All the Wrong Moves (17 page)

The VP’s lips tightened. “She says she met him at a Chamber of Commerce mixer some months ago. It was a big, outdoor affair attended by several hundred local big-wigs, industry execs, defense contractors and uniformed types from Davis-Monthan Air Force Base. I suppose I don’t need to tell you the name he gave Ms. Bennett doesn’t appear on any of the official guest lists.”

The hair at the back of my neck tingled. I couldn’t shake the feeling we were inching closer to the mysterious rogue agent who may have torched my lab.

“Care to tell me why Ms. Bennett is no long employed by B&R Systems?” Mitch asked.

Carlisle took his time replying. When he did, I sensed he was choosing his words carefully.

“The decision was mutual. As you can imagine, the disclosure about her extramarital affair has caused her considerable personal turmoil.”

Yeah, I thought on a silent snort. Getting it on with someone other than your spouse has a way of doing that.

“Given the circumstances and the ongoing investigation, I felt it necessary to withdraw Ms. Bennett’s security clearance and access to sensitive corporate data.”

“Just what kind of sensitive data was she privy to?”

Carlisle cocked his head. “I provided all this information to the FBI and investigators from the Defense Security Service,” he said slowly.

“I’m sure you did.”

Mitch’s bland reply narrowed the VP’s eyes. He glanced at me again and came to an abrupt decision.

“I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I can’t discuss this matter with you further. The FBI requested B&R not release information to outside sources while their investigation is ongoing.”

“We’re not exactly ‘outside’ sources,” I countered.

“Then you can get what you need from the FBI.”

He shoved away from his desk and rose, a big man making himself look bigger by towering over his visitors . . . until Mitch rose as well and leveled the playing field. If they’d been squaring off for a Tough Man contest, I knew which one I’d put my money on.

To my surprise, Mitch capitulated with an easy nod. “Thanks for your time.”

He took my elbow and steered me toward the door. We went through it with me waffling between disappointment that we’d struck out with Carlisle and awareness of a distinct tingle where Mitch’s hand made contact with my bare skin. I couldn’t help feeling we’d blown our only shot and said as much as we rode the elevator to the lobby.

“How come you caved so easily?”

“I could see we weren’t going to get anything from Carlisle. A fired employee, on the other hand, might be more willing to air her grievances.”

“Carlisle said the decision for Bennett to leave B&R was mutual.”

“I don’t think so. Unless B&R writes some kind of morals clause into their employment contracts, which I seriously doubt, an extramarital affair would only make you a security risk if you’re desperate to keep the affair a secret. That makes you vulnerable to blackmail.”

“Or a pair of pinking shears to the scrotum. Charlie never knew how close he came to singing soprano.”

Mitch slanted me a quick grin but continued with his line of thought. “According to Paul Donati, Bennett admitted her affair readily enough. My guess is the last thing she would want with her marriage falling apart is to lose her job and source of income.”

“Maybe she recognized that she needed a change of scene. New job. New lover. New life. I speak from experience here, you understand.”

“You could be right. Let’s track down Ms. Bennett and find out.”

I expected him to call a buddy at the Border Patrol and tap into some cop database. As an alternative, I could have activated the locator in my super-sophisticated, DARPA-SUPPLIED cell phone. Instead Mitch detoured to a phone bank in the lobby and flipped through the white pages. He was back in less time than it would have taken me to text in Bennett’s name. Guess there’s still something to be said for good old fashioned low-tech.

He waited until we were out of the building to call Bennett and set up a meeting. It took some heavy emphasis on
Agent
Jeff Mitchell and
Lieutenant
Samantha Spade before she agreed. A short time later, we pulled into the driveway of a two-story adobe.

Joy Bennett answered the door. I’m not sure what I was expecting, but this short, stocky brunette wasn’t it. I don’t usually stereotype people . . . Okay, I do. All the time. I’ll just say Ms. Bennett would have benefitted from some serious eyebrow tweezing and leave it at that.

She scowled at the badge Mitch presented and held on to the door. “I’ve told you people everything I know. Why are you hounding me?”

“In cases like this, it often helps to have a fresh pair of eyes take a look at things,” Mitch returned, pocketing his badge. “May we come in?”

