by Toby Neal
“Yes, sir.” Sophie bit down on her frustration. She had no intention of following restrictions and policies developed by old white men who never got out from behind their desks and were unfamiliar with the new frontiers of tech. This was part of the reason the FBI was losing virtual battles online. “Call me when you’re ready for me to come in.”
“I will.” Waxman sat back, smoothed a steel blue tie that exactly matched his eyes. Sophie wondered if his wife had picked it out for him. It seemed like the kind of thing a wife would do, the kind of thing she’d have done if Assan had been worthy of it. “I feel bad that the review process of DAVID is taking so long.”
“Yes, it is.” Sophie kept her face immobile, unreadable. “I’m sorry about the delay as well. What’s the problem?”
As if it didn’t much matter, when it was everything.
She had to get through the meeting with Dr. LaSota and stay cleared for duty. She was hiding a lot lately, and planning to keep on hiding it.
“It’s the consent issue that’s slowing things down the most. What we need to do is to set up blanket consents for DAVID to access other agency and law enforcement databases at will and as needed, and that’s really meeting some resistance. There are many who think DAVID could be a threat in the wrong hands.”
Sophie’s muscles tightened with frustration. “I’ve developed some really good encryption software. I have every intention of guarding DAVID with the best protection the Bureau can come up with.”
Waxman sighed, rubbed his chin. A slight rasp to the sound, amplified by the video feed, told Sophie he hadn’t shaved, unusual for such a tidy man. They must have been up late and back in the office early. “Of course. But that’s not the only issue. The bigwigs I’ve heard from are concerned it gives our agency too much power, having a program like DAVID that searches their databases for information for our cases, and not vice versa. So I don’t know what to do next to advocate for use of the program.”
“DAVID works. It will catch criminals that would never be detected otherwise,” Sophie felt her cheeks heating. “Isn’t the greater good worth fighting for? It’s been almost a year. DAVID could have helped us find a dozen criminals already, by now.” And it had, she hoped, through the forwarding of modus operandi trends she’d sent to FBI offices all over the country.
“I have the lawyers working on it. I’ve gone up the chain of command as far as the Director. I don’t know what else do to.” Waxman spread his hands on the desk. He had long-fingered hands, elegant and smooth as a concert pianist’s. There was no wedding ring on his finger. “I’ll keep working on it, but I want you to prepare yourself for the worst.”
Sophie shot to her feet, pushing back her chair. “DAVID is mine. It’s not work product developed on the job. I made it in my spare time, at home. I own it, and I can get a patent on it.”
Waxman’s eyes narrowed. “And do what with it? It’s built off of ViCAP, and that’s the Bureau’s proprietary database.”
“There’s a lot you don’t know about DAVID. What it can and can’t do. And no, it’s not dependent on anything. DAVID just needs a host computer and it can analyze whatever database I send it to, working off hypotheses or keyword searches.”
“Well. Perhaps you should do a presentation. Educate the higher-ups on how DAVID works and how it can serve the greater good.”
Sophie sat slowly back down. “I can work on a presentation with some possible case scenarios.”
“Good. I’ll set it up. The Director and the branch chiefs are coming out for a summit in Honolulu in a few weeks. We can plan a roll-out then.”
Sophie’s hands prickled with sweat. A public presentation to the Director of the FBI and his branch chiefs terrified her. “I’ll get something ready.”
“Good. And keep it in mothballs until then.” Waxman did a slow wink, a settling of one eyelid that told her he was perfectly aware she was still using the program. “I wouldn’t want you to get into trouble.”
“Of course. Anything else, sir?”
“Don’t forget your appointment with Dr. LaSota.”
“Yes, sir.” She cut the feed.
Now, between the situation with her mother, being stalled on the case, and the news about DAVID, she really needed the distraction of going to the gym. But before she did, she called the patent lawyer her father had recommended to get the ownership of DAVID started.
