Necessary Force (7 page)

That lasted only seconds and then he was gently pushing her away.

Only then did Georgie realize her hands clutched his body. She dropped them but held his gaze, smoked now with raw urgent need. She knew he was seeing the same thing in hers. Okay, so they were both still attracted to one another. That was not news. But the intensity with which he watched for her reaction made her understand he was still calculating and judging her, still the Fed with a job to do.

She managed to find her voice, such as it was, first. “Am I supposed to be impressed?”

He gave her a little smile and pushed a hand through his dark hair. “I sure the hell am.”

Her sudden laughter surprised Brad. It splashed over him like water from a hydrant on a hot summer day. It was refreshing and cooling, and just what he needed. But playtime was over for now.

His expression reverted to professional. “This is the time for you to tell me if you want another agent assigned to you. Say it, and it’s a done deal.”

Georgie frowned. “Why would you say that now?”

“Because whatever this is between us”—he waggled two fingers back and forth between them—“it has to wait.”

She nodded. “Right.”

“For the record, I wasn’t acting as FBI Special Agent Brad Lawson from the time I crossed your threshold that night two months ago until I left the next morning.”

“What about just now?”

He didn’t answer but stared at her with the same intensity that had been in his expression when he kissed her. He had admitted all he was going to admit to for both their sakes.

She lifted her chin and nodded. “Let’s do this.”

Zander, who had been watching the interaction with rapt attention, woofed and danced a bit on his leash, ready for action and another snack.

“That’s awful. Were you scared?” A little group of colleagues gathered around Georgie at the Associated Press building on Thirteenth St. N.W.

“Yes, I freaked. The police came but weren’t much help.”

“Who needed the police?” The knot of listeners parted to reveal Frank Keller, the senior director of photography for the D.C. office. Long and lean, he wore his usual uniform of dark dress slacks and a striped button-down dress shirt with sleeves neatly rolled back to just below the elbow, revealing strong forearms. Frank had been a crew rower at Yale. “Georgie? What happened?”

“Hi, Frank. I was burglarized.”

“Are you okay?” Frank’s one blue eye searched her face in concern. The other was closed with a piece of tape, indicating that he could not blink on that side today. “You don’t look okay.”

“I didn’t sleep well.”

Then, too, spending half the night with the FBI was enough to wreck a girl’s complexion. But she couldn’t tell Frank that, or a dozen other things she would usually have confided in him. The list of things she had been told she should not mention to family and friends was long. Agent Clinton, who had picked her up at the hotel, had repeated them again and again until he dropped her off at the office. He didn’t trust her. The feeling was mutual.

As the others drifted back to their workstations, Frank indicated that she follow him into his office space. He perched a hip on the edge of his desk. Just eight years older than she, Frank’s once permanently tanned cheeks and wind-carved features had made him a standout. Now deep valleys scored his weathered face from weight loss and the pain from the frequent headaches that measured the tumor’s growth.

He waved her into a chair. “Why didn’t you call me? I would have come right over.”

“You’ve been enough of a Good Samaritan to me.” She glanced away from him. Frank was one of her best friends, and the very best photo editor at AP. He was also a fan. He gave her great assignments, pushing her out of her comfort zone to go after that great photo. If he hadn’t been married when they met, she was pretty certain she would have made a play for him.

“Did you lose anything important?”

“All the cameras that weren’t with me, and my main computer. I hate to think about what my insurance won’t cover. However, my best personal work is up on my Web site. I keep a copy of everything else in the Cloud.”

“Since when?”

She made a palms-up gesture. “I know I complained about threats to privacy but I joined the rest of the world a few months ago. Thought I told you.”

He smiled. “That means everything’s going to be fine.”

“Maybe.” She glanced at him with a question forming she wasn’t certain she should ask. She was feeling very protective of him. She didn’t want his voice recorded by the tiny microphone in her jacket pocket when the most innocent reply might result in him being hassled by the FBI.

A flash of memory of Brad’s kiss sent her pulse galloping.

“Something else bothering you, Georgie?”

