Swordfish

by Andrea Bramhall

  He screamed as the barrel of a gun became visible on the small screen. The little girl cowered in the corner, crying and begging the unknown gunman not to hurt her. The pop was louder than all the others, and Masood watched as it seemed to take Jensen several seconds to realize that a gun had also gone off in the cell. The iron rich tang of blood filled his nostrils as he watched the girl slump to the ground while life flowed from Jensen’s body. Red-flecked spittle gathered at the corner of his mouth as he pulled what Masood knew would be his last breaths into his lungs.

  “I hope you never find anyone to create that for you. And I die knowing there’s one less person on this earth capable of creating that…abomination.”

  “I will find someone, Doctor. It is but a matter of time.”

  Jensen’s breath rattled in his chest and gurgled past his lips.

  Masood stepped over him as he left the basement, making sure not to get any blood on his Italian loafers. He’d accept no other outcome. They would all pay.

  Chapter Six

  Cassie looked up at the red brick building on the corner of Broadway and Melrose, then checked the address she’d written down. It had taken Google precisely three seconds to find a plethora of private detectives working in the Boston area. It had taken Cassie three days to look through websites and testimonials to find one she was happy with. She noticed the Irish pub next door and the Karaoke bar just up the street.

  “Hello.” The low alto voice was cut off at the end as the static over the intercom grew.

  Cassie pressed the button. “Hello, my name is Cassandra Finsbury. I’m looking for Bailey Davenport.”

  The door swung open when the intercom went dead. “Sorry, I couldn’t hear over the static on that damn thing. I’m Bailey Davenport. How can I help you, Ms…?” Bailey held her hand out and smiled.

  “Cassandra Finsbury.” Cassie shook her hand. “I don’t have an appointment. I’m sorry.”

  Bailey waved away the statement. “No problem. I’ve got some time right now. I just finished up a case last night. Why don’t you come in?”

  “Thank you.” Cassie stepped toward the doorway but stopped as Bailey looked thoughtful.

  “Are you allergic to dogs?”

  “No, not at all.”

  Bailey sighed. “Excellent. Come on in.”

  She followed Bailey down a short hallway that had been made narrow by a row of filing cabinets along one wall, books and directories of all kinds lined up on top of them in alphabetical order, and on the other wall a giant map of the USA covered the white paint. Cassie decided she liked this organized approach and the use of space left the main office open, light, and airy as Bailey took her seat behind the desk. She pointed to the chair opposite. “Please take a seat. Can I get you a drink? Coffee, tea?”

  “A glass of water would be good.”

  “Sure.” Bailey left the room and Cassie allowed herself a moment to gather her thoughts. She noted the diplomas and licenses on the wall behind the desk. There was a huge white board on the wall opposite the desk, and Cassie could imagine Bailey covering it with pictures and images of cases she was working so she could see it all from her desk. There didn’t appear to be anything personal in the room though. No family photographs, children’s drawings, nothing. She felt something press on her knee and looked down to see a white paw resting on her jeans, a panting dog looked up at her. She smiled as she stroked her head.

  “Jazz, back in your bed.” The dog turned sorrowful eyes at Bailey but moved away. She threw Bailey one last pitiful look before she dropped onto a large bean cushion bed behind Bailey’s desk. “Sorry about her, we’re still working on some stuff.” Bailey shot the dog a look, who yawned in response.

  “No need to apologize. She’s lovely.”

  Bailey handed Cassie her water and took her seat. “So how can I help you, Mrs. Finsbury?”

  “Ms. And I’d like you to help me find my daughter.”

  Bailey picked up a pen and held it poised over her paper. “And your daughter’s name is?”

  “Daniela Finsbury-Sterling.” She pulled some papers from her bag and slid them across the desk to Bailey. “This was what I could find on the Internet. There’s information about her, but no address. Not even a state.” She shrugged. “I didn’t know where to start looking.”

  Bailey scribbled across her paper. “And you haven’t seen her for how long?”

  “Almost twenty-five years.”

