If he was an active asset, then it was very possible her elevating his profile had jeopardized a long-term operation. At the very least, if he was trying to come back into the fold, that meant he had intel he thought was valuable and she’d jeopardized the capture of it. But if all he wanted was to come in, he could have contacted his previous handler and arranged it. Instead, almost as if he was hissing “Psst! Over here!,” he’d shown his face to cameras connected to active facial recognition scans that quickly made their way through the intelligence network. She’d assumed it was stupidity and bad luck. What if it wasn’t?
She went back to the beginning, read every communiqué and update, read between the lines, even scraped through the complete classified Seychelles dossier again. There was nothing to find that she hadn’t already known. Officially, Seychelles was a rogue asset who had dropped out of sight, until a month ago.
Still… Her gut told her something wasn’t right even if her head had no concrete proof to support the feeling. It wasn’t something she could take to her boss, not yet. She was going to have to blind-call into the CIA, and she couldn’t even tell her boss the details. Protocol and common sense made her dash off a note to warn him that she was making extra-channel contact and, of course, she’d let him know the outcome. He wouldn’t be blindsided if someone at the CIA decided to take umbrage and complain up the chain.
The dossier had the agent number for Seychelles’s last handler before he was reported as having dropped out of contact. She dialed into the secure portal and gave the pleasant, bland voice on the other end the number and her own contact ID details, the dossier number she was calling about, and waited. A few minutes later, she was told that her “desire for contact” would be relayed and the voice disconnected. It was all very CIA. She of course understood protocols existed for everyone’s protection. Nevertheless she couldn’t help but hear cloak-and-dagger noir music playing in her head as she logged the result of her call into her file.
Even as she wondered if she ought to linger next to her phone for the rest of the day in hopes of a callback, the phone rang. She quickly tapped her headset to answer it.
A gravelly masculine voice asked, “Shannon Dealan?”
“Speaking.”
He rattled off his credentials, which matched up to her files, and then she did the same. He said, “Hang on,” and she knew he was verifying her clearance level. About ninety seconds later, he said, “Go ahead.”
“I’m the analyst in support of an arrest warrant for bank fraud out of the Central California District. Henry Lymon is an alias in this particular dossier.”
“Yes?”
“Henry Lymon has been captured by three separate CCTV facial recognitions from our counterparts in Canada. A provincial revenue office, a courthouse, and a police station.” She gave him the dates and cities. “We initiated our protocol anticipating entry into the US with plans to pick Lymon up after he left Canadian jurisdiction. A clean, documented capture of Henry Lymon. Then I would alert several agencies that they have interests—”
“I see.” He put her on hold.
Sheesh. She drummed her fingers on her desk and finally heard the faint pop that meant the line was live again.
“We would appreciate it if Lymon was removed from elevated scrutiny at border points of entry.”
“Because?”
“That’s need to know.”
“I have clearance and I need to know.” She could match him gruff for gruff. “Is he trying to phone home?”
The slight hint of background noise told her he hadn’t hung up in the long silence that followed her question. “Those locations and the timing suggest that is the case. We are eager for him to do so.”
“Thank you. I’ll make heavy recommendation to reduce Lymon’s scrutiny at border points of entry unless something official comes through from your agency to countermand that.”
There was only the slightest easing in tone as the agent said, “Thank you,” and disconnected.
Damn. She had been so hoping to see Seychelles at last in custody. He might end up with yet another alias, and it was entirely possible she would never know.
It was unsatisfying, to say the least.
She wrote up a detailed description of her logic, the steps she had taken to confirm, and the pertinent identification numbers from the CIA dossier and agent. That filed, she sent a redacted version to her boss with the promised recommendation.
That was exactly what Gustavo was waving at her when she got to work on Monday morning. “Good work, Dealan!”
“It doesn’t feel like it. Lots of slimeballs get shelter because they might be useful to someone else.” She lowered her voice. “I want the guy in handcuffs. With a very public perp walk and the words ‘child trafficking’ under his picture.”
