Accomplice (12 page)

The site of Cole's car sitting in Noah's driveway
was not good. The sight of Cole, leaning on the passenger door, arms crossed
and frowning, was worse.

Noah handed the cab driver a couple of twenties.
The last in his wallet, with precious little still waiting in his bank account.
This week's adventure in the heartland had not been kind to his finances. He
opened his own door and hefted his suitcase with a small groan of pain. The
adventure had not been good for his shoulder either. Or his heart.

“Nice flight?” Cole's eyes were hidden against the
bright California sun by his glasses, his mouth set in a grim line.

“It didn't crash. You admiring the landscaping or
what?” Noah nodded to the tiny patch of dead grass and overgrown weeds that
constituted his front yard. A white plastic patio chair with a hole in the seat
and a large urn with the sagging remains of a cactus graced the front porch.

Cole opened the door. “Need a ride?”

“It’s been a long trip. Mind if I take a nap
first?”

“I mind.”

Noah nodded and sat, tossing his bag to the back
seat. He buckled the seatbelt and rubbed his arm. It was tender, a little warm.
Probably needed a fresh bandage. He hadn't bothered with it since dropping Jess
off in St. Louis a little over twenty four hours ago.

Cole turned the car onto the freeway, headed
downtown toward their office. “Your car was impounded in Tennessee.”

Noah shrugged. “Oops.”

“And left your phone behind in your room at
Opryland.”

“You know what they say. What happens in
Nashville…” Noah glanced out the window, watching as the Los Angeles skyline
peeked into view above a sea of towering palm trees.

Cole stared straight ahead, looking deceptively
relaxed as he drove, one-handed, through rush hour traffic. “The hotel staff in
Chattanooga remembered you. And your guest. Have a girlfriend?”

Blood throbbed through Noah's veins, pulsing in
his neck and pounding in his ears. “Just a fling. How's your love life these
days?”

Cole shot him a look.

“Care to show off the rest of your investigative
prowess? What did I have for lunch today? How many pairs of dirty socks do I
have in my suitcase?”

“How did you get from Tennessee to Kansas City?”
Cole shot back.

“Maybe I rented a car?”

“Did your girlfriend pay for it?”

“Who says I took her with me?”

A semi blared its horn as it cut them off, and
Cole swerved to the right, throwing Noah into the center console. He grunted
and rubbed at his sore shoulder again.

“Help me out, Noah. Give me one goddamned reason
why I shouldn't read you your rights.”

“Why haven't you?”

Cole pulled off onto an exit ramp and pulled into
the parking lot of an In-and-Out Burger. He killed the engine and let out a
huff. He opened his mouth to speak. Once. Then again. “I need your testimony.
Cutlass is on the take, and I think I can prove it. He has broken at least a
dozen departmental procedures, and several laws. The evidence on the criminal
activity is pretty sketchy so far, though your testimony would help. But your
word isn't worth jack if you've been abetting a wanted criminal.”

Noah raised an eyebrow. “I sure as hell didn't
help Cutlass if that's what you are getting at. I'm still on medical leave from
getting shot.”

“That’s not the criminal I referred to, and you
know it. Which makes your crazy road trip look that much worse. We have two
options here. One, I take you in front of the judge and we get an indictment.
Two, I take you to internal affairs and we do a full-up investigation. I
already have buy-in from them. One of their agents agrees that we might have a
much bigger case on our hands than just a government employee accepting
kickbacks.”

With Cutlass out of the picture, maybe the heat
would come off of Jess. Or, it might shine the spotlight more squarely on his
own part in the mess. Still, Cole hadn't accused him of anything. Yet. Cole was
a good agent. A fair agent. Noah trusted him to do the right thing. So, he
would level with the guy. To a point.

“I bought a car with cash. Sold it in Kansas City.
I made a profit on the deal, actually. Enough to pay for my plane ticket home.
I can get you the name of the dealerships if you care.”

Cole nodded. “You know how this all looks, don't
you? It’s not exactly painting the picture of a stable, reliable federal agent.
You know the kind of gossip Cutlass has already spread.”