“No.” She jerked her thoughts back to the present. Frank, of all people, shouldn’t be part of this. He had more than enough to deal with. In fact, this was his last week with AP. Frank was dying.

“Then I have a wonderful new assignment for you. A plum I saved just for you.”

“Oh, Frank, I really appreciate it but … actually, I’m thinking about taking a few more days off.” She could practically hear Clinton’s reaction to that bombshell.

Even Frank scowled at her. “You’ve just been away for more than a week.”

“I know. It sounds bogus for me to come in and say hi and bye. But the fact is I, uh, I’m worried.”

“About the break-in? Why? What did the police say?”

“They said I was lucky. There was little damage and the stolen items can be replaced.”

“There you go.”

“Maybe. I just have a feeling the break-in wasn’t random.” Her need to talk with a friend was rapidly outweighing her concern for his privacy. “Remember this one blog fan I have?”

Frank nodded. “The one with a really amazing interest in your career.”

“Yeah. Lately, he’s been a bit creepy.”

Frank’s brows drew together. “In what way?”

“He went off after I lost the Pulitzer. I showed you those comments.”

Frank smiled. “I’m with him. You were robbed.”

“I almost believe it when you say it. The truth is, I’m still developing my style. I have time.” The moment she said the words, she regretted it.

Frank rose from the desk, touching his taped eye. “Let’s hope you do.” It took only a second before he shook off his bleak look. “Do the police think your fanboy might have perpetrated the break-in? Looking for what, mementos?”

“Oh, no.” Georgie scrambled to stay on track with her “story.” “The authorities asked me if I had any enemies. I couldn’t think of one.”

“What about Cal? He didn’t take your breakup well.”

“Yes, but—”

“You’re pretty sure he’s the one who erased those files from your computer that you’d prepared for our AP photographer collection. That cost you weeks of work.”

“True.” Georgie’s mind was running double time with the fact that the FBI was listening to every word. Did she care if the FBI hustled over to question Cal? “But that was three months ago. I heard he’s seeing Nadira in Overseas Operations. I don’t want to talk about Cal. Let’s talk about you. How are you?”

Frank rubbed the faint red seam visible through his crew cut. Until two weeks ago he had sported a thick shock of medium-brown hair that made him seem even younger than his forty years. “I’ve healed just fine. The surgeon says the operation was a success. Too bad the patient will die anyway.”

Georgie tried to answer his gallows humor with a smile but it was so shaky she couldn’t hold it. Brain tumor too invasive to remove. Frank had only months, perhaps, to live.

“I’d be angry if the Grim Reaper were taking me from something important. But with Mia gone …” He let the thought trail. His wife of eight years had died two years ago of uterine cancer. He shook his head. “Can’t believe that fucker Death has circled back for me.”

Not knowing what to say, Georgie just surged out of her chair and hugged him.

“All right, all right.” He gently disentangled himself from her. “Let me go before someone accuses me of sexual harassment in the workplace. You work for me, remember?”

Georgie’s smile stabilized. “Correction. I’m a freelancer.”

“That’s why you will take this new assignment.”

Georgie looked at the sheet he handed her and grimaced. It was for an afternoon reception at the White House for at-risk teens. Ooh boy. “I really want to, Frank. I do. But I made this commitment to my friend.”

“I suppose he has a name.”

Crap. She hadn’t thought that far. “Brad.” She cringed, hoping Brad wasn’t on the other end of her bug.

“He must be something if he can distract you from your life’s work.” Frank inspected her over his glasses. “Details. Where did you meet, yada yada yada. I’m living vicariously these days.”

“I’ll bring him around sometime soon. You should be asking to see my pictures from the trip.” She reached for her camera bag and pulled out a Zip drive. Twirling her fingers around an imaginary mustache, she handed it to him. “Brought back some filthy postcards just for you.”

“Legs?” He looked over at her when the first photo of a pair of dusty feet appeared on his screen.

She nodded. “Legs. There are some I took before I left that were all about the color blue. Today I’m working on yellow—”

Frank put up a finger for quiet as he slowly scrolled through, pausing to study an occasional shot.

