Paradise Crime Series Box Set Page 3

  The Ghost rose from behind the Asian-styled black lacquer desk of his seldom-used official office. He walked around to the front, hand extended. “Thanks so much for coming to check out our company, Mr. Hansen.”

  Hansen was a small gray man ill prepared for the humidity of Hawaii in a gabardine suit and shiny black dress shoes. Pearls of sweat adorned his bald pate and the hand he extended the Ghost was damp. “Thank God you have air conditioning in here.”

  “Every comfort for our clients, and for our computers, of course.” The Ghost gestured to a seating arrangement around a low table featuring a vase of ikebana bird-of-paradise. “Why don’t you tell me how we can serve you.”

  “I’m here on behalf of a client. My client prefers to remain anonymous, and has security concerns.”

  “Of course he does. You’ve come to the right place.”

  The interview proceeded well, and ended with the Ghost’s assistant bringing in contracts for Hansen to sign by proxy for his powerful, rich, anonymous employer.

  Under the Ghost’s elegant black silk shirt, his heart thudded with excitement. He kept his body still and breath controlled with the core of inner discipline he’d cultivated through years of martial arts and meditation training.

  This big fish that had just swum into his net had connections in Europe and Asia, and if he were happy with the Ghost’s services, more would come. Ushering Hansen out after another unpleasant handshake, the Ghost returned to his desk and sat down to develop an expansion plan.

  Ginger was draped across Sophie’s feet when she woke, much later than usual without her alarm. Sophie clicked on her rigs and did her morning bathroom business, feeling bruises from yesterday’s rescue op throb at her from various areas. She took a couple of ibuprofen and changed into exercise clothes.

  She sat down at her work area, putting on her headphones. “Call work,” she said aloud, pressing a button at her ear, and the phone feature rang. She pulled up Visual and moments later, she was looking at Waxman in the conference room. Her boss’s silver hair showed comb tracks, but tiredness showed in the pouches under his gray-blue eyes.

  “Good morning, sir. Just checking in. Do you need me to come in today?”

  “No. Internal is still processing your shooting. You have an afternoon psych debrief scheduled with Dr. LaSota.”

  Dread tightened Sophie’s belly. LaSota, one of the FBI’s psychologists, was not known for her bedside manner.

  “Yes, sir. Just wanted to let you know I extracted the data off the phones. The text messages the kidnappers received were sent from the same source.”

  “Did you get a number?”

  “A burner. And no luck tracking that tipoff email either. Did Gundersohn and Yamada come up with anything new?”

  “Yes. They found the lessor of the apartment and are tracking that to a holding company. They may route data later today to your workstation at the office to track the company further if they get stuck. We’re still trying to find out who’s running this supposed kidnapping ring, but until then, rest your injuries. How’s the chest, by the way?”

  “Sore.” She rubbed the bruise she’d spotted in the mirror this morning, lurid against her tawny skin. “But I’m fit for duty whenever you clear me. Send me material to work on at home.”

  “I thought we discussed that.”

  “We did.” Sophie kept her face impassive. She knew what her expression looked like. Assan had taught her that face, and she continued to find it useful. Eyes slightly down, submissive. Brows arched, alert as if waiting for directions. Mouth firm but slightly smiling, as if in a good mood. Oh yes, she had this mask practiced and she could keep it up for as long as she needed to. “I told you then about VPNs. My work station is secure.”

  “Agent Ang, we have policies for reasons and they are bigger than you. When you’re cleared for duty and back at your desk in the office, that’s when you’ll get more data to process.”

  “Yes, sir.” Sophie bit down on her frustration. She had no intention of following restrictions and policies developed by old white men who never got out from behind their desks and were unfamiliar with the new frontiers of tech. This was part of the reason the FBI was losing virtual battles online. “Call me when you’re ready for me to come in.”

  “I will.” Waxman sat back, smoothed a steel blue tie that exactly matched his eyes. Sophie wondered if his wife had picked it out for him. It seemed like the kind of thing a wife would do, the kind of thing she’d have done if Assan had been worthy of it. “I feel bad that the review process of DAVID is taking so long.”

  “Yes, it is.” Sophie kept her face immobile, unreadable. “I’m sorry about the delay as well. What’s the problem?”

