strong points.
“Dr. Reed?”
I’d guessed right. The gentleman paused on his way to the door. “Yes?”
“I’m Lieutenant Spade, OIC of Future Systems Test Cadre—Three. I believe you know one of my team members. Rocky, er, Brian Balboa.”
Every vestige of color drained from his hairless face. He stumbled back a step, caught himself, and looked around wildly.
“He’s not here, is he?”
“Dr. Balboa? No, I . . .”
“He’d better not be. The restraining order’s still in force.”
“Wait! I just wanted to ask you . . .”
Too late. He shot out the door as if the hounds of hell were about to take a bite out of his butt.
“Ok
ay, Audra.” I swung back to the executive assistant. “You have to clue me in. What’s the deal with his eyebrows and Dr. Balboa’s subsequent banishment to FST-Three?”
Smiling, she shook her head. “What happens at DARPA HQ stays at DARPA HQ. Hang on, I’ll tell Dr. J you’re here.”
She buzzed the boss and waved me to his office door. I sucked in a deep breath, squared my shoulders, and walked in to find Dr. J had squared his, too. Or it could have been the padding in his checkered sport coat. Hard to tell, especially with the distraction of his fuddy-duddy bow tie. It was yellow today. With navy blue polka dots.
Brown checks, a yellow tie, and blue polka dots. That tells you almost as much about my boss as his jaw-dropping string of degrees.
“Hi, Dr. J.”
“Hello, Samantha.”
I could tell from his cool greeting that he was trying to strike an official note. Just his bad luck that supervising doesn’t come any more naturally for him than being supervised does for me.
He cleared his throat, which set his tie bobbing, and waved me to a seat in front of his desk. “I’m very much hoping you’ll shed some light on whatever you’re up to with Special Agent Sinclair.”
“I’d like to, sir. I really would. But . . . Well . . . Sinclair said he would drive up and brief you personally. In the meantime, he said to tell you that what he’s asked me to do won’t compromise FST-Three’s operation or any of DARPA’s ongoing programs.”
Dr. J didn’t roll his eyes, but I could tell he wanted to. I knew he was itching to remind me what happened the last time I mucked around in cop stuff. Our lab got torched, Mitch wound up with a tree branch through his shoulder, and my trusty, rusty old Bronco went up in flames.
On the plus side, I helped break up a stolen arms operation and received an AF Commendation Medal for my efforts. Which Dr. J himself presented, I might add.
I puffed out my chest a little, hoping to draw his attention to the blue-and-yellow ribbon, but he was too busy worrying about the dire possibility he might have to conduct another inquiry into lost or damaged government property. The last one took months and was not fun for anyone involved.
“From the little Agent Sinclair did tell me, I gather what he’s asking you to do is connected to the shooting incident in El Paso. I hope you’ll be careful, Samantha. Very careful.”
Awwwww. I’d misjudged him. The doc was more worried about me than the lab or the possibility of another lengthy inquiry.
“I’ll be careful, sir. I’m not real anxious to get shot at again.”
“Good.”
He shuffled through the papers on his desk and lifted one out. My team’s final test report, I realized in his next breath.
“Now tell me about this NLOS system you tested. I’m intrigued by your supposition that it could contribute to the Urban Leader Tactical Response, Awareness, and Visualization Initiative.”
With my head full of narco stuff, it took me a moment to make the transition to Techno Diva. I fumbled my way through atmospheric particles and solar-blind ultraviolet wavelengths, earning several extremely pained looks from Dr. J in the process. I must not have bungled the concept too badly, though, because he agreed with my assessment that the system warranted further testing.
“But please,” he entreated. “Conduct all further tests under controlled conditions, following the proper protocols.”
“Yes, sir.”
Since I had a few hours until my four p.m. flight home, Dr. J took me to lunch in the executive dining room. He followed that unexpected treat with an update on some of the newer projects DARPA had out for bid. I managed to keep my eyes from bugging out at some of the wilder programs. The dollar figures attached to them were even more staggering.
I got back to El Paso too late to call Diane, so I left a message for her at work the following day. She returned my call that evening.
The moment I heard her voice I decided I didn’t want a career as an undercover agent. I didn’t like this sneaky feeling and had to work hard to keep my tone light while I fudged the reason for my call.
“Just thought I’d check,” I told her. “Am I still on to play honorary aunt on Saturday?”
“You’re still on, if you’re up for it. I get off work at ten that morning, but have a ton of stuff to take care of.”
“No problem. And Mitch said he’d treat Joey to some guy time. If he gets back from San Diego before the weekend, we can take both kids off your hands for a few hours.”
“San Diego? Is that where he is? I called him yesterday to ask about Saturday and I got his answering machine. I didn’t realize he was out of town.”
I was surprised she had Mitch’s unlisted home number. He gives it out very sparingly. With good reason. In his job, he makes as many enemies as he does friends. The bastard whose threats drove his wife and daughter away being a prime example of the former.
