Smokescreen (16 page)

“That’s not true,” Dalton told her. “Grace, believe me—”

“Believe you?” Grace stared at him. “You once told me you’d bring my husband back. Don’t you remember that?”

Dalton had. That had been years ago, battles ago. He’d been young and cocky at the time. He didn’t know that Grace had even remembered him promising that. Since Mac had been killed, that promise had haunted him every day.

“Safe and sound, you said.” Tears flowed down Grace’s cheeks again. “You didn’t.”

The accusation was damning.

“You failed me once,” Grace told him. “I won’t let you fail me again.”

Dalton didn’t know what to say, didn’t even know if he could speak past the lump in his throat. Grace had never before blamed him for Mac’s death in that firefight, never before even questioned why he had lived and Mac hadn’t.

“You are not going to do anything about this,” Grace told him. “Do you hear me?”

Dalton nodded.

Grace took a deep breath. “And if you do anything, anything at all to jeopardize this situation—” She stepped toward him. “—I swear to God that you will never see Michael again. Is that clear?”

Dalton looked at her. “Yes.” There was no other answer he could give. He knew she meant what she said.

Without another word, Grace turned and left.

Sitting at the table, not knowing what he was supposed to do, Dalton felt as hurt and helpless as the night Mac had died in his arms.

C
hristie stood at the one-way glass in the observation room looking into the interview room she’d taken at Bureau headquarters. A chill filled the dark observation room and the coffee she sipped didn’t relieve much of it.

On the other side of the one-way mirror, Sammy Bao sat at a small metal table surrounded by blank walls. Digital and audio equipment staggered all around the room recorded everything. He affected a relaxed, even bored, attitude. For all Christie knew, that was how he felt. Sammy Bao was a stone killer, one of the few that Christie had met personally during her time with the FBI.

D.O. Fielding entered through the side door. He looked at Christie, then at Bao. “Crack him yet?”

“Haven’t even been in to see him yet,” Christie admitted. “I thought maybe he needed some time alone.”

“Looks like he’s fine with that.”

“I know.”

Bao yawned and went back to staring at the one-way mirror.

“I’m beginning to think that he likes looking at himself,” Christie said.

“You didn’t arrest him?”

“No. Brought him in as a material witness. That’s why he’s not shackled and in an orange jumpsuit.”

“Material witness for what?”

“Two of the murders he probably committed crossed state lines. He had connections to the victims. I thought I would explore that with him.”

“The D.C. district attorney’s office has already explored those murders with him.”

“The Bureau hasn’t.”

“We let D.C., Maryland and Texas take the leads on those murders as I recall.”

Christie knew that Fielding had reviewed Bao’s files before coming down to the observation room. He was thorough. “Yes, sir.”

“They couldn’t make their murder cases,” Fielding said.

“No, sir.”

“Investigating the murders at this point could be construed as harassment if we’re not careful.”

By
we,
Christie knew he was talking about her. “Yes, sir. But I’m not investigating the murders.”

Fielding looked at her.

“Those two murder victims were transported across state lines against their will,” Christie explained. “That’s kidnapping. Kidnapping is totally within the Bureau’s purview.”

“Yes,” the D.O. said with a slight smile. “Yes, it is, Agent Chace. And you think Mr. Bao might have some information to share regarding that matter.”

“I also feel someone might have threatened him. That’s why he’s reticent about coming forward with information about those two murders.”

“Carry on, Agent Chace. But be warned—Bao’s attorney is cooling his heels in my office right now. You’ve
got maybe twenty minutes with Bao before we have to charge him or let him go. As I recall, we don’t have any evidence to hold him.”

“Yes, sir.” Christie threw her coffee cup in the trash and followed Fielding out into the narrow, sterile hallway. Fielding went left, back toward his office, and Christie nodded to Agent Perez, who was working as her second on the interview.

Christie led the way into the room. Her shoulder holster hung empty because she’d checked her service pistol as per standard operating procedure. S.O.P. was designed to protect all the agents in the holding area.

Bao didn’t look up. He stated flatly, “I suppose my attorney is here and this little charade is at an end.”

Tossing the files onto the interview table, Christie remained standing. Bao started to stand as well. She stuck a leg behind his, put her hand to his chest and shoved him back into his chair.

“Class isn’t dismissed yet,” Christie said.

Bao laughed, but anger glinted in his eyes. “What do you want, Agent Chace?”

She questioned him for forty-seven minutes, straight and without finesse, hammering him with question after question. She covered the two murder cases, stated her convictions that Bao was part of the kidnapping and probably part of the later murders.