She stood aside grudgingly. I edged past her into a tiled foyer dominated by a massive antique coat rack. Or hat rack. Or hall tree. I’m never sure what to call those stands. This one had a mirrored back, curlicue brass hooks on either side of the mirror and a golf bag bristling with clubs leaning against it.

“In here,” Bennett said, waving us into a living room done in desert tones of brown and brown. Not a spot of color anywhere. I felt like an oversize Elton John in my wild pinks and oranges as I perched on the edge of the sofa beside Mitch. Bennett took a chair opposite us.

Mitch explained our respective roles in the sequence of events starting with Patrick Hooker’s demise. He also informed Ms. Bennett we’d stopped by B&R Headquarters to talk to her former boss.

“I’m sure Mr. Carlisle filled you in on the whole sordid story,” she said bitterly.

“He gave us a few details. And left us with a few questions we’d like to ask you.”

“Ask fast. My husband works nights. He’s upstairs, and I don’t want . . . I can’t take . . .” She stopped, dragged in a breath, started again. “I’d like to get this over with before he wakes up.”

“If it makes you feel any better, Ms. Bennett, I think you were a pawn in a very dangerous game.”

“It doesn’t.” Her thick, dark brows snapped into a straight line. “I’m not stupid, Agent Mitchell. I realized I’d been set up the first time the FBI came knocking on my door.”

Just like John Armstrong Sr. Someone was damned good at pulling strings and manipulating people into ruining their own lives.

“Tell us why you think you were set up,” Mitch said.

“Isn’t it obvious? I have . . .
had
. . . a key position at B&R. As their senior analyst, I supervised a team that trended every facet of operations.”

“Such as?”

She waved an impatient hand. “Major bid preparation and submission. The status of ongoing contracts. Outsourcing to subs. Plant production. Open action items after inspections by DOD, OSHA, ERP, CMA, the NCIP.”

Good grief! And I thought the military lived and breathed acronyms.

“Let’s focus on plant production for a moment,” Mitch said. “I’m assuming your trending data would include dates, times and destination of major arms shipments.”

“You assume right.”

“I’m also assuming you didn’t knowingly share that information with the man you had an affair with.”

“Right again.”

Some of the bristly hostility went out of her. Sighing, she slumped her shoulders.

“I had my briefcase with me when I met him after work, though. My laptop was inside it. He could have booted it up when I was in the shower. I don’t see how he could have pulled off any data, though. He didn’t know the password and my company access code.”

“Those aren’t all that hard for a pro to obtain.”

“Maybe. I guess.” Her face crumpled. Self-disgust flowed from every pore. “God! I should have known someone like Nicolas Sloan wouldn’t,
couldn’t
, have any real interest in someone like me!”

“That was the name he went by? Nicolas Sloan?”

She nodded, miserable. “The FBI said they ran the name and the description I gave them. Neither turned up in their system.”

“This guy knows how to play the game,” Mitch said gently. “He’ll be a master at altering his appearance and probably has a half dozen aliases in his pocket. We suspect he may have targeted Lieutenant Spade, too.”

Joy Bennett’s startled gaze met mine. “Nick seduced you, too?”

I wish! I refused to dwell on how long it had been since
anyone
had maneuvered me into bed.

“We think he torched my lab.”

“Is there anything other than a physical description you can remember about this man that might help locate him?” Mitch asked. “Slang he might have used? Tidbits about himself or his past he may have let drop?”

Her hostility gone, Joy Bennett wanted to help. She really did. But the FBI had wrung her inside out and come up empty. The only really interesting tidbit she let drop was when Mitch asked her why she left B&R.

“It was strongly suggested,” she replied dryly. “In case you don’t know, Elizabeth Channing owns a considerable share of B&R stock.”

“The vice president’s wife?”

Bennett nodded, and I suddenly understood all the top-down scrutiny on this case. No wonder Dr. J had received a visit from the FBI!

“Mr. Carlisle wanted to minimize the potential fallout of having an employee with access to sensitive corporate data connected to the Hooker case,” Bennett said, her mouth twisting. “Even if the connection is just by way of a missing lover and a stolen cell phone.”

Mitch probed for a few more minutes before he gave her his card and got up to leave. I passed her one of mine for good measure.