Sophie was warming up at the speed bag after her jump rope routine when Alika came out of his office, striding toward her. He was wearing his usual gym clothes when he wasn’t fighting—a loose pair of nylon workout shorts and a black tank with the Fight Club logo emblazoned on it. Sophie never got tired of just watching him walk around the gym.
She kept up her speed bag workout, soothed by the rapid thumping of the swinging leather against her fists.
Her former coach came to stand beside her. “Sophie, can I have a minute?”
“I have another five minutes on the bag.” She didn’t look at him.
“Okay, five minutes, then.” Alika went on around the room, speaking a word of encouragement and correction to the various people working out and sparring in the ring. Sophie was due in the ring for a sparring match in forty-five minutes, up against a Brazilian girl with a black belt in jiu-jitsu. Sophie could tell the girl had an attitude by the aggressive stares the Brazilian kept giving her from her stationary bike in the corner.
As if it didn’t matter and she had all the time in the world, Sophie finished her five minutes on the bag and walked back to Alika’s office, stepping inside it to shut the door. She was surprised when he got up from behind his desk and pushed the switch on the wall that frosted over the viewing window into the gym, ensuring privacy.
“Have a seat.” He gestured to one of the molded plastic chairs in front of his desk.
She sat, pulling the Velcro tabs that secured her split-fingered gloves open and easing them off.
“I wanted to have a chance to congratulate you properly on graduating from coaching.” Alika’s voice was carefully neutral as he sat down behind his desk. “I think we ended things on a—well, a tense note. I was angry that you beat me in the ring, and I don’t think the way I ended our coaching relationship acknowledged what a remarkable athlete you are and what a milestone you’ve achieved.”
“Thank you.” Sophie didn’t know how to respond to this formal speech. Alika pulled open a drawer and removed a parchment certificate, heavy with gold leaf. He handed it across the desk to her.
Sophie Malee Smithson Ang has achieved the highest level of Mixed Martial Arts training available through Fight Club, the paper read. It was dated and signed Alika Wolcott: Coach, Owner, and Operator.
Sophie blinked. The black letters of her name swam in front of her eyes.
“Thank you,” she whispered again. “I will treasure this.”
“You should. I’ve never given one out before.” Alika smiled, and she liked the way a dimple creased his cheek, tiny fans of good humor highlighting golden-brown eyes under black brows. “I thought that, now that you’ve graduated, we might spend some time doing other things.”
Sophie’s heart lurched and sped up. “What kind of things?” Her eyes went back to the certificate in her hands. The paper trembled.
“I don’t know. A run-hike on one of the trails. Something.” He shrugged, elaborately casual. “I think I’ll miss our bouts.”
“I’d like that.” Her voice was thready. “We can still spar, right? I need a partner who can really give me a workout.”
A long pause followed this and he didn’t answer. Finally, she raised her eyes to his. They locked on hers in a heated gaze she’d only ever imagined he’d give her, a look that dried her mouth and loosened her knees. She was glad she was sitting down.
“I can give you a workout you’ll never forget. Any time.” His voice was a rough whisper.
Sophie shot to her feet, terrified by the intimacy he hinted at and her response to it. “Thanks for this,” she stuttere
d, waving the certificate, and fled.
Dr. LaSota was a woman made up of angles. Her asymmetrical bob lined up with her jutting cheekbones, and a sharp collarbone provided a counterpoint. Her well-marked eyebrows raised as she pointed a pen at Sophie. “Why don’t you start by telling me about the kidnapping bust.”
Seated on an industrial-beige couch in the temporary office the peripatetic psychologist used when she was in Honolulu, Sophie wore her expressionless mask. She’d showered and changed at the gym, and carefully and professionally dressed for the interview in her FBI non-uniform.
Sophie crossed her legs and swung one foot a little as she described the tipoff email to the FBI, the surveillance of the address, her role of going into the apartment above the kidnap location and installing surveillance feeds.
“So there was no intention to raid the place. Cause loss of life.”