Noah clenched his jaw. He knew. “I'm not my
father.”

Cole lowered his voice. “From what I hear, your
father died deep undercover, saving the life of a woman whose only crime was
falling in with the wrong guy.”

“Who told you that story? Mother Goose?”

With a shrug, Cole continued. “No one told me
that. Officially. Look, man, you know there is a lot more that happens than
what the official press releases will tell you. Behind every tidy little
investigation is a huge pile of crap. And some of it doesn't make us feds look
too good.”

Noah stared out the window. Cars lined up in the
drive through, ordering greasy sacks of tacos and sodas, fried pies and shakes.
The thought of all that grease turned his stomach almost as much as the thought
of a crooked agent. He phrased his next words very carefully. “What does your
contact in internal affairs think about Cutlass' wedding picture?”

A muscle in Cole’s jaw clenched. “That is where I
was hoping you could help me out. So far, that picture is just a complication.
A high-ranking cheerleader for Team Cutlass, you know?”

“Yeah. What if I get you evidence that this thing
is far worse than just an agent on the take? What if, instead of cheerleader,
we're talking ring leader?”

“What are you saying?” Cole took off his
sunglasses.

Noah turned back to face his partner. “I am saying
we should be talking to more than internal affairs. I think we need to get the
CIA in on this.”

***

Jess shivered in the dampness of the hunting cabin
where she'd been taken. She wasn't sure exactly where, though the rolling hills
and towering pines reminded her of the Appalachians where she'd grown up.
Still, it could have been the Ozarks or the foothills of the Rockies for all
she knew. She'd worn a blindfold for the entire multi-hour ride in the back of
the van.

The cabin was upscale, with polished wood floors
and sweet cedar paneling, and a view of the treetops that normally would have
sent her scrambling for her paintbrushes.

She stood and paced, again, rubbing her upper arms
with fingers so frigid they chilled her even more. Her stomach gave a weak
protest of hunger, and her tongue was thick with thirst. She thought about
pounding on the locked bedroom door, demanding food.

She didn’t dare. She had only caught the barest
glimpse of
him
when she was led into the house. He hovered in the
hallway, watching her with eyes like daggers.

Arturo Castillo
. A Cuban immigrant with a
taste for fine food, a quick wit, expressive chocolate brown eyes, and the
lithe body of a dancer. His type was typical among the ubiquitous waiters and
catering staff of Hollywood—oozing good looks and charm, looking for a big
break, and willing to sleep with whoever offered him one.

It was at one of Charles' gentlemen-only poker
parties where Senator Wilson had met Arturo. Charles had provided the guest
room for their trysts. And recorded every minute of them. Every moan, every
groan. Every snippet of pillow talk.

The doorknob rattled.

Heart thumping wildly in her already parched
throat, Jess bolted for the only defensible spot in the room—in the corner
behind the now opening door. She had no weapon. The bed was made out of solid
pine logs so heavy she couldn't budge it. No lamps, no sheets, no pictures on
the wall—any furnishings that could have come to her defense had been removed.

Hard, clanking footsteps rattled down the hall
way. They were too sharp to be the heavy boots of the van driver, too heavy to
be Arturo's deft steps. High heels.

“Don't bother trying anything. My men are in the
hallway and you are unarmed.” The voice was crisp, authoritative. Feminine. Tallie
Wilson.

Jess stepped around the now open door into the ray
of light cast by the hall where she could be seen.

“Surprised to see me?” The older woman smirked.
She wore a power suit, the conservative, expensive uniform of DC wives. At her
neck was a string of pearls, her hair wound into a neat chignon. She looked
rich and powerful, utterly comfortable wearing clothes that cost more than a
month's earnings for a lowly school counselor.

Jess shrugged, trying to hide her confusion. “A
little.”

Tallie raised one perfectly plucked eyebrow.
“Don't be, and let’s make this quick before one of my husband's staffers finds
me here. This...” she gestured around the room, “might be awkward to explain.”

“Not really my problem.”

“It doesn't have to be.”

