Dark of Night (16 page)

“A house call,” Decker commented. “That seems… unusual.”

She smiled, albeit sadly. “Unusual measures for unusual times. This patient is a triple amputee. Iraq War vet. PTSD.” She looked at Decker, her gaze almost palpable. “A high suicide risk.”

“I once told Dr. H. that I was thinking about killing myself,” Decker told Tracy. “In case you were wondering about that loaded look she just shot me.”

He'd rendered them both speechless, which was quite the trick considering they were both conversational black belts.

“Why are you here, Doctor?” he asked her quietly, taking care not to draw attention with either his voice or his body language. He kept his shoulders loose, his arms held non-threateningly, a pleasant smile pasted on his face. His words, however, were anything but. “What the fuck do you want?”

He'd caught her off-guard, the muscles in her throat working as she nervously swallowed, as she took several steps back from him. Although it was entirely possible that all of it—including her peaked look and the way she'd glanced over her shoulder at the door—was just one big act.

“Nothing,” she said, quickly regaining her composure, but he could tell she was lying. “I just saw you come in as I was driving by and … I thought I'd stop and say hello.”

“Well, you said it,” Decker said. He looked at Tracy, who was clinging, wide-eyed, to her Venti Latte as if it were a life preserver. Enough of this bullshit. “We don't want to keep Chica, Mikey, and the new baby waiting.”

Tracy didn't move, so he reached to push her slightly, to steer her toward the door, and yeah, both her skin and her shirt were decadently soft to the touch.

They'd barely even turned when Dr. Heissman stopped him with a hand on his arm. “I'm sorry if I upset you,” she told him. “That wasn't my intention.”

“We really have to go.” He looked pointedly down at her hand and she quickly pulled it back.

But apparently she still had more to say. “Wait, I want to give you one of my new business cards.” She pulled one out of thin air—she must've had it in her pocket—and held it out to him. “In case you ever need to, you know, reach me?”

There was no way he was taking that. There was not and would never be a single reason he would need to “reach” her.

But before he could tell her to go fuck herself, Tracy played intermediary. She snatched the card from the doctor, and cheerily called, “Nice seeing you, Jo,” as she grabbed Decker by the elbow and all but pulled him out the door.

She was silent as she climbed back into his truck, focusing on settling in for the long ride. She put her coffee into the cup-holder, tossed the doctor's card into the well between the two seats, and fastened the belt across her chest, as Decker jammed the transmission into reverse and got them the hell out of there.

They rode in silence for several miles, his fingers tight on the steering wheel, before Deck even allowed himself to glance at her.

Tracy took it, of course, as an invitation to speak. “So, have you, like, slept with every woman that you've ever met?”

Decker laughed aloud at the irony of that.

But she wasn't kidding.

“Believe me, I didn't sleep with Jo Heissman,” he told her.

“Then why is she stalking you?” She took a sip of her coffee. “That was both pathetic
and
creepy. I mean, yeah, beneath your bad haircut, you're smokin’, but someone needs to tell her
Learn to accept no, batch, and move it along.”

“That wasn't…,” he started. “It's not …” Tracy thought he was smokin’. Again, he couldn't keep his laughter from escaping. Thank God they were going straight to the safe house. If they weren't, he would be so fucked.

“I'm pretty sure she works for the people who tried to kill Nash,” he told Tracy.

She sat forward at that, turning fully to face him, reaching down to pick up the business card she'd taken from the doctor. “Are you serious?”

Decker nodded. “Yeah.”

“Oh, my God,” she said. “Oh, my
God.
Decker, stop,
stop
—you've got to stop and look at this.”

She was holding out the business card, but waving it so he couldn't possibly read it while he was driving.

So he pulled into a gas station, squealing to a stop as he took the card from Tracy's elegant fingers.

The thing was pretty standard-looking—one of those self-printed jobs with a blue and green design. The doctor's name was in a clear, black font, followed by a variety of letters—her degrees—and then her office address, her e-mail address, and her phone number.

But Jo Heissman had also handwritten a message for him, in her neatly perfect cursive.

Please help me.

J
ules knocked on the half-open door to the suite, peeking in to see Nash sitting up in bed, finishing breakfast and watching cable news. “Mind if I come in?”

