The Black List (3 page)

Sydney, trying to ease Carillo’s frustration, asked, “What makes you think someone’s after you?”

“Trip. He told me.”

“Why does he think this?” she asked.

“I have no idea. I only know that he’s too scared to come to the house.”

“And yet,” Carillo said, “he had no problem sending you here?”

“He’d be furious if he thought I was here. He thinks I’m at your house.”

“He just went up a few notches in my book.”

“So I
can
use your credit card?”

“Tell you what, Sheila. Assuming any of this is true, I’ll follow you to your hotel, pay the bill, then sit down with Trip and get to the bottom of it.”

“You’d do that for me?”

“If it will bring me peace for an afternoon, yes.”

She got up off the bed, put her arms around him. “Thank you, Tony.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he said. “Get your things together. Sydney and I will wait for you downstairs.”

He and Sydney walked out, and he closed the door behind him.

“You buying that?” Sydney asked.

“I think she watches too much TV.”

“At least Trip’s off the hook for embezzlement.”

“What more could a prospective wife ask for?” Carillo said as he and Sydney started down the stairs.

The doorbell rang and they heard Sheila call out, “It’s probably the maid. She’s got a key.”

“She gets a maid, I get the bill,” Carillo muttered as someone turned a key in the lock, then opened the door.

A small woman in dark clothing stood there, shoving something in her pocket before turning around to pick up a caddy filled with cleaning supplies. She straightened and looked right at them, her eyebrows shooting up, not in fear, but in inquiry. “Are you Trip?” she asked, focusing on Carillo.

Carillo froze. “How long did Sheila say her maid worked here?”

“Six months,” Sydney answered.

No sooner had the words left her mouth than Sydney saw the woman reach into the caddy, pulling out a black semiauto.

Before the woman’s gun cleared the bucket, Sydney drew and fired. She heard Carillo’s almost simultaneous shots. The woman fell back, looking surprised as the bucket and gun clattered to the floor. The two agents approached, keeping their weapons trained on her. Carillo opened the door, looked outside, checking for more suspects. Sydney kicked the woman’s gun away and it went sliding.

Sheila, hearing the gunshots, ran out of her bedroom, stood at the top of the stairs, then screamed.

She sank to her knees. “Oh my God . . .”

“I take it that’s not your maid?” Carillo asked.

She shook her head. And when she recovered, said, “Now do you believe me?”

Sydney took out her phone to call 911. As she punched in the numbers then put the phone to her ear, Carillo said, “Guess we better find out what happened to the real maid.”

She looked at Carillo. “This is
not
how I wanted to spend my Christmas vacation.”

3

Sydney walked up the
driveway after Carillo dropped her off that evening, and she stared at the two-story gray and white house of her childhood, with the ivy growing up the side, its twisting trunk as thick as a tree. An ancient oak stood on either side of the yard, moonlight filtering through the branches. Tiny white Christmas lights twinkled in the bushes that bordered the front porch as though fireflies hovered over them. She loved this house, the one constant in her life that didn’t change. It didn’t matter where she lived or where her job took her. This was home, and she walked up to the steps and sat, not yet ready to go inside.

Although the curtains were closed, she knew her mother, stepfather, and Angie were sitting inside, laughing, being a family. It was what she thought of when feeling overwhelmed. It brought her comfort and gave her strength.

Why then was it having the opposite effect as she sat there now?

She glanced at the envelope Carillo had given her in the car and knew why. She’d left California partly because of these numbers, moved all the way across the country so her work wouldn’t bleed over into her personal life. And here she was, letting it happen again. Sure it was Carillo’s wife this time, but she’d interrupted her holiday visit with her family, and suddenly become embroiled in a murder investigation that meant she and Carillo were now on administrative leave until the facts were sorted through. Worse was that any chance of a simple, peaceful vacation was now going to be ruined because of the constant phone calls from the investigators who would undoubtedly find one more question to ask, one more detail that needed to be outlined. That was the primary reason she cut short her trip, deciding to return back to Washington, D.C., tomorrow. She didn’t want to subject her family to having to hear any of it.

“Hey.”

She looked over, saw Carillo standing in the driveway. “I thought you’d left.”

“You were looking a little lost. And I guess my conscience got to me. Like you said, not how you pictured your Christmas vacation.”