  As if it didn’t much matter, when it was everything.

  She had to get through the meeting with Dr. LaSota and stay cleared for duty. She was hiding a lot lately, and planning to keep on hiding it.

  “It’s the consent issue that’s slowing things down the most. What we need to do is to set up blanket consents for DAVID to access other agency and law enforcement databases at will and as needed, and that’s really meeting some resistance. There are many who think DAVID could be a threat in the wrong hands.”

  Sophie’s muscles tightened with frustration. “I’ve developed some really good encryption software. I have every intention of guarding DAVID with the best protection the Bureau can come up with.”

  Waxman sighed, rubbed his chin. A slight rasp to the sound, amplified by the video feed, told Sophie he hadn’t shaved, unusual for such a tidy man. They must have been up late and back in the office early. “Of course. But that’s not the only issue. The bigwigs I’ve heard from are concerned it gives our agency too much power, having a program like DAVID that searches their databases for information for our cases, and not vice versa. So I don’t know what to do next to advocate for use of the program.”

  “DAVID works. It will catch criminals that would never be detected otherwise,” Sophie felt her cheeks heating. “Isn’t the greater good worth fighting for? It’s been almost a year. DAVID could have helped us find a dozen criminals already, by now.” And it had, she hoped, through the forwarding of modus operandi trends she’d sent to FBI offices all over the country.

  “I have the lawyers working on it. I’ve gone up the chain of command as far as the Director. I don’t know what else do to.” Waxman spread his hands on the desk. He had long-fingered hands, elegant and smooth as a concert pianist’s. There was no wedding ring on his finger. “I’ll keep working on it, but I want you to prepare yourself for the worst.”

  Sophie shot to her feet, pushing back her chair. “DAVID is mine. It’s not work product developed on the job. I made it in my spare time, at home. I own it, and I can get a patent on it.”

  Waxman’s eyes narrowed. “And do what with it? It’s built off of ViCAP, and that’s the Bureau’s proprietary database.”

  “There’s a lot you don’t know about DAVID. What it can and can’t do. And no, it’s not dependent on anything. DAVID just needs a host computer and it can analyze whatever database I send it to, working off hypotheses or keyword searches.”

  “Well. Perhaps you should do a presentation. Educate the higher-ups on how DAVID works and how it can serve the greater good.”

  Sophie sat slowly back down. “I can work on a presentation with some possible case scenarios.”

  “Good. I’ll set it up. The Director and the branch chiefs are coming out for a summit in Honolulu in a few weeks. We can plan a roll-out then.”

  Sophie’s hands prickled with sweat. A public presentation to the Director of the FBI and his branch chiefs terrified her. “I’ll get something ready.”

  “Good. And keep it in mothballs until then.” Waxman did a slow wink, a settling of one eyelid that told her he was perfectly aware she was still using the program. “I wouldn’t want you to get into trouble.”

  “Of course. Anything else, sir?”

  “Don’t forget your appointment w
ith Dr. LaSota.”

  “Yes, sir.” She cut the feed.

  Now, between the situation with her mother, being stalled on the case, and the news about DAVID, she really needed the distraction of going to the gym. But before she did, she called the patent lawyer her father had recommended to get the ownership of DAVID started.

  Sophie was warming up at the speed bag after her jump rope routine when Alika came out of his office, striding toward her. He was wearing his usual gym clothes when he wasn’t fighting—a loose pair of nylon workout shorts and a black tank with the Fight Club logo emblazoned on it. Sophie never got tired of just watching him walk around the gym.

  She kept up her speed bag workout, soothed by the rapid thumping of the swinging leather against her fists.

  Her former coach came to stand beside her. “Sophie, can I have a minute?”

  “I have another five minutes on the bag.” She didn’t look at him.

  “Okay, five minutes, then.” Alika went on around the room, speaking a word of encouragement and correction to the various people working out and sparring in the ring. Sophie was due in the ring for a sparring match in forty-five minutes, up against a Brazilian girl with a black belt in jiu-jitsu. Sophie could tell the girl had an attitude by the aggressive stares the Brazilian kept giving her from her stationary bike in the corner.

