Mortal Faults (5 page)

Nestled in the workstation in her bedroom, Abby had spent two hours on her computer, hopping from one Internet database to another. A reverse directory listed Andrea as the sole resident at the Keystone Drive address. More exotic research tools supplied the woman’s Social Security number, date of birth, and credit history.

She’d been at her current address for a little more than a year. Before that, she’d lived in St. Petersburg, Florida, for seven years. She’d bought the Chevy Malibu in Florida eight years ago. Her credit card accounts had been opened eight years ago also. Her driver’s license had been issued in Florida at the same time.

Before that—nothing. There was a prior address on file with some credit agencies, but when Abby ran a search, it didn’t check out. The address was real, but no Andrea Lowry, or Andrea anybody, had ever resided there.

Phony background information, and an identity that had appeared out of nowhere, fully formed. It looked as if somebody had reinvented herself.

Had she been Rose Moran before she was Andrea Lowry? And if so, why make the switch?

There were many imaginable reasons for a change of ID. Andrea could be on the run from someone. Ex-boyfriend, abusive husband, even a stalker of her own. Or she might be hiding from the law.

There was another possibility. Witness protection. Andrea could have testified against somebody, then gone into hiding with the government’s help. Maybe her identity had been created by the feds, who had moved her to Florida. Then for reasons of her own she had come west.

Hard theory to test, though. If Andrea had been an L.A. resident, Abby could have used one of her contacts in the LAPD to check her out. But the town of San Fernando had its own police department, and Abby had no contacts there.

Anyway, if Andrea was in witness protection, it wouldn’t be in the bailiwick of local law enforcement. It was a federal program.

Well, she knew a fed. Hadn’t kept in touch over the past year and a half, but now seemed like a good time to catch up.

Abby found the number in her address book, then called the special agent in charge of the FBI’s Denver office.

The time was eleven p.m. in L.A., midnight in Denver. A little late for a phone call, but what the hell. Tess would be glad to hear from her.

Sure she would.

5

It was like riding a wave, a swell of motion that expanded into a long curling comber arching upward, fighting free of gravity until it hit the shore and broke apart in a crash of spangled fragments, slivers of light.

“Oh, my God,” Tess said. “My God.”

On top of her, Joshua Green smiled in the darkness. “Sounds like”—his speech was punctuated by hard breathing—“a religious experience.”

“Definitely.” Her voice was faint and hoarse.

He straddled her a moment longer, making the moment last, then rolled clear and lay at her side. “Too bad we have to keep this a secret,” he said between gasps. “The women in the office might look at me differently if they heard your reports.”

“And why would you care how they look at you?”

“Hey, I’ve got to keep my options open, in case our relationship goes south.”

Tess punched him on the arm.

He grunted. “Ow. Watch it, boss.”

She liked it when he called her “boss.” The old-fashioned term, still in use in the FBI, was accurate, if not appropriate. As special agent in charge of the Denver office, she really was his boss. He reported to her daily in the role of ASAC—assistant special agent in charge. “I work under you,” he not infrequently pointed out.

She’d been seeing Josh Green for more than a year, but their affair remained secret—or undercover, another of Josh’s cheerful euphemisms. The Bureau disapproved of sexual relationships between agents of different rank, especially when one agent was the other’s immediate subordinate. They could both be disciplined if they were found out. But clandestine activity was what feds were supposed to be good at, and besides, the lure of the forbidden added an extra zing to their liaisons.

“Someday your sense of humor is going to land you in trouble,” she warned.

“It already did. That punch
hurt
.”

She laughed, and then somewhere in the dark a phone was ringing.

“Who would call at midnight?” she asked.

“Somebody official, is my guess. It’s a cell phone.”

“I know. But is it mine or yours?”

“Can’t tell.”

“We really need to get different ring tones. One of these days you’re going to answer my phone or I’m going to answer yours ...”

“And the cat will be out of the proverbial bag. I think it’s your phone,” Josh added. “It has that cheap, tinny sound.”

“Thanks a lot.” Unfortunately he was right.

Tess got out of bed and crossed her bedroom to the dresser. Her groping hand found her cell and flipped it open. Caller ID showed a 310 area code. Los Angeles. She didn’t recognize the number.

“McCallum,” she answered.

“Hey, Tess. How’s tricks?”