Jess walked over to the bed and sat. In the hall,
she saw the edge of a shadow. Arturo, maybe, or the other goon. “I don't
understand. Really I don't. After all you went through...all we did. Why are
you here. With
him
?”

The woman laughed, a forced laugh. Full of
bitterness and rancor. “All
we
did? How dare you.”

Jessica recoiled at the utter hatred that flashed
through her eyes.

“All you did was nearly ruin everything for me. My
husband is
this
close to the top. He is campaigning tonight. Oil
industry. Deep pockets, but the state of Texas has some pretty traditional
family values. One whiff of a scandal and they are gone.”

Jess shook her head, breaking the eye contact.
Once upon a time she had trusted Tallie Wilson. She was one of the few teachers
who had encouraged her to study art. The one who had not written Jessica off as
another low-class screw up. That was before Tallie had met and married Senator
Wilson and given up her job in education. Before the silk suits and the
manicures and the cocktail parties and junkets.

Jess had seen the wedding pictures in the paper,
long after she had taken off for LA. Seeing her old mentor's dreams coming true
had given Jess hope. Hope enough to leave the abusive agent-slash-boyfriend who
tried to sell her body as well as her picture. Hope enough to give her
confidence that she could succeed. To make her life better.

When she realized that
Tallie’s fairy tale marriage was in trouble because of something that her own
Charles had helped arrange, Jessica had felt so guilty. Then Tallie came to her
begging for her help in covering up her husband's philandering, Jessica had
been grateful to sacrifice her own image to help. A few well-staged photos and
a tearful public apology on his part had salvaged his political career. And
destroyed Jessica's own fledgling reputation as a reformed bad girl.

“What does this have to do with me?”

Tallie sneered. “As if you didn't know. Tell me
where the necklace is.”

Jess opened her mouth and then closed it. She had
given the counterfeit to Tallie after the scandal. It had the same kind of
hidden storage device as her stolen jewels. The same lack of traceability. Most
criminals got caught because they sent incriminating data through the internet,
where it could be traced. Charles had insisted they do the couriering the old
fashioned way. By hand. “Why give it back to me if you are going to hunt me
down for it?”

“Not that necklace. The other one. The real one.”

Jess just stared at the woman. Hadn't she seen the
news? What kind of twisted game was this? “It was stolen from my house.”

“That is the biggest pile of cow shit I have ever
heard. You listen here, Jo Lynn.” Tallie reached into a pocket inside her suit
jacket and drew out a small pistol. She flipped the safety and aimed it at
Jess's head. “I need that necklace. Tonight. Or I will scatter your remains in
the mountains where no one will ever find them.”

Jessica's mouth went dry and her knees went shaky.
She willed them to stay still, not to spook the woman with the gun. Tallie's
eyes were hard, cold. Dead serious. And worse, they looked completely sane. She
searched frantically for something she could say to stop the woman from killing
her. Anything. Apparently the truth wasn't going to work. “I...I...”

“Better make this good.”

Jess faced the reality of her death. Her fortune
was gone. Her reputation in tatters. One of the few women she had once counted
as a friend, one that she had looked up to, had a gun aimed at her head. She
would die alone in a remote cabin in the mountains she spent her entire life
trying to forget. No one would save her now. She only had one hope. Jess took a
shaky breath. “I gave them to the FBI Agent. To Noah Grayson.”

Tallie's arm quavered and a mask of desperation
crossed her face. “You
what
?”

Jess tried to step back, but she was already
pinned against the paneled oak wall. She stared straight into the barrel of the
gun as she spoke. “I turned them over to the FBI. I swear to you. He offered me
protective custody in exchange for information. I refused and tried to leave
the country on my own. To safety. Guess I should have accepted their
protection.”

The gun moved closer to her, approaching like a
tunnel, the bullets inside like a freight train, and Jess was strapped to the
tracks like some cartoon victim.

“Well, isn't this a pickle.” Tallie laced her
words heavily with her affected Southern Belle accent. “I guess we need to pay
a visit to your boy toy. You better hope he has your diamonds.”