  As if it didn’t matter and she had all the time in the world, Sophie finished her five minutes on the bag and walked back to Alika’s office, stepping inside it to shut the door. She was surprised when he got up from behind his desk and pushed the switch on the wall that frosted over the viewing window into the gym, ensuring privacy.

  “Have a seat.” He gestured to one of the molded plastic chairs in front of his desk.

  She sat, pulling the Velcro tabs that secured her split-fingered gloves open and easing them off.

  “I wanted to have a chance to congratulate you properly on graduating from coaching.” Alika’s voice was carefully neutral as he sat down behind his desk. “I think we ended things on a—well, a tense note. I was angry that you beat me in the ring, and I don’t think the way I ended our coaching relationship acknowledged what a remarkable athlete you are and what a milestone you’ve achieved.”

  “Thank you.” Sophie didn’t know how to respond to this formal speech. Alika pulled open a drawer and removed a parchment certificate, heavy with gold leaf. He handed it across the desk to her.

  Sophie Malee Smithson Ang has achieved the highest level of Mixed Martial Arts training available through Fight Club, the paper read. It was dated and signed Alika Wolcott: Coach, Owner, and Operator.

  Sophie blinked. The black letters of her name swam in front of her eyes.

  “Thank you,” she whispered again. “I will treasure this.”

  “You should. I’ve never given one out before.” Alika smiled, and she liked the way a dimple creased his cheek, tiny fans of good humor highlighting golden-brown eyes under black brows. “I thought that, now that you’ve graduated, we might spend some time doing other things.”

  Sophie’s heart lurched and sped up. “What kind of things?” Her eyes went back to the certificate in her hands. The paper trembled.

  “I don’t know. A run-hike on one of the trails. Something.” He shrugged, elaborately casual. “I think I’ll miss our bouts.”

  “I’d like that.” Her voice was thready. “We can still spar, right? I need a partner who can really give me a workout.”

  A long pause followed this and he didn’t answer. Finally, she raised her eyes to his. They locked on hers in a heated gaze she’d only ever imagined he’d give her, a look that dried her mouth and loosened her knees. She was glad she was sitting down.

  “I can give you a workout you’ll never forget. Any time.” His voice was a rough whisper.

  Sophie shot to her feet, terrified by the intimacy he hinted at and her response to it. “Thanks for this,” she stuttered, waving the certificate, and fled.

  Dr. LaSota was a woman made up of angles. Her asymmetrical bob lined up with her jutting cheekbones, and a sharp collarbone provided a counterpoint. Her well-marked eyebrows raised as she pointed a pen at Sophie. “Why don’t you start by telling me about the kidnapping bust.”

  Seated on an industrial-beige couch in the temporary office the peripatetic psychologist used when she was in Honolulu, Sophie wore her expressionless mask. She’d showered and changed at the gym, and carefully and professionally dressed for the interview in her FBI non-uniform.

  Sophie crossed her legs and swung one foot a little as she described the tipoff email to the FBI, the surveillance of the address, her role of going into the apartment above the kidnap location and installing surveillance feeds.

  “So there was no intention to raid the place. Cause loss of life.”

  “No. We just wanted to get a visual on what was happening inside. We had already verified that the girl was missing, though her parents hadn’t reported it due to the kidnappers’ threats. We’d identified the kidnappers entering and exiting the apartment unit.”

  “So how did you know to drill into the ceiling of the walk-in closet?”

  “It seemed a logical place to stash a small child. Only one exit, and any noise would be muffled.” Sophie’s leg swung a little faster. She slowed it consciously.

  “So you speculated and made your holes for the surveillance camera based on logic.”

  “Yes.”

  “Interesting.” A long beat went by. Dr. LaSota eyed her, and Sophie held her gaze, demeanor compliant. She could feel Dr. LaSota waiting for her to disclose more, and finally the psychologist said, “Tell me more about what you felt when you saw the child in the closet.”

  Sophie shrugged. “She appeared to be adequately cared for. She wasn’t injured.” She knew Dr. LaSota couldn’t see how fast her pulse was racing if she kept her breathing even.

  “Tell me about the decision to saw through the ceiling and try to rescue the child.”

