Indispensable Party (Sasha McCandless Legal Thriller No. 4) (25 page)

Later, she would remember that
the next moments seemed to slow down. From her Krav Maga training she knew this
perception was common in a crisis. The brain sped up, became hyper-alert, and
analyzed as much information as possible as part of a survival mechanism.

When she replayed the scene in
her mind, Grace, Connelly, and the FBI SWAT team in their navy blue jumpsuits
with their submachine guns pointed at the car all seemed to be moving with
exaggerated slowness. For what seemed to be a very long time, Grace ran toward
Connelly, waving her arms and yelling at the SWAT team.

Connelly slowly raised his arms
over his head. And a gun-toting FBI agent lowered a shoulder and plowed into
Connelly, dropping him to the ground.

Another agent wrapped his arms
around Grace’s waist, holding her back.

By the time Sasha stood outside
the car and closed the passenger door with shaking hands, she was surrounded by
three agents.

“Down on your knees, ma’am!” the
nearest of the three barked, pointing toward the ground with the muzzle of his
weapon.

Sasha dropped to the ground, her
hands over head. Twenty feet away, Connelly was being hauled to his feet, with
his hands shackled together behind his back. He twisted his neck to meet her
eyes. They maintained the contact until the agent restraining Grace released
her, and she came storming toward Sasha.

“What’s wrong with you? She’s the
company’s attorney!” Grace shouted, tugging on the arm of the agent who stood
over Sasha, handcuffs out and ready.

A dark-skinned man in a soft tan
coat jogged over, stiff-legged with his hands in his pockets. As he approached,
Sasha realized it was Anthony Washington, the Justice Department attorney who’d
been at the task force meeting.

“Stand down, stand down,” he said
as he huffed to a stop, out of breath.

“Sir, she was with the target. It’s
procedure,” explained the agent whom Grace had been manhandling.

“I understand, but Mr. Connelly’s
in custody now. Ms. McCandless doesn’t pose a threat,” Washington said.

“Sir, we haven’t searched her
person or the vehicle,” the agent protested, flicking his eyes toward the
cluster of suits that clumped around the sedans.

“I’m not armed,” Sasha offered,
rising to her feet slowly just in case anyone was trigger happy. She was
pleased to hear that her voice sounded reasonable and calm despite the panicked
fluttering of her heart in her chest.

A look passed between Grace and
Washington.

“What?” Sasha demanded.

Grace cleared her throat. “They
aren’t looking for a weapon.”

A stocky, prematurely gray-haired
man broke off from the pack of supervisors near the cars and headed their way.
Sasha recognized him from the meeting, too. He was the attorney with the
longest title on his business card: Deputy Counsel with the FBI Office of
General Counsel’s National Security Law Branch.

“Mr. Hubert,” Sasha said,
thankful for her seating chart cheat sheet and her fail-proof memory.

Howard Hubert nodded at her. “Ms.
McCandless.”

Then he turned his attention to
the agents. “Gentlemen, a word?”

The trio followed him to a spot
about five or six feet away and engaged in furious whispering.

Sasha focused on Washington and
Grace.

“Is someone going to tell me what’s
going on?”

“The FBI received an anonymous
call this morning. A male caller claimed there was a vial of the Doomsday virus
in the top desk drawer of Serumceutical’s chief security officer. He
disconnected the call without providing further details,” Washington said.

“That’s insane! All
this
is over a crank call?” Sasha exploded.

Grace shook her head and said in
a quiet voice, “No. There was a vial in his desk.”

Sasha looked from Grace to
Washington, not sure she understood.

“You found a vial of live virus
in Connelly’s desk?”

“The contents haven’t been tested
yet, but, yes, it appears so,” Washington said.

“Well, it’s obviously a set up!”

“Sasha, believe me, I am with
you, okay? I don’t for a moment believe Leo did this,” Grace said in a tone
that was both placating and mournful.

“Are you sure, Grace? You didn’t
call to let him know what he was walking into,” Sasha turned on her.

Washington stepped between Sasha
and Grace.

“We wouldn’t let her. You seem
very sure that Mr. Connelly is being framed. Are you aware no one else has a
key card that can access his office?” Washington asked.

