Читать книгу Set Up With The Agent - Lori L. Harris - Страница 7

Four Months Later

Leaving her dark, wool coat and white scarf draped across the chair, FBI Special Agent Beth Benedict paced to the bookcase and scanned the titles. Experimental Psychology, Evaluation of Sexual Disorders, The Problem of Maladaptive Behavior—a bevy of volumes detailing human psychoses. Exactly what she would expect to find on a psychologist’s shelf.

As with her previous two sessions, she was the last patient of the day. The receptionist had shown her into Dr. Carmichael’s office, indicating that she should take a seat in one of the high-backed contemporary chairs. Dr. Carmichael would be with her shortly.

But since Beth had been released from the hospital, she’d found it very difficult to sit still for any length of time. Another reason that she needed to be out in the field and not trapped behind a desk.

She took a deep breath in preparation for the coming confrontation. The FBI had trained her how to deceive criminals, how to gain their trust, so scamming one psychologist shouldn’t be all that hard. She just needed to stick with the plan, with her “blueprint of progress.”

This week she’d remain calm and in control, no tears, no outbursts. And no more stony silences that suggested she was bucking authority. By her next appointment, the claustrophobia issue would be nearly resolved.

As with any type of deception, the key was to keep it believable.

When she heard the office door open behind her, her shoulder muscles tightened, and the headache that she’d been coping with exploded at the base of her skull.

Dr. Samuel Carmichael paused momentarily in the opening. He was somewhere in his late forties, with thick, prematurely gray hair and a quick smile. Because any good con required that you know your mark, she’d done her homework. He liked to sail and was on his second marriage, this one to a law student half his age.

“Sorry about running late,” the psychologist offered as he pushed the door closed.

“No problem.” Beth took a seat and settled back, giving the illusion that she was comfortable.

“Can I get you some water before we get started?”

“No. Thanks.”

Taking the chair opposite hers, Carmichael propped his right ankle atop his left knee before resting the legal pad in his lap. “So how do you think you’re doing?”

“Actually, a little better.”

“What about the nightmares? Are you still experiencing them?”

“Occasionally.” She kept the confident and somewhat bland smile on her face. Though this was only her third session, she knew the routine, so she waited for the psychologist to pursue the current subject.

“Are you saying there’s been a decrease in their frequency?”

“Yes. Some.” In reality, the opposite was true. Every time she was lucky enough to fall asleep, it was only a matter of time before she sat straight up, her heart pounding, the scent of spilled gasoline so real that it usually took her several seconds to realize that the smell was a remembered one, a cruel joke played by her own mind.

Dr. Carmichael scribbled a note. “And when they do occur, would you characterize them as any less vivid than when we started meeting?”

“Definitely.” She knew she needed to start offering more than short responses, but despite her earlier resolve, she was finding it surprisingly difficult, her emotions already bubbling to the surface. Her palms were now damp and as she met Carmichael’s gaze, her respiration quickened, almost as if he had leveled a gun at her chest.

But in some ways, the situation she found herself in now was just as much a life-or-death struggle as the event that had landed her here. Dr. Samuel Carmichael held her career in his hands. And since her career was her life…

Carmichael leaned back in his chair. “What about the claustrophobia?”

“It’s better.” Another short response. “I’m back to riding elevators. Wouldn’t you say that’s a pretty major step?”

She managed a slight smile, but when she tried to force it a bit wider, she felt her facial muscles freeze. And knew that she’d made a mistake. She could see it in his washed-out blue eyes and in the way his mouth tightened.

“Beth.” Carmichael uncrossed his legs. “I’ve been in practice for a lot of years. I know when I’m being manipulated. I can’t help you unless you’re open with me.”

She kept her gaze level. How should she respond? Pretend confusion? Try a small amount of honesty?

Taking a deep breath, she let it out slowly, having decided the latter was going to be the best course of action.

“You’re right. But you have to understand what I need to get better. I need work. Real work. I’ve been pulled out of the field and assigned to administrative duties. Do you have any idea what that includes? I run a copier. I collate reports for other agents. I answer the phone.”

“You do recognize that your boss, that Bill Monroe is concerned that the incident has left you—”

Irritation kicked in. “Incident? Isn’t that a slightly benign description for being locked in the trunk of a burning car? The fact that I have some difficulty sleeping, that I’ve had occasional problems handling tight spaces isn’t all that unusual, is it, given the circumstances?”

“No. What you’re feeling is quite normal.” Holding a pencil in one hand, he ran the fingers of the other one up and down the length as he studied her. “So you believe that you should be put back out into the field? Where your failure to function at a crucial moment could possibly endanger your life or the life of an innocent bystander or coworker?”

She held on to her irritation. “I recognize that I do have issues at the moment, but I believe they are temporary and controllable. I don’t feel they undermine my ability to do my job.”

“So, if you don’t believe you need help, why are you here?” He paused before adding, “My understanding is that these sessions are voluntary.”

