Читать книгу Identity Crisis - Kate Donovan - Страница 11

The street was semideserted on her walk home from work, which suited Kristie just fine. It would give her a chance to mull over the details of her new case, so that she could design just the right cover story for the young female agent who would be infiltrating a posh sorority on an Ivy League campus.

Of course, it would have helped to know the agent’s mission, but as with most red folders, this one came with strings attached. Nowhere in the file did it reveal the nature of the wrong that would be righted, which told the spinner it was either so highly classified, it couldn’t be shared with someone at her level of clearance, or it was some sort of quasi-political vendetta. Perhaps the precious daughter of some high-ranking U.S. government official had become involved in some grade-tampering scandal with her sorority sisters, and SPIN had been enlisted for damage control for fear the episode would reflect on the official’s agency or party.

It annoyed Kristie to think she could waste hours of precious spinning on such an undeserving case. Then she reminded herself that it was part of the job. These assignments, however distasteful, helped keep SPIN well financed, even in hard times. And as bad as it was occasionally for the spinners, Ray had it worse. As the director, he was constantly forced to do political favors, most recently and repugnantly, for the president’s adviser Colonel Ulysses S. Payton. Kristie remembered the chauvinistic jerk from her interview, and knew that his meddling in SPIN affairs had grown along with his power within the administration in general. The thought that her first commendation had come from so ignominious a source made her want to kick a bop bag.

If Ray can put up with Payton, you can be a sport about this sorority caper, she told herself briskly. It might even be fun. Just give your imagination free rein on this one.

But something else had captured her imagination—the sensation that someone was following her. Surprisingly, the idea didn’t frighten her. After all, she was just three blocks from home on a well-lit, well-traveled street. It was simply intriguing, especially when she reminded herself of what Ray had said—that there was no such thing as instinct or intuition. Forcing herself to pay closer attention, she realized she could actually hear a second pair of footsteps. And unlike the sounds from the soft-soled shoes she had changed into just before heading out of the office, these were the dull clop-clop-clop of men’s dress shoes.

Not instinct. Just observation and deduction.

And it definitely didn’t require instinct for her to guess the identity of her stalker.

You just had to prove your point, didn’t you, Justin? she grumbled silently, remembering the agent’s threat to arrange a face-to-face meeting.

Several other SPIN employees lived in her neighborhood, and the last thing she needed was to be seen socializing with a field agent, so she ducked down an alley, then turned and planted her hands on her hips, ready to give the agent a piece of her mind. But it wasn’t clean-cut Justin Russo who strode right up to her. It was someone much scarier.

“Ray!”

His golden-brown eyes were wide, his voice strained. “What are you doing in an alley? Are you insane? What if I’d been a mugger?”

“Then I would have kicked your ass,” she quipped.

“What?”

Kristie winced. “I’m kidding, Ray. I knew you weren’t a mugger. From your shoes.”

“Pardon?”

“Men’s dress shoes. Not exactly designed for a quick getaway.” She tapped her temple with her index finger. “Analysis. Not instinct.”

“You were willing to bet your life on the fact that muggers never wear dress shoes?” His scowl deepened. “I still don’t get why you went down the alley. You didn’t know it was me.”

“The truth?” She squirmed but admitted, “I thought it might be Justin.”

“Russo?”

“Get a grip. I was wrong. It’s just…” She tried to smile, failed, and grimaced instead. “He joked about it today on the phone. About meeting me. I heard the footsteps of a well-dressed, athletic, clearly good-looking guy, and jumped to conclusions.”

“Athletic and good-looking?” Ray chuckled. “Nice save. Come on. I’ll walk you home.”

“Not so fast, Ortega.”

“Huh?”

She eyed him sternly. “You interrogated me. Now it’s my turn. Why were you following me?”

“I wasn’t.” He cleared his throat. “Not really. I was just trying to catch up to you.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. I wanted to talk to you before you left, but I got a call. Then you took off. So I followed. I would’ve called out your name, but I didn’t want to startle you.”