“That would be very satisfying, I agree.” He sighed as he turned back to his office. “We have to trust that if he turns out useless they’ll kick him down the food chain.”
Gustavo didn’t know that Seychelles was related to someone with a lot of power in a murky part of the world. For all Shannon knew, their being called off an active hunt was a favor to a CIA source in that other country. An “I’ll let this guy go if you give me intel on that other guy” arrangement. Meanwhile, it was possible kids were getting hurt. Of course, it was possible he was ratting out other traffickers.
The not knowing irked her, and it was hard to settle down in a good frame of mind. She was cheered in the afternoon, a little, by the copy she received of a note to her file from the Marshal himself, praising her “extensive research capabilities, stellar instincts in data interpretation, and commitment to interagency cooperation.”
Let it go, she told herself. Seychelles had been a persistent puzzle, but it was time to clear her mind of him. The lack of justice bruised her outlook, though. Justice shouldn’t be invisible. Who could believe in truth and fairness when you couldn’t see them? Every time they brought a fugitive in to face justice she felt rewarded for her faith in it. Such foolish faith, her aunt had always insisted, would always be disappointed.
Hush up, Aunt Ryanne, Shannon thought irritably. If she ever told her aunt it was sunny out, she’d answer back that there’d be rain by morning. Shannon would not believe her faith in justice was misplaced. One setback didn’t break the world.
One bad guy gets away, she told herself, but many other bad guys would not be so fortunate. Maya Angelou was right—justice was like air. Their luck would run out.
She took up other case files. There was never a shortage of puzzles and pieces waiting for her attention. It was important to keep working because if she stopped she would think about Kesa. Kesa, who had not seen fairness or truth from Shannon and had no reason to believe that she ever would.
The point of her pencil snapped against her notepaper. She stared at the jagged edge of the lead and confronted the fact that she couldn’t bury herself in work forever to hide from problems of her own making. It was possible that Kesa thought Shannon was about to leave town and that was why she’d been so angry and final in spite of the magnetic chemistry between them. What if Kesa learned that a job offer hadn’t materialized? Even more to the point, that even if it did, Shannon wasn’t taking it? She wouldn’t even consider it, not if there was any hope of a second chance with Kesa.
But what if Kesa doesn’t want you in her life—aye, there’s the rub. She doesn’t know anything that really matters, Shannon reminded herself. You were hoping she’d forgive the past without you ever having to do the perp walk and allocute. Without knowing that you have tried to change.
She sharpened the pencil, tore a page from her notebook, and started writing.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Kesa glanced at the clock again, even as she told herself she was wasting time doing so. Five-twenty. Jennifer Lamont would be here in ten minutes or less and the final stitching that attached the off-the-shoulder collar to the main bodice of the dress wasn’t finished. She needed every single second
.
Her back hurt, her fingers hurt, her eyes hurt, her knees hurt.
She whipped in the final stitch, tied it off, and then threw herself at the piles of discarded fabric and pattern paper that she’d let accumulate on chairs and the floor. Bundling it into a great wad, she shoved it into the narrow broom closet. Accumulated dishes and takeout containers were set willy-nilly into the dishwasher. She’d sort it all out later, after sleeping for more than a three-hour stretch.
After checking her hair in the mirror and tucking her blouse into her slacks, she checked the clock. Thankfully, Lamont was late.
Even as Kesa thought she could perhaps add some of the embellishments to the prototype she heard swift, decisive footsteps in the hall coming toward her door, which she’d left propped open. A moment later Lamont poked her head in. “Hey there, I found you.”
Kesa tamped down her usual flustered response to Lamont’s limitless magnetism. “Please come in.”
The star’s luminous eyes were hidden behind dark glasses, and a gold-black Strikers cap covered her casually pulled back hair. If they were an attempt to disguise Jennifer Lamont from fans, they failed. There was no mistaking the expressive mouth and long legs. The sleeveless sundress and ankle-wrapping Gucci sandals were worn with utmost confidence.