“If you think of anything, anything at all, give one of us a call.”

“I will.”

He paused at the door. “One last question. Carlisle said you met Sloan at a Chamber of Commerce function.”

“That’s right.”

“Yet his name wasn’t on the guest list?”

“No. Roger . . . Mr. Carlisle . . . made a joke of it at the time. Said something to Nick about knowing the right parties to crash.”

“Carlisle spoke with Sloan?”

“They were standing together at the bar when I went up to tell Roger one of the Raytheon VIPs wanted to talk to him. They’d just met, there at the bar, and were waiting for their drinks. That’s what Roger told me later, anyway.” She hesitated, chewing on her lower lip. “I’m sure that’s what he told the FBI.”

Mitch nodded and thanked her again for her time.

“What now?” I asked when we were belted into the Bronco again.

“Let’s have lunch, then deliver the critter you’ve been hauling around in the rear of this heap.

MY cell phone rang while we were chowing down at an Applebee’s I’d spotted near the interstate. I dug it out of my tote and glanced at the screen, but the number was blocked. Praying it wasn’t one of my team calling with some new disaster, I flipped up the lid.

“Lieutenant Spade.” A faint click told me the line was open. “Hello?”

I heard another click and quickly disconnected. I’d received too many recorded ads and solicitations to listen to a high-pressure salesman right now. If it was anyone else, they could leave a message.

Mitch was quiet for most of the meal. I could tell he was still mulling over our visit to B&R and The Brow, as Joy Bennett would forever remain branded in my mind.

“What are you thinking?” I asked over a shared serving of my favorite, Triple Chocolate Meltdown.

“I’m thinking that when we get back to El Paso later this evening, I’m going to dig into the background of one Roger Carlisle.”

I had other hopes for later this evening and wasn’t at all sure we’d make it back to El Paso tonight.

As it turned out, I was right. The utter demolition of my Bronco and subsequent hail of assassin’s bullets figured nowhere in my plans, however.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

IT happened about twenty minutes out of Tucson.

We were heading northwest on I-10. I cruised along with only the occasional laconic reminder from Mitch that fines multiplied with every ten miles over the limit.

Our route took us through the heart of the Sonoran Desert. The rolling landscape was dotted with gnarled mesquite, creosote, saguaro and the desert’s own ironwood trees. These, I remembered from one of Pen’s boring lectures, exist nowhere else on Earth. They grow to about forty feet in height and supposedly live upwards of fifteen hundred years. I’d taken her word on that.

Off in the distance, the jagged mountains thrust their red-rock peaks high into the cloudless sky. On either side of the highway, dry gullies gaped open like hungry mouths.

The mid-afternoon traffic was sparse for such a well-traveled interstate. So sparse, I divided my attention between Mitch and the empty road ahead, with only sporadic glances in the rearview mirror.

I’m not sure when I first noticed the black SUV trailing us. I do remember thinking at one point that the driver couldn’t be on cruise control because he maintained the same erratic speed I did and seemed to stay the same distance behind us.

Not until we reached a curve in the highway and I just happened to glance in the mirror did I see the SUV rapidly closing that distance. It was one of those big, heavy monsters that get maybe eight or ten miles to the gallon and was jacked up even higher on oversize wheels.

“What’s heavier than lead?” I asked Mitch, keeping a wary eye on the oncoming vehicle.

“Uranium, I think. Or plutonium. Why?”

“You think I have a lead foot? The joker behind me is wearing boots made of solid plutonium.”

Mitch twisted around for a look. “Jesus! Idiot must be going close to a hundred.”

Even in those few seconds the SUV had gained so much ground that its shiny grille and front end now almost filled the rearview mirror. I kept expecting it to pull out and pass but it stayed right on my tail.

“Dammit! Why doesn’t he go around?”

I tore my eyes from the mirror to gauge the road ahead. The oncoming curve was one of the sharpest we’d encountered since departing Tucson. Mid-curve was a bridge spanning a deep gully. I needed to slow down for the curve, but couldn’t hit the brake or the idiot almost kissing my rear end would crawl right up it.

Swearing, I flipped on the directionals and moved into the left lane to let him pass on the right. When he cut left as well and got within inches of the Bronco’s bumper, my jaw locked.