“Of course not.” Nash picked up the remote and muted the TV. Tess was sitting curled up in a chair across the room, doing Sudoku, and she smiled—tightly—at Jules. “Checking in to make sure I didn't kill him last night?”

“I was pretty confident you'd draw the line at something relatively benign, like leaving the bedpan out of his reach,” Jules countered, “so, no. I wish that was why I'm here.”

“ Uh-oh,” Nash said, glancing at Tess, who uncurled herself and stood up. “I don't like the sound of that.”

Dressed as he was in red plaid pajamas, with his dark hair still rumpled from sleep and in need of a shave, Jimmy Nash looked charmingly vulnerable and not at all like the government-owned-and-operated hitman that Jules knew him to be. He pushed back a bowl of oatmeal as he visibly braced himself, no doubt waiting for the next shoe to drop, right on his handsome head.

“Dave Malkoff is going to be all right,” Jules told him, and Tess, too, “but he spent last night in the hospital. In Boston. After being attacked— stabbed—by a man with a knife, in a parking garage at Mass General.”

“Oh, crap,” Tess breathed.

“What the hell was Dave doing in Boston?” Nash asked.

“He was with Sophia,” Jules answered, “visiting her father, who's dying of cancer.”

“And you think this is somehow related to me,” Nash correctly deduced. His eyes narrowed. “That it's some kind of backlash because we tested the DNA from the shirt… ?”

“I'm pretty sure that it is,” Jules told him. “Yes.” He closed the door.

“Did we get results back from that yet?” Nash asked.

“Yep. We found out that the man who tried to kill you last winter has been dead since 1988,” Jules said. “The name Kenneth Labinsk ring any bells?”

“Yes and no,” Nash said. “Not the name itself, but the strategy.”

“It's a standard Agency MO,” Tess chimed in. She'd worked in the Agency's support division for years.

“You're in the field, you get into a scuffle, you maybe get a ding,” Nash told Jules.

“A
ding
being Jimmy's expression for anything from a hangnail to being gutshot,” Tess interrupted.

“Getting gutshot's not a ding,” he countered. “Even I know that.”

“I'm glad to hear it,” she said.

Jules cleared his throat.

“The point being,” Nash brought them back, “if you're on an op, and you unexpectedly leave behind some DNA, support steps in and alters some records. Your DNA comes up as belonging to some long-dead civilian.”

“The procedure started in the black ops division,” Tess said. “It was how the black op agents got the name ‘ghosts.’ Can we please rewind for a sec, back to Dave?”

“He's going to be fine,” Jules told them. “Well, at least in terms of his injury. I've been monitoring the situation all night, because it's kind of crazy, and … DNA backlash or not, I'm pretty certain this is your blackmailers reaching out and sending us a message.”

Tess pulled a second chair over to Nash's bedside, so they could both sit. “Well, we're listening,” she said. “What's going on?”

Jules sat down. “How well do you know Dave?”

“Not very,” Tess said, even as Nash contradicted her with, “Well enough to trust him with both mine and Tess's lives.”

She turned to look at her longtime fiancé. “Really?”

“Without hesitation.” Nash was absolute.

Tess didn't seem as convinced.

“Are you familiar with the reason Dave left the CIA?” Jules asked, and again they looked at each other.

Clearly both of them were hesitant to speak, but finally Tess cleared her throat. “Well, the nonofficial reason is that he was burned out on the bureaucracy,” she said. “But I'm, uh, pretty certain that his private file says otherwise.”

Nash was genuinely startled. “You hacked into Dave's CIA file?”

She glanced pointedly at Jules—the FBI agent in the room—and answered evasively. “That's illegal. And close to impossible to do.”

But everyone here knew that Tess was a computer specialist of legendary ability—able to break into the most intricately guarded files, without leaving even the tiniest cyber-footprint behind.

“We're working together,” Jules pointed out. “I'm aware of what you're capable of doing, so let's not play games.”

He knew, even as the words left his mouth, that that was the dead-wrong thing to say to this woman who'd been lied to, repeatedly, by the man she loved. If anything, she was the playee, not the player.

