Dark of Night (45 page)

Still, as he pulled out onto the main road, with Lopez and Warner right behind him, he found himself telling Tracy why he'd left the teams. “You ever hear of the Khobar Towers bombing?” he asked her.

“Of course,” she said, as if she were insulted that he would think she was that utterly ignorant. She went on to give him the
Headline News
version of the story—probably as proof that she knew her recent American history. “It happened in Saudi Arabia, at a military apartment complex at the airbase near Dhahran. Terrorists took out an entire building, severely damaged a second one. It was… way before 9/11. Pre–USS
Cole,
too. I want to say, ooh…” She squinted as she thought about it. “1997?”

“Close. '96,” he corrected her. Jesus, had it really been twelve years? “It was kind of a tipping point for me. I was due to reup right after—it happened in late June and … Up to then, I was career Navy, but after the terrorist attack, I got out. We weren't doing enough—at least my team wasn't, not directly. We couldn't—I understood that, but… Then I got tapped by
the Agency. It was a chance for me to go into some of the countries where terrorists lived and trained—something we couldn't do with impunity in the military. That changed some after 9/11, but back then?” He shook his head. “I needed to
do
something, and the Agency had very few rules. It was a good fit—at least at the beginning.”

“Were you in Al Khobar?” she asked. “During the attack?”

“No,” Decker told her. “But I was there a few days after. A good friend of mine was stationed there.”

He glanced at her, and he could see her watching him from the darkness, her somber face intermittently lit by street lamps. She was doing the math—and he saw that she figured it out. So he said it. “I went to bring what was left of his body home.”

“I'm so sorry,” she said quietly. “That must've been devastating.”

“It was hard,” he agreed.

The Surfside Plaza was as good a place as any, and he pulled into the strip mall's parking lot without signaling or slowing down. Lopez, good man, was right behind him, following him over the crumbling driveway, back behind the auto parts store, where the dumpster sat, out of view from the street.

“When I tell you to,” Decker told Tracy, “get out, stay low, and get into the backseat of Lopez's car.”

“What!?” She said it as if he'd asked her to build a sandcastle out of horse manure.

“Don't argue,” he said as he braked to a stop on the far side of the dumpster. “Not with me, not with him. And whatever happens? Do exactly what he says.”

“Decker, what are you planning?”

“Trust me,” he said, reaching down to touch her face, his thumb against the softness of her cheek. “Do you trust me?”

She hesitated only briefly before she nodded, her heart completely in her eyes, right there, laid bare for him to see. It should have been terrifying, knowing that somehow, someway, this spark between them wasn't just about sex anymore—at least not for Tracy. Somehow, someway, he'd started to matter—he'd become significant to her. And being Tracy, she wasn't afraid to let him know it.

But then she said, “Don't you dare get anything important shot off before we finish what we started.”

And Decker laughed. He couldn't help himself, and he leaned over and kissed her. He caught her off-guard and he didn't give her time to kiss him back, which was a good thing, because she had to get moving. Her life depended on it. “Game on,” he told her. “Go.
Now.
”

“I'll see you over there,” she said, and she was gone.

T
racy sat in the conference room, in the Troubleshooters office, verifying that, indeed, all of her photos of Michael Peterson had been wiped from her laptop computer.

It was weird being back here. It seemed bizarre that it had only been yesterday that she'd told Tom she was leaving for the day, and locked the door behind her as she'd headed for the bus stop.

It felt like a lifetime ago.

Of course, the past hour alone seemed like
four
lifetimes—arriving here, and finding out that Decker was nowhere to be found. They'd split up after she'd gotten into Lopez's car.

Lopez had told her it was like a version of a shell game, with her as the shiny but elusive prize. He'd taken back roads to the office, while Decker, apparently, had dangled himself like bait along the main drag, hoping that whoever was trying to kill her—and him, too—would go after him.

At which point, apparently, Decker's plan was to do a high-speed U-turn, and start chasing the chasers.

Sometimes, Lopez had told her with a perfectly straight face—he was actually serious—you gained more from running
toward
an attacker than running away.

So here Tracy sat, worried that Decker was lying in some street somewhere, bleeding—again. And maybe, this time, bleeding to death.

Lindsey had come in, trying to engage Tracy in a conversation, now that Lopez wasn't listening in. “So. I had no idea you and Decker were … you know. Friends in a naked way.”