“That is what the manual says,” she agreed. Unable to sit still any longer, she got up and paced to the window. Even though her SAC—Special Agent in Charge—had characterized the counseling as voluntary, she knew better.

“Don’t you want to improve?”

“Sure.” And she wanted to keep her job, too. She looked out at the dark night. The window overlooked the parking garage across the street where she’d left her car.

“Of course I want to get better.” She just couldn’t see how dwelling on problems could be therapeutic. That wasn’t the way she’d been raised. You get knocked down, you get back up. End of story.

With her carefully constructed blueprint of progress a bust, she decided maybe it was the right time to put at least a few cards on the table. And at the same time momentarily steer the conversation away from her. “You attended University of Maryland, didn’t you?”

“That’s right.”

She faced him. “And graduated the same year as Bill Monroe?”

It was Carmichael’s turn to look uncomfortable. “So you think you’re being set up in some way? That I’m your boss’s hit man?”

“It crossed my mind.” Having given up all attempts to control her body language, she tightened her arms in front of her. “I suppose after that remark, you’ll be adding paranoia to the list.”

Carmichael’s eyes narrowed and his lips thinned. “Do you consider yourself to be overly suspicious of the motives of people around you?”

She pretended to consider the possibility. When she’d been doing the background check on Carmichael, she’d done a little self-diagnosing while she was at it. She might be experiencing a sense of fatalism where her job was concerned, but it was fully grounded in cold, hard facts.

Beth realized the psychologist was still waiting for an answer on the paranoia issue. “No. I don’t consider myself to be paranoid.”

Even if Carmichael didn’t know the real reason she was undergoing counseling, the only reason she still had a job, she did. She was the prosecution’s only witness on the Rabbit Rheaume money laundering case, and they were worried that she’d fall apart during cross examination. These sessions were meant to keep her functioning until after the trial—until after she’d taken the stand and the feds had their conviction.

But once they did, all bets would be off.

For more than two years now, since she’d gone over his head, Bill Monroe had been looking for a way to get rid of her—not an easy task considering the previous glowing evaluations he’d given her.

The knot in her gut tightened. Even before she’d gone in undercover, landing a position as Rabbit Rheaume’s assistant, she’d been trying to hold on, to play Monroe’s game. She was hoping that those above him would somehow miraculously recognize that he was conducting a witch hunt against her. But even from the beginning she’d known that her survival was unlikely. That even though she’d managed to survive Rabbit’s car trunk, it was unlikely she’d survive Monroe. He was a twenty-two-year veteran of the Bureau. Part of the men’s club. And the FBI historically tended to protect those in higher positions, sacrificing lower-ranked employees.

Realizing Carmichael was watching her again, she slammed the door closed on that line of thought. She couldn’t afford it right now. “Maybe I’m a little lost at the moment, that’s all.”

“We all are sometimes. But none of us has to remain that way.” Carmichael crossed to his desk, opened the top drawer and pulled out a prescription pad.

She found it difficult to hide her exasperation. What kind of pill would it be this time? She’d tried taking what he’d prescribed on the first visit, something for anxiety, but when the drug had interfered with her ability to function, she’d quit taking it. She’d needed to stay clear-headed, keep her wits about her.

When he finished writing, he ripped off the top sheet and handed it to her. Even though she had no intention of having the prescription filled, Beth glanced down at the writing. The name Harriet Thompson was followed by a local phone number.

“She’s a colleague of mine. She didn’t attend Maryland and doesn’t know Bill Monroe.”

Her eyes narrowed briefly as she wondered if she was in fact paranoid.

“You’re a very strong woman, Beth, but you still need to talk to someone.”

She glanced up. “Are you firing me?”

“No. I just want to be sure that the next time we meet, you’re here for the right reasons. I can help you, but only if you let me.”

ONLY MINUTES LATER Beth buttoned the heavy, wool coat over her navy-blue suit and pulled on gloves before pushing open the office building’s exterior door and stepping out into the cold night. As the early-November wind cut through her, Carmichael’s words lingered in the back of her mind.

She’d always considered herself to be tough and competent. During the sixteen weeks at Quantico, she’d physically and mentally outperformed most of her class, even those with military or law enforcement backgrounds.

But in a single night, that had all changed. She’d gone from tough to frightened. And now, nearly four months after she’d escaped the trunk of a burning car, she still felt trapped, as if everything around her was going up in flames. Her career. Her relationship with her father.

She couldn’t afford to look weak, though. Not if she wanted to keep her job. And not when she took the stand at the Rheaume trial. If the prosecution lost there, getting a conviction on the connected attempted-murder charge was going to become even tougher. How was she going to live with herself if the man who had tried to kill her wasn’t made to pay?

She crossed the now-deserted street. Though it was just past seven-thirty, there were few lights on in the surrounding buildings. Which wasn’t surprising since most of them were private medical offices.