“No. We just wanted to get a visual on what was happening inside. We had already verified that the girl was missing, though her parents hadn’t reported it due to the kidnappers’ threats. We’d identified the kidnappers entering and exiting the apartment unit.”
“So how did you know to drill into the ceiling of the walk-in closet?”
“It seemed a logical place to stash a small child. Only one exit, and any noise would be muffled.” Sophie’s leg swung a little faster. She slowed it consciously.
“So you speculated and made your holes for the surveillance camera based on logic.”
“Yes.”
“Interesting.” A long beat went by. Dr. LaSota eyed her, and Sophie held her gaze, demeanor compliant. She could feel Dr. LaSota waiting for her to disclose more, and finally the psychologist said, “Tell me more about what you felt when you saw the child in the closet.”
Sophie shrugged. “She appeared to be adequately cared for. She wasn’t injured.” She knew Dr. LaSota couldn’t see how fast her pulse was racing if she kept her breathing even.
“Tell me about the decision to saw through the ceiling and try to rescue the child.”
“I was monitoring the surveillance of the kidnappers. I saw them get the texts that set them against each other, and speculated the child only had a few moments before the kidnappers tried to take her out.”
“I reviewed the recordings and also the reports from the field. You could have crushed the child by landing on her.”
“I was aware of that, yes.” Sophie’s foot swung faster and she couldn’t seem to slow it. “It seemed worth the risk.”
“You’re a tech agent. Other than your training at Quantico, you have not had an active role in operations in the field. I’m interested in what made you take such a risk—both to yourself and to Anna.”
Sophie knew the woman’s use of the girl’s name was deliberate, and she felt the name like a deeply struck chord. Her mind filled with the sight of the child’s tear-streaked face, calling for her mother.
“It seemed worth the risk,” Sophie repeated woodenly.
“It didn’t have anything to do with the fact that you were kidnapped and held in a closet at the age of seven?” Dr. LaSota said gently.
Chapter Three
Dr. LaSota’s words sliced through Sophie’s self-protection, a razor slicing a veil. Sophie had never disclosed her own kidnapping during any of her psych interviews or on her Bureau application, but it was a matter of record in Thailand. Dr. LaSota must have located that record. Sophie had hoped it had been obscured by her parents’ influence.
“I don’t know if it had anything to do with that ancient history.” Sophie’s lips had gone immobile, and she could barely force the words through them, but her foot wouldn’t stop swinging. “It doesn’t much matter, does it? It worked. I saved the child.”
“It all matters. How our agents react in the field is critical, and nothing is off limits in this interview. Nothing.” Dr. LaSota flipped open a folder on her lap. Sophie had the sense she was only doing that for effect. “It appears that you also have a history of domestic violence.”
“I fail to see how that’s relevant. Were any of my actions in the field inappropriate?”
“Not necessarily.” Dr. LaSota kept her eyes on the folder, but Sophie felt the sharpness of the woman’s full attention trained on her. “Have you ever had any therapy for your past experiences?”
“I have not needed to.”
“What constitutes ‘needing to’?” The psychologist closed the folder and gazed at Sophie with pebble-hard eyes.
“I don’t know. Symptoms. Difficulties with relationships and getting along with others. Panic attacks. Impairment in normal activities.” Sophie willed her foot to stop and it finally did. “I handle uncomfortable feelings through exercise.”
“And what an exerciser you are.” LaSota opened the folder again. “According to your coworkers, you take exercise breaks throughout the day an average of four times.”
“Who told you that? Bateman?” Sophie felt heat suffuse her. “I could be standing around or getting coffee. I choose to stay fit for my job, instead. The FBI would be lucky to have the rest of its employees stay as fit as I do.”
“Feeling defensive?”
“I don’t like being spied on.”
“You aren’t. All agents are under assessment to a degree. We monitor our agents’ mental, physical, and emotional health. And I wonder if this exercising strategy is not just a little excessive.” She mock-consulted her file. “Apparently you are something of a mixed martial arts contender in the Hawaii fight scene.”
