Net Force (33 page)

    “She left a palm print, a clean index, middle, and ring fingerprint and a smudged pinky.”

    Michaels nodded. This was a big deal. This might just save his ass.

    “Oh, and did I mention? We got a few cells and a little useable DNA?”

    “Dammit, Jay-”

    Jay laughed. “Well, I didn’t want to get your hopes up, Boss. It’s hardly anything to play with, a few stutters-just enough to know it
is
a woman, what her blood type is, that’s all.”

    “Jesus! Why didn’t you say so to begin with?”

    “That’s not how you tell a story, Boss. You save the best for the end. Anyway, we don’t have a match from the FBI, NCIC, UPolNet or AsiaPol files on prints or DNA profiles yet. It takes a while to run them all, but even if we don’t get her that way, she’s probably on record somewhere-DL, BioMed, BankSeal, somewhere. If she is, sooner or later she is going to pop up with red flags and sirens screaming. It’s just a matter of time.”

    “This is outstanding work,” Michaels said. “You did good, Jay.”

    “Nopraw.”

    “Excuse me?”

    “Just an expression, Boss. It means ‘no problem.’ You gotta keep current, you know. And did I mention-she paid for the lost dog? Sent the money by courier again. We couldn’t backtrack it this time, but that was nice of her, wasn’t it?”

    Michaels was elated, but he tried not to let it overwhelm him. “What about the other thing, the programmer?”

    “Getting close to him. He’s a Russian, Ukrainian, something like that. I got Baby Huey-the SuperCray mainframe-winnowing possibilities, checking profiles.”

    “I thought you said he could mask his profile.”

    “Oh, yeah, he can, but only partially. I got enough of his style down, I’ll know him when I see him. It’s like a painter. Everybody knows a Picasso when they see one, and how it doesn’t look like a Renoir. Style is what gives it away. He’s too good to hide all his talent. Some of it will seep out of any bushel he buries it under.”

    “Truly outstanding work, Jay. Thank you.”

    “Well, Boss, it
is
my job. But, uh, if you remember this when you do performance reviews and raises next time, I wouldn’t mind.”

    Both men laughed.

    “I should get back to it,” Jay said. “I’ve dumped this into your folder, and I’ll check in when I get something new.”

    “Thanks again.”

    After Jay left, Michaels called up the material and scanned it again, ordering it in his mind. When he was comfortable with it, he reached for his com to put in a call to Walt Carver. The Director was not going unarmed to his meeting with the President this morning. It might even be enough so Michaels would get to keep his job for a little while longer. His sense of relief was a surprise. It was a lot stronger than he would have thought. Maybe he wasn’t quite as ready to chuck it all as he’d rationalized.

    “Director Carver’s office.”

    “Hey, June, it’s Alex Michaels. He in yet?”

    “Since six, Commander. Hold on a moment, I’ll put you through.”

    As he waited for Carver, Michaels looked up and saw Toni pass by his window. He nodded at her, but she didn’t make eye contact as she headed for her office. Well. Probably she was tired-they’d all been working without a break for too long. He’d call her in and let her know what Jay had found, as soon as he was done telling the Director. She’d be happy to hear the news.

    “Good morning, Alex. You have good news for me?”

    “Yes, sir, I believe so. Very good news.”

    

    
Wednesday, October 6th, 9:11 cum. Long Island

    The Selkie stood on the doorstep, holding a small box wrapped in expensive paper. She wore crisp, dark blue cotton slacks, a matching long-sleeved shirt and a baseball cap the same color. A few wisps of the blond wig peeped from under the cap, and she had on just enough makeup to look five years older than she was. The wrapped package was the size of a box a diamond necklace might fit into. The van parked behind her on the street was a rental, plain, white, with stolen tags in place. She looked the part of a delivery woman in the upscale neighborhood.

    She rang the bell.

    A minute passed. The Selkie rang the bell again.

    “What?” came a sleepy voice from the intercom.

    “I have a delivery from Steinberg’s Jewelers for a Miz Brigette Olsen?”

    “A delivery?”

    Jesus, honey, which part of that didn’t you understand?

    The Selkie glanced at the clipboard she held. “From a Mr. Genaloni?”

    “Hold on a sec.”