She stepped closer, intrigued by the fact that he seemed uncomfortable. “Talk to me about what?”

He flushed. “I was a little rough on you this morning.”

“And so?” She flashed a playful smile. “You wanted to apologize? But instead you scared me half to death?”

“You didn’t look scared.”

“And you don’t sound apologetic.”

“Touché.” Ray inclined his head toward the brightly lit street. “Walk with me.”

When he cupped her elbow with his hand and steered her toward home, she reminded herself that it meant nothing. She wouldn’t even have noticed the intimate gesture if not for the Curse of David Wong.

You’re a dead man for psyching me out like this, she told the absent spinner. Aloud, she prompted Ray, “You said something about an apology?”

“And now I’m saying something about self-defense lessons.”

“Pardon?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “If you’re going to take chances like the one you just took, you need to get some sensible shoes—not just tennies—and you need some instruction. Like I said, I can give you some pointers. Or you could take a real class—”

“I took a self-defense class in college. Eye-gouging, nut-kicking, thumb-bending—all sorts of violence.” She flashed a teasing smile. “I’m a lover not a fighter.”

“Yeah, well, you might not like the kind of lovemaking a mugger has in mind.”

“How many times do I have to tell you, I knew it wasn’t a mugger. Sheesh, if this is your idea of an apology, I don’t think I want one.”

They had reached the vestibule of her apartment building, and she glared playfully as she inserted her key in the lock. “If I invite you up, do you promise not to nag me?”

Ray laughed. “I promise.”

He took her arm again as they climbed the two flights of stairs leading to her unit. “I haven’t been here since you moved in.”

“I only found it because of you. And it’s been such a great place. Big and quiet. Just what I needed.”

She stole a sideways glance, knowing that their employer-employee relationship made outside socializing awkward for such a rule-oriented guy. He could be buddies with David, a married male, but an unmarried female subordinate was a different story.

So why was tonight different? Was this part of the apology? Or was David right, and Ray was going to make some sort of move on her?

In any case, she was determined to be a good hostess, so she quickly unlocked the door, pushed it open and motioned for him to enter. “Ta da.”

He walked past her, then whistled appreciatively as he surveyed walls lined from floor to ceiling with bookshelves. “It looks completely different. Nice, but different. I see now where your paycheck goes.”

“Books make expensive wallpaper, as my uncle says. But it never goes out of style.”

She bustled past him, depositing her keys and belongings on the coffee table and turning on lights. “I have a bottle of champagne in the fridge. Want some?”

“Champagne?” His brown eyes warmed. “What’s the occasion?”

She flushed, hoping he hadn’t mistaken her careless hospitality for a romantic overture. “No occasion. I just don’t have company very often.”

He seemed about to respond—most likely to remind her of his advice to get a life—then he just shrugged instead and wandered over to the doorway of the spare bedroom, where he promptly began to laugh. “What’s this?”

“If you’re referring to my sparring partner, she has a name. Betty Bop.”

“Unbelievable. Let’s hope you get attacked by a micromugger.”

“She’s short but wily.” Kristie joined him, smiling toward the five-foot-high toy. “I figure if I can kick her in the head, I can easily reach most guys’ groins. That’s the target of choice, right?”

“Right. Unless they have a gun.”

She nodded. “That’s the one thing Betty can’t do for me.”

“The one thing?”

Kristie eyed him sternly. “Since you’re here, maybe I’ll put you to work. Come on.” She dragged him by the arm back into the living room, then picked up a wooden ruler from her desk. “Hold this like a knife. Let’s see if I can kick it out of your hand.”

Ray groaned. “I was kidding. If you ever get mugged by a guy with a knife, submit. They taught you that in self-defense, didn’t they?”

