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When he arched a disbelieving eyebrow, she explained, “I exercise. And study. I actually have a lot on my plate.”
“You study?” He chuckled. “What’s left for you to learn? I thought you knew it all.”
“If you must know, I’m teaching myself Italian. And a little Greek. And kickboxing, too. All the things I lied about in my interview that impressed you so much.”
“You’re teaching yourself kickboxing?”
“I have a great video.”
His tone was gently mocking. “You can’t learn self-defense that way, Kristie. Let me set up some lessons for you. Or I can teach you myself. I have a black belt in karate—”
“And I have a pink belt in pacifism,” she retorted. “I don’t need self-defense training. I just want to understand what my operatives go through. It’s a Zen thing—mental, not physical.”
“Zen kickboxing?” Ray chuckled again, then shook his head as though to clear away the congenial moment. “Starting today, you’re using your backup.”
“But—”
“If something happens that your backup can’t handle, he or she will contact you, even if it’s three o’clock in the morning. You’ve got to trust them to do their jobs half as well as you do yours.”
“Like I said, the operatives don’t call in the middle of the night unless it’s an emergency. Which means the backup is going to have to refer the call to me anyway. It just seems like a waste of time.”
“Emergencies?” Ray reached for a pile of folders and flipped open the top one. “According to this file, you specifically told Will McGregor that he should contact you—day or night—with any question or concern, however small.” Raising his gaze, he repeated in disgust, “However small?”
“Okay. I went a little overboard. And for the record, it didn’t have any effect. McGregor has never once contacted me. Not at night, not during the day. Not for anything, big or small.”
Ray surprised her by grinning at that. “Drives you nuts, doesn’t it?”
“No.”
“Sure it does. It bugs you that he won’t let you play virtual field operative. He does his job his way, not yours. That’s why I’ve been assigning so many of his cases to you. So you’d learn the division of labor around this place.” His voice softened. “Just for the record, McGregor never contacts any spinner once the case is under way. Not even me. So don’t take it personally. But do try to learn a lesson from it.”
Leaning forward, he explained, “You and McGregor are a great team. Every assignment you’ve had with him has been an unqualified success. Why? Because you prepare a flawless background report and identity for him, and he takes it from there. End of story.”
“He really doesn’t call you either?”
Ray confirmed with a nod. “I used to handle all his cases personally because they’re invariably hot potatoes. But I’ve never once spoken to the guy in my capacity as a spinner. And only rarely as the director of SPIN. To him, we’re just an anonymous resource. Because he’s a true professional.”
“I’m sold,” she assured her boss. “From now on, I’m putting a new note in my file. Something like, ‘If you have a nonemergency question between the hours of midnight and 6:00 a.m., please contact my backup.’ How’s that?”
“Six hours off? No way.” Ray leaned forward. “Seven p.m. to 7:00 a.m.—and all day Saturday and Sunday.”
“I’m okay with seven to seven on work nights, as long as the operative is in the same time zone as us. Otherwise, I’ll have to adjust it. And weekends are tricky—”
“Did I mention this isn’t a negotiation?” he asked, clearly struggling not to smile. “But it’s a step in the right direction, so I’ll take it for now.”
“And?”
The smile became a full-fledged laugh. “Yeah, you’re back in my will.”
Kristie sighed in relief. “I really am sorry, Ray.”
“Stop apologizing. You’re a pain in the ass, but you also saved that kid—both kids, actually—so you’re getting another chance. Don’t blow it. And Kris?”
“Yes?”
He walked around to her side of the desk and grasped her chin in his hand, then looked deep into her eyes and murmured, “Nice job.”
She bit her lip, unsure of how to respond, especially in light of David’s remarks.
Then Ray made the decision for her, stepping back and reminding her gruffly, “I’ve got tons of cleanup to do today, thanks to your little prank. And you’ve got a new red folder waiting for you on your desk, so get cracking. Your moment of glory is officially over.”
It was a relief to head back to her SPIN cubicle, tucked in a corner with a view of treetops and clouds. She knew that some people would balk at the industrial furniture and artificial lighting, but to Kristie, this high-tech workspace was heaven.
She checked her messages—three new ones in the last half hour, all complimenting her on the Rodriguez case. Then she reached for the new assignment Ray had left on her credenza, but a ring from her priority line, which was reserved for operative assistance, stopped her.
As always when an operative made contact, her pulse quickened, preparing her for a new challenge. But her voice remained calm, professional and reassuring. “This is S-3. Please identify yourself.”
