Killer Focus (7 page)

A
month later, her chest still healing, Taylor, now known as Taylor Jeffries, watched as a moving firm unloaded her furniture and carried it into a condominium in one of the beachside suburbs of Wilmington, North Carolina.

The condo had been an obvious choice. The security was good and it had a swimming pool. In order to help her damaged lung regain its normal capacity, she needed to do aerobic activity, but she wasn't allowed to jog yet. Aside from walking and the breathing exercises the physiotherapist had given her, all she was allowed to do was swim.

She stepped aside as two burly men maneuvered a couch through the front hallway, and watched as they unpacked furniture and possessions she hadn't seen since the morning of the shooting.

Aside from the loss of her job, the WITSEC placement meant separation from Dana until Lopez was caught and it was safe for Taylor to resume her normal life. Dana had also had the option of a WITSEC placement, but she had chosen to stay in San Francisco. According to the FBI report, the attack on Taylor had been viable because of Taylor's routine. The risk that Lopez, or one of his people, would make a second attempt now that Taylor was protected by WITSEC was minimal. From Dana's point of view, if remaining outside the Witness Security program posed a threat to Taylor's security, she would go, gladly, but until then they could leave her life the hell alone.

For Taylor, there had only been one option, but walking away from the commitment she'd made to the Bureau, the years of specialized training and the knowledge that her skills could make a difference, had hurt. Every day she checked the papers and the Internet for career options. Enforcement of any kind was out, and she had signed an agreement to stay away from anything that made her publicly visible or was even remotely life threatening. She was supposed to “blend,” but she couldn't see herself fitting into retail work or an office job.

When the movers had gone, she walked through the apartment: two bedrooms, two bathrooms—one an en suite—a large sitting room and dining area and a compact kitchen. The front of the apartment opened onto a small, sun-drenched balcony that framed a breathtaking view of the coastline.

She made her bed, unpacked her cases, then started on the sitting room. The movers had unpacked the computer and placed it on her desk, which was situated in an alcove.

Anticipation hummed through her as she booted up the computer. She clicked on an icon and her filing system opened up. She stared at the directory. It was empty.

She clicked back to the desktop and tried again. All of the programs were still there and the computer itself was functioning perfectly, but the files were gone.

The movers had assembled her desk and placed the computer on it, but they hadn't connected it up or switched anything on, so there was no way they could have wiped the files. It was possible whoever had emptied her apartment had damaged the hard drive, but she didn't think so. The hard drive had simply been cleaned of all the content she'd saved, which meant someone had gotten into the system and wiped the files.

Dana had used her apartment until Bayard had transferred her to a hotel closer to the hospital, but she traveled with her own laptop; she didn't ever use Taylor's computer. According to Bayard, her apartment had been locked and under surveillance. Nothing had been touched until the movers had arrived.

It was possible that Colenso or Janet had seen the files and uploaded them, and maybe even searched through her computer, but not likely. They had kept her in the loop every step of the way, and there was nothing on her home computer that couldn't be obtained from her work computer.

If they had decided that any of the files on her PC contained anything sensitive, they would have had to go through a legal process to impound the PC, then document the removal of the information. Even if that had happened, which was unlikely because she would have to have been informed, they would have taken only the files that were sensitive. Wiping everything didn't make sense, unless whoever had done it had been operating clandestinely, in a hurry, and had used a comprehensive wipe program.

Skin crawling, she began opening the boxes of books and files stacked against the bookshelf. The movers had offered to fill the shelves for her, but she'd insisted on doing the job herself.

She emptied one box, then another. Reference books spilled across the floor. Ripping open a third box, she pulled out more books. The fourth box contained a set of bookends, ornaments and sporting trophies from her school years, all wrapped in bubble wrap. At the bottom was the carved wooden box she kept her disks in.

Tearing the bubble wrap off the box, she opened it up, expecting it to be empty. The disks were still there.

Pushing to her feet, she checked the desk drawers, then walked through to the spare bedroom and opened the boxes stored in there. She found a few more books, her collection of CDs, vases and photographs, but there was no sign of her notes and files. Whoever had gone through her desk and computer had taken every disk, every file and loose piece of paper. They had been thorough; the only thing they had missed had been the box of disks, because it looked more like an ornament than a storage box.

She would call her WITSEC contact and get him to check with Colenso. She didn't think Colenso would have any answers, but he needed to know that her apartment had been broken into and that information had been stolen.

