The Witness, Page 20

  of pride and principle as much as any potential testimony she might give. To the authorities she was witness to the murder of two federal marshals, or, depending on the analysis, a fugitive who may have, out of desperation, boredom, madness, incapacitated one federal marshal, killed another, wounded one more, as Cosgrove had been shot in the hip during the melée.

  Some theorized she’d initiated the gas explosion to cover up her crimes while she fled.

  The plan to eliminate her had been in place, she imagined, for days, even weeks, before her seventeenth birthday. Keegan and Cosgrove had initiated it.

  She had been meant to die along with John and Terry in the explosion.

  She rarely thought of those first few months on the run, that first year in hiding, all the terror and grief. But she’d found her way.

  She had a life now, and she meant to keep it.

  With the dog at her feet, she tiptoed into Ilya’s accounts. He changed his passwords routinely, updated his security, his firewalls.

  But she’d spent a decade studying, developing, programming systems—their ins, their outs. Whatever he built, she could break. It gave her a great deal of satisfaction to invade him, to peer into his private world, shatter his privacy.

  Her only regret was he’d never know.

  He’d never fear as she had feared.

  But she cost him.

  Every now and again, when she had enough, when she was sure of the data and her own safety, she found a way to leak bits of information to an agent with the FBI—one she’d thoroughly researched, one she felt she knew as well as she knew herself.

  Whoever she happened to be at the moment.

  She signed the brief, data-heavy memos tvoi drug. Russian for “your friend.” There were files, profiles, searches, queries, on tvoi drug. Most believed the informant male, and connected within the Volkov bratva.

  Tvoi drug had cost lives. Abigail hoped she’d saved some. Her greatest achievement, on her gauge, had been compiling enough information to generate a raid on a warehouse in South Chicago, and dismantle and destroy the forced prostitution ring operating out of it.

  Now she studied recent activity. Codes, cryptic phrases, false names. She passed over information on basic computer scams. If the federals couldn’t handle those on their own, they didn’t deserve any help.

  But the money laundering, she considered.

  Scraping away at the Volkovs’ bottom line offered satisfaction. Maybe not the deep and visceral satisfaction of knowing she’d played some small part in freeing more than twenty girls from sexual slavery, but diminished funds made their business more difficult to operate.

  Yes, the money laundering would be her new personal project. She’d consider it a kind of wedding gift to Ilya.

  She set about compiling snatches of information from e-mails—Ilya’s, the accountant’s, a handful of other contacts. It amazed her, always, what people revealed with keystrokes, how careless they were. While she worked, she thought in Russian, entrenched herself in it. So much so that when her phone rang, she muttered a mild Russian oath.

  She expected no calls, but a few clients seemed to prefer phone conversations or texts over e-mails. She glanced at the display. Frowned.

  Brooks had managed to dig up her cell phone number. Not really that hard, but it would’ve taken some time and effort.

  Why?

  Cautious, she answered.

  “Hello.”

  “Hey. It’s Brooks.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “What do you like on your pizza?”

  “I … It doesn’t matter.”

  “Pizza toppings matter, Abigail. They’re vital to the pie.”

  She supposed he had a point. And she wished everything about him didn’t appeal and confuse. “I like black olives and hot peppers, particularly.”

  “That’s a go. Any objection to pepperoni?”

  “No.”

  “Perfect. I’ll be by in about a half-hour.”

  “I didn’t ask you to come by.”

  “Yeah, I noticed. You really have to start doing that.”

  “I’m working.”

  “It’s going on seven. Let’s take a break. Besides, I have news for you.”

  “What news?”

  “It comes with the pizza. About a half-hour. See you.”

  She set the phone down, studied it.

  She wasn’t prepared. Why did he always interrupt and insert himself when she wasn’t prepared? Now she’d have to close up the work.

  And she’d planned to have chicken stir-fry for dinner.

  He’d expect conversation, and she wasn’t sure she had any more. Between him and his mother, she was out of what struck her as appropriate small talk.

  Still, she wondered what he’d meant by news.

  Resigned, she shut down the work, then reluctantly put her gun and holster in the drawer.

