Cloak and Dagger (The IMA Book 1) (3 page)

With a surge of irritation, I resisted the urge to check my own hair. I wondered why she was so dressed up. Sometimes I suspected she did it to make me feel bad. “You're doing the dishes?”

“
Rosalind is sick today.”

Rosa
was the maid. The only reason my mother knew her name
was because she had to write the checks out every month. “You know she doesn't like being called that.”

“
Don't speak to me in that tone of voice, Christina Maria.”

I backed down and said, “But it's
true
,
mamá
. It bothers her. It's what her ex-husband calls her.” My voice sounded whiny to my own ears; I couldn't imagine what my mother made of it.

She sighed. “What have I told you about talking to the maid, Christina? It's fine to be polite, if you must, but she's a bit coarse. I don't want her influencing you. And besides, you know perfectly well how much I abhor nicknames. Not only are they
gauche
, they trivialize your God-given name. Rosa is very cheap-sounding, don't you think?”

“
No.” I knew a girl at school named Rosa. Her father owned a vineyard.

“
Imagine,” my mother said, with a grimace, “If we called you
Chris
.”

I glared at her, opening the fridge. Why was she dragging me into this? “There are plenty of girls called Chris.”

“
And they are also probably lesbians, darling, which I am sure you do not want to be.” The condescending smile slipped. “You're going to school in that, Christina?”

That
was leggings, a blue knit dress, and flats I had bought on sale from Target for ten dollars. It was cold, so I'd put on a crocheted cap, which I'd secured in place with a couple of discreet bobby-pins. I thought it'd looked fine the other night when I'd laid it out. Standing here, in the pale, washed-out light of the kitchen, though, she made me feel hideous.

I set down the grapefruit I'd picked up. “There's no school on Fridays,” I said. “I don't understand. This outfit was in a fashion spread in one of my magazines.”

Annoyance flickered over her features at the comparison. When
mamá
was my age, she had been a model — good enough for the Dominican equivalent of
Seventeen Magazine
. Sometimes higher-end stores at the malls would hire her, too, for the glossy advertisements of their spring and fall sales. Now she was retired and designed clothes. We had the same eyes, the same cupid's bow mouth, the same dark hair. I was tall, too, and of swarthy complexion — just like her.

Strangers always said we looked alike but they were just being polite because that was were the similarities ended. Even in her forties, my mother was still far slimmer than I would ever be. She took my size — 5'11”, 16 in juniors — as my personal attempt to spite her through self-destructive behavior, for the same reasons that other girls my age pierced their tongues, consumed alcohol, and dated men like tattooed Swiss Army knives. “If you lost that weight, you could be a model,” she was always telling me. “You were so precious when you were younger. People were always telling me you looked like a porcelain doll. I called you my
muñequita
.” Then she would sigh and shake her head. “When I was your age, I was a size four.
Four
, darling. And I was considered one of the heavier girls.” She launched into this now.

I waited for the spiel to end, knowing that arguing would make things worse. I think she was mad at me because one of her friends had recently remarked that it was “a pity your daughter won't be able to wear your creations” with the same sort of sneering self-satisfaction women half her age had. The Lord also says love thy neighbor…but Mrs. Thompson lived all the way across town, so I didn't consider her my neighbor and felt free to loathe her at will. I couldn't imagine what my mother saw in her, or why she valued her opinion, but she did, and I was suffering all the more for it. When
mamá
finished bemoaning the embarrassment of my appearance, I said, “Why don't you just make your clothes
bigger
?”

This annoyed her, as I knew it would. “Because this is fashion. And with
big
models, you don't get to see the draping of the clothing to its full potential. All you see is the
girl
.”

“
Adopt a mannequin, then,” I said icily.

“
That's not the point. The point is, you've been gaining weight. Haven't you?”

I flushed. “No!”

“
What have you been eating?” Her tone managed to achieve the perfect balance of sympathy, criticism, and moral superiority. In other words, she sounded like a preacher, which wasn't too far from the truth. My mother's religion was thinness; it was her false idol, her golden calf — and she was determined to convert me.

