3 Lies (31 page)

Just business.

The gunman prodded him with the muzzle.

Maybe Clint pushed this guy too far—gave him another reason to pull the trigger. “Where are you taking me?”

“The stairs. Now.” The man flicked the silencer toward the stairs. “Move.”

Clint turned to the stairs but before his foot hit the first step, something heavy landed on the base of his skull.

“Dead? Which ones?”

Posey skimmed the report to find the information. “Imad Hasafi and Mujibur Khan.”

Doug hoped to be standing in a steaming stream of hot water by now with a case full of clean clothes packed and ready for his return to Headquarters. Instead, he was standing in the hallway. He hadn’t even made it back to his desk.

“What the hell happened?” He rubbed an eye with a knuckle.

“The Buenos Aires police picked up Imad Hasafi’s body down at the docks. Some guys out for a little early fishing found him bobbing in the water. The identification on his body was a known alias, but we confirmed that it was Hasafi.”

“How did he go?”

“The usual method of travel. Twenty-two caliber at the base of the brain. Ditto with—” Posey checked his report. “—Mujibur Khan. Another twenty-two gun salute at the docks. Only this guy was floating in the Mediterranean. A couple sleeping on their boat in Nice found him this morning when they went to walk their dog.”

“Somebody sure likes water. Did you get a positive I.D. on Khan?”

“I wouldn’t be telling you otherwise. No hard clues in either case, but we asked to be kept apprised if they find something.”

“Good. Hey, did you change the orders for the marina faxes?”

“No. Why?”

“They didn’t include the East Coast.”

Posey swelled in size like a cat fluffing its fur. “It sure as hell was on the orders I gave Sasha.”

“Chill. I believe you. She said she saw the original order, but someone changed it. Check with her in the morning. I need you to find out who did it. But discreetly.” Doug waited until two men walked passed them. “Think about it. Why would someone change that order? I mean, who even knew that order existed?”

“Are you saying there’s someone on the inside of this mess?”

Doug’s heart pattered at about seventy beats per minute, which for him fairly pounded through his chest. “I’m not saying anything because I’m sworn not to, and this case is a major deal for me. But if there’s anyone I trust around here, it’s you.”

Posey put an arm around Doug. “You are so sweet.”

Doug shoved his arm away. “Don’t screw with me, Posey. We’ve already got two dead bodies.”

“Sorry, man.”

“You find out who changed that order and get those faxes sent immediately. But make sure Sasha doesn’t tell anyone. Have her see me if she’s got a problem with that. Got it?”

“I’m on it.” Posey gave him a quick fist bump before heading down the hall.

Worries flapped like bats. Doug wasn’t sure what it all meant, but he needed to sort through the facts. The dead guy’s payroll record was a good start. His shower could wait a bit longer.

He found the nearest open conference room with a computer. His new-improved clearance level gave him access to a host of data that he’d never known was online. It surprised him what he could find when he decided to look.

He ran a search on the name Shakir Siddique. The next screen gave him several options including payroll. The hormonal pregnant woman in payroll was an unnecessary evil after all. He was beginning to flex his new strength.

The history included scanned images of the payroll authorizations. Someone live had to sign them. He clicked on the most recent image file.

Albert Moore.

Albert Moore was paying dead guys. Doug checked a few more authorizations. Albert Moore struck again. But Albert’s signature showed up only after the date of death.

Doug exited the payroll module and logged into the section titled Field Operations. In the query form he selected criteria to locate only operatives deceased within the last two years. Seven names surfaced, none of which were on his original list of ten missing agents. He wrote these down on the printout from payroll.

Back in the payroll module, he crosschecked each name. Even dead, all seven earned an income over five times the national average. Thank you, Albert Moore.

Doug’s leg jiggled against the floor. So where was the money going? He accessed the bank routing number of the first dead guy on his list and compared it to the bank used by Shakir Siddique. Each man deposited his paycheck into the same bank.

Coincidence? Monte Carlo gave better odds.

The rest of the names, dead men from far-flung places across the globe, men with differing native tongues, men who likely never met, all contributed their after-life earnings to the exact same bank. These straw men worked tirelessly. No doubt they cushioned Albert Moore’s retirement fund. Albert was not only a jackass but an embezzler.

