When The Devil Whistles (34 page)

The smoke stung her eyes and tasted awful, but she made the cigarette last as long as possible. Maybe Connor would call her back. Probably not, but maybe.

Minutes crawled by as the acrid blue smoke curled around her and the cancer stick slowly burned down to its filter. The phone stubbornly refused to ring.

Why had she e-mailed him in the first place? Because she started panicking and stopped thinking. She had fired off the message with nothing more than a half-formed idea that he’d get her out of this horrible box she was in. She would tell him about the camera and he would immediately suggest—no, demand—that she get out of Deep Seven. He would somehow take over the situation or get the government involved or something.

Stupid. Painfully, utterly, indescribably stupid. She had screwed up yet again. All she had managed to do was get Connor to yell at her again. And she had deserved it.

Her hope turned to ash with the cigarette, leaving an empty, sour feeling in her stomach. She stubbed out the butt and walked back toward the mouthlike front doors of Deep Seven, which gaped open to swallow her.

56

C
ONNOR GOT OFF THE ELEVATOR AND WALKED ACROSS
D
OYLE
& B
ROWN
’
S
lobby as he did every morning, briefcase in one hand and fresh black coffee from the Starbucks downstairs in the other. His mind was wrapped up in an important appellate brief that was due the next day, and he didn’t notice anything—or anyone—in the lobby.

“Good morning, Connor.”

Connor turned and saw Julian rising from a chair in the far corner of the room. “Hey, Julian. It’s good to see you. A surprise, though. What’s up?”

“Someone broke into my car last night.” His voice was level and matter of fact, as if he were reporting what he had for breakfast. “Yours too, probably.”

A chill swept over Connor and the brief tumbled completely out of his thoughts. “I didn’t notice anything this morning.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“But I park in a private garage. With security guards.”

“Did you drive to work?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, let’s have a look at your car.”

Connor led Julian down to the building garage. His silver Bentley convertible was right where he left it. As he approached, he looked for scratches around the lock or anything else that would show forced entry. But the car looked as pristine as if it were on a dealer’s showroom floor.

Julian bent down for a cursory look at the driver’s door and ran his fingers along the weather stripping at the base of the door windows. “Unlock it.”

Connor clicked his key and the car chirped. Julian opened the door and got down on his knees. He looked under the driver’s seat, then the passenger’s.

“Here we are.” He sat back on his heels and held up a small black box with a pencil-like antenna. “Standard GPS vehicle tracker.” He grinned and winked. “I assume this isn’t yours.”

Connor shook his head slowly. “That could have been a bomb.”

“But it wasn’t. Look on the bright side—they don’t want us dead. At least not yet.” He leaned back into the car and put the box back under the passenger seat.

“Hold on a sec,” Connor protested. “What are you doing?”

“If you take out this one, the next one will just be harder to find. Or they’ll decide that it’s too risky to track you and the next one
will
be a bomb.”

“Oh, I hadn’t thought of that.” Adrenaline clouded his mind and he shook his head to clear it. “This is all new to me. I’ve had PIs follow me a few times. One guy even went through my trash.” He nodded toward the open car door. “But that’s a first.”

“Welcome to my world.” Julian got up and clapped Connor on the shoulder. “This was pretty typical when I worked on the organized crime task force. You’re taking it better than I did the first time it happened to me. I couldn’t sleep for almost a week.”

Connor shut the Bentley’s door. “Your phone is bugged too. That’s why you drove down here instead of calling.”

“You’re catching on.”

Connor looked at his reflection in the dark window glass, thinking hard. “They don’t want us dead,” he echoed. “But they do want to keep tabs on us. Now why is that?”

“That’s how these people operate. Back when I worked with the task force, the mob was always trying to figure out what we were up to. They’d follow us into the john if they could.”

“Yeah, but they know what we’re up to.” Connor turned and leaned against his car so that he was facing his friend. “We’re withdrawing. We’re bailing out. We’re not a problem anymore. So why break into our cars and put trackers in them now?”

Julian shrugged. “Tough to say. Didn’t you have a PI following you after some other case was finished?”

“That was the garbage guy. But he was probably doing it because his client wanted to know who was behind Devil to Pay even though the lawsuit had settled. That would be valuable info in certain circles.”

“But now the whole world knows who Devil to Pay is, right?” Julian pointed to himself. “Wasn’t that the whole point of that little charade last week?”