Tucking her sunglasses into her Kate Spade handbag, Lamont went directly to the dressmaker dummy where the prototype was waiting. “This is it?”
“It doesn’t look like much,” Kesa began.
“On the contrary.” Lamont ran a finger along the neckline with an evaluative expression. “This should be really flattering.”
“The final will have a tuck right here, where the faux wrap overlap ends.” She pointed out the spot she meant, which would settle about three inches off center of Lamont’s cleavage. “And then a fold for emphasis. I’m sorry I didn’t have time to make this perfect.”
“That you did this in a couple of days is amazing. Is it ready to try on?”
“Yes.” She gestured toward the privacy screen. “Please let me know if you need anything.”
“I’m fine for now, thanks.”
Kesa indulged herself for a moment as she watched Lamont cross the room, then she told her inner pervert to knock it off. Disgusted with herself, she went to lock the door and nearly fell over her own feet. Get a grip, idiot!
“That open window,” Lamont called from behind the screen. “Is it line of sight to another building? On the other side of the trees?”
Kesa hadn’t thought about it. “I don’t know. I’ll close the blinds, just in case.”
“I appreciate it. I’ve had too many run-ins with determined paparazzi.” Lamont’s dress was now flung over the screen. “Sorry I didn’t wear a strapless bra. I will of course at the event. Those things are torture traps,” she said as she came out from around the screen.
It was Lamont’s impersonal professionalism, even wearing only her underwear, that brought Kesa fully back to the business at hand. A welcome calm settled over her as she lifted the dress from the form. “The stitching is really loose so we’ll have to do this slow. This is a knit and it isn’t lined, either, so it’s going to droop a little. The final dress will have structure, trust me on that.”
“Gotcha.” Lamont slipped off her rings and bracelets, dropped them into the ball cap, which joined her purse on a chair. Turning her arms so that her palms were out, she guided the dress over her head, then let Kesa do the work of settling it into place.
“The waist is too loose. I will definitely fix that.”
“I’m back at the training gym for the next season of zombie slaughtering. Nice to know it’s working.”
“Let me get the back.” Kesa hooked a stool with her foot and stepped up to draw the zip all the way up and fasten the hidden hook at the top. “There.”
Lamont’s head was tipped as she considered her reflection in several of the standing mirrors. “It seems long.”
“It’s unhemmed and lack of lining is making it hang long. And this flat black polyester looks overall bigger than it is because you can’t see the drape of it.” She retrieved the roll of the beautiful blue silk-hemp blend she was actually going to make the dress from. “This is the color and fabric, with a light blue cotton voile lining.”
“Oh…” Lamont breathed out with pleasure. She gathered it to her waist as Kesa draped it around her. “That’s stunning. Supple and yet crisp, which was very big in the Fifties. Tell me about the embellishments. Flowers and branches?”
Kesa quickly walked Lamont through the illusion of a flowering almond tree she was hoping to create across the back and then sweeping around to the front. As she described it she used a silver Sharpie to illustrate the lines that would be created. With Lamont actually in the dress it was easy to pick exactly the right places for emphasis and avoid all the wrong ones.
“It won’t look lopsided, all the embellishment on one side?”
“I don’t think so,” Kesa said, “but I’ll keep that in mind. The skirt does need to drape symmetrically. I can scale it back if need be.”
With a wide smile, Lamont relinquished the fabric back into Kesa’s care. “This is exactly what I wanted. Can I take a fabric sample to look through my shoes?”
“Certainly. What do you think of a pillbox hat to finish it?”
“Veil?”
“And a fascinator with the same gauze I’m using for the flowers.”
“I am loving this.” Lamont ran her hands over her hips. “Even in this fabric the dress is wonderful.”
