A World Without Secrets (19 page)

Brigman and the others in the room were silent as they thought and looked at one another.

It was the woman who broke the silence. "Do we have any reason not to proceed?" she asked.

"No, the scenario is entirely possible, however wild," the man closest to Brigman said.

"Then I suggest we pick up these young adults and interrogate them— as possible felons this time," the woman said. "Let them know we know all the facts and see if we can get a confession out of them. I don't suppose you know where the money is, James?"

"No, ma'am. It could be anywhere. I couldn't look for it without tipping my hand to the young bank robbers. I decided it was better to file the initial report and wait until they were picked up."

"That'll be all, James," Brigman said. "Unless you think you've also solved the other case we assigned you?"

"Not yet, sir."

"Well, get hustling, James. We're not paying you to sit around polishing the seat of your chair with your pants. That's all."

I stood up, nodded to the three people in the room and left.
I had come all the way downtown for this?
I thought as I entered the elevator for the ride to the lobby. I could have answered those questions over the phone. I hadn't even been told the names of the three other people in the room. From our previous acquaintance and the way they talked and acted, I knew they were FBI, but that was all.

* * *

Angry over the way I'd been treated, I spent another week writing and lounging around before looking at the second case.

I had picked up a stunning diamond necklace as a Christmas present for Kathy when I'd returned from investigating the bank robbery. She had become very important to me and I wanted her to know it. I also wanted her to become a permanent part of my life, but I didn't want to frighten her off by moving too fast. Although she'd kept telling me the necklace was too much, I knew she loved it because she couldn't stop looking at it. Every time she passed a mirror, she paused and smiled as she touched the necklace lightly. She made my Christmas a very merry one as well since we spent almost the entire day in bed.

* * *

My next case was a kidnapping gone wrong. The victim was a wealthy, middle-aged businessman. During the kidnapping, he had managed to open the rear door of the car and fall out. With his hands bound behind him, he hadn't been able to protect himself and had died from a broken neck upon landing on the pavement. The kidnapper's car had slowed and then sped away as other cars stopped to investigate. The car turned out to be stolen, and nothing recovered in the car pointed to the perpetrators.

I reviewed all the material in the case file, but I waited until the New Year's celebrations were well over before I visited the scene of the death, visited the man's home, and interviewed all the family members, servants, and friends. I filed my report three weeks after starting my investigation.

* * *

As before, I was called downtown to Brigman's office to explain my report. The same three unidentified people were there.

"It's the only logical scenario, given the facts," I said. "Nothing else comes close to fitting as perfectly."

"But you have no proof," Brigman said.

"That's correct, I don't. I've named the perpetrators and shown you motive and opportunity. Someone else will have to do the interrogations and get the confessions. All I can say is that I've identified the people responsible. Since the kidnapping failed, there was no chance of catching them with evidence. There was no payoff, so you can't even recover money as you did with the bank robbery."

"That was excellent work with the bank robbery investigation, by the way," the still unidentified woman said. "The young girlfriend broke down and confessed before they were even out of her family's house. It happened exactly as you surmised. All the money has been recovered. A week after the robbery, the young felons had buried it on family land."

"Thank you."

"You're absolutely certain you've identified all the players, James?" Brigman asked, apparently trying to return the discussion to the kidnapping and keep me from getting any more praise for the other case.

"I'm fairly certain of the ones I've named. I found no evidence of others."

"Okay, James. Here're your next two assignments. Get cracking. That's all."

I reached out and took the sheet of paper, folded it twice and placed it in my inside jacket pocket. I stood up, nodded to the three other people in the room, and left. Brigman's attitude was starting to rankle me.

I tossed my keys down on the kitchen table as I entered my apartment and walked to the fridge for a beer. I wasn't sure what I'd expected when agreeing to work for the FBI, but what I was getting certainly wasn't it. I wasn't looking for fame or notoriety, but I also didn't expect to be made to feel like an unwelcome intruder each time I made an appearance at the office. I had passed all their tests and successfully completed the training at the Academy. I was a Special Agent by virtue of my abilities and hard work, even if I didn't work a normal caseload. I sort of understood Brigman, though. I was making good agents— agents who had put in hundreds of hard hours on the cases— look inefficient and ineffective by solving the cases in days or weeks. I believed my investigative skills were improving, but without the gizmo I would be as clueless as the others who had worked these cases. In some ways, I felt like I was cheating, but the important part was that I was closing cases.

I unscrewed the cap on the beer bottle and took a sip as I lifted the cover of my laptop. I'd finally secured a cable internet connection after returning from Quantico, so access was practically instantaneous. I had also recently purchased electronic equipment to sweep for bugs and other devices, and I used it every few days. So far, I'd found nothing. I hoped I was using it correctly.

I hadn't answered my email for a few days and now was a good time to catch up. It always brightened my day when I received email from fans who had enjoyed my stories, and I could have used a little sunshine in my life right then.

I responded to each of the letters by thanking the fan for writing and promising that more free stories were on the way. I'd written a couple of short stories between the two FBI cases, but they needed some rewrite work before I posted them.

Near the end of my email was a letter without a subject. I opened it and read, 'You've seen how dangerous the device is. Destroy it now, before it's too late. You don't have much time. Death is near.'

There was no mistaking the ominous tone of the new message. Death is near? Whose death— mine? I checked the special directory I had set up after first getting the gizmo in order to reread the second message I'd received and to see how many others had come in. The file was empty. I checked the trash bin and discovered that the very first email warning had likewise disappeared. The presence of other discarded emails proved that I hadn't emptied the trash bin, so it seemed that the email sender was somehow able to remotely control my computer.