“Wow, I'm sorry,” Jules apologized immediately, as Tess's mouth got even tighter and her fair skin began to flush beneath her girl-next-door freckles. “That was thoughtless and completely uncalled for. My excuse is fatigue—I spent most of the night on my phone and at my computer and … You're one of the most up-front, honest people I've ever met, Tess, and you have every right to be cautious, but let me say this again: We're working together—against a formidable enemy that may well turn out to be a sanctioned part of the Agency's black ops division. We all need to be completely honest with each other. Starting right now.”

She nodded. And answered Nash's question. “Yes, I hacked into Dave's file several months ago.”

Nash was perturbed. “Why?”

“You were behaving oddly. Something was really wrong, and yeah, okay, I suspected someone was pressuring you. So I checked out everyone you had contact with.
Everyone.”
She looked at Jules. “Congratulations on winning second chair clarinet in All-State, back in high school.”

Jules had to laugh. Was that really in his file? “Thank you.”

Nash, meanwhile, was still securely focused on Dave. “I've heard
rumblings that Dave left the CIA after he was looked at—hard—for murder and treason. It was pretty sordid, but these things usually get warped— exaggerated way beyond truth.”

“According to Dave's statement,” Jules told Nash, because clearly Tess was familiar with the minute details, “which
I
read for the first time last night, he met an American woman named Kathy Grogan while he was in Paris, on assignment for the CIA. It was love at first sight—for both of them. At least that's what she led him to believe. Anyway, it turned out that Grogan was neither American nor named Grogan. She was Anise Turiano, an Eastern European con artist, who targeted men, preferably Americans, got into their good graces—usually via their beds—and ended up robbing them blind.

“In Dave's case,” he continued, “she discovered—somehow—that he was with the CIA, and because of that she thought she'd hit the mother lode. They were engaged within a week, but that ended when she tried to auction off his identity and turned up dead—nearly killing Dave in the process.”

“Christ,” Nash murmured.

“And you're right—it was sordid,” Jules told Nash. “There were semen samples and DNA tests and … allegations of, um, necrophilia.”

Nash was nodding. “That's what I heard, too.”

“Dave said he didn't kill her,” Tess chimed in. “But it's hard to believe he didn't.”

“So what if he did,” Nash countered. “She outed him—and blowing his cover could've been a death sentence. It's the equivalent of attempted murder.” He turned to Jules. “So how is this connected to his getting knifed last night?”

“The CIA operative in charge of the investigation into Turiano's death was a cheerful fellow by the name of Barney Delarow,” Jules explained. “He was convinced Dave had been Turiano's willing cohort, and that Dave had killed her to keep her from becoming a witness against him, for those pesky charges of treason. Even after the case was officially closed, Delarow kept the file active on his computer.

“Dave claims that last night he was stalked and jumped in one of the Mass General parking garages by a skinhead gangbanger-type with an Irish accent. He says the man pulled a knife, which he knocked away. Dude pulls a second knife which, again, Dave dispatches. But now they're down
on the tarmac, fighting hand-to-hand, at which point, the perp pulls a third knife and sticks Dave, saying,
Give my best to Santucci.”

“Oh, my God,” Tess whispered as Nash closed his eyes and shook his head.

“I take it you know someone named Santucci,” Jules said.

“You're looking at him,” Nash admitted. “Is Dave really all right?”

“Yeah,” Jules said. “Are you saying that
your
name is—”

“Was,” Nash corrected him.

“The Agency often assigned new names and identities to operatives with questionable pasts,” Tess explained. “Before his name was changed to Nash—and it
was
legally changed—Jimmy was James Santucci and … Can I just say that that's information that's considered highly classified? In order to protect their operatives, the Agency wouldn't share that information, not even with the FBI.”

Which was why this all was news to Jules.

“Whoever we're up against,” Tess continued, “their access to Agency files goes deep.” She glanced at Nash. “And I think it's safe to say that Dave's mugging wasn't random.”

“But how does it connect to Anise Turiano?” Nash asked.

“You're going to hate this,” Jules said. “But after Dave gets stabbed, he fights off the skinhead with, shall we say, renewed vigor, and—remember that first knife the guy pulled? The one Dave kicked away? Well, Dave now rolls over to it and picks it up—which of course puts his prints all over it.”