But how did this new group of agents tie into the original ten missing agents? Shakir Siddique was the only name on both lists. All of the other original agents—with the exception of Shakir Siddique—were alive a week ago. Was Albert killing them off just to collect their pay?

The revelation about Albert’s fraud toppled Doug’s meager and grudging respect for the man. In spite of his personal dislike for Albert, he never denied the man’s dedicated service to the public, a pursuit Doug valued as noble and honorable. But Albert shafted his fellow man. He stole the taxes of their gritty labor, which they’d entrusted to his care for their mutual protection, to finance a life he didn’t earn. A life of which they only dreamed. He violated a sacred public trust. Along with being a low-rate prick.

But Doug didn’t think Albert had killed the men just for the money. Albert was opportunistic, not cold-blooded. The men on Albert’s personal payroll died through accidents or in the line of duty. The last two men, from the original list of missing agents, were executed.

Doug tried to get his head around it, but this job was outgrowing his temporary rank. He called Chester Spivey’s office. Damn. Voice mail. Keep it general. “This is Doug Bryant. I have evidence of a serious operational breach. Sir, we need to talk.”

His stomach gurgled for a meal. In all the excitement, he’d forgotten to take on fuel. Over six hours, now. He shut down the computer and collected his notes. One more stop—Natalie’s office, if she was still there. Then, a quick sprucing at home before the next heat.

Natalie’s head lay on her desk, tiny braids draped like a beaded curtain swayed over the edge. He imagined her in the same position, but on his couch or on his lap, wearing something else. He backed out, not wanting to disturb her or the visions alive in his mind.

“I’m not asleep.” She lifted her head but looked dreamy. “Resting a bit. What can I do for you?”

A question he’d long considered. Another time. “I’m not sure how it fits, but—”

“But what?”

“Albert has at least eight dead men still on the payroll. Their wages are deposited to the same bank.”

His comment had the effect of a triple espresso. “Do you have proof?”

“The only thing I can’t prove is that the guys are dead. The rest, yeah. I have evidence. Are you leaving?”

“I’m working with Simon on the worm code. We’ve got another lead.”

“I’ll be back in little over an hour. Will you meet me then? I’ll give you everything I’ve got on Albert.”

“What’s wrong with now?”

Stress sprained his patience. “He’s not going anywhere. I’ll meet you in ninety minutes.”

She eyed the length of him. Not in a way that flattered. “Okay, Clouseau. I’ll be here.”

He left her office without attempting to defend himself because he knew it could never come off as manly. If she preferred him dripping in testosterone-laden sweat, the relationship, such as it was, had no long-term potential. But, he’d still settle for short-term.

Pain coursed through him tsunami-style with neither an apparent origin nor ending. Clint’s ears buzzed with searing intensity. His torso jolted.

What happened? Who was there?

He flailed, trying to strike anything near him. Then he shouted, expecting to hear sound, but he couldn’t be certain that his vocal chords had reverberated. Scratchy, dry, his throat muscles lacked initiative. Or maybe he was deaf.

No. The whumpa-tha-thump pounding in his chest was audible, sending shockwaves of agony to locations decentralized from his spinal column. He thought something touched his shoulders from behind. He rose and struck the air.

Clint fell back down. Tiredness flowed with his blood.

When he opened an eye, his field of vision was streaked in a drab grey. A flare of sharp yellow stabbed his brain with a keen specificity. Clint tried a second time to open his eyes. The light rays pierced him ice pick-style, making him question his desire to try again.

He clearly heard a noise. Whistling? Fairly loud. And coming from him. Not good.

His memory skipped around like an eight-track tape. Met with Abe. Masked man on boat. Gun shot. Black-mask. Louie—

The wind bellowed from his lungs. Sorrow vice-gripped Clint’s diaphragm until hypoxia forced a stammering breath.

Damn. Louie knew something was wrong. If only—

He struggled to sit up. His eyes opened to slits. The sound came clearer in his mind. It hadn’t come from him after all. Thank God. Just his phone. He clutched the stair rail for support and hit the talk button.