Sasha stared at Washington for
what felt like a long time. Then she simply said, “He didn’t do this.”

Hubert returned, flanked by SWAT
team agents and trailed by a fresh-faced woman wearing a blue FBI windbreaker.

“Ms. McCandless, this is Agent
Nickels. With your consent, she’s going to perform a search of your person,”
Hubert said, gesturing toward the woman, who flashed Sasha a reassuring smile.

Sasha dug into the recesses of
her memory for criminal law information that she’d long since relegated to the
category of trivia. If the assembled law enforcement officers believed she had
a weapon—and she could craft a compelling argument that a deadly virus was a
weapon—they were entitled to pat her down over her clothes even if she
objected.

“You can pat down my clothing and
inspect my bag,” Sasha offered, “but you’re insane if you think I’m consenting
to a strip search.”

The agents gave her sidelong
glances as if she were a criminal for not merely agreeing to strip naked in a
snowy field because they asked politely, but the two government lawyers
shrugged. She was within her rights, and they knew it.

Agent Nickels snapped on a pair
of rubber gloves and stepped forward.

“You don’t have a latex allergy,
do you?” she asked.

“No.”

“Open your coat, please,” she
said.

Sasha unbuttoned her coat and
gripped the lapels. She stretched out her arms and held it wide open, like she
had wings.

Nickels squatted in front of her
and ran her hand along Sasha’s inner legs. She unzipped Sasha’s boots one after
the other and felt along the lining, then she re-zippered them quickly. She
stood and patted Sasha’s stomach and chest, as if maybe Sasha had a bottle of
the flu virus stuffed into her bra. She motioned for Sasha to drop the coat,
and Sasha let it fall and hang open. Nickles slipped her hands into both
pockets.

She turned to Hubert and said, “Ms.
McCandless is clean.”

Sasha gestured to the car. “Don’t
you want to check my bag? It’s in the car.”

The pat down had been cursory, at
best. She sensed it had been a compromise between the lawyers and the SWAT
team, so that the agents didn’t lose face in front of a civilian.

Nickel’s response confirmed that
theory. As the female agent walked away, she said over her shoulder, “Let the
jerkoffs do it. They’re itching to tear something apart.”

Hubert put his hand up like he
was a crossing guard, “I’ll look through Ms. McCandless’s bag. You gentlemen
can get started on the search of the vehicle.”

One of the agents trotted to the
car and fetched Sasha’s pastel blue bag. He thrust it at Hubert wordlessly. The
attorney opened it and peered inside. He didn’t move anything around or take
anything out, just pawed through the papers, opened the zippered compartment
that held her quilted change purse and her lipstick, and then handed the bag
over to her.

“Look, it’s obvious you know I
don’t have anything to do with the theft of the virus. Please tell me you
realize Leo doesn’t either,” she said.

Washington stamped his dress shoes
on the ground like he was trying to warm up his feet. Then he blew into his
hands to warm them.

Finally, he said, “Everyone who
knows Mr. Connelly from his time at Homeland Security speaks well of him. But,
as you know, he left under a cloud and with a bit of a reputation for being a
cowboy. We have to run this down. There was a vial of germs in his desk that
could wipe out the entire Eastern seaboard from Florida to Maine.”

Sasha stared at him for a moment,
formulating an argument and then realized it would be a waste of breathe to try
to convince the assortment of law enforcement officers to release Connelly.

She turned to Hubert. “I want to
talk to him.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Hubert wanted to
give her two minutes. Washington pushed for five. In the end, Hank Richardson
broke away from the group he was directing. He took her by the arm and walked
her over to the car where they were holding Connelly, who sat with his head
hung down and his eyes fixed on a point on the floor of the car.

“You’ve got three minutes, okay?”
Richardson told her.

“Thank you.”

He tapped on Connelly’s window,
and the agent sitting behind the wheel buzzed it down. Connelly turned his head
toward the window. Relief washed over his face when he saw Sasha.

“Are you okay? You aren’t hurt,
are you?”

“I’m fine, Connelly. But you’re
not,” she said, noting a purple bruise that was spreading across his high
cheekbone under his left eye.

Hank sucked in his breath. “Sorry,
son. Want some ice?”