Noah and Cole watched as the computer screen
filled with numbers. Ones and zeros scrolled up and off and into oblivion for
several seconds, and slowly were replaced with colored pixels. Within a few
seconds the smirking face of Charles Kingsbury began to take shape, dot by dot.

It was a photo that Noah recognized from the
Kingsbury files. The man wore khaki pants, a navy sport jacket and a red ascot,
the very caricature of a rich man of leisure. He posed in front of the gates of
his Hollywood home. It had been the cover shot of an expose from people
magazine a year or two before he married Jessica.

Noah wanted to hate the man. Ever since getting
assigned the case, he had built up a mental picture of an arrogant, abusive,
controlling older man. A ruthless criminal who preyed on the young and
vulnerable model. But to hear Jessica defend him, to see the obvious affection
she had for her late husband, and the honest depths of her mourning...

All he could summon now was a pitiful form of
jealousy for a dead rival.

Cole crossed arms over his chest and frowned as
the CIA security expert clicked away at the keyboard. “What does it mean?”

The woman at the keyboard pushed thick glasses up
on her nose and turned to consider the two agents with a frankly analytical
gaze. Her long gray-brown hair was pulled into a plain ponytail, and a
loose-fitting t-shirt covered a forgettable figure. If it weren't for the
systematic way she seemed to silently catalog the two men, he would have
mistaken Agent Sally Jones for a plain-faced secretary. “It means that we are
still working on cracking the code.”

“I thought your message said you had cracked the
password.”

She narrowed her eyes at Noah. “I said that I had
cracked
a
password. This is a typical layered encryption scheme. With
each distinct password we discover, we find a different piece of encrypted
data.”

“How many are there?” asked Cole.

She shrugged. “There is no way of knowing for sure
without asking the person who created it. The hard part is to avoid the booby
traps.”

Noah's stomach lurched at the word “booby” and he
laughed out loud in surprise. Cole elbowed him hard in the ribs and he jerked,
his shoulder giving a twinge of pain.

The woman smiled, her shrewd eyes glittering with
amusement. “No pun intended. What I mean is that most devices encrypted with a
system like this has one or more bad passwords built in. Once you enter one of
them, the media will corrupt itself or simply wipe itself clean. In fact, I'm
beginning to fear that it has already occurred with this memory card. The only
thing we have been able to extract so far is this gentleman's picture. Of
course we were careful to work only with a copy, and to preserve the original,
so if we stumble upon a trapped password, we don't risk contaminating the
evidence ourselves.”

Noah sighed. “I see. So what you are saying is
there’s nothing here?”

She shrugged. “I make no promises. Our progress so
far has been slow. With most encryption schemes—online passwords, smart cards,
the like—then our experts can break in within a few minutes to an hour. We have
been working for over twelve hours so far, and this is the best we have done.
If you have a witness that has the right password, then we could move faster.”

“Yeah. That's the trick, huh.” Noah muttered.

“Either that or the key.”

Both men’s heads snapped up. Cole spoke first.
“Key?”

Sally nodded and switched her display to a 3-D
rendering of the necklace. She spun the virtual image around on the screen,
rotating it to a spot under one of the side stones.

“This is where we pulled the memory chip from that
has our photos. But see this notch here?” She zoomed in. “There is additional
memory stored inside the settings of the stones. The lab techs were able to
dismantle it, but the chip isn’t complete. We were able to read the bytes off
of it, but it is gibberish. See, there’s a mark right there. The memory card
has a companion. Another card that acts as a key.”

“Like one of those puzzle lockets that little
girls wear,” said Cole quietly.

Noah raised one eyebrow.

“What? My niece has one that’s a little heart
shape that says BFF, and she gave the other half to some other kid. She was in
tears last weekend because the other brat gave it back. She’s a ten-year old
drama queen.”

Sally smiled. “That’s a pretty good analogy. We
are theorizing that the key to reading this secondary card is stored somewhere
else. Another piece of jewelry. Or maybe the other necklace—the one that was
stolen. That missing piece may contain the key to reading the data.”

“Great,” said Noah flatly. “We either need the
password or the missing necklace.”

