Double Cross (11 page)

6:45 P.M. WEDNESDAY

Laurel wriggled into a short red dress and slipped on six-inch red glittery heels. Dress the part. Photographers would focus on every inch of her. She wore the color of passion from her nails to her toes. Her makeup would make a cosmetic artist proud
 
—lined eyes and four shades of color complete with two applications of mascara. Her lipstick was called Blood. The implication caused her stomach to churn. She thought the days of placating Wilmington were over. His information and connections had better be worth it.

You’re a strong woman, Special Agent Laurel Evertson.

Morton Wilmington cannot hurt you any more than he already has.

She added diamond drop earrings to her streetwalker ensemble, while a sense of professional escort swept through her. She excused her actions tonight with a reminder of her commitment to the FBI. Sacrifices came with the territory. To put Wilmington away for good, she’d do this. She dreaded the photos sure to hit the
Chronicle
and far too many online sites tomorrow.

She’d rather spend the evening devouring pizza with Officer Hilton
 
—dressed in jeans.

She spritzed on perfume, a brand she’d not worn before. Wilmington preferred Jean Patou Joy perfume, which she’d poured down the drain years ago. For a moment, Laurel feared she’d be truly ill. Every tick of the antique mantel clock on her dresser
brought her closer to him . . . enduring dinner, talking through the case, searching for evidence to nail him. Easing onto a bench in her bedroom, she drew in a deep breath and held a protective arm over her middle. The girl who shunned boundaries had died when Jesse bled out. She hadn’t undergone any religious conversion. After all, the prayers for Jesse went to his grave. But morals and truth became more important, the only thing she could hold on to. Or control. She and Wilmington both had the big C going on.

Now she was being tested by the man who brought out the worst in her.

I can do this and find out what he’s planning.

She closed her closet door and grabbed her bag, complete with her Springfield 9mm. Bodyguards, agents, and cameras waited in the shadows, yet if her life was in danger, she’d use it. Thoughts of previous dates with him . . . things she’d said and done. Shivering, she left her apartment. One more mission with Morton Wilmington.

Morton’s driver picked her up on time and drove to Damian’s, an upscale Italian restaurant. Morton wanted media coverage to show he’d forgiven the woman who’d betrayed him. What about her forgiveness for his shooting an agent? Of course, he’d state her good works for the FBI helped him to find the error of his ways. Trash talk.

She clenched her fist to control the shaking. The time had come to think like an agent and not a wounded woman. She’d been assigned to this mission for a reason, and she’d not let anyone down.

Within the hour, Laurel sat across from Wilmington at a rear corner table at Damian’s. A place they’d frequented five years ago. No one had searched her, which was a surprise. Or did he assume she’d be wired and packing? Judging by the empty tables around them, Wilmington must have paid well for their privacy. He’d cleaned up. Haircut. New suit. Same smug look. Memories stabbed at her like a knife twisting in an open wound.

“You’re tempting a man who hasn’t been close to a woman in five years. I like your hair longer.” His full lips turned upward. “Forbidden fruit.”

She might throw up. “I remember how you liked red.”

“And you wear it well. We have much to discuss tonight, so I appreciate your moving the date up.”

Smile, Laurel. It won’t break your face.
“We have a job to do, and success means your permanent parole and an elderly scam ended.”

“You rehearsed those lines well considering your feelings about me.” He raised a hand before she could speak. “You look lovely, my dear.”

Should she blush and act coy? She bit her tongue to keep from blasting him with the scathing details of how Jesse died.

The waiter handed them the wine list.

“No thank you.” Morton returned it. He gestured to Laurel. “The lady may want a glass of chardonnay.”

To keep up appearances, he was no longer drinking. Interesting, considering how much he once spent on alcohol. “Sparkling water will be fine.”

“The same for me.”

The waiter, complete with a bow tie, left them alone, and she could feel Morton’s eyes boring into her. What should she expect when she was dressed like a high-class hooker?

“What else is on your mind?” she said.

“You have a new perfume. I like it.”

She hated the charade. “You’re welcome. You didn’t answer my question.”

“SSA Preston said you refused to wear a wire.” He leaned back in his chair. “I have a proposition for you.”

“Is this personal?” Laurel danced her red fingernails on the tabletop.

“I have an addendum.”

The waiter returned with their beverages and asked if they were ready to order.

“What will it be for you tonight, Laurel? Are you still fond of Chilean bass?”

The low timbre of his voice annoyed her. “The bass is fine.”

Morton ordered the house steak, medium, and again they were alone. Soft piano music kept the silence from driving her crazy.

Control.

“Once the public sees us together, we’ll have more credibility. In every sense of the word. It’ll go viral on Facebook and Twitter. In return, I will give the FBI names of key persons from my former life.”

