by Isabel Jolie
But I was told Mitchell seemed so eager to find any bad apple within the company, the FBI special agent in charge agreed to the undercover idea. I expect Michell sees participating with the FBI in a covert operation as a way to avoid BB&E going up in flames from a public investigation on an Arthur Anderson scale.
“What did you think of Mitchell?”
“No red flags.” The guy seemed like any middle-aged dad. He showed me photos of his kids.
“Good.” Hopkins fiddles with his laptop. “Did you get the sense he’s trustworthy?”
I did sense he was handling me with kid gloves last night as he led me around the gala, introducing me to BB&E employees. Not that that’s unexpected. People generally find FBI investigations enthralling. I could be wrong, but I’m fairly certain he kept glancing at my gown, trying to determine if I was carrying a concealed weapon. And I was not. There was no need. This isn’t that kind of case.
“I didn’t trust him enough to tell him anything he hasn’t already been told.”
I am certified for undercover, but this is my first case. I wasn’t with Evan Mitchell long enough to make any kind of personality assessment. My specialty is forensic accounting. A different guy on my team probably would’ve gotten this assignment, but his wife’s due in the next month or two, plus I’m new to the team and to the city, so less chance of being recognized out and about. It’s a good case for me to transition to the New York office. And it should be a short undercover stint.
Agent Hopkins lifts a black computer bag onto the table and unzips it.
“BB&E will give you a company computer with access to its network. You’ve already received your identity documents, correct?”
“Yes.” He’s fully aware I received my identification with my undercover name, Sydney Frost, last Friday when I was assigned this role. “I wish they’d let me be Sydney Bristow. Would’ve been so much cooler.” Sydney Bristow from the TV show Alias is one of my all-time favorite undercover operatives.
“Am I the only one who thinks Sydney Frost sounds like a made-up name?” Agent Hopkins asks the question in a teasing tone, his body language indicating he’s ready to wrap up this Sunday afternoon meeting.
I don’t offer a response to his question. So many names in the world. They only sound off to us because we’re trained to pay attention to details. Not many people out there would hear someone’s name and think undercover agent.
“Ready for tomorrow? Anything you need? The warrants cleared, and we’ve planted listening devices. Surveillance has begun.”
I can’t think of anything. To start, I won’t be wearing a wire. One less thing to worry about. Goosebumps spread on my arms, and I hope Hopkins doesn’t notice. My first undercover role. It’s a pretty straightforward plan. I’m filling the role of the CIA, or certified internal auditor, for the firm. I fully expect that as I home in on these accounts that I know have cooked books, I’ll be able to pick up on some discomfort level from the guilty parties. And, with network access, I’ll be able to see who is accessing the files for these firms the most.
When I was a kid, my sister and I would play secret agents. We’d bullet point our plans as if they were a shopping list.
Find evidence
Break into bad guy den (which we’d built ourselves)
Call chief (who was a plant pot with a smiley face)
Solve case
Put bad guys away
I zip up my laptop bag and think of this case in the same childish fashion.
Fill in the role of a certified internal auditor (CIA) for the firm
Home in on accounts with cooked books
Look out for guilty parties
Use network access to observe who is most often accessing the files for these two firms
Identify said guilty parties - A.K.A. Catch the bad guys
If I do my job well, I’ll make the case stronger. We’re dealing with a sitting US senator and several wealthy CEOs, so the prosecutor’s case needs to be airtight. These men will hire a stellar defense team.
Agent Hopkins lightly taps his pen on the table as I prepare to leave.
“Is it true you were Top Gun?”
“Yes, sir.” My claim to FBI fame. It’s a Quantico honor. I hoist my bag over my shoulder. Respect flashes across his features. Then he’s back to business.
“Anything suspicious, let me know. If at any point you don’t feel comfortable, you get out. You understand?”
I refrain from rolling my eyes, but internally, they’re doing three-sixties.
