Deadly Little Secrets (8 page)

“No,” he said firmly, “you won't.”

Dav had one last comment about Carrie McCray as he got out of the car. “I know she grieved her husband deeply.” He stared off into the night, turned back to Gates, and winked. “Now, however, she appears to be past it.”

 

“Perkins, if you contact me again, without authorization, I will have you terminated.”

Dead silence greeted the pronouncement, and the caller wondered if Perkins had died of fright on the spot.

“Well?” he demanded. “Obviously you thought
something
was important enough to breach the silence despite my earlier warning. What the hell is it?”

“I did a deep search on her. I wanted to figure her out. She shouldn't have been able to catch it, but she did.” Perkins was almost whining in distress. “She's smarter than those others working up there on the fifth floor.” He hesitated, a long moment, then blurted, “She went to Prometheus tonight. She was talking with the owner and with that Greek, Davros Gianikopolis. I don't want anything to get loose here, and I want to keep you
informed,
” Perkins stressed the word. “If you don't hear from me it's because I'm compromised, so keep that in mind. She has the resources to dig things out. She's done it before.”

Perkins was an idiot. He'd let the woman know someone was worried. Stupid. To cover his irritation, he laughed. “She's in disgrace, Perkins. She doesn't know
us
, after all. We had nothing to do with those bunglers she's hunting, now did we?” he injected his tone with a false heartiness. “If she catches on to Santini, on the East Coast, more the better. He was stupid to kill those people that way. If she turns the spotlight his way, figures him out, it's actually a plus.” He had, of course, been playing both sides of the deal, but Perkins didn't know that and never would. If Perkins displayed enough courage to get anywhere near that data, he would be eliminated and quickly. “Keep an eye on her, but don't get so torn out of the frame, you idiot. She's not that smart. Few are.”

“But this one is,” he protested, a direct contradiction. “She's good. She should be IT, she's so good.”

“If you contact me again, you'd better have more information than that a lone, computer-savvy agent is following up on old leads from a long-dead case. In fact,” he said, with rising irritation, “if you contact me again, you better have a reason for me to take action. Do I make myself clear?”

“No,” Perkins complained.

He ground his teeth in frustration.
Idiot.
“Find out what she knows. For heaven's sake, you work in the same building, you can get into her computer. Call me if there's anything of interest, but
don't
call me, Perkins, with
trivia!
” He roared the last word and slammed the small phone down on the desk, knowing the sound would reverberate through the line. He disconnected and smashed the phone once again. In disgust, he picked up the pieces and disposed of them in trash cans throughout the now darkened freight terminal outside his offices. The cleaning crew would be through before morning, and the pieces would be on their way to the dump in separate bags. Efficient.

Picking up yet another disposable from the storage area, he placed a call.

“Ja?”

“Two jobs.”

“The first?” The heavily accented voice of Jurgens, one of his best assistants, rang sharp and clear. No hesitation, thank God. At least some people knew how to do their jobs.

“Watch Perkins.”

“That one.” Jurgens's voice held disdain. “Ja. And the second?”

“A woman. An agent with the CIA. Be very discreet. Observe only and don't be seen. That's Perkins's job, and if he's not doing it, I need to know. If he gets clumsy, I need to know.”

“He vill. Be clumsy, that is,” came Jurgens's flat reply.

He agreed but didn't say so. “Just watch them.”

“Ja.”

“Good,” he said before clicking off.

Turning his back on the front doors, Gates debriefed the staff in the two other cars, soliciting their impressions of the event at the gallery, mentally approving the mention of Shirley Bascom—only one of the men had taken note of her pulling him to his feet—and getting information from the others about the guests, the artist, and the manager of the gallery, as well as the owner. He made mental notes as each of the team spoke, organizing his thoughts about the guests and any other items of interest.

To a person, his team had disliked the art, which amused him.

“Good work tonight, ladies and gentlemen,” he said by way of dismissal. “You all blended in well. I don't think anyone was aware how many of our people were present. We've got nothing off the grounds tomorrow, so have a good day. Georgiade and Thompson, you're on at eleven tomorrow in the main security room.”

“Got it, boss,” Georgiade answered. Most of his team dispersed into the darkness, as three of them detached from the group to take the cars to the garage.

“Queller, a word?” He singled out the one person who'd noted Shirley.

“Sir?” The young, gangly man moved forward, into the lights of the portico.

“I just wanted to say good catch on the woman, the one who helped me up. She checks out, by the way.”

Queller grinned, and said, “Great work if you can get it.”

“No kidding.” Gates returned the grin, then turned serious. “We've not had an incident in several weeks, which is good. However, that doesn't mean we're clear. I appreciate your attention to the details,” he commended. “Keep it up.”

“Yes, sir. I appreciate the opportunity.”

“Yep. Have a good night,” he said, turning away and hearing the younger man move off toward the security quarters. Shifting into the shadows, he put his back to the pillar of the portico and watched until he could no longer see Queller in the darkness.

The night air was cool, even for San Francisco, and the chill seeped into his bones. Still, he stayed outside, watching the stars twinkling over the line of fog blanketing the city. He mulled over the images of the evening, in spite of the chill. For some reason he just didn't want to be inside.