  She assumed he’d also expect a drink, so she considered her nicely balanced selection of wines and chose a good Chianti.

  Then she stopped, stared at the bottle.

  She was having dinner with him again. That made twice in one week, and that didn’t count the huckleberry pie.

  She was dating the chief of police.

  “For God’s sake. How did he do this? I don’t date. I can’t date.”

  She set the wine down and did something else she didn’t do. She paced. She needed to find a solution, a resolution to this … situation. Clearly refusing to see him would only make him more determined and suspicious. In any case, her attempts in that area had failed.

  She understood the concept of pursuit and conquer. The male felt challenged, driven to persuade, capture, conquer. Perhaps she should reconsider having sex with him. With sex the pursuit would end, the challenge would be removed. His interest would begin to wane.

  Those were logical reasons.

  It would also include the benefit of eliminating this yearning. Once her own physical needs were met, his challenge met, his interest faded, she would have no reason to think of him at inopportune times. Everything would go back to normal and routine.

  She considered the theory valid.

  They’d have sex, then each would get on with their own separate lives and agendas.

  Relieved, pleased with her qualified decision, she went upstairs, Bert trailing, to make certain there was nothing in her bedroom, bathroom, or indeed anywhere on the second floor, that would catch his eye.

  He’d have no reason to ask about the second bedroom, and the door was secured. She took another moment, asking herself if breaking her own precedents—good precedents—and having an intimate encounter with a local, in her own home, made the best sense.

  She believed it did. She believed she was capable of handling the one-time abnormality.

  She glanced toward her bedroom station when her security signaled. Murmured to Bert to stand down.

  Brooks was prompt, she thought, as she watched him drive toward the house.

  She liked pizza, she decided, as she started downstairs. She liked sex. As she unlocked the door, she assured herself the plan was sound, and both parties would complete it amiably.

  12

  THERE SHE WAS, HE THOUGHT, HER CANINE COMPANION AT her side and those eyes of hers so carefully guarded he just knew they held secrets.

  She didn’t project annoyance this time, and still she watched every move he made when he climbed out of the truck with the pizza and a six-pack of Rolling Rock.

  They kept watching him when he stepped onto the porch, leaned in and kissed her.

  “Hi.”

  “Hi.” She stepped back, then went through the locking-up routine. “You brought beer. I have wine breathing, but—”

  “That’ll work, too. We’ll just put this in the fridge.” He passed her the six-pack, then pulled a rawhide bone out of his pocket. “Something for Bert, if it’s okay.”

  The gift touched her. Ploy or not, she thought it showed kindness. “He won’t take it from you.
”

  “You give it to him, then.”

  He handed her the bone, saw Bert’s eyes click between the two of them, the rawhide. But the dog didn’t move a muscle.

  “It was very nice of you. He likes them.” She turned to the dog, murmured a command. Bert’s butt hit the floor.

  “That wasn’t French.”

  “Italian.” She gave Bert the bone, followed it with another command.

  “He speaks Italian, too. That’s some sophisticated dog. He’s smiling.”

  “Dogs don’t smile.”

  “Give me a break, look at those eyes. He’s smiling. Where do you want the pizza?”

  “The kitchen’s best. You’re in a good mood.”

  “I’m about to have pizza with a pretty woman, one who goes for hot peppers, a personal favorite. And she opened wine. I’m off duty until eight hundred hours. I’d be stupid not to be in a good mood.”

  “You’re not stupid.” She got down wineglasses. “And though your job includes a high-stress factor, you rarely appear stressed. That I’ve observed.”

  “I like the job.”

  “But if your father hadn’t become ill, you’d still be in Little Rock.”

  “Yeah, probably. I was meant to come home, take this job and settle back here.”

  She shook her head as she got out plates. It occurred to her she did have more conversation. “There’s no such thing as predestination or fate or destiny. Life is a series of choices and circumstance, action and the reaction, and results of other people’s choices. Your father’s illness influenced you to choose this position at this time. I think it was a loving and loyal choice, but it wasn’t meant.”

  He poured the wine himself. “I believe in choice, and in fate.”

