I was envisioning all sorts of potentially delicious scenarios when the lights inside Mitch’s place blinked off and he exited the front door.
We’d agreed on civilian clothes for the expedition. I was in hot pink crops and a gauzy tunic swirling with orange and pink poppies. I’d picked up the outfit after splurging half of one paycheck on a Coach tote trimmed in the same sizzling pink. Probably not the best choice for someone with my reddish hair, but out of uniform I crave color. Lots of color. Even my strappy, flat-soled sandals tinkled with bright beads.
Mitch had opted for a more conservative look. Jeans. A white cotton shirt with the cuffs rolled up. A San Antonio Spurs ball cap. When he slid into the passenger seat, the travel mugs he had gripped in one hand smelled as good as he looked.
“Bless you.” I reached for one of the mugs with heart-felt gratitude. “I didn’t have time to caffeine-up before I left my apartment.”
“I figured as much from your flustered call to let me know you were on your way.”
He strapped in and I backed out of the driveway with only a mild tire-squeal. We cleared El Paso’s city limits before the rush hour and hit the Texas/New Mexico border just as the sun painted the sky a rosy gold. From there it was a straight shot along I-10 to Tucson. Nothing but three hundred plus miles of desert and small towns like Lordsburg, New Mexico, and Bowie, Arizona, to cruise past.
With all those wide open spaces ahead, my foot got a tad heavy and we ate up the tarmac. My Bronco might look like a demolition derby reject on the outside but it had heart and a new ring job.
To be honest, Mitch contributed far more to making those miles fly by than the Bronco. I sensed we’d crossed a line the other night when he’d explained his identification with John Armstrong Sr. He didn’t bring it up again. Neither did I. But it was there with us while we talked through again what we knew of the investigation and, gradually, segued into other, unrelated topics. Like our preferences in literature. And red versus green chili sauce. And country crooners.
The latter led to all kinds of interesting side discussions when a Toby Keith tune popped up on the FM station we’d tuned into.
“How can you not like Toby Keith?” I demanded when Mitch leaned forward to change the station. “You’re a Texcan.”
“Actually, I didn’t move to Texas until I took this job with the Border Patrol. And Toby Keith is from Oklahoma,” he pointed out mildly.
I brushed that minor point aside with a flap of one hand. “His music taps into everything important in life. Home. Family. Friday night football.”
“A high school football fan, are you?”
“I’ll have you know you’re looking at a three-year member of the Holderville High dance squad. I was out there every weekend my freshman, sophomore and junior years, twirling those poms.”
“What happened senior year?”
“I got a job at the local bistro and decided I really liked having a few shekels in my pocket. Although I have to say all that pom-twirling and tail-shaking came in handy after I moved to Vegas.”
“I imagine it would.”
I smiled at his solemn reply.
“There’s an art to delivering drinks in a place like the Paris Casino,” I informed him loftily. “You need to be friendly, but you also have to be careful not to come across as too available.”
“I think I speak for most men when I say available is good.”
“Only if you don’t mind ending up with a loser like my ex. Trust me on this. I know whereof I speak.”
He found a station broadcasting a song with a bass-heavy salsa rhythm and settled back against his seat. “How did you make the transition from the loser ex to the air force?”
I heaved a melodramatic sigh. “I wish I could say I was motivated to serve my country. The truth is, holding up my right hand was a direct result of walking in on my ex doing the dirty with our top-heavy neighbor.”
“He has to be some kind of stupid.”
THE look that accompanied his comment/compliment stayed with me during a brief breakfast stop and the rest of the drive into Tucson. We hit the city outskirts right around nine-thirty.
If you’ve never been to Tucson, you should go sometime. It’s a graceful blend of old and new, with lots of Spanish arches and soaring skyscrapers. Not that I’d seen much of either during my one prior visit. That was spent at Old Tucson, the fake town built as a western movie set way back when and now a major tourist attraction.