  “I was monitoring the surveillance of the kidnappers. I saw them get the texts that set them against each other, and speculated the child only had a few moments before the kidnappers tried to take her out.”

  “I reviewed the recordings and also the reports from the field. You could have crushed the child by landing on her.”

  “I was aware of that, yes.” Sophie’s foot swung faster and she couldn’t seem to slow it. “It seemed worth the risk.”

  “You’re a tech agent. Other than your training at Quantico, you have not had an active role in operations in the field. I’m interested in what made you take such a risk—both to yourself and to Anna.”

  Sophie knew the woman’s use of the girl’s name was deliberate, and she felt the name like a deeply struck chord. Her mind filled with the sight of the child’s tear-streaked face, calling for her mother.

  “It seemed worth the risk,” Sophie repeated woodenly.

  “It didn’t have anything to do with the fact that you were kidnapped and held in a closet at the age of seven?” Dr. LaSota said gently.

  Chapter Three

  Dr. LaSota’s words sliced through Sophie’s self-protection, a razor slicing a veil. Sophie had never disclosed her own kidnapping during any of her psych interviews or on her Bureau application, but it was a matter of record in Thailand. Dr. LaSota must have located that record. Sophie had hoped it had been obscured by her parents’ influence.

  “I don’t know if it had anything to do with that ancient history.” Sophie’s lips had gone immobile, and she could barely force the words through them, but her foot wouldn’t stop swinging. “It doesn’t much matter, does it? It worked. I saved the child.”

  “It all matters. How our agents react in the field is critical, and nothing is off limits in this interview. Nothing.” Dr. LaSota flipped open a folder on her lap. Sophie had the sense she was only doing that for effect. “It appears that you also have a history of domestic violence.”

  “I fail to see how that’s relevant. Were any of
my actions in the field inappropriate?”

  “Not necessarily.” Dr. LaSota kept her eyes on the folder, but Sophie felt the sharpness of the woman’s full attention trained on her. “Have you ever had any therapy for your past experiences?”

  “I have not needed to.”

  “What constitutes ‘needing to’?” The psychologist closed the folder and gazed at Sophie with pebble-hard eyes.

  “I don’t know. Symptoms. Difficulties with relationships and getting along with others. Panic attacks. Impairment in normal activities.” Sophie willed her foot to stop and it finally did. “I handle uncomfortable feelings through exercise.”

  “And what an exerciser you are.” LaSota opened the folder again. “According to your coworkers, you take exercise breaks throughout the day an average of four times.”

  “Who told you that? Bateman?” Sophie felt heat suffuse her. “I could be standing around or getting coffee. I choose to stay fit for my job, instead. The FBI would be lucky to have the rest of its employees stay as fit as I do.”

  “Feeling defensive?”

  “I don’t like being spied on.”

  “You aren’t. All agents are under assessment to a degree. We monitor our agents’ mental, physical, and emotional health. And I wonder if this exercising strategy is not just a little excessive.” She mock-consulted her file. “Apparently you are something of a mixed martial arts contender in the Hawaii fight scene.”

  “SAC Waxman is aware of my hobby and we’ve discussed it. I don’t fight in any public exhibition matches.”

  “And it never occurred to you that taking up a form of aggressive hand-to-hand combat after your divorce was a form of displacement?”

  “Who cares what it is. It’s my private life, and the way I’ve chosen to act in my private life enhances my job performance, not impairs it.” Sophie locked eyes with the psychologist and this time, didn’t back down. “Show me evidence of any wrongdoing or impairment, and I’ll address it.”

  “Sophie.” Dr. LaSota closed the folder and leaned forward, the picture of sincerity, but Sophie felt nothing but clinical judgment. “it’s my job to assess the mental and emotional fitness of our agents. If it was only physical fitness that was a yardstick, you know you’d beat half the agents here. But I worry that these un-dealt-with issues are a ticking time bomb, and someday, some time, they are going to cause you to slip up. To be frozen when you should move or, more likely, jump when you should take the stairs. It’s just lucky that child moved out of the way when you came through the ceiling. Can you imagine how you would have felt if you’d crushed her? As it was, you pulled this off. I want you to know I’ve got a flag on your file.”