She stared at the computer keyboard. Movers at each end had handled it. In any case, in the few seconds she had used the keyboard and the mouse, she had probably obliterated any prints that might have been left behind, but there was always the possibility that she could pick up a partial, or even a whole print on one of the keys.

Walking through to the spare room, she found a box filled with FBI memorabilia. Among the contents was a fingerprinting kit she'd used when she'd completed a course in evidence collection.

Setting out spare bedsheets on the carpet to protect it from the fine graphite dust, she dusted the surfaces of the computer and the desk. An hour later she had transferred a number of prints to strips of clear sticky tape and smoothed the tape onto plastic sheets, sealing the prints in.

Most of the prints had been obtained from the sides of the monitor, hard drive and the desk, which indicated they probably belonged to the movers. The keyboard and the mouse had given her a small number of well-defined prints, but Taylor was almost certain they were all her own. Aside from the keys she knew she had touched, the keyboard had been clean when there should have been prints on every key, which meant whoever had used her computer had wiped it down.

When she was finished, she labeled and dated the prints and placed them in an envelope. She would express them to Pete Burdett, her contact at WITSEC, in the morning, with a note to forward them on to Colenso so they could run the prints through AFIS and NCIC.

She carried the sheets through to the laundry then wiped the computer and the desk down with a damp cloth. Now that she had collected the prints, her prime concern was to obliterate the touch of whoever had broken into her apartment.

The fact that the theft had happened weeks ago should have blunted the shock, but the clinical manner in which the information had been stolen, and the time it had taken for her to realize a crime had been committed creeped her out. In all likelihood, they had searched through her things to make sure they had gotten everything. The fact that they hadn't found the disks was sheer luck.

Walking through to the kitchen, she washed her hands, which were coated with a fine film of black graphite. When she'd dried off, she searched in the cupboard for the coffeepot and the fresh grounds she'd brought with her on the trip down.

She measured the coffee, then searched for a mug while the filter machine gurgled and spit.

Unable to wait for the machine to finish dripping, she removed the carafe and poured coffee into a mug, ignoring the burning smell as liquid splashed onto the hot plate. After replacing the carafe, she carried the mug out onto the balcony.

Holding the mug with both hands, she lifted the coffee to her lips and sipped. The hot, sharp taste filled her mouth. There was no sugar, milk or cream, but it didn't matter. It was the familiarity of the taste, and the comfort of the ritual she craved right now.

The sun dazzled her eyes as she stared at the unfamiliar view and tried to relax. She was hundreds of miles from D.C. and her old life, about as far from Eureka and the ordeal with Lopez as she could get without leaving the country. But, suddenly, Wilmington, North Carolina, didn't seem far enough.

T
wo days later, Taylor got a call from Burdett to inform her that Colenso had checked out the prints and come up blank. Colenso had also gone to her previous apartment, but with two sets of movers and a cleaning firm through in as many weeks, evidence collection hadn't been viable.

Burdett cleared his throat. “Are you sure someone tampered with your computer? Maybe it was a virus.”

Taylor's jaw tightened. “Is that what Colenso said?”

“He thought it was a possibility.”

“The last time I used my computer was the night before I got shot. It was working perfectly then. If I'd had a virus, I would have known about it.”

“Maybe it's a new one, and you got unlucky. Have you had your computer checked out?”

“I've checked it myself. My computer security is very good. The program doesn't register an intrusion.”

Seconds later, Taylor hung up and stared at the slice of beach she could see from her kitchen window.

Instead of working the case, Colenso seemed more interested in implying that she was paranoid and closing down what could have been a valuable lead. It didn't make sense, when the theft of information connected with the Lopez case and linked so closely with the shooting of an agent researching that case should have guaranteed it a high priority.

Maybe Burdett had relayed the message to her in an insensitive way, but Taylor didn't think so. Pete Burdett was a professional. If Colenso had been actively pursuing an investigation, he would have said so.

Collecting the keys to the apartment, Taylor slipped dark glasses onto the bridge of her nose, locked up and started her daily progress toward the beach. She called it progress, because the gentle stroll didn't qualify as walking. Every time she reverted to her normal stride, her chest tightened up and she was reminded that her lung, although mostly healed, still wasn't operating at full capacity.

Closer to the water, the view wasn't as idyllic. The beach was crowded with tourists and the wind had turned easterly, making the sea choppy and turbid. Removing her sandals, she strolled below the line of dried seaweed and shells that delineated the high-tide mark and began following the gentle curve of the bay, working through the breathing exercises designed to expand her lung capacity.

