When The Devil Whistles (33 page)

“Ah, that explains it. I hardly ever get out of IT. I have many important projects to manage here.”

“I’ll bet you do, especially now.” She nodded toward the steady bustle of workers hurrying along an arterial hall a few yards away. “It’s gotten a lot busier since the last time I was here.”

“Yes, Deep Seven has definitely become very active. Just today I had to set up twelve new workstations. I also have my regular work, of course.” His eyes darted toward the plastic tree by her desk. “Franklin keeps me busy. He gives me lots of, ah, fascinating projects.”

“Wow, what does he have you working on now? I know about the Golden Gate turbine project and I’m working on the remigration project, but I was thinking there must be some other stuff going on with all these people.”

He rubbed the bushy mustache that graced his upper lip. “Oh, I’m working on lots of things, but I don’t want to take up your time during the work day. Shall we have lunch? There is an excellent Chinese place just down the street. It is called Asian Express.”

She had been to Asian Express three times during her last stint at Deep Seven, and it was no Tang Dynasty. In fact, she had eaten better frozen Chinese food. “That would be great. When do you want to go?”

“Shall we say 12:15? I would not want to keep you away from your desk for too long on your first day.”

How thoughtful of him. “Sure. I’ll meet you in the lobby.”

Rajiv left, and Allie went back to work. She picked her first sample and started pulling documents in groups of ten. The first five groups held nothing interesting, but the sixth time was the charm: her net caught a juicy-looking memo titled “Resolution of
Grasp II
Problem.”

She went to the file room and pulled the hard copy of the memo, which bore the legend “CONFIDENTIAL: LIMITED DISTRIBUTION.” She stuck it into a stack of random documents and hurried back to her desk, trying hard not to look like she was hurrying.

Five minutes later, she was hunched below the protective walls of her cubicle, her shaking fingers paging through the memo. It was about one of Deep Seven’s ships, the
Grasp II
. About a year ago, the company discovered that it had been writing off the value of a bunch of equipment on the ship at too high a rate. That meant they had been claiming too much in deductions. And that meant they owed a bunch of back taxes and penalties to the IRS.

Her heart slowed down as she read. This wasn’t exactly a good document for Deep Seven, but it didn’t look like the sort of thing that would get anyone killed. Not even an annoying IT geek. She’d seen this sort of thing at plenty of companies— some bookkeeper messes up, the firm spots the problem later, and they’ve got to figure out how to tell the feds. They might have to pay some penalties and someone might get fired, but it shouldn’t be a big deal. But, on the other hand, maybe there was more to this than a single bad tax return. Maybe this was the tip of some iceberg that she didn’t see yet.

Allie flipped through the memo again and decided it was a keeper.

She poked her head up and scanned the surrounding area. No one around except the never-ending foot traffic in the hall.

She pulled her cell phone out of her purse and was about to take a picture of the first page when she noticed the time on her phone’s display: 12:20.

Nuts! Nuts! Nuts!

She stood up quickly and hit her head on the branches of the fake tree. It shook violently—and something fell out of it. She looked down at the off-white Berber carpet. There it was: a small black object no larger than a pen cap. She bent over and looked at it. It was a tiny video camera.

The floor suddenly felt uneven beneath her feet and she almost staggered. It all made perfect, sickening sense. The isolated cubicle, him telling her to work independently, the project she had been given. Everything. It was all a trap. They would bait her into doing something to confirm that she was a spy. Then snap!—the jaws would spring shut. She’d disappear just like Samuel Stimson, erased from the face of the Earth.

55

C
ONNOR
’
S COMPUTER CHIMED SOFTLY
,
ANNOUNCING THAT HE HAD A NEW
e-mail. His leather chair creaked as he swiveled from his desk to his computer stand and pulled up his in-box. The message was from “Bahama Girl” and was marked urgent. The subject line said “Call this number now.” He opened the e-mail, which contained a phone number he didn’t recognize and the message, “Use a pay phone.”

He grabbed a pen and a pad of Post-Its from his desk and wrote down the number. But then he stopped. He stared at the e-mail, beating a rapid tattoo on the arm of his chair with his pen.

The firm had given him clear instructions: once he withdrew from representing Devil to Pay, he was to have no further contact with Allie. He would be the key witness in the Deep Seven’s case against Doyle & Brown, and he could
not
do anything that might undermine the firm’s defense. That, of course, included staying in contact with the very client that he claimed had betrayed him.

He had explained all that to Allie. And to make sure she understood, he had even given her a description of the line of cross-examination questions he would get if he
didn’t
stay clear of her. It would go something like this:

—Mr. Norman, you claim that Devil to Pay lied to you, correct?