  Bailey whistled and looked up. “That’s a long time. Why?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “I’m sure, but it’s not something I like to talk about.” Cassie expected the questions, but she also hoped that cash would override the need to have them all answered.

  Bailey frowned. “Okay, but if it’s relevant to me finding her now, I need to know.”

  “It isn’t.”

  Bailey watched her from across the desk and Cassie squirmed under her gaze. She felt those brown eyes examining, studying, dissecting, and then, piece by piece, putting her back together.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t think I can help you.”

  “What? Why not? I have money.”

  Bailey stood and started toward the door as Cassie picked up her papers and stuffed them back in her bag. “It isn’t about money. I don’t take a job when I don’t trust the client. It means I don’t know what I’m getting into. If someone won’t give me at the very least basic information, then I’m left to assume that they’re hiding far more from me than I want to deal with at this point in my life.”

  “It really isn’t relevant anymore.”

  Bailey held open the door. “You haven’t seen your daughter for twenty-five years, but now you want to find her, and you don’t think the reason for not seeing her is relevant. Well, in my experience, it’s very relevant, and I can’t work if I’m being kept in the dark.” Bailey sighed. “I’m sorry.”

  Cassie opened her mouth, but the words wouldn’t come out. A chill ran down her spine, and she could feel Daniela slipping through her fingers again. She could see her, feel her, even smell the skin of her small hands reaching for hers, tears running down her face. Please don’t leave me, Mama. I’ll be a good girl. Please. Eyes that had been the image of her own stared at her, begged her, and haunted her every day. She wanted nothing more than to look at her daughter, to tell her she was sorry that she left her. That she wished she could have changed both their lives, but she just couldn’t. She hadn’t been strong enough. She wanted to explain why she’d stayed away. But there had never, ever been a day she hadn’t thought of Daniela. She wanted to tell her there never would be.

  But old habits die hard when you’ve lived on instinct for survival, and fear is a comforting blanket when you’ve lain beneath it for so long. She closed her eyes and willed the memories and daydreams away.

  She gazed up at Bailey as she picked up her purse and felt a pang of regret that she wouldn’t get to work with her, but dismissed the thought as soon as it entered her head. She didn’t need more empty wishes to waste her time on. “I’m sorry you feel that way.” She reached into her purse and pulled out a business card, scribbled Daniela’s name on the back, and handed it to Bailey. “In case you change your mind, that’s who I’m looking for.”

  “It’s unlikely. I’m sorry.” She turned the card over. “Professor Burns.” Her frown deepened. “I thought you said your name was Cassandra Finsbury?”

  “It is.”

  “So who is MIT Professor Sandra Burns? Why are you giving me her card?”

  “That would also be me.” Cassie sighed. “I told you, it’s complicated.” She walked down the hallway. “Thanks for your time.”

  The door closed heavily behind her, catching with a resounding thud.

  *

  Bailey pushed open the door to her apartment and let Jazz walk in before her. She kicked the door closed and walked down the short corridor. She dropped her bag on the table, shucked her coat, flipped
the coffee maker on, and then hit the light switch. The energy saving light bulb flickered into life and slowly built up the level of illumination as Jazz curled herself into the comfy groove on the two-seater sofa.

  She glanced at the vast information on her corkboard. It was the reason she spent her life trying to find people who were lost—to reunite families, loved ones, friends. Everyone deserved someone who cared enough to look for them. It was also why she couldn’t shake Cassandra Finsbury from her head. Or Sandra Burns, whatever her damn name was. She’d watched the woman battle whatever memories drove her to Bailey’s door, and she could see that she wanted to take that final step. But for whatever reason, the strength to do so eluded her. Bailey had seen so many people pull back from the edge and knew there were more reasons for remaining silent than she could ever contemplate. And there were plenty of reasons for changing your name, and Bailey had faced a number of those too.

  But the woman she’d sat opposite this morning didn’t look like a criminal on the run from the law. She didn’t look like a woman who was truly in hiding. She wouldn’t be looking for her daughter if she was. Regardless, her past was something she didn’t want known, and there were only a limited number of reasons a woman would do that, especially when she was trying to find a part of that past again.