“Got it.” I give him a reassuring smile. It’s white-collar crime at an accounting firm. And I caught our prime suspect checking me out multiple times during dinner last night. He didn’t come across as overly confident, as he’d look away quickly when I returned his gaze. Our covert glances back and forth almost became a game. The classic black tuxedo complimented his broad shoulders. It wasn’t exactly a hardship to throw a few flirty glances his way. And the fact that doing so seemed to piss off that socialite Mrs. Bennett made it borderline fun.
“You know, now that I think about it, look into Mrs. Bennett too.”
“What’re you thinking?” Hopkins asks, pen in the air.
“It’s a hunch. I don’t think her marriage is a happy one. Or at least, if it is, it’s an open arrangement. The woman was dripping in diamonds. I know you’d normally check into her background anyway when looking into him, but I’m curious which one of them is the money source.”
“You got it. We’re already working on accessing financial records for all the executives.”
There’s something about Mrs. Bennett. The other wives weren’t particularly noteworthy.
We’re almost positive Tom Bennett, another Stanford alum and close friend of McLoughlin’s, is orchestrating the falsifying of the financial records. But the chances that the CEO is doing it all on his own are slim. He’s got to have at least one employee in on it. We strongly suspect that person is Maitlin, as he’s the client relationship manager on all the accounts we are investigating.
“Does Mitchell know you’ve bugged the office?”
“Yes. He offered it up. Well, he doesn’t know where we placed devices. He said he wanted to work with the FBI in every way possible. Why?”
“Tom Bennett and Evan Mitchell are close friends. I saw that last night. And they both went to Stanford. Did no one find that to be a risk?”
“Agent Blakely swears by Evan Mitchell. A personal friend. But we’ve put bugs in Mitchell’s office too. Blakely has us doing full surveillance for insurance.” Agent Blakely is the SPIC, or special agent in charge, on Operation Quagmire. He works out of the Chicago office.
This really should be a simple case. If Maitlin’s guilty, I’ll figure it out quickly. And, if we’re wrong, I’ll flip him and recruit him to help us catch the bad guys.
My goal is to have this case closed out in less than two weeks. I transferred to this field office in the hopes of building a more fulfilling life outside of work. Undercover is hardly a step toward meeting my personal goals.
When I push open the door to the FBI apartment on King Street, my new short-term home, it feels like I’m stepping onto a movie set. As one would expect, the team did a good job setting it up. It could be any single person’s New York one-bedroom apartment. The wear and tear on the end of the sofa arms suggest the furniture is rental. One sofa, one side chair, one coffee table, two sofa end tables, two matching lamps, a queen bed in the bedroom, one dresser, and one side table. I can envision the rental form and the checked boxes beside the rooms of furniture.
They didn’t fill it up with photos, as my cover role has no family and no boyfriend, and I shouldn’t have a need to entertain anyone here. They did hang landscape poster art, so at least I’m not stuck staring at blank white walls.
I pull out my laptop to review my cover story one last time before I fall asleep tonight. As a new employee, most likely I’ll be meeting a lot of people and could face a variety of random que
stions about my past. Where I came from, when I moved, how I found my apartment. I need to be consistent.
My phone rings. My personal phone sees little activity. I hesitate then read the screen. Aaron. I don’t particularly want to talk to my ex. We haven’t talked in weeks. But it might be important. I pull my legs up under me and answer before it goes to voicemail.
“Aaron, hi.”
“I heard you’re working UC now?”
“Yes. In New York.”
“What the hell?”
“What do you mean?” I ask at the same time I notice my blinds are open and people from the building across the street can probably see me sitting on the sofa.
“I work undercover.”
“Yes.”
“You know relationships don’t work when both partners are undercover. We’ll never see each other.”
I hold my phone out and look at the screen as if it’s going to divine answers. Then I put it back to my ear.
“Aaron. We broke up.”
“That was temporary. Until I finished this case.”
“You’ve been on this case for over six months.”