“Submit? Not bloody likely,” she told him in her best Cockney accent. Then she instructed, “Come at me like you’re going to attack me. But don’t worry, I’ll aim for the ruler not your hand, so you won’t get hurt. I just want to see if I can disarm you.”

“Take my word for it. You can’t.”

Kristie glared. “It’s not like I’m completely untrained. My grandparents forced me to take aikido for two years in high school, and I still have most of the movements down. Plus, I’m almost finished with the video kickboxing class. So bring it on, Ortega. Unless you’re afraid.”

“Fine,” Ray grumbled. “Let’s get this farce over with.” Then he gripped the ruler in his right palm and moved toward Kristie.

She took careful aim and kicked, but in the split second it took for her to move, Ray had expertly shifted the “weapon” to his left hand, freeing up the right to grab her by the ankle the moment her foot reached its aborted target. Then he flipped her to the floor.

The impact knocked Kristie’s breath from her chest, and before she could even hope to react, Ray was on her, pinning her securely while pressing the blunt edge of the ruler to her throat.

And for a split second, she was terrified—not by the fall, or even by the weapon, but by Ray’s cold, vacant eyes. It was almost as if he were in a trance.

Then her fear was replaced by a heady rush of admiration and she murmured, “Can you teach me to do that?”

Ray seemed startled by her voice, and quickly shrugged to his feet. Then he laid the weapon carefully on the desk. “The lesson is over. And I’ll take a rain check on that champagne. I’ve got a lot of work to do tonight.”

“Wait!” Kristie scrambled to join him, ignoring a twinge of pain in her shoulders and spine. “You have to eat dinner, don’t you? We could get a pizza.”

“Some other time.”

She didn’t want to let him leave. Not this way. So she demanded lightly, “What about my apology?”

“That’s over, too.” He hesitated, then touched her cheek. “Did I hurt you, Kris?”

“Of course not. I told you, I took aikido. If nothing else, I know how to fall.”

“See you in the morning then?”

She nodded, watching in confusion as he let himself out of the apartment.

The episode had reminded her that she didn’t actually know much about Ray Ortega despite their close office relationship over the past six months. Picking up the ruler, she turned it over and over in her hand, remembering the answer he’d given her the one and only time she had tried to quiz him about his past.

Four years in college; four in the military; four years I don’t talk about—not ever. And now SPIN. That’s all you need to know about me.

And Ray being Ray, “not ever” had meant just that. They had never discussed it again. Still, Kristie had speculated about those four years, imagining covert operations so highly classified, Ray still wasn’t allowed to discuss them. She had assumed he masterminded those ops, but this impromptu demonstration with the ruler suggested he might have done more than just plot strategies—he was perfectly capable of executing them, too.

She was sure she had just caught a flashback to Ray’s past life and the thought fascinated her. She also realized he hadn’t made a romantic move on her despite having her flat on her back. So much for David’s theory.

Her SPIN line rang at that moment, and she assumed it was her boss, calling from his cell to put a cap on the evening’s adventure. Still, she answered with her SPIN-approved salutation. “This is S-3. Please identify yourself.”

“This is Will McGregor,” a deep, gravelly voice informed her. “I know it’s late, so if this is a bad time—”

“It’s fine,” she interrupted him, her imagination shifting instantly to her favorite file photo of the thirty-two-year-old FBI agent. It was a black-and-white shot, but his eyes, which she knew were blue, still managed to have an effect on her every time she happened upon the picture in his folder.

Coughing to dispel any breathlessness from her tone, she asked briskly, “What can I do for you, Agent McGregor?”

“There’s a problem with the setup on the Mannington case. We may have to scrap it. I thought I’d give you a heads-up so you can start doing whatever it is you do to come up with something else.”

Her heart sank. “What kind of problem? It seemed so perfect.”

“Yeah, I thought so, too,” he admitted. “Your usual brilliance. But Manny isn’t following his usual pattern, so I haven’t had much of a chance to establish a rapport with him.”