She shrugged, then let out a sigh. “Not so much that as my mother is going to be . . . disappointed. It’s bad enough that I’m late, but I’m trying to figure out how to even tell her. Sorry I missed dinner, but had to knock off an assassin who mistook Carillo for his wife’s boyfriend.”

“I dunno. Sounds good to me.”

“Yeah, if you’re describing the plot to a movie, maybe. Not when you hate everything about your daughter’s job.”

“Angie would like it.”

Sydney smiled at the thought. “Definitely.”

They sat there in silence for several minutes, just staring out at the moon-dappled lawn. After a moment Carillo said, “I’ve been thinking.”

“Not good.”

“Sheila mentioned that some guy in Washington, D.C., could back up Trip’s story. Maybe shed a little light on what’s going on—” He stopped, pulled his phone from his belt, looked at the screen. “Text from Doc. They found the real maid in a Dumpster behind her apartment complex.”

“You think Trip’s innocent?”

“I have no friggin’ idea. But I can sure as hell tell you that if I have to spend the next several days on administrative leave because of something he did, I want to know exactly what I’m suffering for.”

“If I had to guess, someone’s pissed about Trip stealing a bunch of money. Maybe it’ll be a lesson for Sheila to quit taking in strays.”

“I wish that’s all it was,” Carillo said. “I get the feeling that Sheila’s so besotted with this idiot, she’s going to get dragged down with him. And since it involves my wife, I’m not about to trust just anybody looking into the case. I don’t think they realize how squirrelly she can be.”

“You know they’re not going to let you investigate your own wife’s case.”

“Exactly. Which is why I’ve been thinking, you know, maybe you could give Griffin or Tex a call. Ask them to check out this Dorian Rose guy Sheila was talking about. She says he can verify Trip’s story.”

“Why them?”

“One, because they’re in D.C. Two, because I’d like to get the opinion of someone I trust, not some poor schmuck who was low man on the totem pole and got stuck on-call over Christmas vacation. Three, I’d like it kept below the radar.”

If anyone had the means to interview someone and keep it below the radar, ensuring that Carillo’s name never came to light—especially if something went awry—Zachary Griffin and James “Tex” Dalton could. The pair worked black ops for a covert government agency called ATLAS, based in Washington, D.C. “I don’t know. This is not exactly their thing.”

The front door opened and Sydney’s mom poked her head out. “You’re home. I thought I heard someone out here.”

“Hi, Mom,” Sydney said, tucking the envelope with the BICTT numbers beneath her arms. Her mother, unfortunately, was overly inquisitive when it came to her professional life. “Yeah. We’re, uh, just going over a few things.”

“Well, hurry. We’re holding dinner for you.”

She closed the door, and Sydney waited a few moments, making sure that her mom wasn’t about to pop back out again before she started talking about Carillo’s case. “They’re pretty strict over there, Carillo. It’s got to be a national security threat before they get involved. I know they’re going to say let the locals handle it.”

“Just a call, Syd. What can it hurt?”

What could it hurt? The fact that she was here in California, and Zachary Griffin, the man she wanted a relationship with, was in Washington, D.C. After the last operation they’d worked, she thought for sure there was something more there. She’d even called and left a voice mail, wishing him a merry Christmas, and yet, he hadn’t called back.

As much as she wanted to call again, she didn’t want to seem desperate, and now Carillo
wanted
her to call . . .

Sydney took a breath, realized she was being selfish. Maybe it was Carillo’s wife and not him, but if anyone owed Carillo, she knew that she did. She eyed the envelope in her hand. Back when she was looking into her father’s murder, when she’d found these numbers, Carillo had been the one person in her life who stood by her, helped her when she needed him.

She wasn’t about to forget that.

“I’ll call in the morning before I leave for the airport. They’re likely to be in a better mood if I don’t wake them from a sound sleep.”

4

Zachary Griffin tossed his
bag onto the floor, then placed the tiny white box on the desk, eyeing the mountain of paperwork that had piled up in his absence. He’d been in Mexico over Christmas, had just gotten back, in fact.

Tex walked in just then, saw the box. “What’d you get me?”

“Same thing as I did last year,” Griffin said. “Nothing.”

“How was the mission?”