Bao denied all of it. He admitted to knowing both the victims, seeming to take pride in the fact that she could come that close to him but no closer. He never once asked for his lawyer.

Someone rapped on the door.

“Come in,” Christie said, feeling frustrated but working hard not to show it.

Agent Osborn, one of the newbies, stuck his head in the door. “D.O. says time’s up with this one. His lawyer is here making noise. Charge him or let him go.”

Bao stood and smiled. “Well then, Agent Chace. This has been…interesting.” He shrugged. “Maybe next time we can do this at my convenience. At a place of my choosing. A lawyer will be of no use to you then or there, I assure you.”

Christie intercepted Bao before he reached the door, stepping in front of him and going nose to nose with him. They were the same height so she stared him in the eyes.

“Why did you kill Arturo Gennady?” Christie demanded. “He was an old man.”

Bao returned her level gaze. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You knew it was a sting,” Christie went on. “All you had to do was not show up.”

Bao looked at the other two FBI agents as if wondering if they knew what she was talking about.

Thinking about the dead agents and all the phone time she’d logged that morning and afternoon talking to grieving loved ones, Christie barely resisted punching Bao in the face when he turned back to her and shrugged. “You made a mistake. If you hadn’t tried to cowboy that stakeout and kill my people, we’d never have known who you were,” she said.

“What makes you think it was me or my family?”

“I saw the Bronze Tiger chops tattooed on one of the men.” It was the same lie Christie had told Fielding. And she was basing it all on No-Face’s word.

“Other men wear such tattoos,” Bao replied.

“No they don’t. Bronze Tigers don’t let anyone wear
their chops. And if anyone tries to leave your
family,
you kill him.”

“You must like fairy tales, Agent Chace.”

“Only the ones where the good guys win.”

“I’m surprised that you believe in bogeymen.”

“They believe in you, too. I’m sure your soldiers told you about the masked man that was with me.”

Bao’s eyes narrowed, showing the first sign of interest Christie had seen.

“You don’t know who he is, do you?” Christie taunted. “But he knows who you are. And he doesn’t strike me as the kind of man who goes away until he’s finished with something.”
Not at all,
she thought, remembering those sea-green eyes and obvious combat experience. “I’m pretty sure he’s not finished with you.”

“Mr. Bao, you don’t have to stay in there any longer.” The speaker was a young man in an expensive suit who stood out in the hallway holding on to an expensive PDA that he carried like a badge of office.

Bao waved the young attorney away. He kept his eyes fixed on Christie. “You’re inventing another myth.”

Christie gave him a cold look. “Am I? Your soldiers had us wired. I saw my picture on a vid-flash on the sleeve of one of them. You knew Gennady wasn’t giving in to the blackmail pressure from the Bronze Tigers. You knew my team would be there. You intended for all of us to die.”

“Again, Agent Chace, I don’t know what you’re talking about. If you should feel inclined to talk to me about this matter in the future, arrange it through my attorney. I’ll make sure he leaves you his information.” Bao turned to go, then stopped himself. “One other bit of advice I would like to give you. Because you have been so charitable to me.”

Christie waited.
Every time he opens his smug mouth, he’s giving you information. Just remember that. Let him talk. Make sure you learn.

“I heard about a woman in the media,” Bao said. “Her name was Katsumi Shan. Perhaps you’ve heard of her.”

Christie waited.

“I was told she was a very inquisitive woman, too. Always sticking her nose into business that was not hers. She was found hanging.” Bao smiled. “Evidently someone didn’t like her attentions. It is something to keep in mind.”

“I won’t stop,” Christie said defiantly. “I don’t scare.” She tried to tell herself she wasn’t scared now, but she knew she was and accepted it. Her father had taught her to deal with fear.
When you’re a cop, that’s one of the things that will be with you every day of your career. You want to know when to start worrying, Christie? The day you stop being afraid.

“Good,” Bao said. “But you realize these men, whoever they are, that murdered your team probably would like nothing better than another chance at you.”

Christie watched him walk away. She steeled herself until she was certain Bao was out of earshot. Then she cursed. That was something her father didn’t teach her and didn’t approve.

When she had control of herself, she left the interview room and returned to her office. Seated at her cluttered desk, she breathed out. Then she closed her eyes, accessed the computer in the back of her head and started searching for information about Katsumi Shan. There had to be a tie. Bao had meant the information to be a lure.