  “How? We can’t have choice and free will and still be fated.”

  “It’s a puzzle, isn’t it?”

  He looked so natural in her kitchen, in her space, with his jeans and T-shirt, his high-top sneakers and battered leather jacket. Should she be concerned about that?

  “Why don’t we eat out on the back porch? It’s a pretty night.”

  That threw her. She never ate outside, and never went outside without a weapon.

  “Look at the wheels turn.” He flicked a finger down her temple. “You’ve been cooped up working most of the day, I imagine. I can’t believe you bought this place if you don’t appreciate a soft spring night.”

  Just another choice, she thought. “All right.” She opened the drawer, took out her holster. “I don’t go outside without my gun.”

  “Okay.” The Glock 19 again, apparently a favorite. “I wish you’d tell me what you’re afraid of.”

  “I’m not afraid.” If it was a lie, it was a small one. She considered herself too well prepared and secured for real fear. “I prefer to have a gun when I’m outside.”

  “All right.” He waited while she put it on, unlocked the kitchen door. “But when you decide to tell me, I’ll find a way to help you.”

  “How do you know I’m not a criminal? A fugitive from justice?”

  “Do you believe in instinct?”

  “Yes, of course. It’s—”

  “You don’t have to explain. Just put it down to instinct.”

  She had a little table on the porch, a single chair. Brooks set the pizza down, went inside for her desk chair.

  “It’s nice out here, the view, the air. You’ve started your garden.” He took the desk chair, sipped his wine. “What do you have in the greenhouse?”

  “Plants. Flowers, some vegetables. I have some small fruit trees. They do very well in the greenhouse environment.”

  “I bet.”

  At her signal, Bert lay down by her feet and began to gnaw on his bone. “He’s smiling again.”

  This time she shook her head but smiled a little, too. “You have a fanciful nature.”

  “Maybe it offsets that stress.” He took the pizza she served him, balanced the plate on his lap, then, stretching out his legs, held his silence.

  She did the same.

  “You’re not going to ask,” he decided. “That’s some control you’ve got there, Abigail.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I said I had news, but you’re not going to ask about it. Most people wouldn’t have waited three minutes to ask.”

  “Maybe it was another ploy.”

  “Not this time.” He waited a few beats, sighed hugely. “Now you’re not going to ask because you’re messing with me.”

  Her smile bloomed again, and damned if he didn’t feel a sense of victory every time he made those lips curve. “All right, all right, if you’re going to nag about it, I’ll tell you. I took your advice. Rescued a pup from the pound for my mother.”

  “Is she pleased?”

  “She cried, in a good way. My sister texted me today that I was a suck-up, and Ma still likes her better. That’s the middle of us. She was kidding,” he added, when Abigail frowned. “We like to rag on each other. After an intense debate, during which I ate my burger and kept my mouth shut, the happy parents named their new child, because, believe me, he’ll be treated like one, Plato. My dad wanted Bob or Sid, but my mother claims the puppy looked philosophic and very bright, and deserves an important name.”

  “It’s a good name. Names with strong consonant sounds are easier to use in training. It’s good news. Happy news.”

  “I think so.” He pulled his phone off his belt. “Got a picture of him.” He scrolled through, offered it.

  “He’s very handsome, and has bright, alert eyes.” And it softened her to look into them, imagine him in a good, loving home. “You’re a good son.”

  “They make it easy to be. How about your parents?”

  “There’s only my mother. We’re estranged.”

  “I’m sorry. Where is she?”

  “We haven’t communicated in several years.”

  Off limits, Brooks deduced. Way off limits. “I end up communicating with my parents damn near every day. One of the ups, or downs, depending on your viewpoint, of living in a small town.”

  “I think in your case it must be an advantage, and a comfort.”

  “Yeah. I took it for granted when I was growing up, but that’s what kids do. Take for granted. When I lived in Little Rock, I talked or e-mailed a lot. And I came up every month or so, to see them, my sisters, my friends who still live here. But I never thought about moving back.”

  “You were happy in Little Rock, and with your work there.”

  “Yeah, I was. But when my father got sick, I not only felt I had to come back, I realized I wanted to.”