“
What I eat is none of your business.” I could feel the heat creeping down my neck and knew I looked like the very portrait of guilt. I wondered if she had noticed the empty bag of Doritos beneath my bed, with the bright red foil that was almost as incriminating as the blush staining my cheeks. The thought of her snooping around my room made me even angrier.

“
Of course it's my business,” her accent thickened, “I am your
mother
.”

“
Legally, I'm an adult. I can do whatever I want.”

She let out her breath, all at once. It smudged her lipstick — something else for her to hold against me. “I just want you to be healthy. Is that such a terrible thing for a mother to want?”

What a joke, coming from a woman who worked for the fashion industry. Really. Starving yourself to fit into a size zero — why did that size even
exist
?  Zero referred to the
absence
of something, but what did it mean in terms of a model's measurements? Her fat? Or her presence? How much could you cut away before the person herself vanished? It was hypocritical, that's what it was. I said as much, adding, “If you're so keen on me being healthy then you should have no problem accepting me for the way I am.
That's
what's healthy, Mom. Not being focused on all this freaky weight-loss stuff.”

“
What do you want from me?” she demanded. “Permission to be as fat as you want? Fine. You have my permission” — with a dismissive wave, like Marie Antoinette asking the common people why they didn't just eat cake if they were out of bread — “Eat, then. Eat nothing but pizza and ice cream the whole time your father and I are gone this weekend. Will that make you happy,
puerquita
?”

Tears burned in my eyes. I picked up my bag and left the room before she could utter another scathing remark and before she could see me cry. Just before I slammed the door shut, hard enough to rattle the windows in their panes, I screamed, “I hate you!”

Mr. Next-door startled from watering his lawn and stared at me with an alarmed expression before retreating inside. A couple of dogs barked and howled back at the echo of my shout. I was humiliated. God, I hated this. I really did. Fighting with her. Each meal. Every day. It made me so sick, I wasn't even hungry anymore — so in that sense, I guess she won.

Chapter Two

Hunter

Michael:

Callaghan didn't make idle threats. While there was no immediate danger, I decided to make seeing Richardson my top priority; I needed to know what I had gotten myself into, taking on this assignment. Despite working here for the better part of a decade, he still didn't trust me. I wouldn't have been surprised if this was an attempt to put me in my place.

Well. I could play games, too. I took my sweet-ass time getting to his office. I bought a hot lunch from the canteen; submitted some paperwork I'd been saving for such an occasion; took a leak. When I arrived at the reception area, over two hours had passed. I was pleased; so pleased that I was able to mask my disappointment when his secretary informed me that he was “in a meeting” without even bothering to phone. This only served to confirm my suspicions that I was being screwed with. If he wasn't anticipating some form of misconduct, why was I being blacklisted? She smiled with too-white teeth. “Would you like me to take a message?”

“
No. That's fine. I'll wait right here.”

She eyed me as I sat down in one of the stiff-backed chairs.
Chairs that were designed, I imagined, with the intent of making such visits as brief as possible. She opened and closed a drawer, the same one, over and over. “I'm not sure when he'll be getting out. Mr. Richardson did say to cancel all his afternoon appointments.”

I bet he did.
I also bet she had a gun in one of those drawers she kept fiddling with.

“
I've got nothing but time.” I pulled out the files Hennessy had given me, raising them in a silent toast, and set toward memorizing the data. From the corner of my eye, I monitored the watch on my wrist. The time was 11:06. I wondered how long it would take Richardson to cave, or whether he would force me to call his bluff. The secretary was watching me when I looked up. I smiled at her. I was betting it would take less than ten minutes. Maybe even five.

At 11:10 she said, proving me right, “Mr. Richardson will see you now.”

The door shut behind me as I walked into the room.

Richardson was sitting at his desk — a much more ostentatious model, made of handcrafted mahogany, and every bit as expensive as the black leather seat accompanying it. The desk was the focus of the room and intended to intimidate.

“
Mr. Boutilier” — a signet ring on one sausage-like finger caught the light as he set aside some files I doubted he'd been reading — “Now this
is
a surprise, isn't it?”

I sank into the chair across from him. “Meeting get out early?”

He ceased toying with the ring. “Nothing gets past you, I see.”

“
Your secretary didn't even bother to pick up the phone — or is she psychic?”