Half an hour later, she stopped at a beachside café, bought a soda and sat at a shaded table, sipping the icy drink while she got her breath back. The café was at the edge of a crowded marketplace, filled with stalls selling local produce and handmade crafts. Idly, Taylor watched people strolling from stall to stall. A young woman wearing a bikini, a bright blue muslin sarong around her waist; a couple pausing by a hot-dog stand, the man tall and lean with glasses, his dark hair close cropped, the woman carefree in a red ankle-length dress, her hair tumbled around her shoulders.

Her eye attracted by the vibrant red, she automatically continued to watch the woman in the ankle-length dress, now on her own.

A tall man with glasses.

She searched the line of stalls, but the man she had thought was with the woman had already moved out of view. Leaving the drink on the table, she threaded through the crowd, moving in the direction he had gone. The odds were it hadn't been the man she'd noticed in the library studying a microfilm—it was crazy to think that he could be—but something about him had struck a chord.

She caught a glimpse of a dark head, the glint of spectacles. She rounded a stall, moving into a new lane of the market that was crowded with shoppers and rank upon rank of colorful sarongs fluttering in the breeze. She broke into a jog. If the man had been strolling, he should have been visible. It was possible he had doubled back, but she didn't think so, because she had been careful to check either side of the lane.

Gasping, her chest burning, she stopped at the edge of the market. A movement off to her right jerked her head around. Her guy had just crossed the road. She watched as he disappeared into the shaded entrance of a shop.

Her hand automatically grasping for a gun that wasn't there, she crossed the road, ignoring a blaring horn. Instead of entering the shop, she rounded the corner in time to see the man climb into a vehicle at the end of the street. He had gone into the shop then exited by a side door. She caught a glimpse of the dark sedan as he accelerated through an intersection, but she was too distant to establish the make of the vehicle or the number plate.

Heart pounding, she leaned against a wall and waited for her breathing to stabilize. She hadn't seen him head-on, but she was sure it was the man she had noticed in the library in D.C. the week before she had gotten shot.

Offhand, Taylor couldn't think of any other reason for him to be in Wilmington…other than to finish the job he had started in D.C.

Just how he had found her was an interesting question. WITSEC was supposed to be foolproof.

 

An hour later, she was seated in the U.S. Marshal's office in downtown Wilmington. Burdett had filed a report and she had worked up an Identi-Kit, which they had run through their computer system without a conclusive result. A call had been put through to Colenso, who was in a meeting. He would return the call as soon as he was free. Burdett had authorized around-the-clock security for her apartment. In the meantime, he advised her to go home and stay inside until he contacted her.

Burdett rang back later that afternoon.

Taylor grabbed the phone. “What have you got?”

“Nothing yet. Colenso's got his people looking into it.”

Her fingers tightened on the receiver. The words carried an unexpected sting. “Colenso's people” meant Colenso had gotten the job she had been in line for. “I need to talk to Colenso. I saw the guy.
I can describe him.
”

“We have the description. Everything's taken care of.” Burdett's voice was flat. She was an exagent recovering from a near-fatal shooting. The WITSEC placement was an adjustment. They would post security around her apartment for a couple of days and ask the Wilmington PD to keep an eye out for the man she had described. If there was genuine cause for alarm, they would move her to another location, but at this stage, they would follow procedure.

Taylor stared at the phone after Burdett had hung up.

If
there was genuine cause for alarm.

Colenso didn't believe her. Neither did Burdett.

Something was wrong. Burdett had been polite, but he had treated her as if she was paranoid and overanxious.

The attitude was staggering. She was used to instant credibility. She wasn't an agent any longer, but that didn't mean her expertise and investigative savvy had evaporated overnight.

She couldn't understand why Colenso wasn't interested. Twice, she had supplied him with information, and both times he had ignored her. Granted, she hadn't seen the man's face. It was possible she had made a mistake, and that there was a reasonable explanation as to why he had been in such a hurry.

She paced the sitting room, avoiding the area in front of the patio. Seaview Apartments was surrounded by eight-foot-high masonry walls, but suddenly, the large picture windows and sliding doors felt open and exposed. It was secure from the street, but not from neighboring buildings.

Walking through to her bedroom, she opened the drawer of her bedside table and took out the handgun and shoulder holster she kept there. She found the magazine for the Glock in a box in her wardrobe, checked the load and slotted the clip home.

Slipping the shoulder holster on was like sliding back into her old persona. Shrugging into a light cotton jacket that was loose enough to cover the bulge of the weapon, she found her purse and searched for the business card Jack Jones had slipped into a side pocket.