Connelly tried to wave his hand,
but his wrists were cuffed to a ring that had been mounted into the back of the
front passenger seat. He grimaced, embarrassed.

“I don’t need any ice, Hank. I
need you to let me out of this car,” he said in a measured tone.

“Leo, I got you three minutes to
talk to your girlfriend. That’s all the time you’ve got. Don’t waste it yapping
at me. I’m working on getting you out of this mess. Trust me,” Hank said.

He turned and walked off.

Sasha reached through the window
and stroked Connelly’s cheek. “Does it hurt?”

The agent in the driver’s seat
looked back and said, “Ma’am, please don’t touch the subject.”

The subject.
Sasha could
see that the words were like a knife to Connelly.

“I’m fine. I didn’t do this,” he
said.

“Connelly, please, I
know
that.”

He attempted a smile that faded
into a tight twist of his lips.

“These friendly civil servants
inform me that, according to Grace, Tate placed me on immediate unpaid leave
pending the outcome of the investigation.”

“Forget about Tate. Listen to me,
I’m going to call Will Volmer. He used to work for the U.S. Attorney, he’ll
know someone who knows the best criminal defense attorneys down here. I’m going
to find you an attorney you can trust. Just, promise me you won’t talk to these
idiots without counsel present.”

Sasha stared at him, willing him
to understand how critical it was that he follow her advice.

“Sasha, I didn’t do anything
wrong.”

“Connelly, do not talk to them.
Don’t talk to
anyone
. Not even Hank. Promise me,” she enunciated each
word, slow and firm.

“Okay,” he said in apparent
defeat.

“Promise me,” she repeated.

She felt the agent’s eyes
drifting back to watch them and ignored the intrusion.

After a pause, Connelly said, “I
promise. Now you promise me something.”

“What?”

“Promise me you won’t get mixed
up in this. Go back to Pittsburgh and catch up on your work. Take my car. After
I get this cleared up, I’ll catch a flight out and meet up with you. I
apparently have some unanticipated time off.”

He finished with a hurt laugh
that made Sasha want to find Tate and kneecap him.

“I’m not leaving until we clear
your name,” she protested.

“Sasha, please. Someone is
obviously out to get me. I do not want you to stick around and make yourself a
target. I don’t need to worry about you. I’ll lawyer up, if you’ll go home.”

They stared at each other for a
moment.

“Fine,” she relented.

He smiled, a small smile, but it
reached his eyes.

She leaned through the open
window and kissed him. She took her time and pretended not to hear the
sputtering agent. Connelly’s mouth yielded to hers.

“I love you,” she said in a low
voice.

The agent hit the button to raise
the window and Sasha pulled her head back.

She stood there, unwilling to
break eye contact with Connelly—the only connection they had now—until
Richardson came over and led her away from the car, back to the knot of
government attorneys.

While she’d been talking to
Connelly, Bardman had joined the group. She scanned their faces—Bardman,
Hubert, and Washington—but she wasn’t sure which of the attorneys she could
trust. So she turned back to Richardson.

“Leo maintains his innocence,
which makes sense because he
is
innocent. That said, I’ve advised him to
invoke his Fifth Amendment privilege against self-incrimination and to obtain
an attorney. I’m going to make some calls to find counsel for him. I’d like to
do it in relative warmth, if that’s okay with everyone.”

“I’m sorry, Sasha, the building’s
barricaded until we get a CDC team up here to take away the virus,” Richardson
explained.

Bardman interjected, “You’re free
to go, though.”

“Did you clear the car?” Sasha
asked, addressing the question to Hubert.

“Yes, the car was searched and
found to be clean.”

“Imagine that,” Sasha said.

Washington shot her a look, which
she ignored.

“I’m taking the SUV,” she
announced to no one in particular then waited for the push back. None came.

“The keys are in the ignition,”
Richardson told her.

Before Sasha left, she scanned
the scene for Grace but saw no sign of her.

She adjusted the driver’s seat
forward as far as it would go, checked her mirrors, and started the engine.
Under the watchful eyes of a couple dozen federal agents, she executed a
flawless three-point turn and drove away from the campus even though her brain
was yelling at her not to leave Connelly and every muscle in her body tensed, yearning
to go back to him.