“
I shall have to have a word with her about that, then, won't I?” He folded his hands in front of him. And not, I couldn't help noticing, answering my question. “What brings you to my office?”

“
I think you know that already.”

His eyes flickered. “You give me too much credit, Mr. Boutilier. I may be many things, but I am not psychic — unlike my secretary, it seems.” He smiled. It disappeared when I didn't laugh. “No, I am afraid
you
will have to tell me what occasioned this visit.”

“
You assigned Callaghan as my back-up on the Parker job. I want to know why.”

Richardson shook his head. “Mr. Callaghan is a very talented operative.”

I snorted. He gave me a sharp look.“Granted, he can be…shall we say, heavy-handed at times — ”

“
Sadistic.”

“—
but he always gets results. Something that cannot always be said for
you
, in spite of your finesse. I had hoped your respective strengths might compensate for your respective weaknesses.” My expression must have been dark. He smiled again. “Do you disagree?”

“
You know the answer to that question, too.”

“
I needed to assign someone who wouldn't be intimidated by you, Mr. Boutilier. Or your hubris. That is a short list. And of that list, even fewer are capable enough to meet my expectations. Mr. Callaghan was at the top of that list.”

“
It must have been a
very
short list, then.”

“
Yes. Almost as short as my patience with you, in fact.” Richardson cocked his head. “I'm still not quite clear on what it is you want, Mr. Boutilier.”

“
I am tired of cleaning up after Ricky Morelli's mistakes. I'm tired of Morelli and Callaghan vying for power. I'm really tired of playing errand-boy — the next step, I imagine, is doing coffee runs and copying faxes.” I slipped my hands into the pockets of my coat. “It's a waste of my ability and training, and a waste of your time and resources. I am
not
your secretary.”

“
The only thing you have in common with my secretary, Mr. Boutilier, is blonde hair.”

Again, he looked at me expectantly. I raised an eyebrow and hardened my expression.

He sighed. “I
want
those spreadsheets, Mr. Boutilier. I will do everything that is in my power to get them back. You've raised some valid concerns about Morelli and Callaghan but they are not a priority for me right now. The weapons logs are. And if you value your job — and your life — as my senior operative you will not stand in my way in obtaining those spreadsheets. Is that quite clear?”

“
Crystal.” I stood up and walked closer to the desk. Under the overhead light his forehead was shiny with sweat. I rested my hands over the files, watching his face for any sign of weakness. One of his hands was out of sight, probably grasping a weapon of some kind. “Let me ask you this one last thing, sir.”

I paused a heartbeat. He nodded.

“
Do you even know what Callaghan does?”

“
His job, I should imagine.”

“
I mean to
people
.”

“
Again, his methods may be unorthodox — ”

“
Why don't you say the words? Torture. Rape.”

Mr. Richardson smiled. “You've become quite the human rights activist. Fine, then. Torture. Rape. I don't recall those methods being beneath you.”

“
I don't enjoy it,” I snarled. “I don't do it for pleasure.”

“
So you say.”

“
He's a powder keg doused in petrol, sir, and you're holding the match. I've seen the things Callaghan does — and what he does, sir, he does for fun.”

“
I can hardly fault him for enjoying his job. It is distasteful, yes, but at least he has an outlet for his…”
Perversions?
“…unique talents.” He glanced at his watch, then at me. “Is that all?”

“
He's also liability to the company. He's violent. Antisocial — a psychiatric disorder that is, supposedly, untreatable. You can try to brush him under the rug, sir, but he is not going to go away, and he's interfering with my men's ability to get the job done. I've had to intervene to keep him from killing people on
our
side. His results are shit. The prisoners are so broken when he's through with him, they'd tell him whatever they thought he wanted to hear in order to make him stop. Not that it would work. He
destroys
people, and I'm pretty sure he'd run this agency into the ground if you let him. It may already be too late — he might have too much power, as is.”

“
That
will
be all, Mr. Boutilier. What you are implying now is treason and unless you have sufficient proof to back your claims, I suggest you keep such idle speculations to yourself. I have to question your motives in telling me this. Especially now. The timing is convenient.” He straightened, causing his suit to stretch tight at the seams. “Too convenient.”