“Oh, Christ.” She shut her eyes, feeling the sudden onset of a migraine.

Abby’s voice teased her through the receiver. “Is that any way to greet an old pal?”

Tess glanced at Josh, then carried the phone into the living room, where she hoped her end of the conversation would be out of earshot. “Sorry,” she said. “But—well, actually I’m not sorry.”

“You sound kind of conflicted about this.”

“No, not really. Truth is, I’m remarkably sure of things. I’ve had a lot of time to think, Abby.” She kept her voice low. “To think about the Rain Man case.”

“Living in the past? Not a good idea.”

Tess plowed ahead. “It was a mistake. I never should have hooked up with you. I regret it now.”

“If we hadn’t hooked up, another two or three women might have drowned. We saved lives, soul sister.”

“I’m not your sister. What we did was wrong. I knew it at the time. I was never comfortable with it. I can’t operate like you.”

“Don’t feel bad. We can’t all be superstars. As they say at the beach, they also surf who only stand and wade.”

Tess massaged her forehead. “Will you listen to me? I’m telling you that I cannot be dealing with you again, Abby. Not in any way, shape, or form. We can’t even be having this conversation.”

“And yet we are. It’s just one of those paradoxes.”

“I’m hanging up now.”

“No, you aren’t.” Abby’s tone hardened. “You can’t act like we don’t know each other. You
owe
me, Tess.”

“For what?”

“A little thing called saving your butt, if you recall.”

“That debt goes both ways—if
you
recall.”

“I was hoping you’d forgotten that part.”

“I haven’t. We don’t owe each other anything. We’re even.”

“No, we’re
connected
. We’re like two paired electrons that continue to influence each other over vast distances.”

Tess was losing the thread of the discussion, not an uncommon occurrence when speaking with Abby. “What are you talking about?”

“Quantum entanglement. Or loyalty. Take your pick.”

“It’s not an issue of loyalty.”

“Sure it is. Didn’t you ever read about Androcles and the lion? Androcles took a thorn out of the lion’s paw. Years later he was thrown to the lions in the Colosseum. And one of those lions was the very same one he’d helped. And the lion didn’t care, and ate Androcles anyway.”

“That isn’t how the story goes.”

“I saw the director’s cut. Point is, that mangy lion showed no loyalty. Do you want to be a mangy lion, Tess?”

Tess had forgotten how truly irritating Abby could be. “You’re not going to manipulate me into getting involved in another one of your cases.”

“No involvement. You’re in Denver, I’m in L.A. How can there be involvement?”

“Well, you didn’t call just to chat.”

“I need only one tiny favor.”

“I can’t do favors for you.”

“Tess, I pulled a thorn out of your paw. That has to count for something. Anyway, it’s not a big deal. I just need to know if a given individual is enrolled in the witness protection program.”

“The U.S. Marshals run that program, not the FBI.”

“Yeah, like you don’t have access to their databases?”

She did, of course, and Abby, of course, knew it. “I’m not going to help you,” Tess said. Somehow the living room of her apartment, which had always seemed big enough until now, was suddenly too small, the walls closing in like the jaws of the trap.

“It’s not a big deal, Tess. Just a little tidbit of info that no one will ever miss.”

She felt her resolve failing. “I can’t do it,” she said again.

“You can if you believe you can. Some Zen wisdom there. How about it, Grasshopper?”

Tess lowered her head. The phone was hot in her hand, or maybe it was her hand that was hot. She knew she should refuse. Should end the call. But Abby was right. There was a debt, and a connection.

“If I try,” she heard herself say tonelessly, “will you promise to leave me alone after this?”

“Sure. Until the next time I need a favor.”

“Abby ...”

“You know, for a lion who got relief from a painful foot injury, you sure are grouchy.”

“That’s what happens when people call me at midnight.”

“Did I wake you?”

“Uh, no. Just ... reading.”

“Reading in bed?”

“Yes.”

“What’s his name?”

Tess blinked. “I didn’t say—”

“You didn’t have to. I actually
heard
your face go red with a demure Catholic-schoolgirl blush. So is it serious? You two going steady?”

“I ... it’s somebody I ... never mind.”

“You’re not giving me the good dish, Tess. Is he married?”

“Of course not.”

“Just asking. Younger than you?”