    The woman inside opened the door only as far as the chain latch would allow. From what the Selkie could see through the gap, Brigette was young, blond, busty, what the Irish called a fine strapping girl. She wore black silk pajamas and a faded blue bathrobe. And if the phone call that the Selkie had listened in on last night was correct, Brigette would receive a visit sometime today from Ray Genaloni. The Selkie was ready. Brigette extended one hand for the package. “Give it to me.”

    “I’ll need you to sign for it, ma’am,” the Selkie said. She waved the clipboard. She glanced at her watch, as if she had places to go, things to do.

    Brigette hesitated.

    The Selkie could probably boot the door and pop the safety chain loose. Those things were nearly always tacked on with short and useless screws, but she didn’t really want to take the risk of somebody seeing her-kicking in the front door of a gangster’s mistress in broad daylight was not the smart way to go. Or she could pull the small.22 pistol she had tucked into the inside-the-waistband holster, under her shirt, behind her right hip and threaten the woman-Open up, honey, or get drilled. But that was risky. And she definitely didn’t want the woman dead.

    One more bit of business and neither way would be necessary. “Oh, sorry, I almost forgot, there’s a note I’m supposed to read.” She unfolded a piece of paper from the clipboard. “Says here, ‘Ray says wear this and nothing else for me this evening.’ ”

    The Selkie stared at the ground, as if embarrassed.

    Brigette laughed and undid the safety chain. “That’s Ray, all right.”

    She opened the door. People were so gullible.

    

    
Wednesday, October 6th, 11:46 a.m. Quantico

    Alex Michaels was on his way to the cafeteria, though he wasn’t really very hungry. The hot leads of just two days ago had petered out. Jay Gridley’s winnow of programmers living in Russia had come up blank. And the DNA and fingerprints of the woman who had collected Scout at a Schenectady, New York, hotel hadn’t found a match on any of the systems they had checked.

    Gridley had moved his search for the programmer into the surrounding CIS countries, and was also widening the net he’d thrown for the assassin, but so far zip on either.

    Toni Fiorella had, it seemed to Michaels, been avoiding him. She’d missed a staff meeting, left early and generally looked at him as if he’d developed some highly contagious disease she didn’t want to get close enough to catch.

    Well, at least he still had his job. Once the Director had told the President they had pictures of Day’s assassin and were going to be able to run her down in the near future, that had been enough.

    Whether that was true or not was another matter, but certainly they were better off than they had been. It
was
going to happen sooner or later.

    Ahead of him in the hall, Michaels saw John Howard walking toward the cafeteria. Howard saw him as he reached the entrance. He nodded. “Commander.” He was polite, but no more.

    Michaels didn’t understand why the colonel didn’t like him, but it was apparent he did not. “Colonel.”

    Howard moved off, not offering to eat and visit with his boss.

    But Jay Gridley came bustling up, grinning, and Michaels filed Howard away to deal with later.

    “Tell me you’ve got good news and that raise is a done deal,” Michaels said.

    “Well, I dunno how good it is, but, lemme see, I, uh, got the programmer. How’s that?”

    “No!”

    “Yep, yep, yep! I was right, he’s a Russian. Emigrated to Chechnya, been living there for years, that’s why we missed him on the first passes.” Jay held up his flatscreen so the image on it was visible.

    “Commander, meet Vladimir Plekhanov.”

    

    
Wednesday, October 6th, 3:30 p.m. New York City

    Genaloni glanced at the clock on his desk. Enough. He needed to get out of here. Shuffling forms, electronic or paper, was enough to drive you nuts after a couple of hours. He waved the intercom on. “Roger, get the car. We’re going out to Brigette’s.”

    “Yes, sir.”

    What he needed after being cooped up with the pressures of business all day was a place to unwind and somebody to cut loose with. Nothing like getting your ashes hauled to mellow you out. And if they left now, they’d beat most of the rush.

    Being rich had its perks, all right.

    

    
Wednesday, October 6th, 3:40 p.m. Long Island

    Brigette had been extremely cooperative. As soon as she’d gotten over her surprise at seeing the pistol in the delivery woman’s gloved hand, her first words had been:

    “Oh, shit.”

    The tone hadn’t been one of fear, but of irritation. As if she’d just discovered it was raining when she’d planned to lie in the sunshine.

    Now, the van was parked a block over, in the driveway of a vacant house for sale-a chore the Selkie had done while Brigette had been handcuffed to her kitchen plumbing.