But then, Diane was a cop. She had access to all kinds of information.
“I’ll call you Friday afternoon to confirm the details,” I said casually. “Oh, and Diane?”
“Yes?”
“I’ve been thinking about Canyon Ranch. I may have overreacted a bit to their pricy services.”
“A bit?”
“If I recall properly, you gagged over the price list, too.”
“You’re right, I did. But you said you’ve been thinking. Does that mean you want to give it another shot?”
“If you haven’t already used the gift certificate.”
“I haven’t. What day is good for you?”
“I’m totally flexible.”
I also had a mandate from higher headquarters authorizing me to take whatever time I needed to become best friends with this woman. I figured that could cover another day at the spa.
“When’s your next day off?” I asked her.
“Sunday, but I don’t know if Canyon Ranch is open then. I’ll check and call you right back.”
They were. Ten minutes later my weekend was completely booked with Roths, young and not-so-young.
The only glitch in our plans was that Mitch wouldn’t fly in from San Diego until two on Saturday. I talked to him a couple times before that but didn’t feel comfortable using an open phone line to pick his brain for any tidbits he might know about the Afghan heroin trade. We did coordinate our schedules, however.
Trish and I would make the one thirty showing of Tyler Taylor’s new movie. Mitch would drive in from the airport and pick Joey up. We would then rendezvous for ice cream or whatever at a place of the kids’ choosing.
To be sure I stuck to my end of the deal, I went online and purchased the theater tickets. I also Googled this TT character to see what had all the eight- and ten-year-olds so excited.
YOU would think watching YouTube videos pan across audiences of (a) rapturous, (b) goggle-eyed, or (c) hysterically giggling little girls bouncing up and down in their seats would have prepared me for Saturday afternoon. Not so.
I dressed in what I thought would be appropriate wear for the occasion. Ankle boots, jeans, a pale pink turtleneck, and a fleece vest done in swirls of hotter pink and cream. I left my hair down—hooray for weekends!—and slung my favorite Coach bag over my shoulder. Actually, it’s my only Coach bag and getting worn from rough handling, but I’m hoping to eke another season out of it.
I could tell I’d broken the genetic code when Trish came dancing out of the Roths’ apartment. She was in pink, too. Sneakers, jeans, jacket, even her hair ribbon. I waved to Diane, standing in the doorway with Joey and buckled my charge in.
The theater parking lot was jammed. My anxious passenger squirmed impatiently until I finally squeezed into a space between a pickup and a delivery truck. Praying my Sebring’s bright, shiny paint job would remain un-dinged, I dug the tickets out of my purse and ushered my charge into the theater complex’s cavernous lobby.
My forethought in purchasing tickets online got us past the throngs at the ticket booth but not those mobbing the refreshment stands and
special kiosks set up to hawk the latest TT merchandise. Promising Trish a look at the merchandise later, I steered her past the kiosks and provisioned her with Skittles and diet Sprite. I fortified myself with a giant tub of popcorn, sure that could get me through any ordeal. The one that followed was worse, so much worse, than I’d anticipated.
I’ve taken nieces and nephews to movies before. Hard to get out of it, seeing as my various siblings have gifted the world with so many progeny. I’ve never had to suffer through anything like the crass commercialism in this flick, though.
There I sat, lost amid a sea of ecstatic youngsters and resigned parents, watching this idiot kid and friends break into song and dance while blatantly promoting everything from their funky socks to their scented hair gel.
No chance of getting by the kiosks in the lobby after that. Trish and I stood in line for a good half hour, but she left clutching a CD and a Tyler Taylor T-shirt. I left wishing fervently for a stiff shot of Grey Goose.
Sadly, there wasn’t much chance of getting that when we joined up with Mitch and Joey. The kids had chosen a McDonald’s close to their home as their number one choice for a rendezvous. I suppose I don’t have to tell you Trish inserted the CD the moment we were buckled into the Sebring. Lucky me, I got to listen to Tyler Taylor all the way to Mickey D’s.
I took Trish’s hand, braced for the noise that would smack us in the face when we walked in. Pretty much every one of those nieces and nephews I mentioned had celebrated one birthday or another at a fast-food emporium. I knew from personal experience they were a busy, busy place come Saturday afternoon.
I was prepared for the wall-to-wall noise. I wasn’t prepared, however, to spot Mitch and Diane sitting knee-to-knee at one of the tables. Or for the sight of her leaning into him as she angled her head and laughed up at him.
I came to a dead stop, still clutching Trish’s hand.
“There’s mommy. And Mr. Mitch!”
The girl tugged her hand free and skipped toward the table. I followed more slowly.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
OKAY, here’s the thing. I’m not obsessively territorial. That time I walked in and found my ex with his jeans around his ankles and his face buried between our neighbor’s 38Ds? I saw red, sure. But right on top of the first surge of shock and rage came disgust. With myself, not Charlie. I’d married a jerk who would cheat on me after only six months of semi-bliss. How dumb did that make me?
Now You See Her Page 11