For someone who had jumped her now-husband's bones mere days after being introduced, Lindsey could be pretty disapproving of sexual activity that she considered inappropriate.

“I'm not having this conversation,” Tracy told her friend. “You know, the one where you tell me I don't respect myself enough. Because I do. I respect myself. Very much.”

“I just want to make sure you know what you're doing,” Lindsey said. “You guys work together. It could be awkward and … I mean, okay, I didn't really expect his thing with Tess to go anywhere. But then, of course, there's Sophia.”

Of course, there
was
Sophia. Whom Tracy was convinced was just dallying with Dave, while carrying a torch for Deck.

But Lindsey surprised Tracy then. “To be honest, I never really saw
that
working out either—Sophia and Decker. Her baggage and his baggage … Bad match.”

“What baggage does he have?” Tracy found herself asking, like a pathetic eighth-grader in the cafeteria. “I mean, in your opinion?”

“Well,” Lindsey said, as she sat down next to her at the table. “I'm not completely sure—and that's part of it. He doesn't talk. About anything. To anyone. Ever. Like—just as an example—when we all go out for a beer at the Ladybug Lounge. I've watched him and he stands off to the side. I've seen it more times than I can count.”

“Did you ever ask him to sit with you?” Tracy asked.

Lindsey looked surprised, but then laughed. “No,” she said. “But he's
Decker.
He doesn't want to sit with lowly me. If he did, all he'd have to do is ask.”

Tracy just raised her eyebrow and looked at her friend.

As she watched, Lindsey thought about what she'd said and nodded, her brown eyes filled with chagrin. “I really suck,” she said.

As a team leader, Decker would never ask to sit with any of his subordinates, for fear they would feel obliged to say yes. And as for the other team leaders? Dave usually grabbed a booth with Sophia, whom Decker wouldn't go near, for reasons that Tracy now understood. And Tom, Sam,
and Alyssa—all fellow team leaders—had also all been former naval officers. As a former Navy chief—an enlisted man—it made sense that Decker wouldn't be completely comfortable hanging with them, either. And his partner and best friend—Nash—was in an intense, still-new romantic relationship with Tess. Joining them, time after time, would have made Decker feel extremely third-wheel.

“He stands off to the side because we put him there,” Tracy told Lind-sey. “I did it, too. I never really thought he was human. But he is.” She shrugged. “So here I am. And you know what?”

Lindsey shook her head.

“I think it's possible I've never respected myself more.”

And Tracy's best friend in the world, whom she admired more than any other woman she'd ever met in her entire thirty-something years of life, smiled at her.

“Good,” Lindsey said. “And you look like you're not freaking out because he went off the radar—which is good, too. Because Deck? He goes off radar a lot. You want to do this? Hook up with him for any length of time? You better get used to waiting and wondering.”

Tracy nodded. “I know. I'm freaking out inside,” she confessed. “I wish he would get back here already.”

“That's normal,” Lindsey said. “To wish that. And it's okay, too, if you freak out when you're with me.” She glanced over her shoulder. “When the door's closed. But for the record? Deck's very good at what he does. He'll be back soon.”

Tracy had to smile. Those were words she herself told Lindsey, repeatedly, when her husband, Mark, was overseas with his SEAL team. Lindsey recognized that, too, and grinned. “Also for the record,” she said, “reunion sex? Always extremely great.”

Tracy felt her cheeks heat. “I honestly don't know how this is going to play out,” she told her friend. “I mean, I know what I want, and I'm pretty sure I know what
he
wants — right now. But what he wants tomorrow … ?” She shrugged. “I'm trying to … be reasonable.”

“Who are you,” Lindsey mocked her, “and what have you done with my too-impetuous friend Tracy?”

She had to laugh. “Shut. Up.”

Lindsey laughed, too, and stood.

But Tracy caught her arm. “Hey, change of subject?” she said. “Michael Peterson.”

Lindsey nodded and sat back down. She knew the name well.

“Do you remember,” Tracy said, “when we did a girls’ night out back in January? It was a Thursday, so we had a wine-free dinner.” The Trouble -shooters office was open Thursday evenings, so they'd all had to go back to work. “That's wine without an H.”

Lindsey nodded. “You, me, Sophia was in town, and … I think … Didn't we invite Tess, too?”