Which reminds me . . . I still have one of those old timey photographs of Charlie and me somewhere. He’s dressed up like Burt Lancaster in Gunfight at the O.K. Corral. I’m a saloon girl. Naturally.
I made a mental note to dig out the photograph for a ceremonial burning as I followed the directions I’d Map-Quested to B&R Systems Corporate Headquarters. The route took us past sprawling Davis-Monthan AFB, home to the 355th Tac Fighter Wing and, oh, by the way, the boneyard of the air force. I have no idea how many air-and spacecraft are mothballed there in the hot, dry desert sun but it has to be thousands. I caught just a glimpse of them parked wingtip to wingtip before we turned south on I-19.
B&R’s headquarters was housed in a steel and glass structure in a modern industrial park not far from Raytheon Missile Systems, one of its major customers. We parked in a visitor’s slot and made our way up a walkway graced by dancing fountains and tall palms. Our first stop was the guard manning the security desk in the vestibule.
“May I help you?”
“Hope so,” Mitch answered.
Sliding a black leather case out of his back pocket, he flipped it open to display his Border Patrol badge and a photo ID while I rooted around in my pink and green Coach tote for my air force ID.
“Agent Jeff Mitchell. This is USAF Lieutenant Samantha Spade. We’re here to see Ms. Joy Bennett.”
The guard consulted a computerized visitor’s log. “I don’t see either of you listed. Do you have an appointment?”
“No.”
“I’ll call up to her office and see if Ms. Bennett is available.”
He hit the keyboard to search for her number, frowned, and tapped a few more keys.
“Sorry. Looks like Ms. Bennett no longer works here.”
“Who is—was—her boss?”
“B&R’s vice president for operations, Roger Carlisle.”
“Is he available to speak with us?”
“Hang on, I’ll check.”
Ten minutes later, we were issued visitor’s badges and escorted by a bright, bubbly junior assistant into the sixth floor suite of offices belonging to B&R’s VP for ops. Once there, we sipped coffee and cooled our heels for a good twenty minutes until the intercom buzzed and we were allowed access to the inner sanctum.
“Sorry. I was on a conference call with our folks in Kuwait.”
Carlisle came around his desk to greet us. He was a big man. Six-two or -three, with a thick neck, broad shoulders and piercing gray eyes. I guessed his age in the mid-fifties, but I could have been off by a half decade either way. His glance skimmed over my wild poppy tunic before locking on the badge and credentials Mitch displayed.
“What’s this about?” he asked, waving us to chairs in front of his desk.
“We wanted to talk to Joy Bennett but understand she’s no longer with B&R.”
“That’s right.”
“Why did she leave?”
“Why do you want to know?”
Not a man to mince words, Mr. Carlisle.
“I was part of the initial task force investigating the death of Patrick Hooker and Juan Sandoval,” Mitch replied. “I still have some questions that need answering.”
His glance arrowed in my direction. “And you, Lieutenant Spade?”
“I found the bodies. And I helped locate the cell phone used for an anonymous call to the man who ambushed Hooker and Sandoval.”
“The phone containing a partial fingerprint?”
“Yep.”
“The FBI grilled Ms. Bennett about that cell
phone. Also about the fact that Hooker had supposedly brokered a deal for a stolen shipment of B&R weapons. Ms. Bennett swore she knew nothing about Hooker or his connection to the missing shipment. She even took a polygraph. The results substantiated her claim.”
“What about her lover?” Mitch asked. “The one who gave her a false name and address?”
The VP’s lips tightened. “She says she met him at a Chamber of Commerce mixer some months ago. It was a big, outdoor affair attended by several hundred local big-wigs, industry execs, defense contractors and uniformed types from Davis-Monthan Air Force Base. I suppose I don’t need to tell you the name he gave Ms. Bennett doesn’t appear on any of the official guest lists.”
The hair at the back of my neck tingled. I couldn’t shake the feeling we were inching closer to the mysterious rogue agent who may have torched my lab.
“Care to tell me why Ms. Bennett is no long employed by B&R Systems?” Mitch asked.