Kristie frowned. “You mean he’s not coming to the bar? Or he won’t talk to you while he’s there?”

“He’s been a no-show for four nights straight. I’m willing to be patient, but at some point, it makes more sense to retool, right?”

“Four nights?” She shook her head, remembering the details of “Manny” Mannington’s file. For more than ten years, the barfly had chosen one particular bar, Rafferty’s, to frequent at least five nights a week. According to reliable sources, one could usually set one’s watch by Manny’s comings and goings, especially on Wednesday nights, otherwise known as All-You-Can-Eat Hot-Dog Night.

What on earth was going on?

“Are you sure he’s in town?”

“Yeah, just staying home.”

“Impossible.”

“I read the file, too,” McGregor assured her. “But facts are facts. He isn’t coming to the bar.”

“You said he’s been a no-show for four nights straight. But you’ve been there for over two weeks. That means there was contact at the beginning?”

“Yeah, it went like clockwork.” McGregor chuckled. “That toy-salesman cover you designed for me seemed stupid, but you were dead-on right. It provided endless topics for casual conversation with the guys. Manny in particular has fond memories of Christmases past, and luckily, I remembered enough from my nerdy grade-school days to be able to sound professional.”

“I’ll bet Manny played with G.I. Joe, right?”

“Yeah. How’d you know?” He paused. “You’re something else, S-3.”

With the cordless handset pressed firmly to her ear, Kristie moved to her computer. “You’re sure he’s at his house? Let’s see if he’s online.”

“You can do that?”

“I did it a couple of times last month, when I was working up his informant profile. You can learn a lot about a person by watching them surf. Hold on, I’m just about—there!” She studied the screen. “He’s very active. Looking for something. Shopping, or rather, scavenging. Mostly the auction sites. Hold on.”

“What’s he shopping for?”

“A blue 1969 Mustang convertible in near-mint condition.” Kristie bit her lip. “There’s nothing in his background to indicate he’s a car buff. This doesn’t make sense, unless…” She scrutinized one of Mannington’s online offers closely. “He doesn’t just want low miles and great condition. He wants this baby right away. What would make a bagman so desperate to acquire a particular car?”

Wracking her brain, she arrived at only two possible conclusions. Either this was a favor for “the Boss,” or it was a gift for Manny’s debutante wife. Those were the only two people in the world that could keep the loquacious socializer out of Rafferty’s on Hot-Dog Night.

“It’s got to be the wife,” she murmured, grabbing the duplicate file from her desk and scanning it anxiously. “Maybe her birthday’s coming up.”

Locating the relevant information, she grinned. “Or worse. Her birthday was four days ago. And I’ll bet poor Manny missed it. And now he’s in the doghouse and out of the bed.”

McGregor whistled softly. “That’s gotta be it. The man’s insane for that woman, and it’s not hard to figure out why. Five foot ten with state-of-the-art implants. And if half of what he says is true…well, never mind.”

Kristie laughed. “We’ll get those lovebirds back together in no time. The Bureau gave SPIN a big budget for this case, so acquiring the Mustang quickly shouldn’t be a problem, even if we have to do a little restoration. As soon as we hang up, I’ll respond to Manny’s inquiry using one of our auction pseudonyms.”

“Like I said, you’re something else. Thanks for the help. Give me a call if you need anything on my end.”

“Wait! We’re not done.”

“We’re not?”

“Uh-uh. We’ve been given an amazing opportunity here, McGregor,” she insisted. “Manny’s vulnerable. We need to find a way to take advantage of that.”

“Just get the car. I’ll take care of the rest.”

Kristie smiled at his take-charge, impatient tone. A loner, just like everyone said. But it was time to teach him the usefulness of partnering with a spinner.

“Won’t you please hear me out?” she asked, and when he grumbled something that sounded vaguely like permission, she forged ahead. “Manny won’t be back to Rafferty’s for a day or two. But you should go there later tonight. And instead of being your usual charming self, you’ll drink too much and mope at the end of the bar. When the bartender asks what’s wrong, you’ll resist talking about it at first, then you’ll end up pouring your heart out to him.”

