The Black List (26 page)

He held her gaze far longer than she felt comfortable under, and it was everything she could do to maintain her cool. After all, it wasn’t really a lie. She had no idea who was behind the wheel. Her speculation was just that. Finally he said, “You’re still okay working with McNiel?”

“So far.”

Someone knocked on his door, then opened it. His secretary. “Sorry to disturb you, sir, but the deputy director called down.”

“Thanks.” He looked at Sydney. “Written report to me, as soon as you get a chance.”

“Of course.” She stood. When it seemed he had nothing else to say, she left and called Scotty. “Where are you?”

“My office. But let’s go somewhere. I’d rather not talk about this here.”

“Java Stop?”

“Meet you there in about fifteen.”

She was curious, and had concocted a number of implausible scenarios as to why she shouldn’t discuss Wingman Squared with Pearson. Pearson dealt with politicians on a daily basis. This was Washington, after all, and if the case had to do with political corruption, she supposed that made a certain sort of sense. But surely he wasn’t trying to say that Pearson was involved?

No. She’d worked with Pearson before on another ATLAS case. In fact, the last time she’d been to the Java Stop, she met Tex after Griffin had gone missing, and Pearson gave his blessing, such as it was, when she’d been enlisted to help. So if Pearson wasn’t involved in the corruption, then who? Her head was spinning by the time she arrived at the coffee shop. Scotty was already there, had her coffee waiting, and she sat, grateful for the caffeine after her restless night. She wanted to get to the hospital, find out how Griffin was doing, but hadn’t yet had a chance after getting through all the red tape of a shooting. And now this. She only hoped that whatever he had to say wasn’t a waste of her time. Some agenda of Scotty’s that she hadn’t been able to foresee.

And sure enough, before she could get a couple words in edgewise, he asked, “I was wondering what you were doing this coming weekend?”

She hoped for a date with Griffin, but knew better than to count on anything in their line of work. Nor was she about to throw it in Scotty’s face, so said simply, “I have plans.”

He slid an envelope toward her. “I got an invitation to the Vista View’s Rooftop grand opening.”

“Scotty—”

“Look, I know we’re not a thing anymore, but anyone who is anyone will be there, and you know it looks better if you have a date at these things. This is the hot political event of the year. A couple former congressmen bought the place and renovated it. To even get an invitation . . . This is big.”

Scotty was all about the movers and shakers, and she knew it meant a lot to him. It was not, however, the world she liked to frequent. “What about that girl you met last night?”

“Amanda?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t know, Syd. It’s not like I know her.”

“You could
get
to know her. She seemed competent. A law student, after all.”

He hesitated. “What if she can’t go?”

“Then call me. I’ll see what I can swing. Now about this Wingman Squared thing?” she asked, imagining any number of possible reasons he might give for making this into something it wasn’t. “Why shouldn’t I mention it to Pearson?”

“If Pearson even knew you were looking in that direction, he’d assign you to some obscure little corner of the country as far from here as possible.”

“Why?”

He looked from side to side, then leaned forward, whispering, “Because they were involved in the BICTT scandal.”

There had to be some mistake.

When she didn’t respond, he said, “The bank the CIA was laundering money through?”

But she knew exactly which bank he was referring to. She just couldn’t believe it. BICTT had been closed down for the last couple of decades at least, and she was trying to wrap her head around the implications of what he was saying. Wingman and Wingman tied into BICTT? Scotty knew nothing about that envelope Carillo had given her—the numbers from BICTT she’d locked in her desk file—and it wasn’t like she could come out and announce it, or ask anyone else. Yet if it was true, that Wingman Squared was connected to CIA, surely Griffin and McNiel knew that? So why the hell hadn’t they told her when she’d mentioned Wingman Squared last night?

Sydney pushed her chair back and stood. “I’ve got to go.”

“What’s wrong?” Scotty asked. “Look, if it’s about this thing with Pearson, I just think—”

“Don’t worry. He won’t hear it from me. Not anytime soon, at least. I’m not about to open that can of worms.”