Tess had to smile. “Are you saying I’m old?”

“Not at all. I’m only wondering if you’re robbing the cradle. You know, women reach their sexual peek at forty. Men, at eighteen. Something to think about.”

“I’m not forty.”

“The question is, is
he
eighteen?”

Despite herself, Tess had to laugh. “No, he’s not. But he is a couple of years younger than I am.”

“Good in the sack?”

“Come on, you don’t expect me to answer that.”

“There’s that blush again.”

The ridiculous thing was, Tess really was blushing. She could feel the warmth in her face. “I just can’t talk about it now,” she said.

“Sex between consenting adults is nothing to be embarrassed about, no matter what those prickly old nuns taught you. I mean—he
is
an adult, isn’t he? Of legal age?”

“He’s thirty-six. How did we get on this subject, anyway?”

“You know how it is with me. One thing leads to another. There doesn’t have to be any logical progression. It’s more like stream of consciousness.”

“Like swimming upstream, I’d say.”

“Hey, you made a funny. Good for you. This guy is loosening you up, Special Agent. Taking some of the starch out of your undies.”

Tess sighed. She honestly did not know whether or not she liked Abby. She was quite sure she disapproved of her, but as for liking her ... that was another question.

“What is it you want from me?” she asked, resigned now.

“Got a pencil?”

“Hold on.” Tess found a pad and pen, and turned on a lamp. “Go.”

Abby gave the name, address, Social Security number, and other particulars of a woman whose personal history extended only eight years into the past.

“Got it,” Tess said when she finished scribbling. She still felt a little stupid for getting talked into this. “I assume I can reach you at the number you’re calling from.”

“It’s my cell. Handcuffed to my wrist at all times. And, Tess—”

“You don’t have to thank me.”

“Wasn’t gonna. I was just going to say I need the info ASAP.”

“I’ll do my best. There are no guarantees.”

“Never are, in our line of work.”

“You and I are
not
in the same line of work,” Tess said, but Abby had already hung up.

Tess refolded the phone and went into the bathroom. In the glow of a nightlight she ran some water from the tap and splashed her face. Her headache was stronger than before. Funny how even a brief dialogue with Abby was enough to start her head throbbing.

She looked at herself in the mirror. The face that gazed back was framed in a shoulder-length fall of strawberry blond hair, brushed daily to smooth out its natural curls. She came from Highlands stock; her ancestors had roamed the steep hillsides, braving the winter winds, dancing reels around bonfires, surviving poverty and famine and war. She sometimes wondered if she’d stayed this long in Denver because something about chill winds and mountain slopes spoke to her ancestral instincts.

Her forebears had been hard, tough people, and she thought there was a certain toughness in her, as well—a quality not immediately apparent in her smooth skin and quiet voice, but noticeable, perhaps, in the set of her mouth and the gray depths of her eyes. Few FBI agents ever drew their weapon in the field, and fewer still ever fired it, but in her fourteen-year career she had killed three men, each of whom had been doing his best to kill her. She’d had to be tough to survive those battles, and to survive the death of the one man—sorry, Josh—the one man she’d ever really loved. If there was such a thing as a soul mate, Paul Voorhees had been hers, and he still was, even if six years had gone by since a serial killer named Mobius had murdered him in a Denver suburb and left the body for her to find.

Mobius had been after her, not Paul. Sometimes she almost wished she had been home that night instead of him.

She sighed. Morbid thought. She was having a lot of those lately. Did Abby really have to ask her age? Two weeks ago she’d turned thirty-nine, and lately she was feeling every one of those years. Faint creases had appeared at the corners of her eyes, and she had to work harder to keep extra weight from collecting on her hips. She didn’t like it. Though still young by any reasonable standard, she was feeling old.

But at least she had Josh. He’d been good for her, even if they had to skulk around, dining in out-of-the-way restaurants and feigning disinterested professionalism on the job. And if women really did reach their sexual peak at forty, then she still had something to look forward to.

The thought made her smile, and the smile, she noticed, deepened those wrinkles near her eyes.

She left the bathroom and slipped back into bed.

“You okay?” Josh asked sleepily.

“Fine.”

“Who called?”

“Trouble.”

He rolled over. “Shouldn’t have answered, then,” he mumbled.

Tess shut her eyes. “Now you tell me.”