Shirley Bascom. Ana Burton. Only one was an enigma, but Ana in a cocktail dress, even a flowered one, had been a sight to behold.

If he hadn't already known who she was, he would have been inside checking her out, despite the late hour. She was physically strong and capable, as well as smart. The close scrutiny he'd seen her give the crowd told him she was hunting for something. He wondered what she'd uncovered.

Then there was the friend, Jen-something, who was hooked up with D'Onofrio. Interesting matchup there, but obviously a hot attraction considering the lip-lock in a public venue. He'd always considered D'Onofrio a bit of a cold one, distant and polite. He'd never seen him anywhere with a woman. He'd always gone solo.

Something niggled at him, something about the East Coast connection, but he couldn't pinpoint it. He took out his PDA, tapped in a note to check on D'Onofrio.

Inexorably his thoughts turned back to Ana. Gates huffed out a laugh when he realized he was waiting for her to call. The sound echoed faintly in the high arch of the stone entry next to him, but carried no farther. He'd have to sleep on that one, see what his subconscious made of it. He avoided women like her, serious, attractive, interesting women. Not that he didn't date, or serve as an escort to some incredibly attractive women, thanks to his association with Dav. He didn't get intrigued though. Interested. That was too complicated.

Either she wasn't going to call, or she thought it was too late. How funny to be on the other end of the “waiting by the phone” joke.

“Yeah, brilliant,” he half-whispered to himself. “Dav's going to howl with laughter.” Not that he was going to tell Dav anything about it. It was hard enough to keep his professional and personal lives separate as it was. He was far too close to Dav, far too enmeshed in his life. “Not like it's going to change, either, Bromley, so get over it.”

For all Dav's talk of pay, they were more like partners or brothers than employee and employer. The thought of losing another person in his life made Gates obsessive about Dav's safety, and Dav never made a business decision without running it by Gates.

Gates cared too much, and he knew it. He didn't sleep much, even now. It had taken him years after the accident that killed his parents to actually go to sleep without drugs. He managed five or six hours now, which was better than the two or three that had been the norm even with medication.

“And bed is where you should be, you idiot,” he muttered, pushing off the wall. He'd taken one step when his phone rang.

He didn't try to stop the grin that blossomed. There was no one to see it anyway.

“So is this Shirley or Ana?” he asked.

“Hmmmm,” she purred. “Who do you want it to be?”

The flirtatious chuckle was nearly as hot as her long legs and her looks. “Well, I like Shirley's slinky heels, but Ana's mind and smile. What about a combo?”

“The heels?” He heard her surprise. She wasn't as used to flirting as she was trying to let on. “Now there's an image. A smile and high heels.”

“Hotter than hell,” he said, seeing it in his mind. He needed to coast back to cooler territory for now. “So Agent Sexy, what did you find out with your little undercover adventure?”

“Now I'm Agent Sexy? I think not.” Her verbal dismissal of the moniker puzzled him. “I'm just praying I wasn't Agent Oh-So Obvious.”

That made him laugh. “No, I'm not sure anyone caught on, not even your friend's date. How's she know D'Onofrio?”

“Long story.” He heard the rustle of clothing and immediately pictured her undressing.

Biting back a groan at the thought, he said, “I've got time.” He'd listen to the sexy purr of her voice for hours.

“I don't,” she laughed. “Saturday or not, I've got work. Tonight gave me about four more reports to write.”

“Sounds…dull.”

He liked her laugh, low, feminine, and husky. “Pretty much. So why did you want me to call, other than to tell me you liked my shoes?”

That snapped the picture of her in nothing but the strappy black shoes, stockings, and a smile back into his mind. Oh, yeah. This one got him in the gut. Not what he needed, or wanted, but sometimes, life threw you an interesting curve.

“Well,” he drawled. “I was hoping for a bedtime story, but you won't give. What about a tale of undercover work, instead? What's the lead?”

“Not at liberty to say, Mr. Bromley.” She made his name sound like a caress, and it was killing him. One minute she was being an agent, flirting a bit awkwardly; then she turned that hot voice on and said his name
that
way. Two parts of one woman, like she was out of practice, or trying not to be interested. Either possibility was a puzzle. He loved puzzles.

“So, Anastasia…” He treated her to some of her own medicine, letting her full name roll off his tongue like a caress. “What do you want from me? Intel? More lists?”

“How did you know my name's Anastasia?” More rustling of fabric, then he could hear her sit up and her voice changed.

“It's on your card,” he answered truthfully, frowning. What made her suddenly wary? “Problem?”

“No, no, it's just—” She hesitated.

“Just?”

“Did you do a run on me, Gates?” The words came out in a rush. “A deep search?”

He frowned. “I did a standard run, got your general information. You know most of your data's blocked, thanks to your job. Deep search past those blocks is illegal.” He waited for her to agree, which she did. “I read the article you wrote on data mining. Excellent information there, by the way,” he added. “Made sure you worked for who you said you worked for. That's about it. Why? Is someone running deeps on you?”

