Invasion of Privacy (13 page)

Up at first light.

Mary was a sailor’s daughter, trained to rise without lingering. By the time her feet hit the floor she had a dozen tasks lined up and ranked in order of importance. She brushed her teeth, washed her face, and combed her hair. She avoided her eyes. It was not a day for soul-searching and self-pity. Joe wouldn’t have it. It was a day for action.

Finished in the bathroom, she padded down the hall and checked on the girls. Jessie lay on top of her sheet, legs splayed, phone within reach of her hand. She was like a secret agent who never slept without her gun hidden beneath her pillow.

Mary left the room and continued down the hall. Grace lay solemnly beneath her sheet, her breathing measured, her position unchanged from when Mary had tucked her in.

Squirm. Struggle. Knock off the sheets.

If she wanted Jessie calmer, she prayed that Grace be more forceful. One child fought too much, the other not nearly enough.

Gently she pulled back the sheet. She saw it and her breath caught. There on Grace’s thigh, where she’d hit the side of the trampoline enclosure, was a bruise the size of a tennis ball. Or was it something else? Something that had weakened Gracie’s system so that she had vomited when she’d taken her new medicine?

The disease was known as acute lymphoblastic leukemia, or ALL. In its most basic form it was a cancer of the white blood cells. Some mutation in Grace’s DNA caused her body’s bone marrow continually to produce malignant immature white blood cells, which crowded out the normal blood cells in the marrow before spreading to other organs. The overall cure rate in children was 80 percent, but the doctors worried that Grace might have a more aggressive variety of the disease, one that had the potential to go crazy really fast and be fatal in weeks or even days. Though the illness had been under control, Mary could never stop worrying. Every bruise was a cause for concern. The perpetual uncertainty was a mother’s worst nightmare.

Mary rearranged the sheet as it had been. Grace didn’t move a muscle.

Mary kissed her fingers and touched her daughter’s forehead. “Love you, mouse.”

In the kitchen Mary brewed a pot of coffee, then powered up the desktop and entered the address for the local paper. She was anxious to learn what new information the FBI had revealed about Joe’s death and in particular whether they’d released the name of the informant. To her bewilderment, there was no mention of the shooting on the front page. She had to go all the way to page nine to find an article about Joe, and even then it was unsatisfying. There was no news about the informant’s identity. The only new material discussed Joe’s career at the FBI. One line in particular gnawed at her. “Grant was passed over for promotion to headquarters earlier in the year and transferred from Sacramento to aid in the Austin residency’s criminal investigations.”

Mary fumed. Who were they to say Joe was passed over? Again she felt Don Bennett’s hand at work. She shifted in her seat, recalling his pat explanation: “The investigation is closed. I told you what happened.”

Liar.

Mary checked the
New York Times
and
Washington Post
websites. Neither offered further insight into her husband’s death. Worse, both carried the same line about Joe’s being passed over for promotion. It was a smear, pure and simple, a purposeful effort to besmirch his reputation and shift blame for the shooting away from the Bureau and onto him.

Mary opened her drawer and took out the boarding pass stub for the flight from Austin to San Jose. In the past Joe had traveled frequently with a fellow agent named Randy Bell. Randy had been over to the house dozens of times. He was a kind, avuncular man ten years Joe’s senior. It was only then that she realized that Randy hadn’t called to offer his condolences.

She still had his number programmed into her phone. Six a.m. in Austin meant four a.m. in Sacramento. She made a mental note to call him in a few hours.

She spent a few minutes reading e-mails, checking her bank balance.
Thoughts of the future elbowed their way to the front of her mind. Worries about money, about Grace, about…well, everything.

A knock on the sliding glass door made her jump. Carrie Kramer stood in her running gear, pointing at her watch. Six a.m. Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays was their designated run time. Once the sun rose above the treetops, it grew too warm for anything but a brisk walk.

“Not today,” said Mary as she unlocked the sliding door.

“What do you mean? It’s six. Let’s motor.”

Mary thought of Grace and the blasts and the boarding pass and the call she needed to make to Randy Bell. “I can’t. There’s too much—”

“Three miles before it gets hot. Come on. You need to do this.”