“It was the era of Chanel and Dior and Jacques Fath, before anyone had ever heard of Twiggy.” Kesa let go of the tight knot of tension in her chest. Lamont loved the dress. The style was a perfect foil for her charm and stature. Yes, there was a lot of work ahead of her, but now there would be time to do it and do it right.
Investing in herself had paid off. Maybe, just maybe, nothing bad was going to take it all away again.
They spent a few minutes discussing the hem and overall fit. Lamont walked back and forth in front of the mirrors, watching the sweep of the circle skirt as she turned. Kesa was captivated by the way the star tested the set of her shoulders, trying out a range of minute shifts that conveyed everything from demure reticence to outright vamp. Then, with her sandals on, she did a runway approach to one mirror, pirouetted, and walked away at a normal gait. Pausing, she glanced quickly over her shoulder at her reflection. “I don’t want to tell you your business, but if the silver line you drew is where you’re going to add embellishment, I think it should be closer to my spine.”
“I see what you mean,” Kesa said quickly. “The line will crumple if it’s that close to the side and you move freely.”
Jennifer turned to face her. “Why are you such a professional?”
“Um…”
“You collaborate. No tantrums because I have an idea or two.”
“Well, I know I can learn from you. You ruled the runway as a model, and you’re endlessly stylish.”
Kesa wailed inwardly that she sounded like a gauche sycophant, but Lamont’s eyes sparkled. “I think you really mean that.”
“I do!”
“Then it’s possibly the nicest thing anyone not married to me has said to me in a while.”
“You must work with a lot of idiots,” Kesa muttered before thinking better of it.
Lamont’s throaty laugh seemed to fill every corner of the room. “Not idiots. Just people so used to lavishing praise that it’s impossible to tell what’s sincere and what’s patter.” She glanced at the clock.
“Time to get out of that?”
“Yes, my wife is expecting me for dinner. Date night.”
As they worked together to slide the dress up and over Lamont’s head, Kesa asked casually, “What kind of things do you do for date night?”
“Take-out and bingeing Jeopardy!”
“Sounds fun.”
“Every minute.”
With a last gentle tug, the d
ress seemed to come free in Kesa’s hands, but Lamont gave a yelp of surprise. “I’m caught!”
“Oh, it must be a pin. I’m sorry!” She quickly followed the taut line of fabric to the lace on the waistband of Lamont’s bikini briefs. “I thought I got them all.”
She was on one knee trying to remove the pin without jabbing the client further when she heard the worst possible noise: the sound of the workshop door opening.
She’d locked it, she knew she had. The pin came free as she whirled to her feet to face the intruder.
For a very long moment Shannon stood stock-still with her mouth open in shock. Her gaze was frozen on Lamont, then with a gasp she clasped her hands over her eyes. “I’m sorry, oh my god, oh my god, I’m so sorry!”
“Shannon, what the hell! Get out!”
Shannon backed away, one hand still over her eyes while the other groped for the door. “I’m sorry, I wrote you a letter, I’m so sorry. I was going to put it under the door, but you were here, and that would have been another coward move along with all the others I put you through, I’m so sor—”
“Go,” Kesa ordered. She snatched up her notebook and threw it at Shannon to make her point. “Go now.”
It missed by a mile, but the flapping and subsequent thud as it hit the wall propelled Shannon into full flight. The door slammed behind her.
Kesa raced to the door and checked the lock. The damn thing was locked, but the knob still turned easily. How long had it been that way? How could she have not noticed? “It’s broken. Ms. Lamont, I am so embarrassed.”
She slowly turned to face her client’s ire. This was it, she was going to lose the commission and the client. Disaster, just like always.
Lamont had already whisked on her sundress. The easy smiles were gone. “Usually someone has to buy a movie ticket to see that much of me.”
“I promise you, there was no camera. Shannon works for the US Marshals Service and she would never, ever do anything sleazy or gossip.” Near tears, Kesa added shakily, “I can get her to sign an NDA if—”
Because I Said So Page 20