“Probably both.” She seemed to ignore his sarcasm.
“Either way, this has been one of the better puzzles we’ve tackled in a while.”

Cole clapped Noah on the back, before he could
make another retort. “Glad to share, Agent Jones.”

The partners walked in silence back to Cole’s car
while Noah’s thoughts churned. They were so close he could almost smell the
smoke from Charles Kingsbury’s cigar. If only Jess had given him more to work
with. If only he’d been able to convince her to stay.

If only he hadn’t promised to let her go.

“So,” said Cole.

“So,” echoed Noah.

“Too bad we can’t ask Mrs. Kingsbury about her
husband’s passwords.” Cole turned the key in the ignition and the car roared to
life.

“Too bad.”

“And too bad we have no leads on the thief.”

“Yup.”

“Damnit, Noah. You can’t keep doing this.” Cole
ground the words out between clenched teeth.

Noah raised an eyebrow.

“Holding out on me. Withholding information.
Trying to be Mr. Super Agent and going it alone. The stakes are too high.
You’re going to get someone killed.”

Noah opened his mouth to respond, and then shut
it. His fingernails dug into the palms of his hands.
Alone
.
Dead
.
Just like his father.

“Where is she?”

“I don’t know.”

Cole made a noise somewhere between a grunt and a
growl. “All I want is to see justice served. And right now, it looks like
either Jessica Kingsbury is the key to some government cover-up, or else she is
having a joke at our expense. Be my partner. Let me help.”

Noah could feel the anger simmering in his gut. He
did trust Cole to do his job and see justice served. That was the heart of the
trouble. What if serving justice meant convicting Jessica of blackmail, or
worse.

***

In hindsight, driving across the U.S in a
Greyhound bus seemed wonderfully luxurious compared to retracing the path in
the back of a windowless van that smelled of motor oil and dried venison blood.
“Yes, Deer” read the side of the vehicle, which Wilson’s goons had obviously
acquired from a game processing service.

With her hands alternately cuffed to a seat, or
behind her back, or—the worst—to a hook mounted above her head, she was rarely
comfortable enough to doze. Her shoulders ached, her feet fell asleep, her head
pounded, and her stomach threatened to heave. And the way Harry, the younger
and pudgier of her two captors, looked at her—especially with her hands above
her head and her breasts thrust outward like a bad parody of a centerfold
pose—made Jessica go numb with fear.

The other man, Earlin, was an older black guy with
balding gray hair and crooked teeth who paid her less attention than he would a
suitcase thrown in the back of the van. While Harry took every opportunity he
could to “help” her stand up and to “guide” her to restrooms, with knuckles
that brushed at her breasts and fingers that slipped to her thighs at every
opportunity, at least he brought her food and let her relieve herself on their
infrequent stops. Relieving herself generally involved a bush alongside a
ditch. Gas stations had too many witnesses. Too many cameras.

That she was still alive surprised her. That no
one had seriously hurt her—outside of the bruises to her wrists, or the chafing
of the gag they kept tied around her mouth—was a miracle. The nagging thought
that they were saving her for a far worse fate terrified her.

***

Inside the dance club, a bass-heavy beat thrummed
in time with strobing black lights, alternately hiding and revealing
fluorescent splashes in the carpet, the walls, the clientele’s clothing. Noah
tucked his head down and wove through the crowds that fringed the packed dance
floor. He got a couple of second looks—all from the men—and would swear someone
grabbed him on the ass as he passed. The attention was unnerving.

Noah spotted Lindsay at the bar, with a tall glass
of something bubbly and a relaxed set to her shoulders as she chatted up the
bartender.

Noah slid into the barstool beside her and asked
for a beer.

“Hope you didn't have any trouble finding the
place,” she said after a long slow draught of her beverage.

Noah shrugged and accepted a frosty bottle from
the woman behind the bar. The bartender eyed him up and down, threw Lindsay a
pointed look, and sauntered off toward a collection of empty glasses at the
other end of the counter.

“I'm sure it’s amusing the hell out of whoever is
tailing me.”