  She booted up her laptop and put fresh food out for Jazz before she turned the stereo on. The soul aching sound of Billie Holiday filled the air, and she closed her eyes, letting the music roll over her along with Jazz’s less than tuneful appreciation. She laughed out loud and wondered just how long it had been since the walls of her apartment had heard that sound. Longer than she could remember, anyway. Jazz wagged her tail as Bailey continued to chuckle. Such a difference. Less than twenty-four hours, and her cold, lonely apartment had started to feel like a real home. All it took was one stray collie. She selected a frozen dinner without looking at it, stabbed at the plastic film, and tossed it in the microwave.

  She opened up various programs and rubbed her chin while she stared at the screen. “I said I wasn’t gonna do this, Jazz, yet here I am, staring at the beginning of a missing person search.” She looked at the dog, who lifted her head and appeared to be listening intently. “So, why am I?” Jazz whined. “Yeah, yeah, I know you liked her. I liked her well enough. That’s not the problem.” Jazz cocked her head to the side. “Well, see, the problem is that I don’t just trust anyone, and I doubly don’t when it’s so damn obvious they’re keeping secrets.” Jazz barked. “Sorry, didn’t mean to swear.” Jazz snuffled a response. “It can’t hurt just to take a peek can it? I mean, she did seem really upset when I said I wouldn’t help.” Jazz wagged her tail. “And it’s not like I’ve got anything better to do right now.” She sighed and entered the search terms before leaving to grab her food from the microwave.

  When she returned and looked at the screen, she was shocked at the results staring back at her. A newspaper article reported the apparent death of Cassandra Finsbury-Sterling, as the mangled wreck of her car was shown being pulled from the sea. A second newspaper article reported how Daniela Finsbury-Sterling had testified against her father, who was now imprisoned on charges of terrorism.

  Bailey let out a long whistle and Jazz barked. “Wow. She said it was complicated, but damn. I should have taken a closer look at those pages she had, hey, girl?” She ruffled the dog’s fur and read the articles again. She checked the computer results on Sandra Burns and frowned when the dates didn’t make sense. Cassandra had “died” almost twenty-five years ago, but Sandra didn’t seem to exist until 2001. “What happened during those missing years? Is that why you’re so scared?”

  Her mind was running at a hundred miles an hour, trying to filter out the most likely scenarios. Did she fake her own death? If so, why? What made her leave her daughter in the UK and come to the States? She didn’t speak like a Brit, so was she from the US originally? If she didn’t fake her own death, who did? If they did, was she held captive during those missing years?

  She ran a check on Sandra Burns’s identity. Everything looked solid. Driver’s license, passport, credit cards, everything was in place. But how did a woman who hadn’t published anything before 2001, and didn’t have experience in teaching, land a plum job at MIT?

  Bailey tapped her fingers on the desk. There were more questions than answers, and Bailey knew she wouldn’t be able to rest without at least a few of those answers. “I’m not even working the damn case. This is crazy.” Jazz put a paw on her thigh. “I know, I should have thought of that before I started the first damn search, but you saw how sad she looked.” Bailey laughed. “I’m talking to you like you’re gonna answer me. Maybe the problem is that I need a little company.” Jazz growled and Bailey laughed again. “Oh, are you the jealous sort, little miss?” She stroked her head again. “Don’t worry. It’s been a long time, and that’s not likely to change. I’m forty-nine years old and too long in the tooth for changing, too prickly for keeping. So I guess it’s just you and me, girl.”

  She picked up the phone. “It can’t hurt to make a phone call, can it?” She punched in the number and sighed when it went to voicemail. She left a message after the beep and looked at some more of the details on Daniela. She scanned the article for a location. Looks like Cassie was right, no address. It was missing on every document she could find about the court case. Oh, that smells more than a little bit suspicious to me. The phone rang. She smiled when she checked caller ID.

  “That was quick, Sean.”

  “Well, it’s been six months since you last called. I figured your place must be burning down or some shit.”