“And so what? You’re walking away?”
“Aaron. I moved. I now live in New York.”
“It doesn’t matter where you live. I don’t have that much time off between cases, anyway. Unless you meant it this time? We’re done?”
I exhale, searching for strength. “Aaron, yes, I meant it.”
“Sadie, are you asking me to stop working undercover?”
“No. No, I’m not. You love working undercover. But I didn’t love us. And I especially didn’t appreciate you telling everyone about us.”
“That really pissed you off?”
I grit my teeth, refusing to get into this with him again. I worked hard to get where I am. The FBI is accepting of women. But that doesn’t mean dating a colleague was a smart choice. Aaron didn’t understand. Told me I was being sensitive.
“How long’s your op?”
“Indeterminate.” As if I’m going to tell him anything. “Who told you I’m UC now?”
Typical Aaron, he disregards my question. “When we’re both off our cases, let’s take a weekend. Talk. Don’t take another case until then.”
“There’s nothing to talk about. We’re done.”
“I’ve been calling you every month. I’ve been calling you instead of my mom.”
“Here is why that piece of information is disturbing. One, in all those conversations, I never had any clue you still thought we were dating. Not one. Think on that, Aaron. And call your mother.”
I end the call. Angry at him…and myself. Him for opening his mouth and making me uncomfortable in the D.C. office. Me for putting up with him for as long as I did. The man is emotionally barren.
Wait. When was the last time I spoke to my mother? Or father? I check the time. Pot, kettle. It’s too late to call them now. But it’s not too late to call my little sis.
She answers on the first ring.
“Sadie? Are you okay?”
“Yes. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“I don’t know. You don’t usually call me. And it’s late here.” I hear music in the background.
“Are you out?”
“Yeah, wait, I’ll go outside.”
“No, it’s okay. I’ll let you go hang with your friends.” She’s in college. She should be out enjoying herself. She’s in Cambridge, so it’s quite late her time, but she’s a big girl.
“Well, tell me why you called?”
She knows me. If I call, I have a reason.
“Aaron called.”
“Let me guess. He’s back in D.C., and he wants you back. For the weekend.”
“Well, not exactly. I moved to New York last week.”
“What?” Her shriek pierces my eardrum.
“Go back to your friends.”
“When were you going to tell me you moved to a different city?”
“Now. I called you. Remember? Now, call me tomorrow.” Then I remember I’ll be working and won’t have my personal phone with me. “Scratch that. I’ll call you.”
“Don’t forget.”
“I won’t. Promise.”
Three
Chase
“Good morning, sunshine! Are you raring to go on this bright, beautiful Monday morning?”
“Yes, I am. Did you have a good weekend?”
Rhonda, my assistant extraordinaire, follows me into my office with a steaming cup of hot coffee just for me. I’ve already had one coffee on my way to work, but I love having a warm mug on my desk.
“Rhonda, you are too good to me. Best assistant on the planet.” Her smile boosts my mood. She’s so easy to make happy. I like having happy people around me. Life is too damn short to be pissy.
My laptop blinks to life as there’s a tap on the doorframe, and Evan Mitchell and hot Frost crowd the doorway. Rhonda nods to them both as she backs out. “Let me know if you need anything.”
“Sure thing. Thanks, Rhonda. You put the sun in my day.” She beams in response.
Evan steps forward, looking like himself in his drab suit and tie, but Ms. Frost has some sort of wartime expression going on. Once again, she’s in black, only today she’s in slim-fitting, ass defining slacks and a black suit jacket over a demure black blouse that could be so much more if she unbuttoned one more button. I peer over the table, curiosity getting the better of me. Yep, black high heels.
“Chase, do you remember Sydney? I introduced you both Saturday night.”
“Of course.”
Ms. Frost stands behind my office guest chair, one hand resting on the back of it, as the other holds a notebook. It could be my imagination, but I’m fairly certain her fingers are pressing hard into the back of the chair. I do a quick mental rundown of what I’ve said that might have already pissed her off but come up emptyhanded.