“
What are you implying?”

“
There are some who say
you
are the — what was that phrase? Powder keg doused in petrol? — of this organization. Nearly all your allegations against Mr. Callaghan are applicable to you, Mr. Boutilier. Then there is the matter of these petty squabbles which, from what you tell me, you do little to discourage. You speak of abusing power — you, yourself, are not faultless.”

“
You think I want your job?”

“
To be perfectly honest, Mr. Boutilier” — something hard pressed against my chest — “I'd rather not find out.” I waited for darkness. “That is why I have asked Mr. Callaghan to do it for me.” The pressure against my ribs disappeared. “ Think of this as an incentive to find real proof.” The gun was still in his hand, but it was no longer aimed in my direction. I couldn't imagine that was the incentive he was referring to. Even though it wasn't a joke, I almost did laugh this time.

“
I think I'd prefer a pay raise.”

“
Be content with your life.” Richardson tucked the gun back in its drawer; I noticed he didn't turn the safety back on. Was he losing it, or were his concerns valid? I was betting on a mixture of both. “Would you have allowed me to shoot you, Mr. Boutilier?”

“
That depends, sir.”

“
On what?” He looked genuinely curious.

“
Whether you intended to pull the trigger.”

Christina:

My cell phone buzzed inside my black leather satchel. It was Renee. “Hello?”

“
Where are you? Class is starting soon.”

“
I got into another fight with my mom.”

She sighed. Or maybe it was static. “Again? Oh, Christina.”

“
She attacked my clothes.”

It was definitely a sigh this time. “What were you wearing?”

“
That outfit I showed you in Cosmo.”

“
What was wrong with it?”

“
Apparently fat people are only allowed to wear sweatsuits,” I muttered. “Tell Alvarez I'm going to be late. Tell him…I had a family emergency, or something.”

“
All right. But he's not going to believe me. See you when you get here.” She hung up.

I ran.

Like any decent private school, Holy Trinity had a back story. It was built in the 1800s, as a mission. The original chapel remained at the heart of the heart of the school and was used for assemblies and graduation. Many people admired the sprawling stucco buildings—designed in imitation of the original Spanish Colonial Revival style — and we were reminded on a daily basis how lucky we were to attend a school with such a pristine and historical campus.

I would have been happy to go to an ordinary public school, like the rest of my friends from Lewis and Clark Middle School, but my parents pushed me to go to Holy Trinity because private school had status and prestige. That was important to my mom and dad. Several female senators had gone to and graduated from Holy Trinity, as well as a number of female lawyers, doctors, and moderately successful business women.

I squeezed through the door of my Spanish class, out of breath from the run, trying to keep my expensive bag from hitting against the frame and getting scuffed. More scuffed.
Señor Alvarez glanced up from the role sheet as I slunk into my seat. “Late again, Parker,” he said. Across the aisle, Renee shot me an apologetic look.
I tried
, she mouthed.

“
Sorry, sir,” I mumbled, digging my Spanish workbook out of my backpack.

He rolled his eyes and some people giggled.

The uniforms were supposed to hide status, but everyone knew. These were teenage girls. My mother's name garnered prestige and a reputation, but since I didn't jibe with that reputation and wasn't the type of person to even want to, it didn't do me much good. My father was just a lowly programmer. And in a predominantly patriarchal society, it's your father's name that really counts.

“
Hoy, vamos a hablar sobre
…”

I tuned out. His accent got on my nerves. I already had a pretty firm grasp on the vocabulary, anyway. So what if I occasionally left off the odd accent mark?

“
Señorita Parker,
¿E
stás escuchándome?
”

I rattled off an answer to the question he hurled at me. He seemed disappointed when I got it right. I wished I was still taking programming, which I'd been taking at this same time block last
semester. I'd always been interested in computers, even though I wasn't an expert user. Partly because it irritated my mother, mostly because I found technology fascinating. Programming was a second language, a secret code. You could manipulate the code to make it do anything you wanted. Holy Trinity offered an introductory course. It was object-oriented programming, the easiest. I'd wanted more. There were no accent marks. No conjugation. Just commands and numbers. Once you had the framework, you could manipulate the code in different ways.