    Back in place, she’d uncuffed the woman and allowed her to dress.

    As she had been slipping into her black silk panties, Brigette had turned those sweet cornflower-blue eyes on the Selkie and said, “Are you going to kill me, too?”

    No doubt in her mind as to why the Selkie was here. No brainless bimbo, this one.

    “No, why should I? You do what you’re supposed to do, Genaloni goes down, I’m gone.”

    “He’ll have bodyguards with him. They’ll be out front.”

    “How many?”

    “A couple.”

    Apparently being cooperative again-but lying. Genaloni would have at least four guards, five if you counted his driver. One of them would be watching the back, too. Brigette was trying to cover her ass-more than the silk G-string she had on did. If her sugar daddy took the hit, she could hope his killer would let her live because she’d helped her. If Genaloni survived and the delivery woman fell, sweet Brigette could tell him how she’d lied to protect him.

    “You don’t seem too upset that your ride is about to get erased.”

    The blonde slipped on a natural-colored raw silk blouse, no bra under it, and buttoned it. She noticed the other woman’s look. “He likes to see my nipples,” she said. Then she shrugged. “He’s a mob guy. It’s a risky business. I have a little put away, and I don’t figure I’ll have much trouble getting another honey. If it was good enough for Genaloni, there will be other mob guys who’ll want a taste.”

    The Selkie grinned. No sentimentality for this girl. She knew what she was and meant to make the most of it. The Selkie kind of liked that about Brigette, her being straight up and no bullshit.

    “Somebody might blame you.”

    “Why should they? I’ll let them wire me with a stressbox and I’ll tell them the truth. You stuck a gun in my face-what could I do?”

    “I guess that means you’ll tell them what I look like, too, right?”

    There was a moment of hesitation as Brigette scanned that, tried to put some spin on it. Then she said, “Yeah, I’ll tell them. But that’s a disguise, right?”

    “What if they ask if it’s a disguise?”

    “I can get by that one.”

    This was getting interesting. “Really. How?”

    Brigette pulled a microskirt up over her long legs, zipped it and tucked the blouse into it. “Depends on how you ask the question. If they ask, ‘Do you think Ray’s killer was wearing a disguise?’ I can say, ‘No,’ and it’ll scan as truth.”

    “Really?”

    “Sure. Because I don’t
think
you’re wearing one, I
know
you are. I’ve been around makeup before.”

    The Selkie grinned. “Why would you do that? Cover for me?”

    “You could come back later and delete me if you think I ratted you out.”

    Her logic was frail, but the Selkie didn’t point that out. If Brigette did a good enough job ratting her out, the mob might find and kill Ray’s assassin, and she wouldn’t be around to threaten sweet Brigette’s peace of mind.

    Could she trust her? Uh-huh. Right. The Selkie had no doubt that her target’s mistress would sing an entire opera when asked by those who wanted to hear it.

    Brigette found a pair of silk stockings, bunched one into gathers, then slipped it onto her left foot and up her leg. The Selkie watched, intrigued by the woman’s complete lack of modesty and emotion regarding the upcoming deletion.

    Brigette caught the look. She smiled. “You like women? I can show you a good time while we wait.”

    The Selkie shook her head. “Thanks. Not while I’m working.”

    Ray’s girl was a cool one, all right. The Selkie wouldn’t want to be dangling over a cliff with sweet Brigette on the other end of the rope-not unless she had a wad of cash in her hand to bribe her to hang on to the lifeline.

    Still, Brigette would be helpful. The Walther TPH.22 pistol the Selkie held was kind of a scaled-down version of James Bond’s PPK. It was an excellent example of the gunmaker’s art, the TPH, high-grade stainless steel, small and compact, very accurate. But the tiny.22 round was not a man-stopper out of a pistol unless it hit the central nervous system. A spine or brain shot was necessary for a certain kill. If, as Ray came up the walk, Brigette started screaming, a head shot would be difficult. Not impossible-she could make that shot with this piece out to twenty yards-but by that time, the TPH would be wearing the suppressor, to cut down on the firing noise. The barrel wasn’t long enough to let the Stinger ammo achieve supersonic speed, and the suppressor would cut the velocity even more as it absorbed the exhaust gases with the sound. Unless you put the round into an eye, the target might survive. The skull was hard, bullets had been known to glance right off. And hitting an eye with the suppressor blocking the sights, well, that was iffy.