“As I mentioned, she’s stepping into Tad’s old role. HR has cleaned up his office, but his files are a mess. It seems he wiped his laptop before leaving, too, so Sydney here is starting fresh. Do you mind helping her out? I know she’s not in your group, but you know this place like the back of your hand, and I can’t think of a better person to introduce her around.”
Evan’s not lying. If they held a firm-wide popularity contest, I’d win hands down. And there are over two thousand employees in our New York offices. I’m an extrovert in a cubicle minefield of uptight introverts. It works for me.
Case in point—everyone here wears suits. Men always wear ties. Me? T-shirt under a jacket, usually khakis, but sometimes I push it and go jeans. And you know what? My refusal to fall to an outdated wardrobe protocol hasn’t hurt me at all. If anything, I stand out. I’m everybody’s buddy. No one thinks I’m trying to climb the corporate ladder, because no one dressed like me is ambitious, right? Wrong. I’ve risen through the ranks faster than any of these other CPAs. My clients love me, probably because I’m a hell of a lot more fun on the golf course. But, at the end of the day, all the bosses care about is how happy the client is. And I’m in the business of making people happy.
“I’d love to help her get the lay of the land.” I flash her my flirty smile, the one I usually break out if I’m introducing myself to a stranger in a bar. Solid dark eyes, so dark they’re almost black, regard me with a studied coolness. A frost so chill it’s spooky. This woman’s perma-frown is a sign she needs a little of my brand of sunshine. I’ll happily warm her right up. Of course, I’ll do so in a completely professional and appropriate way.
“She’s starting at ground zero. We can’t find any of the work Tad did for the first two quarters of the year. Can you show her around our intranet, how to access our accounts, that kind of thing? I’ve told her if she runs into any issues or has any questions, she can come to you. I know you don’t handle all our accounts, but if she has a question you can’t answer, you’ll know how to get the answer.”
“Sure thing.”
Evan exhales and runs his
fingers along the top of his head, and the small patch of hair he has up there shifts. Rhonda and I use that patch as a meter for his mood. If it’s lying down flat, everything’s groovy. If the front has shifted a tad up, then something’s brewing and you gotta keep it to business. If it’s perpendicular, then we stay the fuck away. That’s not an entirely fair assessment, as it could just mean he scored some office sex, or at least, that’s what I like to imagine. To be safe, when the patch’s upright, I follow Rhonda to the copy room.
Frost openly inspects me, and I get the distinct feeling she’s trying to decide if she’s going to reject Evan’s offer for me to help her.
But then she says, “IT has me set up on my laptop. I should have access to everything now. Do you think it might be best if you come with me to my office? If you can show me around the intranet, then I can navigate and come up with a game plan and come to you if I have any questions. Does that work?”
The corners of her pale pink lips lift into an awkward smile. It’s the most warmth she’s shown me since I met her. I’m not worried. She’ll grow to like me. All it takes is a little time around me, and eventually, I grow on people.
As we pass Rhonda’s desk, I rap my fist against it and say, “Patch Level Two. Level Two.” I shoot her with my finger, and she smothers a laugh. Sydney’s walking in front of me, leading the way, all business, like any new employee learning the ropes.
We round the corner into her sterile office. There are no personal items at all, which is what you’d expect from a new employee. Other than the laptop and a large monitor to the side, and a cup holder with pens and pencils, there’s nothing to indicate anyone occupies this office.
She points at my shirt. “Do you always dress like that?”
I glance down at my tee. It’s a white t-shirt with a Batman mask and black font below it that reads I’m not saying I’m Batman, I’m just saying no one has ever seen me and Batman in a room together. I think the black works well with the black sports jacket I’m wearing today. But I get it. She’s a conformist. She wants everyone to look the same and follow all the same rules. To her credit, my jacket covers part of the text, and therefore she can’t fully appreciate the humor.