“This is Special Agent Justin Russo. I’ve got a grateful fourteen-year-old here who wants to talk to Melissa Daniels. Any chance of that?”
“Absolutely. Put him on.”
Randy’s voice was filled with awe. “Hi, Miss Daniels.”
“Hey, sugar. How’s life?”
“Better. Because of you.”
Choking back an un-Melissa-like gulp, Kristie reminded him, “The way I hear it, Lizzie’s big brother was the one who really came through for her. So, fill me in. Have they let you visit her yet?”
“Yeah, we’ve been coloring together all morning. The shrinks want her to draw pictures. To see how messed up she is, I guess. And so far, she hasn’t drawn any monsters or anything. Just our house. And our dog. And us.”
“Those were the images that made her strong during those terrible days. In her heart, she knew you’d find her, some way, somehow.”
“It was you,” the boy insisted. “My mom wants you to come to dinner so we can thank you in person.”
“Tell her I’d love to, but it’s against the rules.”
“Yeah. That’s what Agent Russo said. But I was thinking…”
“Yes?”
“I’ll graduate in four years. Then I’ve gotta go to college. But after that, I want to help you rescue children. I’ll even do it for free, and get another job on the side or something.”
Touched, Kristie murmured, “You’ve got what it takes, Randy. That’s for sure. And you’ve got years to decide the best way to help. Look how many people played a part in saving Lizzie. The cops, the FBI, the witnesses, me, you—and now the psychologists, who are still saving her.”
“Yeah, but I want to do what you do.”
“Sugar, you’d have to get some major surgery before you could do that.”
She could hear him blushing through the phone, and congratulated herself impishly for the Melissaesque quip. “Give Lizzie a hug for me, sugar. And put Agent Russo on again.”
“Okay. Bye, Miss Daniels.”
“Bye, handsome.”
Justin was laughing when he got back on the line. “What did you say to the poor kid?”
“Hmm?”
“Never mind. We’ve got important business to discuss.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. I’m taking the next two weeks off.”
“You deserve it.”
“Right. This case has been a killer. So I’m headed for Tahiti, and I want you to come along.”
Kristie sighed. “Take a real girl, Justin. You don’t know anything about me. I could be old enough to be your grandma. Or married. I could even be a guy.”
“I’ll take my chances,” he retorted, then his tone softened. “It doesn’t have to be romantic, Essie. We’re friends, right? I just want to get to know you. To thank you for what you did. Plus, you need a break, too. I’m sure Ortega’ll give you time off after what you did last night.”
“After what I did last night, he gave me a lecture, all about the rules of spinning. I broke most of them, you know. But even I respect the one about socializing with operatives.”
“I socialize with other agents all the time, and that doesn’t keep me from being objective when it counts,” Justin muttered. “It’s a bullshit rule, Essie. Ask Ortega to make an exception, or I might just have to take matters into my own hands.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I know where SPIN headquarters is located, more or less. Maybe I’ll spend my vacation on a stakeout instead of an island. That’s what I do for a living, remember? And I’m pretty good at it. If I want to meet you, I can and will.”
“Okay, that’s enough,” she scolded him. “I know you’re kidding, but the monitors might think you’re serious and get us both in trouble. So just be a good little agent and tell me you’re going to Tahiti.”
Justin growled. “I forgot about that monitor bullshit. Yeah, yeah, I’m kidding.”
“And?” she prompted him.
“And I’m going to Tahiti for mindless sex with beach bunnies.”
“That’s better.”
“You oughta take a break, too. And if any monitors are listening,” the agent raised his voice and warned, “get your own lives and stop listening to ours!”
Kristie laughed fondly. “Have fun in Tahiti, Justin. Drink something frosty and tropical for me.”
“Will do. And I’ll call as soon as I get back.”
“Assuming we have an active assignment together,” she reminded him, still wary of the monitors.
“Stupid bullshit rules,” he repeated in clear disgust. “Take care, beautiful.”
“Bye, Justin.”
As she hung up the phone, she remembered what the agent had said. They were friends. Nothing romantic about it. Just like Kristie and Ray.
Glancing toward her boss’s office, she saw him standing there, watching her through the glass wall, his hands on his hips. Without hesitation, she smiled and waved, and to her delight, he smiled and waved back—his old self again.
So much for David’s lame-brain theory, she told herself happily, then she opened the new folder—red, which meant it was politically sensitive and on a fast track—and settled down to spin.
Chapter 3
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?”