Connor jerked to his feet as the puzzle pieces fell into place. “No, they don’t. Not entirely, anyway. I’m guessing that those fake invoices Allie put into their system could only be uploaded from inside the company.”

“Makes sense.”

“And they know you never worked for them. Maybe you broke into their offices, hacked into their system, and uploaded the invoices—but that’s pretty unlikely.”

Julian tugged at his beard thoughtfully. “They’ve guessed we have an inside source and they’re waiting for us to lead them to her.”

The unpleasant image of Franklin Roh watching Allie on a video monitor appeared in Connor’s head again. “That could be dangerous for Allie, don’t you think? She’s already contacted me once. She was careful about it, but still.”

“Yeah, we should warn her.”

“How?”

They looked at each other in silence for almost a minute. Julian shoved his hands into his coat pockets and fidgeted with something. “Can’t think of anything,” he confessed. “You have any ideas?”

“Uh-uh. I—” Connor froze with his mouth open, and then his face broke into a wide smile. “Actually, I do.”

At 6:30 that evening, Connor pulled out of the garage and drove his Bentley across the Bay Bridge to the slightly seedy area of Oakland where Clayton Investigations had an office on the fifth floor of a red wooden building that needed to be repainted. There were empty parking spaces along the street, but there was no way Connor was parking his Bentley there.

He found a secure lot with a valet and five minutes later he was walking down the hallway toward Julian’s office. Julian met him outside the door and handed him a note that said “Office and phone both bugged.”

Connor nodded and followed him in. They walked through a glass door emblazoned with “Clayton Investigations” in dull gold letters. “So, do you want to try his office number first?” Connor asked in clear voice.

“Okay,” replied Julian just as clearly.

They reached his office and moved the speakerphone to the middle of the desk. Julian punched in a number from a green Post-It stuck to the phone. It rang three times and then went to voicemail. He hung up without leaving a message. “That’s weird,” he announced. “He said he’d be there.”

He repeated the process three more times over the next five minutes, letting the phone ring until voicemail picked up, then hanging up.

“Let’s try his cell phone now,” said Connor.

Julian looked at the Post-It again and dialed again.

“Hello?” said a bland male voice with the hint of an Asian accent.

Connor leaned over the desk. “Franklin, where are you? We tried calling you at Deep Seven, but you didn’t pick up.”

“What is… ‘Clayton Invest?’ ” Connor pictured him looking at the caller ID display on his phone. “Who is this?”

“You know perfectly well who this is. We need those documents you promised, and we need them
now
.”

“What are you talking about?” Connor could almost see him starting to sweat and lick his lips, as he had during his interview at DOJ. “I demand to know who you are!”

“Don’t play games, Franklin! Devil to Pay gave you a lot of money and all you gave us were some fake invoices. Then you promised us something really big if we gave you a second chance. Well, that second chance is just about up, buddy. You give us the info on that big secret project in twenty-four hours or there really will be the Devil to pay! I’ve just about—”

“Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!”

“Don’t you talk to me that—”

“SHUT UP!” He was half way between screaming and crying now. “Please, I don’t know who you are and—”

“Wait! Are you saying this phone isn’t safe? That it might be bugged? Nuts! Look, we’ll touch base later.”

“I—”

“But get us those documents!”

Connor pressed the “Call End” button.

57

T
HE NEXT DAY STARTED LIKE EVERY DAY AT DEEP SEVEN
. A
LLIE WALKED IN
with the morning crowd of temporary and permanent employees hurrying across the lobby with a cup of something hot and caffeinated in one hand and a magnetic key card in the other.

Her first clue that today would be different came when she passed Franklin Roh’s office on the way to her cubicle. The lights didn’t seem to be on, which was odd—he was usually at his desk by 8:30. Curious, she slowed as she passed it and looked in through the window.

She stopped and stared. The office had been stripped bare. The computer was gone, the desk was completely clear, and the drawers of his file cabinet hung open and empty. Even his nameplate had disappeared from its slot beside the door.

“Strange, isn’t it?” The voice made her jump. She turned and saw Rajiv walking up behind her. “I apologize for startling you.”

“Oh, and I’m sorry for standing you up at lunch. I, um, got sick suddenly.”

He stepped back. “Nothing contagious, I hope.”

“No, no. Just a, ah, severe stomach ache. All better now.”

He smiled sympathetically and patted his lower stomach. “Ah, yes. I know that can happen to women. No need to apologize.”