“What if one of your old buds gets wind of what you’re doing?”

He grinned. “The FBI will have them all dead or locked up unless you plan to tell my old business partners.”

“Don’t tempt me.”

“Just look at the great service I’ll have done for society.”

“Doesn’t matter what color of the spectrum you paint your words. They’re still a lie.”

“So you don’t believe I’ll provide the information.”

She forced a smile. “Prove me wrong. If you want to do the turnaround thing, then why don’t you pull out the millions of dollars you have stashed in undisclosed accounts. Give it back to those you robbed. Print business cards with the sign of a fish.”

He took a sip of water, his face red. She hadn’t said anything to make him so furious. “You’re selfish, Laurel.”

“And you?”

“Tell me, did you think you’d get away with it?” The muscles in his face tightened.

This was the Morton Wilmington she knew. “Get away with what? Sending you to prison?”

“Embezzling $4 million from me.”

She startled. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

“My sources tell me otherwise. A welcome-home present with your signature.”

“If I found a way to access your funds, it would be in the FBI’s
hands. I don’t have a death wish. Your source is full of it. Look somewhere else for your missing money.” While anger wanted to take over, she defused it and reached for logic.

His eyes narrowed. “The account was hacked a few hours ago and traced to you.” He pulled his phone from inside his jacket and handed it to her.

She recognized the account number. Saw her name. Whoever was working hard at discrediting her did a good job. She gave him eye contact. “I have no idea how the money got there. If I’d stolen from you, I would have put it in a good place, not my own savings account.”

“Point taken.”

“Since you hacked in, you pulled it out?”

“No.”

“Reported it to the FBI?”

He nodded.

“I will make sure this is handled. I’m not a thief.”

“I had to ask. I think someone arranged it to discredit you.”

She analyzed his body language: softened features, relaxed. “What can you tell me?”

“First off, I’ll confirm the person behind this.” He took another sip of water. Perspiration dotted his brow. “I liked you better when you were working undercover.”

“I didn’t,” she said.

The server returned with salads. Wilmington bowed his head. How long would he keep up the act?

“I’d like to hear your history with this friend of yours,” Laurel said when he raised his head again.

He nodded. “We met in the Army and served in Afghanistan. I’d already dabbled in lawbreaking and enlisted before getting caught. In the heat of a firefight, he saved my life. I finished my time and came home. He went on to serve in Delta Force, got married, and had a daughter. His career ended when he was diagnosed with adult-onset asthma. He was furious with the medical
discharge. Then his mother died, and his brother received most of her estate. He found a way to hack into the funds and transfer them to an overseas account. His brother figured out what he’d done, so my friend eliminated him. He realized there was money to be made by scamming the elderly. Been downhill ever since.”

Laurel filed these details away. It’d be easy enough to figure out an identity with military records and all these clues. “But you hadn’t kept in contact?”

“He visited me in prison as my cousin. I don’t have a cousin, but I played along and accepted his request. He showed up and talked about his scam. He’d heard my lawyers were working on an appeal. Thought I might need a job. I declined.”

“Are you thinking he’ll understand my fury with the FBI because of his discontent with Delta Force?”

“Exactly. His partner is another matter.”

“In what way?”

“She taught him the art of disguise. While he has military skills, she has the brains behind the operation. Both are cunning. Neither can be trusted.”

“What do you know about her?”

“We all served in the Army together. She has a record, but so far nothing leads to the elderly scam.”

“Does Preston know her name?”

“I contacted him this afternoon.”

“Got a pic of her?”

“Depends on who she is at the time.”

Laurel hated dealing with him. “I’d like whatever you have. And for the record, I asked nicely.”

He took a sip of water, but she saw his ploy. Delaying an answer made him look like he was in control. Fat chance.

“I’ll see what I can do,” he said. “I might have it.”

“You can get me this woman’s name and pic. How many others are in the operation?”

“I don’t know at this point. Hope to hear by the weekend. Not much we can do until then except be seen together.”

“Did you ever reciprocate after he saved your life?”

Wilmington shook his head. “I’m using my indebtedness as an excuse to team up with him.”

She understood his approach, if only she could believe him. “Okay. I know my job. Sit tight and wait until I hear from you.” She considered what he’d told her. “I’m assuming I’ll be followed until your friend believes he can trust me.”

“His favorite method is to meet you face-to-face. If you’re seeing someone, I caution you to avoid him until this is over.”

There went any hope of a friendship with Daniel.