She studied the card, then replaced it. Her mind made up, she collected fresh underwear and toiletries, and slipped the items into her handbag. She would be away a minimum of three nights, but she didn't want to carry too much with her in case Burdett's security picked up on the fact that she was leaving town. She could buy whatever she needed when she got to Key Largo.

Locking the apartment, she walked in the direction of the nearest shopping center, which was less than two blocks away. Burdett's security detail was easy to spot, an unmarked car parked across the road from the entrance to Seaview Apartments.

She found a cash machine and withdrew the maximum her account would allow, then walked into the nearest rental car agency. Maybe it was paranoid to avoid using her credit cards, but after today, she was officially paranoid.

Twenty minutes later, after handing over more than half of her cash, she drove an SUV out onto U.S. 17 and headed south.

She drove until she was bleary eyed, checking the rearview mirror frequently and making stops in smaller towns, just to confuse anyone who might be following her. Burdett wouldn't be happy when he found out she'd gone, but for the first time in weeks Taylor finally felt in control.

Just short of midnight, she booked into a motel in Jacksonville. After sending out for pizza, she had a shower and dropped into bed.

She arrived in Key Largo late the following afternoon. Driving to a mall, she walked into a discount clothing store, purchased fresh underwear, a pair of loose white cotton pants and a fresh tank top. After paying for the items, she walked back into the changing room, removed the tags, changed into the fresh clothing and placed the worn outfit in the plastic bag. After driving all day, she needed a shower, but that would have to wait.

Parking at the marina noted on Jack Jones's business card, she took a few moments to stretch and cool off then walked into the office and made some inquiries.

An obliging receptionist indicated the pamphlet that advertised her father's charter service and offered to take a booking. Refusing the offer, Taylor picked up the pamphlet and followed the directions to his mooring.

At first glance, dressed in a colorful loose shirt and board shorts, a straw hat pulled down over his forehead, she didn't recognize Jack Jones. When he saw her, he dropped the cloth he'd been using to clean chrome fittings on the flying bridge of a gleaming launch, climbed down a ladder and stepped up onto the dock. “What's happened?”

No preliminaries, just cut to the chase. Taylor's throat tightened at his instant concern. The reaction caught her by surprise. “A man I'd noticed at a library I'd been using to research Lopez in D.C. turned up in Wilmington.”

His gaze sharpened. “Bayard didn't take care of it?”

“I wouldn't be here if he had.”

If the comment stung, he didn't show it, but then she had already seen an example of his mental toughness in the hospital.

His gaze moved slightly downward, subtly letting her know that he knew she was armed. He jerked his head in the direction of the launch. “You'd better come on board.”

She followed him into a sleek, roomy cabin and watched as he made coffee. He handed her a mug. She added powdered creamer and sugar from the containers on the bench and sat down on one of the leather banquettes on either side of a polished mahogany table.

She caught Jack staring at her as she drank, the first break in that tough facade she'd seen. He looked older than he had in Washington, rumpled and tired after a day out on the ocean, and suddenly the link between them hit her.

She had always had trouble with emotions. When she chose someone, she was fiercely loyal, and she didn't let go, no matter what. Jack Jones had been the exception to the rule: she had been forced to let him go. Now she had to adjust to the fact that he was alive, and he was nothing like she remembered.

He sipped his coffee. “So, who is this guy?”

“He's not Bureau and he can't be working for the U.S. Marshal's office, because he was in the picture before the shooting.” She watched a gull settle onto a wharf piling. “Unless they've had me tailed since Eureka.”

She'd gone over the reasons why the U.S. Marshal's office would allocate a chunk of their annual budget to surveiling her until she was tired of thinking about it. The U.S. Marshals had their own very specific agenda. In Lopez's case, they were solely concerned with apprehending him so he could stand trial. It was a stretch to believe that they had been watching her on the off chance that Lopez would try to make contact.

“That brings us back to Lopez.” He reached down into a cabinet slotted beneath a padded window seat and pulled out a notebook and a pen. “Describe the guy who was following you.”

She gave him the details. “I could help you find him.”

“No.”

The answer didn't surprise her. Jack Jones had been a part of a criminal underworld, she had been an agent; he couldn't work with her breathing down his neck. But she couldn't let go of the fact that the man who had followed her could be a bona fide lead in the Lopez case. “You'll need my cell phone number.”

His expression didn't change as he wrote the number down, but the tension was palpable. Taylor couldn't help but be aware that asking Jack Jones for help—giving him her number—strengthened a link she'd spent years rejecting.