“I need one of the back rooms,” Dalton said to the young clerk behind the counter of the Internet café. He thought he spoke clearly, but it was possible that he hadn’t. He wasn’t at his best.

“The back room?” the clerk repeated, acting like he didn’t know what Dalton was talking about.

Dalton tried to control his anger. It wasn’t easy. He’d left the lab compound three hours ago with the intention of getting a handle on the can of worms he’d opened as well as the one that had already been opened.

You should have just kept your damn mouth shut,
he told himself.
Maybe if you’d gotten some information from Grace things would have been different. But you didn’t. You should have known going in that Grace isn’t the kind of woman to crumble under pressure.

As it was now, he still didn’t know anything, and Grace wasn’t talking to him. She’d gone to the lab and showed no signs of coming out anytime soon.

Check that,
Dalton told himself.
You do know something. Bao and the Bronze Tigers threatened Michael. Not Grace. Michael.

Once he’d been certain Michael was asleep, Dalton had assigned two men he trusted on the cottage, then had gone into Roanoke. He’d spent some time in the taverns, drowning his anger and fear and frustration the way he had back in the military. Drinking to excess was something he hadn’t done in almost three years. Then, half in the bag and royally pissed, he’d decided to take action.

At the moment, he knew about Bao and the Bronze Tigers. But they were a known quantity. The offensive front that he didn’t know, and was certain would involve her at some point, was the FBI agent, Christie Chace.
Since he’d met her in the warehouse last night, she’d seldom been far from his thoughts. Drinking put a curve in his thoughts that he couldn’t shake. The warrior part of him remembered that she was going to be a stubborn adversary, while the male part of him couldn’t forget what her lean, hard body had felt like against his.

Maybe if you were sober she wouldn’t seem so damn attractive,
he groused at himself. Emotions and whiskey were a bad combination. He’d gotten angry at the last bar he’d been in, almost let himself get sucked into a fight—which would have pleased him to no end for the moment, but would have upped the complications with Grace in geometric proportions—and had chosen to come to the Internet café.

Now the young Internet café clerk was leaving himself wide-open to attack.

“Hey, Euclid,” a deep basso voice called. “I’ll deal with this one.” Kirk Brandt, the ex-Navy intelligence officer that ran the café, limped out from behind the bar. He was short and wide, built like a fireplug. His face was broad and friendly, even with the burn scarring that tracked his right cheek and chin and pulled at his right eye.

Kirk had served as a submariner for twelve years before his boat had taken a direct hit from a pirate in the Indian Ocean. Nearly every man aboard the sub was lost. Few of them had escaped damage. Kirk had mustered out with a full pension, a background in encrypted communications and one leg short.

These days he ran the Internet café for a straight job and contracted out for security testing for big corporations. The wounds he’d suffered had left his right leg a twisted mess of scarring and prosthetic from the knee down, but his mind was as agile as ever. Dalton had met
Kirk at the arcades with Michael. They’d found similar interests in military strategy games, then progressed to sharing stories about their experiences in the service. By the time they’d finished that, they had a solid if casual friendship.

Kirk had also let Dalton know that he kept back rooms at the twenty-four-hour café that were heavily encrypted. Most of the front room computers were used by dedicated gamers who wanted to handle more machine than they could easily afford at home. Few used them for research or business, though there were some.

“You, my friend,” Kirk said, “have been drinking like a man with a woman on his mind.”

“It shows?” Dalton brushed at his chin, feeling stubble and the familiar creeping numbness that told him he was half-drunk.

“Big time.” Kirk patted him on the shoulder. “C’mon back and let’s see what you need.”

Dalton followed the ex-Navy man into the back room. Four sleek machines sat in the darkness. The walls were blank, devoid of distractions. Kirk gestured Dalton to one of the consoles, typed in a series of commands and brought the computer up.

“I designed the search engine myself,” Kirk said. “You don’t use Google for anything back in this room. Too much spyware on the Net. My engine ducks it or kills it all.”

Focusing on the screen with effort, Dalton looked for the keyboard.

“Way behind the times, my friend.” Kirk slipped a wireless microphone over Dalton’s head. “You just have to talk to my babies.”

Dalton frowned. “I don’t care for tech that much.”

Kirk grinned sympathetically. “I heard there were a few people like you left in the world. Problem is, you’d still be writing on stone tablets if you had your way.”

Probably be a lot safer,
Dalton thought.

“And you wouldn’t be able to do what you’re about to do,” Kirk said as if reading his thoughts. “You want me to leave?”