“Someone did. The night after I set up our meet.” She muttered something else he couldn't catch, so he asked her to repeat it. She sighed, but did so. “I said, I don't know why I'm telling you that. Or why I believe you when you say it wasn't you.”

“Hard to say.” He smiled into the darkness, relaxing a bit. “But I'm an honest guy. I only lie to the people I don't like.”

“Hmmmm.” She was back to flirt mode. “So, you like me?”

He laughed when she squeaked a bit. She must have realized how it sounded. “I do, I really do,” he mocked the infamous Sally Field acceptance speech line. “Seriously. I do like you. I'd—” He hesitated, unsure. It had been so long since he'd even considered dating.

“I'd?”

In for a penny,
he thought, bracing himself to do something he hadn't done in a long time. An eternity. He couldn't even explain to himself what motivated him, but he said, “I'd like to ask you out.” When she didn't speak for a moment, his gut clenched. To break the tension, he added, “Ana, not Shirley.”

She laughed, and he knew she'd agree. He grinned. Now for the interesting part. “So, can you do that, working on a case, or do I have to get a writ or a special exception or something from a judge?”

They bantered back and forth for a bit, even talked about the art case, but eventually agreed on dinner the following Friday. That would give him long enough to work it out with Dav's schedule. There was nothing on the schedule next Friday, but if he didn't put a word in, he'd be on duty.

“Get some sleep, Agent Anastasia,” he said, wishing he could think of a reason to keep her on the phone that didn't involve art, or the case or anything remotely akin to work.

“Thanks, I will. You too.” Damn, she sounded as reluctant as he was to hang up. He checked his watch. Two-thirty. He needed to be up by seven-thirty. That was short, even for him. “Sleep tight, Ana. And call me if you need more intel.”

She laughed as she hung up, and he enjoyed the sound as he continued to stand in the darkness. A date.

Something caught his eye, and he forgot about the date, and Ana. The watchfulness that had saved his ass in Iraq alerted him now. A trickle of unease had him tensing, scanning the darkness.

A movement to the left. He eased down, dropping to one knee to crouch in the shadow of the pillars. Silhouetted for the briefest moment, a slight figure scurried along the top of the rough security wall. There were sensors on the ground on either side of the wall, but no one had wanted to damage the decorative stone and brick structure of the original fencing.

Last time I let historic preservation prevail.

Gates eased his PDA from his pocket and texted by feel.

The phone vibrated briefly, letting him know the on-duty crew had gotten the message. Gates slipped around the portico. If he was quick he'd only be visible in the porch lights for a second.

Two of the windows next to his head exploded in a shower of glass the minute he stepped into the light. He hit the deck, rolling to the far side of the inset door, and yanked the phone from his pocket.

Switching to walkie-talkie, he growled, “Shots fired, hit the windows in the front door. Missed me. Gotta have night vision. Let the cops know.”

The sudden whoop of a siren split the air. Lights sprang up all over the compound as the intruder hit one of the full-alert tripwires. It was possible the team had done it, but he doubted it. The wall wasn't predictable in its width, and pivoting to fire a weapon from the top of it wasn't the smartest thing.

Gates's smile was grim. It was a twenty-foot drop along most of the backside of the seven-foot fence, and the contractor he'd hired had planted thorn bushes along the miles it took to circle the estate. Most likely, the intruder had left him a nice blood sample if nothing else.

“Boss? You okay, boss?” Declan's voice rang out, and the kid appeared at a run, weaving to avoid fire if there was any, putting his back to a column.

“I'm fine. Single shooter, so I think we can stand down on the evasive maneuvers,” Gates stood and moved away from the wall. Another of his security team tapped on the interior glass. They signaled thumbs-up. Dav was safe, and within minutes he got word that his employer was going on to bed.

“No rest for the wicked,” he said, trudging toward the cart Georgiade had brought around. The other team had already headed out along the exterior of the wall. He and Declan would take the interior.

At four-forty-five, they found the spot where the gunman had fallen. The sensors had pinpointed it within twenty feet, but it took them a while to check the ground and begin the search along the proper stretch of wall. Sure enough a welter of broken branches, some bloody thorns, and several hanks of black fabric lay strewn around the area they illuminated with heavy-duty flashlights.

“Thompson,” he radioed back to the team at the driveway. “We're ten feet past marker fifty-two. Bring Detective Baxter along to collect evidence,” Gates snapped. He was tired and angry. The sensual buzz he'd had from talking to Ana had evaporated, and he was well on to full-out pissed.

How had the shooter known they were back?

The serious possibility of an inside leak reared its ugly head. And why had he been targeted, not Dav? They were built so differently, it made no sense. Perhaps it was a warning. Either way, there was another organization in play. They'd managed to mollify the last two Central American groups who'd sent hits on Dav, turning the contact to advantage rather than death. It had been exhausting and dangerous, but in the end, profitable.

More flashlights winked on and moved toward him. He wondered if any of the company phones would show an outgoing call at the time the limo left the gallery. He'd check that himself. People could—and frequently were—stupid enough to use a traceable phone for such things.