She sat forward and set her glass down with an
audible thunk. “Shit. Are you really being followed?”

Noah took a drink of his beer, letting the
question dangle from her lips like a cigarette. “How were the Caymans?”

Lindsay narrowed her eyes at him, a small wrinkle
appearing above her brow. “How is Jessica?”

He grinned. “I love a good game of Twenty
Questions. How about this one: Mind telling me why I’m here?”

She jerked her head towards the dance floor.
“Because you’re looking for Mr. Right?”

Noah considered the top of his beer bottle and
tried to piece together the puzzle that was Jessica’s head of security. Lindsay
was clever enough to both blend into the background and jump into center stage
whenever Jess needed a decoy. She was, according to the short bio Cole had put
together on her, an excellent marksman. Left the Marines quickly, but with an
honorable discharge. There were rumors that she had an affair with a married superior—a
woman. Her exact living situation was a little sketchy for about two years
after that. She was picked up once on suspicion of prostitution, but no charges
were ever filed. And then she ended up on the Kingsbury payroll.

 “What is with the attitude? Are you worried about
Jessica or jealous that someone else might be taking care of her?”

She shook her head, eyes hidden in the shadows.
“She’s not my type. And you’re not hers.”

Noah stood to leave. “I’m done here.”

“I know who took the necklace.”

He sat. She swirled the dregs of alcohol in the
bottom of her glass. The silence between them stretched on while the music
changed tempo from the incessant pounding to something a little slower, more
sensual. The colored lights changed from greens and yellows to purples and
blues.

Finally, she downed her drink. It rattled just a
bit as she set it down. “I want police protection.”

“Tell me who it is first.”

“But--”

Noah held up a hand. “I am still on medical leave
officially. I can call someone else.”

“No.”

The word was too sharp, too shrill. The noise cut
through the music, earning them a couple of curious stares, and another pointed
look from the bartender.

“Sorry. I don’t...I won’t…It’s like this. LAPD is
useless. One of your FBI pals…Cole…I think he was OK. At least I don’t think he
was crooked, but--”

Noah sighed. “Don’t finish that. Cole is a good
guy. Let’s leave it at that.”

“If you say so.” She looked unhappy.

“I do. Now what do you know?”

“The security codes. I went back through all of
the logs around the time of the burglary. Every time someone tried to enter an
off-limits area, the computer records it. Every time someone types in the wrong
PIN number, the computer records it.”

 “Your sworn statement said there was nothing
there. Our own analysts came to the same conclusion. There weren’t any failed
attempts at accessing the office or the studio.”

“The system has a handful of master codes. Pin
numbers that have the highest level of privilege.”

Noah shifted uncomfortably on his seat. “Your
statement said that too. You gave us a list of them. The master codes belong to
you, Jessica, the late Charles Kingsbury, Brandon.”

She smiled. “Exactly. Those codes allow the owners
to go anywhere, open anything without alerting security. They can even set up
new codes, for when new staff is hired or someone leaves.”

“But those codes were all accounted for. None of
them were in the house that weekend. Charles is dead. Brandon Kingsbury has a
solid alibi at a golf tournament—including press coverage before and partying
after. It is a three-hour flight to LA. There is no way he could have made it
into town, stolen the necklace, and left again. Which leaves just you and
Jessica.”

“Yeah.” Lindsay looked unhappy. “And I was with
her at the spa. The hotel has records. The jet’s flight plan is all logged.
Besides, why would she steal her own necklace?”

“Oh, I can think of a few reasons,” said Noah
dryly. Insurance fraud, blackmail, to cover her tracks before she disappeared
into oblivion.

Lindsay’s eyes flashed. “Don’t even think it. The
master codes have one other privilege that can be really useful. We can create
new master codes in the system.”

It took a moment for the words to sink in. “Who?
How? When?”

“On a whim, I tried looking back at old backups of
the logs. There are too many staff coming and going and the security system
wipes out old logs after a couple of months to save space. But the changes in
master codes don’t happen that often, so they don’t get cleared that often.
Brandon set one up well before Charles died. Bastard had been planning
something for over a year.”