“Hello, Clint.”

The voice greeted him casually as if the interruption might be welcome. As if he’d given her the phone number himself.

“This isn’t a good time, Paige.” An intentional double entendre, but he wasted subtlety on her.

“I expected to hear from you by now. Surely, you got my message. We need to make plans, Daddy. When can you come by?”

The first reply to coat his tongue entailed language so blue that it surprised even him. He twisted a fist around the rail with a force that made him glad her slender neck was elsewhere. His empathy for crime-of-passion murderers momentarily expanded. Passion in his case referred only to the original meaning: to suffer.

He ended the call without an answer. Six months before the baby arrived—the only remaining tie between him and Paige. Not a small tie, either, a deep tie, deep and wide and human. A tie that warranted a better effort on his part to make nice with Paige. In spite of her.

Sure, he’d make nice. But not today. He rushed upstairs and fell by Louie’s side.

Clint’s chin tightened as his eyes went hot with moisture. Louie. His friend. A sweet gentle creature. His face burrowed into the still-warm fur. His hand stroked the soft muzzle. He scooped the limp canine into his arms and carried him below deck. The flannel bed, rumpled from the morning, lay on the floor by Clint’s favorite seat. He laid Louie down in the bed. Clint took off his shirt and covered Louie’s body as if tucking the dog in for a nap. He stroked the wiry whiskers of his chin, and then pulled the shirt over the black lab’s face. A heaviness settled on his soul.

He rubbed the wetness from his eyes. Remorse coddled his fatigue. It didn’t help Louie, couldn’t help Beth. Right now, Clint needed to remember the kind of people he was dealing with: The black-masked bastard shot Louie as a punctuation mark. He held Beth hostage to further his own ambitions. And it was Louie they called an animal.

Save it. Once she was safe Clint could wallow. Until then, emotion weighed like excess ballast destined for jettison.

Then again not all emotions were equal.

Anger. That emotion now stood at his side. Resentment. His chest expanded from it. Fear. The fuel on which he burned. Revenge. Accompanied him like a symbiant.

To hell with a woman scorned. Her heat couldn’t light his candle.

~

From forty degrees in the sky, the fat moon face watched Clint unleash the
No Moor
from her slip and sail into the marina channel. The cool clear evening sent ample wind to move the boat at a steady clip without churning a rough sea. He spread the barest of sail until he met the breakwaters reaching out to the deep blue. There, he let full sail fly.

Overhead, the stars twinkled in competition. He sailed on a heading of one-one-two degrees. After five miles of quiet, he came upon The Glades, a land head surrounded by tiny islands. He skirted these obstacles and made for home.

The evening traffic was light, a few fishers, some pleasure boats, and the Hatteras still occupied the same patch of blue. A smaller ship, probably the Grady White, streamed out of sight behind her. Clint got out his binoculars. The bow anchor splashed from the water, swinging to a stop as the ship idled. Then the engines came to life, and the ship turned toward the open water. Still, no one on deck. Lonely, that ship. Like his.

His eyes stung for reasons he refused to entertain. No time. He had to go home. Back to the marina. A dog to bury and a woman to find. The cases had to give up their secrets now. Give them up, or he’d wring them out, whatever it took. Time expired into the night.

When the
No Moor
cleared the breakwater of Clement Marina, he brought the boat round to his dock. The sight of Paige waiting for him beneath a brass lamp didn’t surprise so much as depress. Clint finally made it to the top of her list, and she refused to move on to the next item. He was the twelfth salad bowl needed to complete her set. At any price. He secured his vessel and steeled himself before facing her.

He knew what he was going to tell Paige. She wouldn’t like all of it, but life wasn’t always about someone else making things right, making the other person whole, fulfilling someone else’s hope. People often tread a middle way, living something never before imagined.

Paige walked back from the end of the dock where she waited for him.

“It seems the only way I can talk to you is to hang out on the docks.” She smiled as she scanned the boat. “Where’s the gargantuan beast?”

“What do you want?”

Her head dropped to her chest. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to bicker.” She rubbed her flat belly as if it might rise under her touch.