Home Free (20 page)

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Authors: Fern Michaels

BOOK: Home Free
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Abner looked up and over at the sound of her voice. Isabelle watched as the transition from computer world to personal world fought a battle. For a nanosecond, she thought she had lost the battle, but Abner scooted the stool he was sitting on across the floor and leaped off. A second later, she was in his arms, and he was kissing her so hard, she thought her back teeth were going to come loose. She'd never been kissed with such passion in her whole life. And she liked it. No! She loved it. She said so.
Abner laughed, a heartwarming sound that stayed with her all the way to her office.
Isabelle Flanders was in love.
Back in the loft, Abner scooted his stool back to his workstation, but for the first time in his life, he didn't want to do what he was doing. He wanted to chase after Isabelle, grab her in his arms, and run somewhere far away. Far, far away. Maybe to Hawaii and that glorious beachfront property he'd purchased last year.
Abner Tookus, soon to be Dr. Abner Tookus, was in love.
Abner looked at his housemates, at the two Dobermans, who were watching him, and the Yorkie, who was clamoring to be picked up, at the cat, who was already in his lap, and said, “Holy shit, guys, I'm in love!”
Chapter 19
T
en minutes later, Abner was back in his other world, the world he'd lived in for so many years, a world that hadn't included Isabelle Flanders and love. He was like a whirlwind as he moved from computer to printer, back to computer and on to another printer. The room hummed with sounds as he sifted and collated the papers, separating them into neat piles according to each government agency. Now all he had to do was sit down and read what he had in front of him. No small task, to be sure. He thought then about how much he was going to charge for this assignment. Satisfied that it would be enough to finish his cabin without his touching any other money, he let loose with a sigh so loud, Dolly, the big white Persian cat, leaped off his lap and hissed at him before she stalked her way out of the room.
Abner decided to go with the big gun first and pulled out the stack of CIA printouts. Adam Daniels's, the money guy. He read through the file as it related to Daniel's tenure at the CIA. A career guy with a paunch and a bad hairpiece. He studied the picture that accompanied his file from all angles. Married thirty years, two kids, a boy and a girl, who lived in New York. Three grandchildren. Lived in Old Town Alexandria, in a rather nice Federal-looking house complete with blue door. Beach house on the eastern seaboard, nothing elaborate. A five-year-old Boston Whaler that he kept in dry dock. No traffic tickets. Mr. Upstanding Citizen. Wife, Arlene, was a retired fifth-grade schoolteacher. Either Mrs. Daniels didn't like to cook or wouldn't cook, because credit-card receipts said they dined out seven nights a week. He wondered what the couple did for the other two meals of the day.
Abner continued to flip pages, scanning each intently before turning it over. He wanted to make sure he didn't miss a thing. Not good for his image. Gold's Gym. Two visits in the last five years. He'd played squash at the indoor cage at CIA headquarters with . . . Matthew Logan from the Department of Justice. Once a week Daniels went to the shooting range without fail. Excellent shot, won two awards from the NRA. He liked to shoot skeet with . . . Henry Maris from Homeland Security.
Daniels had put in twenty years at the Treasury Department before going over to the CIA. Abner sucked on his lower lip as he tried to figure out if he was missing something. Adam Daniels was just Mr. Ordinary. “Ahhhh, what have we here?” Abner turned over another page. Best friends with ex-Director Span of the CIA before the latter's forced retirement. Span was best buddies with Hank Jellicoe, now rotting away in a federal prison.
Abner tapped at his chin with a pencil. Span and Jellicoe. All those lucrative government contracts he'd approved for Jellicoe back in the day. So much money one person couldn't count it all. He plopped a paperweight on the papers, rolled across the floor to a computer against the far wall, and tapped furiously. Then he made two phone calls, waited, checked his e-mails, and tapped some more.
Ten minutes later, sheets of paper started piling up in the trays of three different printers. He tapped some more. Another printer went crazy as even more papers spewed out. Now he finally had what he needed. At least he hoped so. Director Span had okayed lucrative contracts to Hank Jellicoe for years and years, but if he remembered correctly, the amounts of money paid to Global Securities never added up when he snooped in Jellicoe's bank records. If he remembered correctly, there was way too much money unaccounted for, with no trail to follow, and there were no “clients” at the time other than the government.