Carlisle took his time replying. When he did, I sensed he was choosing his words carefully.
“The decision was mutual. As you can imagine, the disclosure about her extramarital affair has caused her considerable personal turmoil.”
Yeah, I thought on a silent snort. Getting it on with someone other than your spouse has a way of doing that.
“Given the circumstances and the ongoing investigation, I felt it necessary to withdraw Ms. Bennett’s security clearance and access to sensitive corporate data.”
“Just what kind of sensitive data was she privy to?”
Carlisle cocked his head. “I provided all this information to the FBI and investigators from the Defense Security Service,” he said slowly.
“I’m sure you did.”
Mitch’s bland reply narrowed the VP’s eyes. He glanced at me again and came to an abrupt decision.
“I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I can’t discuss this matter with you further. The FBI requested B&R not release information to outside sources while their investigation is ongoing.”
“We’re not exactly ‘outside’ sources,” I countered.
“Then you can get what you need from the FBI.”
He shoved away from his desk and rose, a big man making himself look bigger by towering over his visitors . . . until Mitch rose as well and leveled the playing field. If they’d been squaring off for a Tough Man contest, I knew which one I’d put my money on.
To my surprise, Mitch capitulated with an easy nod. “Thanks for your time.”
He took my elbow and steered me toward the door. We went through it with me waffling between disappointment that we’d struck out with Carlisle and awareness of a distinct tingle where Mitch’s hand made contact with my bare skin. I couldn’t help feeling we’d blown our only shot and said as much as we rode the elevator to the lobby.
“How come you caved so easily?”
“I could see we weren’t going to get anything from Carlisle. A fired employee, on the other hand, might be more willing to air her grievances.”
“Carlisle said the decision for Bennett to leave B&R was mutual.”
“I don’t think so. Unless B&R writes some kind of morals clause into their employment contracts, which I seriously doubt, an extramarital affair would only make you a security risk if you’re desperate to keep the affair a secret. That makes you vulnerable to blackmail.”
“Or a pair of pinking shears to the scrotum. Charlie never knew how close he came to singing soprano.”
Mitch slanted me a quick grin but continued with his line of thought. “According to Paul Donati, Bennett admitted her affair readily enough. My guess is the last thing she would want with her marriage falling apart is to lose her job and source of income.”
“Maybe she recognized that she needed a change of scene. New job. New lover. New life. I speak from experience here, you understand.”
“You could be right. Let’s track down Ms. Bennett and find out.”
I expected him to call a buddy at the Border Patrol and tap into some cop database. As an alternative, I could have activated the locator in my super-sophisticated, DARPA-SUPPLIED cell phone. Instead Mitch detoured to a phone bank in the lobby and flipped through the white pages. He was back in less time than it would have taken me to text in Bennett’s name. Guess there’s still something to be said for good old fashioned low-tech.
He waited until we were out of the building to call Bennett and set up a meeting. It took some heavy emphasis on Agent Jeff Mitchell and Lieutenant Samantha Spade before she agreed. A short time later, we pulled into the driveway of a two-story adobe.
Joy Bennett answered the door. I’m not sure what I was expecting, but this short, stocky brunette wasn’t it. I don’t usually stereotype people . . . Okay, I do. All the time. I’ll just say Ms. Bennett would have benefitted from some serious eyebrow tweezing and leave it at that.
She scowled at the badge Mitch presented and held on to the door. “I’ve told you people everything I know. Why are you hounding me?”
“In cases like this, it often helps to have a fresh pair of eyes take a look at things,” Mitch returned, pocketing his badge. “May we come in?”
She stood aside grudgingly. I edged past her into a tiled foyer dominated by a massive antique coat rack. Or hat rack. Or hall tree. I’m never sure what to call those stands. This one had a mirrored back, curlicue brass hooks on either side of the mirror and a golf bag bristling with clubs leaning against it.