Mary put aside the iPad. Carrie was right. Running cleared her mind and kept her sane. Today she needed that respite more than ever. “Give me a second.”

She returned in five minutes. She looked at Carrie and laughed. Both were wearing blue shorts, white T’s, and white caps, ponytails pulled through the hole. “Twins,” she said.

“And the girls—still sleeping?”

“No one opens an eye until eight,” said Mary lightly, refusing to worry about Grace until she got back. “You’re right. I need to do this. Let’s go out the front.”

“Twenty-nine minutes,” said Carrie.

“You’re on.”

“We’ve got some action,” said the Mole.

He and Shanks sat in the work area of the Mercedes Airstream. The interior was a hive of high-definition monitors and state-of-the-art surveillance equipment. The van was engineered for use by law enforcement and built by Guardian TSE (“technical surveillance equipment”), one of hundreds of companies owned by ONE Technologies. Images from the camera the Mole had installed the day before lit up the screen. The men watched the women leave the house and start their run.

“Which one you want?” asked Shanks. “Me, I like the one with the yellow shoes and the nice ass. You can have the one with the big rack.”

“Not my type,” said the Mole.

“Ah, yeah. I forgot. You don’t like ’em that way.”

“What way is that?”

“Ripe.”

Another screen listed all online activity performed by the computers inside the house on Pickfair Drive, each device identified by its specific fifteen-digit IP number. The Mole checked the recent sites visited.
Austin American-Statesman. New York Times. Washington Post
. He clicked on each and was rewarded with links to the articles Mary Grant had read, the time spent on each site. It appeared that she was checking on her husband. Nothing mysterious about that.

Afterward she’d accessed her e-mail account, but the site was encrypted and he was unable to see whose mail she read or to whom she’d sent messages.

So far this morning, Mary Grant was being a good girl.

The Mole stood and moved into the driver’s seat.

“What are you doing?” asked Shanks.

“We’re taking a ride. I’m not going to sit inside this van forever.”

The Mole left the parking lot and drove past the Grants’ house,
stopping a half block farther on. Shanks put a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t.”

“Move your hand before I cut it off.”

“If Briggs finds out—”

“If?” said the Mole. “That’s the point of this exercise.”

Shanks looked at the Mole. Little guy. Five-eight, tops. One hundred and fifty pounds dripping wet. He could tear a runt like that apart limb by limb. Yet the Mole sent a shiver down his spine as surely as if it were the Reaper staring him in the eye. He pulled his hand away. “All you, man.”

The Mole chuckled, his tongue dashing over his lips.

The sliding door at the rear of the house was unlocked. The kitchen appeared empty. The Mole slid the door on its track and stepped inside. Head cocked, he listened. He loved this moment most: the thrill of trespass. He crossed the room and peered around the corner. He saw no one. He turned and made a circuit of the kitchen, an eye open for Mary Grant’s cell phone. He picked up a tablet, but it was locked and would take far too long to break into.

Another scan of the countertops. No phone.

He returned to the hall. A bowl by the front door held car keys, chewing gum, mints, but nothing of interest. He climbed the stairs. A door on either side of the hall. The nearest was ajar. He nudged it open. A blond head peeked from beneath the covers. Golden hair. Flushed cheeks. His breath hitched. It was the younger girl, Grace.

Half against his will, he stepped inside, forgetting all about Mary Grant’s phone. He wanted a trophy. He held his phone in front of him, slipped his knife free, the stiletto. He moved his hand into the frame, making sure the tattoo was visible, and began filming.

The hand moved the blade toward the girl’s cheek, her ruby lips, her fluttering eyelids. He smelled her breath.

Across the hall, a footfall. The floor groaned beneath a person’s weight.

The Mole hurried out of the room. A look toward the master bedroom. He saw a phone on the nightstand. Inches away, a shadow passed beneath the door. It was the other daughter.

Still, the Mole did not flee. He clutched the stiletto tightly, asking
himself if the moment had come. If, finally, he would act on his desires. His fingers tingled with anticipation.

All she had to do was open the door.

The shadow moved and he walked down the stairs and left the house.

“You won.”

Mary bent over, hands on her knees, breathing hard. Sweat dripped from her brow onto the ground.

“Today doesn’t count,” said Carrie, bent over double right next to her.