“Yeah, and it was weird because she and Jimmy were fighting,” Tracy said. “That's the night. I went out with Michael the evening before and …”

“You brought him home with you,” Lindsey remembered. “I remember thinking that you were insane. What was it, your second date?”

“Yeah, I've beaten myself up enough over the past six months, thank you very much,” Tracy said. During their date—their second date ever, yes—Michael—if that was his name—had started talking about getting married. He'd stopped himself, and looked mortified, as if he were embarrassed and afraid that she would think it was too soon. Tracy had played it so cool, like,
we really do need to get to know each other,
although inwardly she'd started shopping for a dress. He was smart and funny and sweet and pulse-stoppingly handsome. He was perfect, and he
loved
her. Or so he'd said, with tears in his evil, lying eyes.

“Sorry,” Lindsey said.

“Live and learn,” Tracy repeated Decker's words to her. It
was
a good motto. She was going to pin the words to the wall of her workstation. “But here's my question. After we got back to the office, I wanted to show you his picture, and I had one on my phone, but it was so small, so I downloaded it onto my computer. Or was that
your
computer? Wasn't that when you just got your Mac?”

During the past year, Lindsey had become one of those obnoxious PowerBook users. Anytime anyone had trouble opening or downloading a file using their PC, Lindsey would nod and say, “That wouldn't happen with
my
computer.”

She now stood up. “I
think
it was mine. Let me check.”

“It was months ago,” Tracy said, following her into the hallway, trying not to get too excited at the possibility. “You probably deleted the file.”

“Nah,” Lindsey said as she led Tracy into her office. “My hard drive's massive. And I've been busy. And lazy.” She sat behind her desk and woke up her laptop. “Michael wiped your phone, too, huh?”

Tracy nodded. “It freaks me out. Thinking that he came back into my apartment to do that. I mean, I remember looking at his picture in February.” On Valentine's Day—she was such a loser. “So sometime between then and now…” It had to be either while she was sleeping or in the shower. “That gives me the creeps.”

“Okay, January, huh … ?” Lindsey frowned at her computer screen and started flipping through picture files. “Lemme see. …”

And then, like magic, there it was. The photo of Michael that Tracy had taken while he was talking on his cell phone, leaning against the front hood of his car. “Yes!” Tracy leaned closer to look, and Lindsey hit print.

“Would you look at that?” her friend, a former LAPD detective, said. “We've got his face
—and
his license plate numbers.”

“Those won't be
his
plate numbers,” Tracy said.

“You never know,” Lindsey told her. “If he thought you were easy—” She winced. “Not you—the job. You've got no military or law enforcement training. You're a receptionist, not an operative.
That
kind of easy. This may actually be his car.”

Her computer had printed the photo on regular paper, so it wasn't very high quality, but it was still good enough.

Tracy followed Lindsey as she took the picture down the hall to the lobby, where Jo Heissman was being babysat by Lopez. Lindsey handed the older woman the printout.

Jo laughed grimly, and looked up at Lindsey and then Tracy. “That's him,” she confirmed. “Peter Olivetti.”

It was stupid, but part of Tracy had hoped both she and Jo were wrong. Of course, it was only relatively recently that her twenty-year-long hope that someday her prince would come had been fully dashed.

“AKA Michael Peterson.” Tracy turned to Lindsey. “Is there a secure way—completely secure—to send this photo to Alyssa?”

“I'll call her,” Lindsey said.

“Tess is with her,” Tracy said. “Tess would know.”

“I'm on it.” Lindsey disappeared down the hall.

Jo stood up. “When do we get to find out what's going on—what this is all about?”

“I'm not at liberty to say,” Tracy told her, told Lopez, who'd also gotten to his feet.

“Is Jim Nash still alive?” Jo asked. She had a way of looking at people as if she could read their minds.

So Tracy thought about Decker, about how badly she wanted him to walk through that door. Please, God, she wanted to know that he was safe. And then, she wanted him to take her by the hand, and lead her back with him to his office, where he'd close the door. Only, as soon as the door shut, it wouldn't be his office anymore, it would be a hotel room. In Paris. With roses—hundreds of them—in vases around the room, surrounding a pillow-covered bed. And on any surface where there weren't vases of roses, there would be lit candles, smelling faintly of vanilla.