He made a mental note to tell Isabelle to get those files from Maggie, because he did not keep copies of anything once he turned the job over to the person who hired him. He preferred to be as pure as the driven snow where all that was concerned. Once he invaded—he hated the term
hacked
—a subject's life, he made a point of never doing it again. So if Maggie or her boss hadn't made copies, they were all SOOL.
Abner scooted all around his work area, gathering the papers from the various printers. He scanned them, collated and stapled them, and added them to his other files. There was something there. He was sure of it because the fine hairs on the back of his neck were moving. He scribbled notes on a yellow legal pad.
A break was called for. Abner loped off to the kitchen, reached for an apple, and crunched down. Just the act of chewing sometimes triggered something in his head. He'd never been able to explain it even to himself.
As he munched and chewed, he wondered if everyone but himself kept their lives on their computers. He had his life secured thanks to Suze Orman, the financial guru whom he'd trust with his life.
Five minutes later, Abner was back in his workroom. He fiddled and diddled, whistled to himself, tapped his foot as he punched the keys; then he was looking at Adam Daniels's computer.
He'd broken the politician's password the previous day. He typed it in and proceeded to go through Daniels's files and e-mails again to see if anything had changed. He wondered what the fussy little man would think if he knew his computer had been compromised. Abner had the knowledge and the power to crash Daniels's computer if he wanted to. Actually, he could bring down the entire computer system at the CIA if he wanted to. But not yet. Maybe soon, though. He shut down and rolled back to his stack of files.
Next on his list was Barney Gray of the FBI. Gray was two years away from retirement. A widower with three children, all living in California, the land of orange blossoms and sunshine. He lived in the Watergate, saw different women occasionally, nothing out of the ordinary. Definitely not a playboy. Lived within his means, healthy, stable bank account. A consistent saver. Loaned money to his kids from time to time. Active Lutheran church member. No gym for him. Rarely charged on his Visa card. Used the ATM every other day but did not withdraw more than a hundred dollars at a time. Charged his groceries and gas on an American Express card that he paid off every month.
All his records reconciled. Played bridge twice a month but with neighbors, no government people. He liked to fish and hike and belonged to two different clubs, a fishing club and a hiking club. His three children, two boys and a girl, visited each year around the Fourth of July, when, as a family, they went camping or white-water rafting. No grandchildren to dandle on his knees.
The only interaction between Gray and the other three moneymen was either a meeting where the directors were present or by chance out somewhere. Nothing was prearranged. In Abner's mind, Barney Gray was clean. That meant the FBI was clean. He separated the FBI's files and scooted them over to a bare shelf. He plopped a sticky note on top that said “Clean.”
Next up was Henry Maris from the Department of Homeland Security. Well, if ever there was an organization that could rival a Chinese fire drill, the DHS was it. Maris was like dog poop in a park—he was all over the place. He was in debt up to his eyeballs, three months in arrears on his mortgage, and in danger of losing his town house; spent way beyond his means; charged everything under the sun. Liked designer clothes and custom-made shoes. As of the moment, his checking account said he had $345 in it. He had overdraft protection. He had tapped his retirement account three times in the last seven years and hadn't paid back a penny of it. He drove a leased Mercedes-Benz and was two months behind in his lease payments. No unexplained cash deposits into his bank account.
The guy simply lived high and didn't worry about a rainy day or tomorrow. He had lots of friends but mostly drinking buddies or neighbors. He charged a lot of liquor on his Master-Card, which had a two-thousand-dollar limit. He had only seventy dollars of credit available. All he was doing was paying the interest every month. He had what Abner considered way too much porn on his computer. No secret e-mails, nothing in his files. He was seen having lunch last week with the new director of the DHS. A ninety-minute lunch, with each man drinking two glasses of wine. The director picked up the tab.
Nothing here to ring any bells,
Abner thought. He stacked the files neatly and added a sticky with a large question mark on top.
Abner moved on to the last name on his list, Matthew Logan, or Matt, as everyone called him. His first assessment when he ran the files was that Logan was a stand-up guy. Good education, a veteran, well liked, played well with others, no known enemies. His bank accounts and charge accounts were normal. He drove a three-year-old Lexus; his wife of thirty-three years drove a Ford Taurus. Children scattered across the nation, two grandchildren, who visited from time to time. Wife, Claudia, was a buyer for a local department store. She would retire this year. Logan himself was just two years away from retirement. Friends all over the place. Both his and his wife's friends. They did the Washington party scene in the spring and summer but stayed away in the fall and winter.