Pleased that McGregor hadn’t yet interrupted her, she continued. “You’ll tell him all about Melissa Daniels, the girl you’ve been seeing. She’s beautiful, wild, sexy, temperamental—and unbelievably jealous. She saw you having an innocent drink with your secretary and dumped you on the spot.”

A warm chuckle came over the phone line. “What’re you doing to me, S-3? I’ve got a reputation to protect with these guys.”

Kristie laughed, too. “You don’t really care what the rest of them think, right? You just want to be friends with Manny.”

“You figure when he gets back, he’ll hear about my broken heart and think we’re…what? Kindred spirits?”

“Right. He’ll probably start coming to the bar as soon as he knows the car is on its way. But until it’s actually delivered, he’ll still be in the doghouse in his wife’s eyes. You’ll have a few days to cry in your beers together.”

“It’s not a bad idea,” McGregor murmured.

“And as far as your reputation is concerned, all you need to do is tell the guys about some of your sex-capades with Melissa, and they’ll see you as a stud not a wimp.”

The agent was laughing again. “Sex-capades?”

“Right. You can draw on your own experience, or if you’d like, I could come up with some for you. Either way, lay it on thick. Like the story of the first time you met her. At a toy convention in Vegas. How the two of you had so much chemistry, you couldn’t wait to get upstairs to your hotel room, and ended up tearing each other’s clothes off in the elevator. Likewise with the first dinner date—you picked her up in a limo but never made it to the restaurant. Just drove around all night making wild, passionate love. And don’t even get me started about the first airplane trip you took together!”

“Those are the same sorts of stories Manny tells about his wife.”

“Right. He knows all about stormy relationships. The kind that can consume a person if they’re not careful. Jealousy, breakups, gut-wrenching arguments, exquisite make-up sex—the most obsessive, destructive, exhilarating addiction possible. Show him you and Melissa have—or rather, had—that sort of thing, and he’ll be putty in your hands.”

McGregor was silent for a moment, then proclaimed, “It’s effing brilliant.”

Kristie exhaled in relief. “I’ll have a courier bring you a snapshot of her tomorrow for your wallet. Something sexy but classy. We’ll rough it up so it looks like you’ve been carrying it around for a while.”

“You have a picture of this Melissa?”

“Computer generated. I use her a lot. She’s sort of a virtual operative. She usually has red hair and green eyes, but if you’d prefer something else, name it.”

He was silent for a moment, then said simply, “You decide.”

“Okay, red it is. Do you need anything else from me?”

When he was silent, she asked warily, “McGregor? Is something wrong?”

“I can’t keep calling you S-3. What’s your real name?”

Startled, she gave a nervous laugh. “You know I can’t tell you that.”

“I’m gonna call you Goldie then.”

“Pardon?”

“Because you spin lies into gold.”

She smiled with delight. “That’s sweet. And so much nicer than calling me Rumpelstiltskin.”

“Huh?”

“From the fairy tale.”

“Right. Rumpelstiltskin from the fairy tale. Is there anything you don’t know?”

“Minutia is my life,” she assured him. Then she added fondly, “Knock ’em dead at the bar tonight. I’ll arrange the sale of the car right away. With any luck, Manny’ll be back in Rafferty’s tomorrow.”

“It’s not exactly a life-or-death situation,” he reminded her. “Find the car tomorrow. I’ll call in the afternoon for the update.”

She wanted to protest, but knew it might scare him back into loner mode. So she contented herself with saying, “Good night, Agent McGregor. And good luck.” Then she hung up the phone and turned her attention to composing an offer irresistible enough to lure Manny Mannington into their trap.

And if she succeeded and decided to call McGregor back after all—just to give him a thoroughly professional and unemotional update—what monitor could possibly object to that?