I'd known for some time that someone knew I had the gizmo. The first email telling me to destroy it had arrived before I even knew I had it. I'd long believed the only way someone else
could
have known was by using another gizmo to track the one that had fallen into my hands. What I still couldn't understand was why no one had ever shown up and made an effort to retrieve it. I was certainly aware of the potential dangers that possessing the device presented, but I had received so many benefits that I had tended to push them to the back of my mind. Without the gizmo, I could never have solved even one of the cases, so I knew how important it was to my continued success.

I still had no intention of destroying it or surrendering it without a fight, but I had to find out where it had come from so I would be prepared for whoever might attempt to acquire it, or reacquire it. I may have already procrastinated too long.

I thought about it for a few minutes and then logged into the FBI computer system, searching until I found the information I needed. It was still before noon when I left my apartment. As I drove my car out of the garage, I aimed it towards Jersey.

Using my new GPS device, I had no difficulty finding the building I intended to visit. It had snowed a few days before, but the roads were clear and dry all the way to Paramus. The building was one of those three-story, mirrored-glass-front places just off Route 17 that reflect the sky and appear to blend into the landscape. I supposed it was a nice change from the hulking granite structures of the last century that we had in New York, but I always wondered if they'd stand the test of time. I guess I just liked permanence.

I parked in a nearly empty visitor lot directly in front of the building and walked to the front door where I had to stand in the bitterly cold wind until a security guard buzzed me into the lobby. As I walked to the circular security station a dozen paces from the door, the guard watched me warily.

"I'm looking for Morris Calloway," I said. "He in?"

"You must sign in before I can even check, sir," the guard said, pointing to a clipboard on the chest-high counter.

I printed my name and entered FBI in the Company Name column. The guard took the clipboard and read what I had entered, then looked up at me. He seemed to stare at the slight bulge near the left lapel of my suit coat a little longer than necessary. I had purchased half a dozen tailored suits since my last art recovery, and while they were a major improvement over the off-the-rack suits I had been buying, they didn't completely hide the bulge from the Glock pistol under my left armpit. I knew I had to find a tailor who could do a better job disguising a shoulder holster.

After a couple of seconds, the guard said, "May I see your ID?"

"Sure," I said, reaching for my ID wallet. I flipped it open so he could look at it and waited until he was satisfied.

"Okay," he said, as he reached for the phone. He punched several numbers and said, "Mr. Calloway? There's an FBI agent here. He's asking to see you." After a second he said, "Yes, sir. Very good, sir." To me, he said, "He'll be right out."

"Thanks."

"You FBI guys get paid pretty good, don't you?" the guard asked.

"Not bad," I said. "We're still civil servants though."

"Better than twelve bucks an hour?"

"Ah, yeah. Better than that."

"Is the FBI hiring? I need something that pays better than this gig."

"Go online to the FBI website. You can get an application there. Complete it and send it in."

"Me and computers don't get along too well. I don't understand them."

"Well, that's a major part of doing federal investigative work. Perhaps the local police force might suit you better."

"Yeah, maybe."

A door near the rear of the reception area opened and Morris Calloway hurried out. He rushed over to the counter and stared at me for several seconds with a quizzical expression before saying, "Hey, Colt," then glanced around the reception area. To the guard, he said, "Where's the FBI guy, Gus?"

"Right there," the guard said, pointing to me.

Morris began chuckling. "He's not FBI. That's Colton James. He's just an IT guy. We used to work at the same electronics company in Flushing."

"He has an FBI badge that sure looks real," the guard said.

"I have a gun, too," I said, pulling back my jacket flap to expose the butt of the forty caliber Glock.

Morris looked down at it, stopped chuckling, and then looked up to my face. "You're with the FBI now?"

"Yeah."

"How long?"

"Long enough."

"What do you want with me?"

"I'd like to ask you a few questions."

"What about?"

"We should do this in private," I said.

Morris glanced at the guard, then back to me. "Yeah, sure. Follow me."

We had to pass through three security doors in order to reach the lab where Morris worked at the rear of the building. Each required an eight-digit entry.

"Security here is tight," I said as the door closed behind me.

"Yeah. They change my door access and password codes every ninety days. It's a real pain in the ass. Now what is this about? Do I need a lawyer?"

I looked around to make sure the lab was empty. "No, it's not about you. I need someone to take a look at something and give me a professional opinion."

"The FBI has some of the best lab people in the world. Why come to me?"

"I need this to stay under the radar for now. It's hot. Super hot, in fact."

"What is it?" Morris asked, his curiosity aroused.

"Before I show you, I need you to understand the danger involved. If anyone, and I mean
anyone
, learns of this, it could mean your life. You can't tell a soul about this. Not ever."

"What is it?" he asked intensely. "Is it military stuff? Top secret? I had a DOD Top Secret clearance at my last job."

"I don't know. I only know that if someone learns you have it, or only
thinks
you have it, your life won't be worth a nickel. Are you willing to take a look at it?"

"You can ask me that after the buildup you just gave it?"

"I need you to understand the danger. So far you're not involved."

"So involve me already," he said anxiously. "I promise I won't tell anyone. Come on, Colt."

"Okay, Morris," I said, then hesitated and looked around. "Uh, are there any cameras in here?"

"Are you kidding? No way. This place is super secret. They don't even want their security people to have a clue about the things we're working on. The only cameras are all outside the building or in a few common areas like the lobby and break rooms."

"Just remember that I warned you repeatedly." I removed the matchbox from my pocket and slid it open. Morris watched my every move closely. When I removed the piece of paper and opened it, his eyes widened appreciably."

"What is that?" he asked, reaching for the paper as I slipped the matchbox back into my jacket pocket.

I held the paper beyond his reach, but he could clearly see that it was creaseless. "As I said, I don't know. Since it came into my possession, I've been able to learn very little about its origins. But I've learned enough to know that people would kill to own it."