He nodded, and when it was clear she was insistent on going, said, “At least take your coffee.”

“Thanks.”

She grabbed the cup and walked out, hurrying across the parking lot to her car. When she got in and started it, she sat there for a few moments, staring out the windshield, trying to remember her conversation last night with Griffin and McNiel when she’d mentioned Wingman Squared. It wasn’t that they’d come out and denied knowing about it, more that they hadn’t really offered information on it. Griffin knew the company, and McNiel said he’d look into it.

The W2 file on Redfern’s desk . . . Like it wasn’t that big a deal.

She drove straight to the hospital, figuring that if anyone owed her an explanation, Griffin did. When she inquired as to which room he was in, she was told he’d checked out.

“When?”

“Early this morning.”

“I was informed last night that he was being kept for observation.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am. All I can tell you is that he is no longer in this hospital.”

“Thank you.”

She wasn’t sure why the news bothered her, except for the events of the night before. The fact he hadn’t been honest with her.

And that made her laugh. Cynically, of course, because when had he ever been honest with her?

She drove to ATLAS, almost expecting to be stopped on the way in, feeling like she was the only one who didn’t know what was going on. But no one stopped her and she was able to access the upper floors without issue. Griffin wasn’t in his office, neither was McNiel; and she wasn’t sure what she was supposed to do without them.

She sat at Griffin’s desk, staring at his computer.

Wingman Squared.

She moved the mouse and the monitor lit up. Password protected. Not that she expected to see anything less on a government computer. Her gut, however, told her that if a file on Wingman and Wingman was to be found, Griffin would have it there.

Unfortunately, she’d never paid attention when he entered his password, because quite simply, she’d never thought that she would need to get into his files.

She’d pulled the keyboard forward and placed her hands on the keys when McNiel walked past the door, then stopped on seeing her.

“Sydney. I wasn’t expecting you.”

“I dropped by the hospital. Griffin wasn’t there.”

“He’s at home. Apparently he knows better than the doctors.”

“Why am I not surprised?”

He walked in, looked at the computer screen. “Is there something you were looking for?”

After Scotty warned her off, she wanted to see McNiel’s reaction. “Information on Wingman and Wingman.”

“Because you saw the file on Redfern’s desk?”

“Yes. And because someone tried to kill Griffin last night after I was asking about it in the bar.”

“What do you think you know?”

Besides having an envelope filled with numbers that were somehow related? How she wished she could ask him about that. The cursor blinked on the computer screen, and she realized she had about two seconds to come up with something plausible, a semblance of the truth. She’d been a fool to even mention it to him, since he and Pearson were practically joined at the hip. She couldn’t let them know about that envelope, but if she denied any knowledge, he’d be suspicious. “They have a connection to the CIA and possibly BICTT.”

“You’ve done a bit of homework since last night.”

“A bit. I was worried about who was going after Griffin.”

“Can I give you some advice? Let it go. Wingman Squared and BICTT have nothing to do with this case. Nothing to do with what happened to Griffin last night.”

“But—”

“We handle a lot of cases here, Sydney. And sometimes they overlap. Your case—the one you were specifically brought here for—has everything to do with a terrorist that may be trying to get into this country, may already be here, and has nothing to do with the files you saw on Redfern’s desk with a W2 label. Do I make myself clear?”

“Very.”

He looked at the monitor again and said, “The number you want is two four.”

“Two four?”

“The extension to IT. You’ll need computer access if you’re going to help find this bastard.”

And then he left, and she was sitting there alone at Griffin’s desk, trying to figure out what the hell it all meant. If the cases weren’t related, then who had tried to kill Griffin and why? Did she trust McNiel that this W2 business had nothing to do with last night? That her seeing the file on Redfern’s desk was merely happenstance?

She had to trust him. McNiel undoubtedly had every reason to keep secrets from her, but she sincerely doubted he’d risk Griffin’s or even her life in the name of national security. So it was that she mentally put it aside, called IT to get her computer access, and started looking up the things related to the case in question. The problem was, she wasn’t even sure what she was supposed to be looking up, and she kept drifting back to the moment in the parking garage when she saw Griffin hit by the car.

Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to follow them. What didn’t make sense was sending an innocent kid to spy on them. Unless that was a distraction? Something to slow them down, allow the car to take them out when they stopped to investigate.

Griffin was too aware of his surroundings, and perhaps whoever had been following them knew this.

But how would they have known to follow them to the bar if it had nothing to do with Wingman Squared across the street? She’d picked it because it was close to Redfern’s office, and unless someone had her cell phone or Griffin’s office phone bugged, they would have had to follow her from the subway and then a taxi, which she doubted, or followed Griffin’s vehicle, which seemed more likely.

And Griffin had left from the ATLAS building.

Just as they had the night the gunmen took them by surprise at the From Sticks to Bricks fund-raiser . . .

She pushed back from the chair, walked to the window, and looked out. As busy a street as it was out front, someone could have easily followed them from here to the hotel that night. It wasn’t a secret where they were coming from. Tex had handed out
Washington Recorder
cards with the address on it. Sure they’d gotten away that night, but how hard would it be to park at one of those outlying corners and wait for a van to drive out, or follow Griffin to a bar after he got into the SUV he was driving, then wait for them to come walking back after a night of drinking, sending a naive college kid to distract them . . .

Since she knew that McNiel wouldn’t endanger his own men by leading her astray from the W2 angle, then whoever came after Griffin probably followed him from the paper to the bar. And since that was the second time someone came after him after leaving the building—meaning someone followed him while he was in the guise of a reporter—she’d have to say that put the suspect squarely in the A
.
D
.
E. court.

They clearly didn’t want reporters snooping around.

The question was, why?

44

While Sydney waited for
IT to send down a password to access the computer, she checked her work voice mail, receiving a call from Scotty, who complained that she wasn’t answering her cell phone—hard to do when no signal came into or out of the ATLAS building—then one from Pearson, reminding her to finish her report. The third call was from Lieutenant Sanchez at the PD. “Hate to bother you,” he said, “but I had a shooting last night, and your name came up—which it seems to do a lot of late. Give me a call when you get a chance.”

She telephoned the number he left, wondering if it was about the man she shot at as he tried to run down Griffin.

“Sanchez.”

“Sydney Fitzpatrick.”

“Hey, thanks for calling back so quick. Any chance you can meet me at the hospital?”

“You’re on day shift now?”

“First day on, so you can imagine my surprise to be fielding a call and hearing your name once again. And no, not the shooting you were involved in last night. This one was a robbery maybe an hour before. Some guy chased his victims into a building, then shot at them through the door. Hit a nine-year-old kid.”

Definitely not her case from last night. “Do you need a suspect sketch?”

“Actually, we got the guy. Hoping the kid makes it. It’s just that, like I said, your name came up from a friend of the family. I know the Bureau doesn’t typically involve themselves in your basic robbery, but, if you’ll pardon the expression, you sort of owe me one—and I’m not even counting last night’s shooting on K Street. I’m talking about the suicide undercover FBI thing you threw on me.”

“Extenuating circumstances.”

“Tell you what. If you can get this guy off my back, I’ll call us even, because right now, he is making my life a living hell.”

“I’m on my way.”

“Meet me in the lobby.”

Lieutenant Sanchez was actually waiting for her in the front of the hospital. “Thanks. I hope you don’t mind if I talk and walk at the same time? I have a Kiwanis meeting I need to get out to.”

“Talk away.”

“You remember a man named Ito Abasi?”

She looked over at him, surprised. “On-site manager at one of the slums out near the naval yard?”

“The same. He’s the one who dropped your name. Here’s the thing.” Sanchez stopped, shoved his hands in the pockets of his uniform jacket. “The guy is probably calling us fifty times a day to report stuff we can’t possibly get to. If we lived in Mayberry, sure, but this is D.C., and when it comes to rats and plumbing, and the crap he has to deal with, all we can do is refer him to the proper housing authorities and call it a day.”