  Bailey laughed. “Yeah, yeah, bite me. My phone hasn’t exactly been ringing off the hook either.”

  “Life gets busy, darlin’. You know how it is.”

  “I do. Everything okay, buddy?”

  “Same shit, different set of bad guys.”

  “Ain’t that the truth.”

  “You just wanna shoot the shit, or you got somethin’ I can help ya with?”

  “You never change, Sean. Straight to the point.”

  “It’s why ya love me, baby.”

  Bailey laughed. They’d been partners for four years in the FBI, and it was indeed one of the reasons they had worked so well together. Sean didn’t take bullshit, and he didn’t hand it out. He was a good cop, a good man, and a good friend. “I’m looking for someone, but everything I find is too clean.”

  “A perp?”

  “No. I’ve got someone looking for a family member. Long lost kinda shit. You know?”

  “And?”

  “Well, I can find info, but there’re no locations. Anywhere.”

  “You tried DMV?”

  “I’d be shooting in the dark right now. I don’t even have a state.”

  “Got ya. So what do you think I can do?”

  “I’m wondering if this has been cleaned professionally.”

  “I’ll check in house for ya, but it could be a different company.”

  “I know.”

  “Do you have a contact over there?”

  “No.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Thanks, Sean. I appreciate it.” She gave him Daniela’s name. “There’s something else I’d like you to run while you’re at it.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Cassandra Finsbury and Sandra Burns.”

  “What about them?”

  “Can you just run the names and see what pops up for me?”

  “You getting mysterious in your old age, Bailey?”

  “Not trying to be, trying to figure one out. I don’t want to lead you in a direction if I’m wrong.”

  “No sweat. I’ll call you.”

  “Thanks.”

  She took a seat on the sofa and smiled when Jazz rolled over and offered her belly. She slowly stroked the dog’s tummy and tried to focus on Daniela and the problem of locating her, but her mind continued to drift back to Cassandra. She thought about the hea
rtbreaking decision she had made to leave her daughter behind—and more and more she felt that it had been Cassandra’s decision but one she was forced to make. She could see clearly in her eyes that she had loved her daughter. She wondered at the strength it had taken her to walk away and stay away for so long. She kept thinking of Cassandra’s face, time and again. Those dark green eyes, the long auburn hair, dashed with shots of gray at the temples, and the diminutive frame cried out to be protected, not hunted. She picked up the business card.

  “To be fair, Professor, you’ve done a damn good job of protecting yourself recently, so maybe I don’t know what the hell I’m talking about.”

  The dog whined.

  “Thanks, but you really didn’t need to agree quite so quickly.” Jazz rested her head on Bailey’s thigh. She turned the picture toward her. “What do you think?” Jazz lifted her head and panted as Bailey stroked her head. “Yeah, you’re right. She’s pretty.” Bailey laughed. “Actually, she’s beautiful.” She sighed. “And a puzzle.” She stared at her corkboard. “And I’m a sucker for a puzzle.”

  Chapter Seven

  Oz pulled her gun from her waistband and checked the peephole. Andrew Whittaker stood outside; a second man had his back to the door, apparently watching the hallway. “Show me your ID, gentlemen.”

  Whittaker grumbled as he fished in his pocket. “You know me.”

  “I know a blond-haired Andrew Whittaker.” She checked his credentials carefully, more to yank his chain than from any real concern. “What’s with the dye job?”

  “Blond makes me stand out like a sore thumb. I thought I’d blend in better for this job with the darker hair.”

  “You two could pass for brothers now.” Oz opened the door and pointed to the second man. He was average height, average build, medium brown hair, nondescript features, and fairly small brown eyes. He had no outstanding features, no distinguishing marks or scars. He was someone you’d have a hard time remembering or describing if you ever saw him anywhere. He could be anyone and anywhere from twenty-five to forty-five. Hell, put some fake tan on him and he could look Arabic or Mexican. Perfect spook. His ID read Stephen Knight. She liked the name. There was something powerful about it—noble, even. Let’s see if you’re as noble as your name.