Georgie watched over his shoulder, like a child awaiting a verdict from a parent. Frank and Mia didn’t have children but they’d quickly become the foster parents for many of the young people who came to work at AP, leaving behind family and friends in order to pursue their dreams. D.C. wasn’t like other cities where one could establish longtime relationships. For the most part it was a meeting ground, a part-time life, full of upwardly mobile transients whose being in Washington depended on their ability to stay connected with the ever-changing power brokers of politics. The Kellers had provided an anchor, career advice, friendly faces, and space for weekly potluck meals where people who didn’t feel like part of the city could, for an evening, feel attached.

It took Georgie a few seconds to realize that Frank was no longer staring at her pictures but staring off into space. His hand was clutching the mouse as pictures flipped past too quickly to be seen.

“Frank?” She reached out and touched his arm. The muscles felt locked in place. Alarmed, she shook his shoulder. “Frank?”

Frank jerked and looked at her. “What?”

“You were staring and didn’t respond when I spoke to you.”

His expression clouded for a moment. “Shit. Petit mal seizure. They told me to expect them. But I was hoping.” He sat down heavily, beginning to sweat.

“Who do I need to call?”

He looked up at her with a strange expression. “No one. Not if you want to remain my friend.”

“Okay. But you look pale. Did you eat?”

“No. I guess I forgot.” He rubbed his scar. “The meds cost me my appetite.”

“Sit down. I’ll get you water and some of whatever’s left in the break room.”

“You don’t need …” Georgie was already moving away. She came back with a scrambled-egg-and-bacon sandwich, a bottle of water and one of juice, and a large latte with extra sugar, his favorite. He ate like a man who hadn’t seen a meal in a week.

When he was done, he sat back and smiled a weary little smile.

“Sorry if I frightened you. If it weren’t for the weirdness”—he touched his taped eye—“I’d demand to keep my job until I fell completely apart. However, some of the higher-ups aren’t as sanguine about these things.”

Georgie bit her lip. “I won’t say a thing. But promise me, you won’t be driving?”

“You have my car so you know I’m not. But there are a few more things I want to accomplish. For instance, I’ve found Mia’s lottery apartment.”

“Seriously?” It was a potluck game, what one would buy if one won the lottery. Mia’s purchase never varied. She would buy a penthouse apartment with a view across the Potomac. It was a dream well beyond the budget of an AP photo editor and journalist, but that’s what made it a dream.

“Want to see it sometime?”

“Sure.”

“Then it’s a date. This weekend. Now get out of here.”

“What can I do for you first? Name it.”

He pointed to the assignment he’d handed her earlier. “Pretend I’m still your boss and that you do what I tell you to do. Finish your yellow-picture day over at the White House event this afternoon. If he’s worthy of you, this new guy will understand that the job comes first.”

Georgie nodded. Brad would understand that.

Georgie wished she could tell Frank the truth. Someone needed to know what kind of trouble she was in. Yet telling Frank, or her family, would only endanger them. She was out to lure a maniac into the open. Many lives might depend on her ability to do that.

“Having any luck?”

Georgie looked up from her laptop. Brad stood in the doorway of her bedroom. She hadn’t heard him approach and so couldn’t guess how long he had been watching her. Zander, as usual, was beside him, looking happy and at ease.

“I’ve been online for an hour, answering messages about the robbery.”

His brows went up. “That many responded to your blog about getting robbed?” He came forward to stand behind her. “Mind if I check the responses?”

“If I say no, that won’t stop the FBI from getting into my account anyway. You have my pass codes.”

Brad ignored the jab. He had asked, politely.

When she had scooted her chair back he leaned in and scrolled back to the beginning of the responses. It had become clear pretty quickly that while her fans were quick to offer sympathy, most responders wanted to share their own experiences with burglary, some going so far as to relate the experiences of relatives and friends. Everyone loved disaster.

Georgie glanced around. When she’d returned after work with Brad as her escort, she’d been stunned to find her apartment in perfect order. Someone had put it back together and removed all signs of the invader and FBI evidence-finding. Brad said they’d hired a cleaning service to do it. She should have felt grateful. What she felt was invaded a second time without her permission.