“SAC Waxman is aware of my hobby and we’ve discussed it. I don’t fight in any public exhibition matches.”
“And it never occurred to you that taking up a form of aggressive hand-to-hand combat after your divorce was a form of displacement?”
“Who cares what it is. It’s my private life, and the way I’ve chosen to act in my private life enhances my job performance, not impairs it.” Sophie locked eyes with the psychologist and this time, didn’t back down. “Show me evidence of any wrongdoing or impairment, and I’ll address it.”
“Sophie.” Dr. LaSota closed the folder and leaned forward, the picture of sincerity, but Sophie felt nothing but clinical judgment. “it’s my job to assess the mental and emotional fitness of our agents. If it was only physical fitness that was a yardstick, you know you’d beat half the agents here. But I worry that these un-dealt-with issues are a ticking time bomb, and someday, some time, they are going to cause you to slip up. To be frozen when you should move or, more likely, jump when you should take the stairs. It’s just lucky that child moved out of the way when you came through the ceiling. Can you imagine how you would have felt if you’d crushed her? As it was, you pulled this off. I want you to know I’ve got a flag on your file.”
“Noted.” Sweat prickled under Sophie’s arms. “What would reassure you that I’m handling my past perfectly well?”
“If you went to counseling, and showed some more normal relationship patterns. Dated a little. Were a little more interactive and connected with your peers.”
“I have relationships—at my gym, and in the Bureau. I have a dog. A Labrador.”
LaSota consulted the folder again and made a note. Sophie was beginning to hate whatever it contained, and the way LaSota used it as a prop.
“And have you dated since your divorce?”
“No. But I have—possibilities. Not that it’s any of your business.” Sophie kept her facial mask in place, glad something was finally moving forward, maybe a little bit, in her situation with Alika.
“That’s interesting timing.” LaSota made a note in the file. “Let me know if anything develops. I also see that you’re friends with Agent Marcella Scott and former agent Lei Texeira. Both of them have had issues with men. Interesting choice of friends.”
“Enough.” Sophie’s voice was firm and low. “They’ve handled their ‘issues’ as you call them, and so have I. We’re doing our jobs above and beyond the norm. Until you can show some wrongdoing, I have no intention
of allowing this invasion of my privacy to go any further.” She stood. “I will let SAC Waxman know I complied with my post-shoot debrief. Good day.”
She yanked open the office door but closed it very softly as she left, and had the satisfaction of seeing Dr. LaSota’s eyes and mouth wide in astonishment.
Sophie called her friend Marcella Scott on the way home. “Just survived Dr. LaSota,” she told her fellow agent.
She and Marcella had become friends over four years of working together in the same office, and now often met at the gym to spar or go on run-hikes together. They hadn’t spent much time together since Marcella and Detective Marcus Kamuela got engaged, though, and Sophie missed her friend.
“Oh God. That woman. She has eyes like a witch pricker,” Marcella said.
“A what?” Sophie frowned at the unfamiliar Americanism. She’d only been in the United States full time since she joined the FBI five years ago, and she still ran across colloquialisms she wasn’t familiar with.
“Oh, never mind—a dark period in Western history, not your side of the world. How are you feeling? I heard your vest took a bullet.”
“Bruised, but fine. You going to make it to the gym at all this week?”
“It’s not looking like it, sorry. Got some hot cases, and when I’m not working on that, Mama is driving me nuts with wedding stuff. You’re just lucky I haven’t roped you in on any of it.”
“I will help,” Sophie said. “Just tell me what I need to do.”
“Not yet. We still have time for flower choices and all that. Lately we’ve been visiting venues to try to pick a location for the ceremony. So what’s new with your love life?”
“As usual, nothing. But I graduated from coaching with Alika and…it seems like he might ask me out.”
“It’s about time! I’ve been losing patience with both of you.” Marcella’s indignant tone made Sophie smile even as she turned into and navigated the parking garage at her apartment building. “Keep me posted, ok?”
“Will do.”