He met from time to time with the other three, but it was always business and one director or the other hosted the meetings. Nothing there of any consequence.
And yet, all four of these men had gone to Camp David for Thanksgiving. That meant Daniels's and Logan's wives stayed home by themselves. “That's weird,” Abner muttered to himself.
Abner mumbled and grumbled to himself as he stapled more papers. He really had nothing to show for all his hacking. He hated it when this happened because with no results, how could he bill a client? He couldn't; it was that simple. So, back to the drawing board. And then an idea hit him.
With all his power and knowledge he could send the four men an e-mail and arrange to intercept their replies by setting up a bogus e-mail account for all four men.
Toss out the bait and see what hooks itself on your line.
He'd done it before and always come away a winner. He smacked his hands together in glee, then flexed his fingers the way a pianist would before a recital and started to type away with a vengeance.
Abner worked steadily for over an hour, lost in his own world, oblivious to the program he was running, which should, if he was successful, spit out who belonged to the initials JJ.
Time lost all meaning for Abner, so much so that he didn't hear the phone ringing to tell him Isabelle was going to be late because a walk-in client had appeared. He came up for air at three o'clock in the afternoon because his stomach started to protest.
In his kitchen, Abner became the Abner in love. He sat down and munched on a ham-and-cheese sandwich, his expression dreamy. His world was so right side up, he made a fist and shouted it to the world.
Across town in Georgetown, Maggie Spritzer wasn't entirely sure her world was right side up. She hoped it was since Gus Sullivan had accepted her apology and her invitation to dinner. And he was coming without a nurse or a handler.
Maggie knew she was an emotional mess, a feeling she hated but one she couldn't seem to control. A hot shower to remove all the pine resin that coated her clothes, hands, and arms from working at Yoko's nursery might be a good start. Maybe even a little perfume, perfume she'd bought herself, not perfume Ted had given her. She always felt better after a shower. As her thoughts trailed off, she sniffed appreciatively at the stew cooking in the Crock-Pot.
Maggie was back in the kitchen thirty minutes later, dressed in gray flannel slacks, penny loafers, and a cherry red sweater. Her wild curly hair was tied back with a matching cherry-colored ribbon. Her skin glowed, and she thought she smelled wonderful.
She had decided earlier on the ride home that she would serve dinner on the old plank table in the kitchen, which sat in the middle of the wraparound windows. As she was walking out the door, Yoko had shyly presented her with a beautiful evergreen centerpiece with a fat red bayberry-scented candle.
The house smelled so good, the cooking scents vying with the fragrant odors from the Christmas tree in the living room and the centerpiece. She wondered if it was true that the way to a man's heart was through his stomach and his nose. She hoped so. She checked the mess in the Crock-Pot, sniffed, and then tasted the rich gravy. Perfect. She added the wine and covered the pot. Next, she set the table and held a match to the shiny red candle. The last thing she did was build a fire in the living room and turn on the tree lights. It was all perfect, so much so that she crossed her fingers the way she had when she was a little girl and wanted some good-luck fairy to make her wish come true.
Her stomach in knots, Maggie sat down in front of the fire. She propped her elbows on her knees and let her mind race. This was a whole new ball game. Her emotions had never been this twisted, this unpredictable. She couldn't ever remember not being in control. The feeling was so alien, she wanted to cry.
Work versus love. Love versus work. Not exactly. Factor in the Sisters, and it wasn't just work or love. Why did it have to be one or the other? Why couldn't she blend it all together? Millions of women did it. But, she argued with herself, those millions of other women didn't have a loyalty to the infamous vigilantes. Common sense told her to just let things play out. Whatever was meant to happen would happen.
Maggie continued to watch the flames, mesmerized as they danced and frolicked and raced up the chimney. There was something about a good fire in the winter with a Christmas tree that was so comforting, she couldn't put it into words.
And I'm a reporter,
she thought,
so I should have the words.
The best she could come up with was, it evoked childhood memories, belief in Santa coming down the chimney. She remembered asking someone, an aunt, she thought, why Santa's pants didn't catch on fire. She smiled at the memory just as the doorbell rang.

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