—You claim that you had no idea that Ms. Whitman was using your services to pursue a fraudulent lawsuit against Deep Seven, isn’t that right?

—In fact, you say were shocked—shocked!—to discover that she had planted falsified invoices at Deep Seven, right?

—So, of course, you refused to have anything to do with her once you discovered her betrayal, correct?

—Oh, so you kept in touch with her?

—You even continued to help her?

—Are you familiar with the expression ‘actions speak louder than words,’ Mr. Norman?

He slowly pulled the Post-It off the pad, crumpled it in a ball, and threw it in the wastebasket.

He turned back to his desk and stared down at the brief in front of him, but he couldn’t focus on the words on the page. Allie knew he couldn’t talk to her, but she wanted him to call anyway. What if she had found what she was looking for? What if she had the goods on Deep Seven and was on the run now? What if she was in danger?

He grimaced and looked back at her e-mail. Call this number now. Use a pay phone. Urgent.

“This had better be good,” he warned the computer. He fished the Post-It out of the trash and shoved it in his pocket. There was a pay phone down by one of the neighborhood Starbucks.

Pulling his coat on as he walked out of his office, he called to his secretary. “Going out for a cup of coffee, Lucy. Want anything?”

“A raise.”

He grinned. Some variation of this dialogue was part of their daily routine. He’d miss it if he ever left. “If they’re out of those, how about a maple-nut scone?”

“That’d be great. Thanks, Connor.”

Ten minutes later, Connor was standing at the pay phone, sipping black Italian roast and waiting for Allie to pick up. The phone rang four times. Five. Six. Seven.

What would he say if Tom Concannon walked up and asked whom he was calling and why he wasn’t using his office phone? Chill sweat prickled his forehead and he looked up and down the street, wishing he’d picked a phone that was less conspicuous or further from the office.

Eight rings.

Enough. He put his finger on the receiver cradle and was about to press down when he heard a clattering sound followed by Allie’s voice. “Connor?”

“Yes. What’s up? Why did you e-mail me?”

“I almost got caught!” Her voice was a hoarse whisper, full of quavers. “They’re watching me. My boss, Franklin Roh—he hid a tiny spy camera over my desk. I was
this
close to taking some pictures of a document with my cell phone. If I hadn’t found out before I started snapping away— I don’t want to think about it.”

“So you’ve got evidence? You know what they’re hiding?”

“Well, not really. All I found so far is that they had a tax issue. But I can’t go back in there! What if they know?”

“That’s too bad, Allie, but there’s not much I can do about it. And I thought we agreed that you were on your own, that you wouldn’t contact me. Were you not clear on that?”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t think about that. I just… I’m scared and I needed to talk to someone.”

“Talk to someone else next time. Call Julian.”

“Okay, I will. I’m really sorry. But since I’ve already got you on the line—”

Connor felt his blood pressure rising. “Listen, if they knew about you, they never would have brought you back into the company. That would be incredibly dumb. Maybe Roh suspects, but that’s it. He knows Devil to Pay had an inside source at their company. He knows it’s not Julian because he never worked there. He might think it was you. Or he might just like to spy on female temps.”

“But I can’t go back to Deep Seven, can I?”

Now he realized what was going on. She wanted him to give her a pass, to tell her she could give up. An angry breath hissed out through his teeth. “Well, that’s for you to decide, isn’t it?”

Pause. “I was just hoping—”

Connor heard a familiar voice and turned to see two Doyle & Brown paralegals emerging from Starbucks. He could see them through the open glass and brass doors, but they hadn’t noticed him yet.

“Sorry, gotta go.” He hung up the phone and ducked around the corner. No one called his name. At least he wouldn’t have to come up with an explanation on the spot.

As he walked backed to the office, Connor’s irritation grew. There had been absolutely no reason for Allie to do that to him. None. She knew a lot better than he whether she was in serious danger and ought to bail. She knew contacting him would hurt him. But she did it anyway. Why? So that she could feel better about herself when she did what she had already decided to do. How incredibly selfish.

His steps slowed as he remembered the fear in her voice. The pleading. His anger began to leak away. He pictured the sweaty, bland Franklin Roh watching Allie on a hidden camera as he licked his lips with that bright red tongue.

That bothered him. He stopped and drained the rest of his lukewarm coffee, then wadded the cup into a tight ball and threw it hard into a nearby trashcan. Well, whether it bothered him or not, there was nothing he could do about it. It was up to Allie now.

Allie stood a few feet from the pay phone, sucking on a cigarette and trying not to choke. She didn’t smoke, but there was a pay phone at a convenience store ten yards from the smoking area outside Deep Seven. And it was out of view from the Deep Seven building.