“In here,” Bennett said, waving us into a living room done in desert tones of brown and brown. Not a spot of color anywhere. I felt like an oversize Elton John in my wild pinks and oranges as I perched on the edge of the sofa beside Mitch. Bennett took a chair opposite us.
Mitch explained our respective roles in the sequence of events starting with Patrick Hooker’s demise. He also informed Ms. Bennett we’d stopped by B&R Headquarters to talk to her former boss.
“I’m sure Mr. Carlisle filled you in on the whole sordid story,” she said bitterly.
“He gave us a few details. And left us with a few questions we’d like to ask you.”
“Ask fast. My husband works nights. He’s upstairs, and I don’t want . . . I can’t take . . .” She stopped, dragged in a breath, started again. “I’d like to get this over with before he wakes up.”
“If it makes you feel any better, Ms. Bennett, I think you were a pawn in a very dangerous game.”
“It doesn’t.” Her thick, dark brows snapped into a straight line. “I’m not stupid, Agent Mitchell. I realized I’d been set up the first time the FBI came knocking on my door.”
Just like John Armstrong Sr. Someone was damned good at pulling strings and manipulating people into ruining their own lives.
“Tell us why you think you were set up,” Mitch said.
“Isn’t it obvious? I have . . . had . . . a key position at B&R. As their senior analyst, I supervised a team that trended every facet of operations.”
“Such as?”
She waved an impatient hand. “Major bid preparation and submission. The status of ongoing contracts. Outsourcing to subs. Plant production. Open action items after inspections by DOD, OSHA, ERP, CMA, the NCIP.”
Good grief! And I thought the military lived and breathed acronyms.
“Let’s focus on plant production for a moment,” Mitch said. “I’m assuming your trending data would include dates, times and destination of major arms shipments.”
“You assume right.”
“I’m also assuming you didn’t knowingly share that information with the man you had an affair with.”
“Right again.”
Some of the bristly hostility went out of her. Sighing, she slumped her shoulders.
“I had my briefcase with me when I met him after work, though. My laptop was inside it. He could have booted it up when I was in the shower. I don’t see how he could have pulled off any data, though. He didn’t know the password and my company access code.”
“Those aren’t all that hard for
a pro to obtain.”
“Maybe. I guess.” Her face crumpled. Self-disgust flowed from every pore. “God! I should have known someone like Nicolas Sloan wouldn’t, couldn’t, have any real interest in someone like me!”
“That was the name he went by? Nicolas Sloan?”
She nodded, miserable. “The FBI said they ran the name and the description I gave them. Neither turned up in their system.”
“This guy knows how to play the game,” Mitch said gently. “He’ll be a master at altering his appearance and probably has a half dozen aliases in his pocket. We suspect he may have targeted Lieutenant Spade, too.”
Joy Bennett’s startled gaze met mine. “Nick seduced you, too?”
I wish! I refused to dwell on how long it had been since anyone had maneuvered me into bed.
“We think he torched my lab.”
“Is there anything other than a physical description you can remember about this man that might help locate him?” Mitch asked. “Slang he might have used? Tidbits about himself or his past he may have let drop?”
Her hostility gone, Joy Bennett wanted to help. She really did. But the FBI had wrung her inside out and come up empty. The only really interesting tidbit she let drop was when Mitch asked her why she left B&R.
“It was strongly suggested,” she replied dryly. “In case you don’t know, Elizabeth Channing owns a considerable share of B&R stock.”
“The vice president’s wife?”
Bennett nodded, and I suddenly understood all the top-down scrutiny on this case. No wonder Dr. J had received a visit from the FBI!
“Mr. Carlisle wanted to minimize the potential fallout of having an employee with access to sensitive corporate data connected to the Hooker case,” Bennett said, her mouth twisting. “Even if the connection is just by way of a missing lover and a stolen cell phone.”
Mitch probed for a few more minutes before he gave her his card and got up to leave. I passed her one of mine for good measure.
“If you think of anything, anything at all, give one of us a call.”
“I will.”
All the Wrong Moves Page 13