“I’ve had better.”

“No success?”

“If there are any terrorists entering through the route that informant laid out for us, good luck to them. Marco and I spent Christmas night hiding beneath a bridge while a couple drug cartels battled it out above us. The only thing traveling on that route is drugs and guns. Unfortunately there are a dozen routes we weren’t able to check out, so we have to hope the border agents are on their toes. We know they’re coming in that way. What would be nice is to know the names they’re using to enter the country with.”

“Let’s hope the next team is more successful.”

“I see you’re not volunteering.”

“Blond,” Tex said, tugging at his hair. “Sticks out like a sore thumb. If you’re not too jet-lagged to go out, I could use you for a quick contact.”

“I’ve got a week’s worth of reports to get through. Sure it can’t wait?”

“Sydney called.
Reader’s Digest
version, someone tried to kill Carillo, because they thought he was Sheila’s boyfriend. Seems she’s gotten herself involved with a two-bit hustler caught skimming money from a charity.”

“Carillo’s okay?”

“Fine. He and Syd ten-exed the hit man. Woman, actually. So how about it?”

Griffin leaned back in his chair, shrugged. “Sure. I’ll meet you downstairs.”

Tex started to leave then looked at the box. “Is that for Sydney?”

“Just something I picked up.”

Tex eyed the gift and then him, raising one eyebrow. “You want my advice?”

“No.”

“Well, I’m gonna give it anyway, because that’s what friends do.”

“Butt in where they shouldn’t?”

“If she finds out from some other source that she was on our radar when she was looking into her father’s case, that our agency was in any way—”

“I get it.”

“Yeah? Well maybe think about mentioning the fact
before
you give her whatever’s in there.” Tex turned and left, and Griffin stared at the little gift box, trying to get it out of his head that Sydney had called Tex and not him.

It shouldn’t matter. They’d never officially gone out, after all. Merely worked a couple ops together. And sure, shared a kiss here and there, as opportunity would have it. The necklace he’d picked up for her in Mexico? A trifle. The fiery opal pendant had caught his eye, a thank-you gift was all, for her help on his last mission in France.

They were not, however, a couple, even if the thought was one he’d entertained while hiding beneath that bridge in Mexico. It was merely something that had helped pass the time while bullets were flying.

So it shouldn’t really matter that she’d called Tex and not him.

It didn’t, he convinced himself, then opened his drawer, shoved the gift box inside, and took out his gun to follow Tex.

Griffin and Tex
pulled up in front of a red brick two-story structure, its painted green trim peeling from the wood around those windows that weren’t boarded over. A chain-link fence in front of one of the buildings leaned precariously from its post, a plastic trash bin the only thing holding it up. The melting snow flooded the gutter and puddled on the sidewalk, reflecting the bare gray branches of the trees above.

A black man stood out front of the apartment building, his hands shoved in his jacket pockets, his shoulders hunched, looking as defeated as the neighborhood. He was not watching them, however; his gaze seemed to be fixed off in the distance, as though eyeing the bright white capitol dome visible against the clear blue sky, perhaps wondering what his leaders were doing for him. Griffin and Tex exited the vehicle, their doors closing almost simultaneously, and the man finally turned in their direction, eyeing them suspiciously as they walked up.

“You wouldn’t happen to know Dorian Rose?” Tex asked.

“Who are you?”

“A friend of a friend.”

He seemed to think about answering, then said, “Second building, apartment one. Office.”

His accent reminded Griffin of one of their contacts who had emigrated from Kenya. “Thanks.”

He and Tex continued past him, then on up the walkway, just as a blond-haired man about his height was exiting the building. He looked up, saw them, his blue eyes widening as he backed in, slamming the door shut.

The man on the sidewalk said, “That would be Dorian.”

Griffin and Tex ran to the door, Tex pulling it open. Dorian was nearly down the hallway, and in the moment it took them to survey the premises and determine if they were rushing into some sort of an ambush, Dorian darted around the corner. They pursued, the floorboards bending beneath their weight. They heard a door slam. When they reached the corner, the stench of backed-up sewage assaulted them. The hallway was empty, the single tenement bulb barely throwing enough light to cast a shadow. There were several apartment doors on either side, and Griffin had no idea which one Dorian had disappeared into.