Her footsteps rang out sharply. The little bit of snow they’d had earlier had melted, but now with nightfall, the moisture had refrozen, creating an extremely thin shield of ice. Not enough to make driving dangerous, but enough to make walking a little trickier, especially in pumps.

She headed into the parking garage. During normal business hours there was an attendant at the entrance, but the enclosure was now deserted.

As she stepped around the barrier bar, a red Beemer came down the ramp, headed for the exit. Out of habit, she reached inside her jacket to check her weapon, but then remembered she’d locked it in her trunk.

Seeing the woman behind the wheel, Beth relaxed. For the past few months, she’d done a lot of looking over her shoulder, waiting to see if Rheaume would try to stack the deck in his favor. It was just another reason that she was constantly on edge, and why she refused to take the antianxiety medication. And the reason she’d be armed at her next appointment despite Carmichael’s office policy. There was a difference between paranoia and vigilance.

As she passed the elevator doors, she glanced at them but didn’t slow. She’d managed to ride up in the one at the office two days ago, but at the moment she didn’t feel like trying it again.

If the outside temperature had seemed frigid, inside the garage was even worse. She slid her gloved hands into her pockets. A few cars—a green Taurus, a blue Explorer and a white Escalade were clustered near the entrance—but the rest of the lower level had cleared out. Unfortunately, it had been full when she’d arrived, so she’d been forced to leave her car on the second level. She hiked up the ramp.

Several of the fluorescent lights overhead were out. As quickly as she looked up, she diverted her gaze from the reinforced-concrete ceiling. For some reason even in this reasonably wide-open space, she felt as if all that weight was pressing down on her, as if she’d be buried beneath it. Inhaling sharply, she forced her hands a little deeper into her pockets.

She was fine. Absolutely fine. The claustrophobia was getting better. Maybe it was resolving more slowly than she wanted, but she just needed to keep pushing herself.

Reaching the top of the incline, she spotted her red Taurus off to the right, but instead of walking toward it, she stopped in her tracks. A white Chevy van with heavily tinted windows had been backed in next to the Taurus. Her fingers closed around the car keys in her pocket. There had been a maroon Honda in the slot earlier and quite a few empty spaces near the elevator.

She scanned the rest of the second level and, finding it deserted, studied the van again. Something just didn’t feel right. With this level pretty much empty, why would the driver choose to park there? And more important, why go to the trouble of backing in?

The front seats were empty, but that didn’t eliminate the possibility that someone was in the backend, waiting to roll open the side door, waiting to pull her inside when she tried to reach the driver’s door of her car.

Should she bail?

And do what, though? Use her cell phone to call a cop? What if she was wrong about the van? What if in this one instance she actually had taken that downhill slide from cautious to paranoid?

If so, calling Baltimore PD would have been a bad idea. Once the cops realized she was a fed, there was very little chance it wouldn’t get back to Monroe. Or that he wouldn’t use it against her, claiming that the incident further demonstrated her inability to do her job.

She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Think. No one had followed her here. She was certain of that. And for the past few months she’d been careful to avoid any hint of a pattern in her activities—she never took the same route, never scheduled an appointment on the same day. But all three of her sessions with Carmichael had come at the end of the day…

And then she realized if Rheaume had sent someone after her, bailing now wouldn’t stop them. There would be a next time. One she might not see coming until it was too late.

Better to confront it now.

As a blast of frigid air screamed through the garage, she strode purposefully toward her car, a plan already formulated. She wasn’t going to let them win—not the Monroes or the Carmichaels, and definitely not the Rabbit Rheaumes.

Keeping her eyes on the van, her thumb worked the automatic trunk release on the key fob. If anyone was in the van, they obviously were waiting until she walked between the two vehicles. Otherwise they would have already made their move.

The raised trunk would offer some protection while she grabbed her weapon. And if she was wrong, if the van was empty, she’d just get in her car and go home. Soak in a hot bath. Forget she’d nearly made a fool of herself.

She was already leaning into the trunk when she heard the nearly silent footsteps behind her. Her fingers closed around the holstered SIG-Sauer, and she had it free of leather when the sharp pop echoed. White-hot heat streaked just above her right temple.

Diving toward the side of the car, hoping to use it as cover, she brought the SIG-Sauer up, getting her first look at the shooter—a stocky male in dark clothing. She fired two quick rounds. Both slammed into his chest.

He kept coming.

A loud crack sounded. The taillight next to her shattered. Small bits of plastic exploded, some of it hitting her in the face, causing her to blink. Causing her third shot to miss.

As a bullet punctured the fender next to her, she squeezed the trigger again, this time going for a head shot.

Like a tethered pit bull hitting the end of its chain, the guy’s forward momentum vanished, and for the briefest of moments it was as if both time and motion stood still. His expression changed, bloomed from one of aggression to chagrin and then to stunned disbelief.

And then time kicked in again, and he was flying backward.