5:00 P.M. THURSDAY

Laurel tightened the girth on her white Arabian stallion, Phantom. Best friend a girl ever had. She told him about the past, the present, and her goals for the future. Never a fear her words might appear on Facebook or as the subject of online chatter. He heard details concerning FBI cases, her victories, her regrets, and her discouragements. Lots of the latter. Her stallion’s demands were simple
 
—good food, a clean stall, and a brush-down after a vigorous run. Controlling his sometimes-unpredictable nature fit her personality, but he was the perfect stress reliever and a good substitute for a boyfriend
 
—without complicated demands.

North of Houston near Pinehurst, where the earth rolled gently toward Dallas with tall pines and oaks, she could race Phantom across the open pastures and release all the tension the world threw her way. The city was her home, where she worked and lived, but here she breathed escape.

Slipping her foot into the stirrup, she hoisted herself into the saddle. Such joy, wild and free, like the wind until she became the wind. She should have been born a century earlier, when technology didn’t consist of instant communication from anywhere in the world. Her Samsung Galaxy S 5 rested in her jacket pocket for those who needed immediate attention
 
—and her Glock within inches of her fingers.

She patted Phantom’s neck and laughed when he tossed his head. A gusty breeze added to his friskiness. They both wanted this run. Dusk would fall in two hours, which gave them a little time to enjoy the somewhat-cooler temperatures of fall combined with green pastures and full ponds. Goldenrods sprang up like nature’s final hold on color, proud of their fall beauty, and deep-yellow daisies held court around a huge rock.

“I need to unload,” she whispered to the stallion. “Just when I thought I’d never have to be concerned about Morton Wilmington, life throws a curve. I’m afraid, Phantom. He has motive to see me dead.”

Last night she’d dug into Wilmington’s Army records and confirmed the names of Geoff Cayden and Josie Fields. With the names, she texted SSA Preston for the FIG to run a complete background. Fingerprints would be in military records for future reference. Now to wait for the report.

Who’d gotten into his offshore account and helped themselves to $4 million just before his release? A poor sport of a business associate? One of his bodyguards? If the purpose had been to discredit her, what would happen next? And why make it so obvious by depositing it into her account?

She raced the stallion over familiar landmarks, her mind whirling with issues biting her heels. Slowly her muscles relaxed, and the latest FBI case was pushed to a remote corner of her mind. Inhaling the crisp air, she admired the landscape not chewed and spit out like the city
 
—natural, peaceful, and flowing. Not like her job and the mounting danger from it.

Phantom’s coat dampened beneath her jean-clad legs, and the sun descended in streaks of gold and orange. Time to head back to the stables, where a group of riders had completed their day too. Someday she’d have her own acreage and take care of Phantom herself, a ranch in the hill country with a facility like Silver Hospitality. An idea she’d held on to for years. She dug her heels into Phantom’s sides for one more race.

Movement to her left, behind a huge live oak, grabbed her attention.

Her shoulder stung as though a swarm of bees had taken revenge on her flesh. She grabbed her burning shoulder. Blood oozed between her fingers. Her head spun, and she bent low over Phantom.

8:35 P.M. THURSDAY

Daniel drove home from his grandparents’. The article and photo of Laurel and Wilmington’s reunion in the
Chronicle
threatened to put him in a bad mood.

Green inched up his spine. He was beginning to despise the color.

Stupid for a grown man.

He turned up the volume on the radio for an update of the local news.

“A former Houston FBI agent was shot this evening near Pinehurst. Laurel Evertson met a sniper’s bullet while riding at Lone Star Stables. No arrests have been made, and there’s no information at this time about her condition. She’d been relieved of her official duties at the bureau on Monday. Sources didn’t indicate a motive for the shooting.”

Alarm rattled him. He was convinced she was still working the case with the FBI. Why else would someone take a shot at her? Old enemy? He contacted a dispatcher at the station.

“Hey, Mike. This is Daniel. Can you pull up a report for me? Just heard a former FBI special agent by the name of Laurel Evertson was involved in a shooting.”

“Sure. Give me a minute while I get the information.” He made small talk for a moment before apparently finding the report. “Okay, here goes. No arrests have been made. Evertson has a horse at Lone Star Stables. Usually rides on Sunday afternoons. Tonight she wasn’t so lucky because someone took a shot at her. She rode to the stables for help.”

“How serious?”

“Treated and released. What’s your interest?”

“I’ve met her. Surprised, that’s all. What kind of bullet?”

“A .45.”

“Any leads?”

“Speculation. She’s hit the news a lot this week regarding her relationship with Morton Wilmington, the FBI giving her the boot, and now this.”

It all seemed highly suspicious to him. “The FBI isn’t going to release information on one of their own, past or present, if it jeopardizes a case,” Daniel said.

“They’re working with us at the crime scene, which leads me to wonder why she was fired. The media’s running with all of it.”

Daniel turned his truck toward Pinehurst. He knew the location of Lone Star Stables.