“Thanks.”

“Was I right?”

Mary stood up, finally catching her breath. They’d done three miles in twenty-eight minutes. Not their best, but far from their worst. “Yes,” she said. “You were right. I needed that.”

“What time do you leave tomorrow?”

“We’re not. They’re keeping Joe longer to do an autopsy.”

“Oh?” said Carrie. “Is that normal?”

“The funeral home director says it is. There’s nothing I can do about it. To tell you the truth, I’m relieved. The girls don’t love Boston.”

Mary walked up the front path and entered the house. In the kitchen she poured them both a glass of water. Carrie drank hers down and set the glass in the sink. “Have you started thinking about what’s next for you and the girls?”

“Not yet.”

“Did Joe leave much?”

“There’s his pension and life insurance.”

“What about savings?”

“With two kids, on a government salary? At least we’ll still get his health coverage. Either way, I’m going to have to go back to work.”

“What about med school? You told me you wanted to be a doctor. This could be your chance.”

“Four years before internship and residency. Yeah, right.”

“So you’ve thought about it?”

“Long enough to know it’s not going to happen.” Mary looked at Carrie, then looked away. She would consider her options at a future date. After she figured out what had happened to her husband.

“If you need something in the meantime…you know, something to tide you over. Mark’s making bank these days. Maybe he can get Jess something at Apple next summer. You know, an internship.”

“That’s sweet, but we’re okay.” Mary gave Carrie a hug and squeezed her tight for a long time. “Thanks.”

Carrie checked her watch. “Gotta run. You okay?”

Mary nodded and gave her bestie another hug. Carrie left through the sliding door.

Mary went upstairs and showered, reminding herself to call Randy Bell as soon as she got out. She remembered he liked his scotch. Maybe she’d catch him hungover and in a mood to spill about his and Joe’s trips to San Jose.

Finished, she towel-dried her hair. Once or twice she heard a faint noise and stopped to listen, but then it was gone. She brushed her hair and got dressed for day two of widowhood. No black for her. She chose tan shorts and a navy T. Joe would have liked it this way. She went into the bedroom and heard the noise again. Someone was moaning.

Grace.

She ran down the hall and opened the door to her daughter’s room. The girls lay on top of the bed, Jessie pointing at the bruise on Grace’s thigh and laughing. “She looks like a Minion, Mom. All yellow with a big black dot in the middle.”

Grace knocked her sister’s hand away. “Tell her to stop teasing me.”

Jess kept pointing. “No, not like a Minion. It’s like grackle poo. Even worse.”

Grackles were loud, obnoxious birds the size of crows that clustered in the hundreds at shopping malls and parking lots around the city.

“Jess, please,” said Mary. “Be nice.”

“Grace has grackle poo on her leg.”

“Mom.”

“Jessie, stop bothering your sister.”

“She called me fat.”

“I did not. I was just watching a video when Jess came in and started bothering me.”

Mary sat on the bed beside Grace. “Does it hurt?”

“No,” said Grace. “It’s nothing.”

Mary fetched an ice pack from the freezer. When she returned the girls were friends again, shoulder to shoulder, watching a video on the
laptop. Gingerly she placed the ice pack on Grace’s leg, but Grace paid no attention.

“What are you guys doing up so early?” asked Mary.

“You woke me up,” said Jessie without looking at her. “I heard you walking around Grace’s room.”

“You did?”

“Then I heard you shut the sliding door.”

“But Carrie and I went out the front.”

“Whatever.” Jessie turned her attention back to the video playing.

Mary dismissed Jessie’s comment as…well, just Jessie. She craned her neck to look at the computer. The girls were watching some kind of animal in a crib. It had its paws on the railing and seemed to have a silly expression on its face. “What in the world is that?”

“A sloth,” said Jessie.

“A what?”

“A two-toed South American tree sloth,” said Grace between giggles. “Isn’t he cute?”

Mary turned away to wipe at a tear, drawing a breath and telling herself to relax. When she looked back at the laptop, she was smiling. “Yes, he is cute,” she said, trying to get in the spirit of things. “You just want to cuddle him, don’t you?”

Jessie sprang up onto an elbow. “Can we get one? Please!”