Secret Agent Santa

“I don’t think we’re going to have that problem now.” She shoved her gloved hands into the pockets of her coat and hunched her shoulders. “Shall we?”

Mike locked the car and joined her, his own hands concealed in his pockets. They passed just two other parties making their way to the mansion.

Mike opened the door of the restaurant and ushered her into the half-empty room with its Colonial decor. A hostess in Colonial dress, a little white mob cap perched on her curls, smiled. “Do you have reservations?”

Raising his brows, Mike’s gaze scanned the room. “No. Do we need one? We just want some coffee.”

“Just checking. You don’t need a reservation today.” She swept her arm across the room. “We’ve had several cancellations. I think it’s because of that awful business last night.”

“You might be right.” Mike nodded. “Can we grab that table by the window?”

“Of course.”

They sat down and ordered their coffees, which their waitress delivered in record time.

Mike dumped a packet of sugar into the steaming liquid and stirred. Then he braced his forearms on the table, cupping his hands around the mug of coffee. “Start from the beginning.”

“The beginning.” Claire swirled a ribbon of cream in her coffee and placed the spoon on the saucer with a click. “It all started when Spencer Correll came out of nowhere, married my mother and then killed her.”

“Your mother fell down the stairs.”

She took a sip of her coffee and stared at Mike over the rim of her cup. “He murdered her.”

“You think he pushed her down the stairs? That’s hardly a surefire method for murder. People can and do survive falls like that.”

“He pushed her and then finished the job by smothering her with a pillow.” Her eyes watered, and she dabbed the corners with her napkin.

“And you know this how?”

“I saw the pillow.” She dashed a tear from her cheek.

“Lying next to your mother’s body? What did the police think about it?”

“No, no.” She took a deep breath. “That’s just it. There was no pillow there. I noticed my mother’s pillow on her bed later—with her lipstick on it.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Mike cocked his head, his nostrils flaring.

“My mother was meticulous about her beauty regimen.” As Mike shifted in his seat, she held up her index finger. “Just wait. She never, and I mean never, went to bed with makeup on. She’d remove it, cleanse, moisturize. I mean, this routine took her about thirty minutes every night. There is no way there would be lipstick on her pillow, no reason for it.”

“Let me get this straight.” Sitting back in his chair, Mike folded his arms over his chest. “Your mother loses her life falling down some stairs, you see lipstick on her pillow and immediately believe your stepfather murdered her?”

“It wasn’t just the pillow.” She glanced both ways and the cupped her mouth with her hand. “It was the phone call.”

“You just lost me.” He drew his brows over his nose. “What phone call?”

“A few years before Mom’s so-called accident, a woman called me with a warning about Spencer Correll. She said he was dangerous and that he’d killed before and would do so again to get what he wanted.”

“Who was the woman?”

“She wouldn’t give me her name.”

“Did you inform the police?”

“At the time of the call?” She widened her eyes. “I thought it was a prank, but I told them about it when Mom died.”

“They dismissed it.”

“Yes, even after I showed them the pillow.”

He rubbed his knuckles across the black stubble on his chin. “Did the cops tell Correll about your suspicions?”

“No.”

“Did you ever hear from this woman again? After your mother’s death?”

“No.”

He dropped his spikey, dark lashes over his eyes, but not before she saw a glimpse of pity gleaming from their depths.

She clenched her jaw. She didn’t expect him to believe her, but she didn’t want to be pitied. People generally reserved their pity for the crazy or delusional. Neither applied to her—anymore.

He huffed out a breath and took a sip of coffee. “So, you believe your stepfather killed your mother, but how in the world does that link him to terrorists?”

Pursing her lips, she studied his lean face, his dark eyes bright with interest. At least he hadn’t called for the little men in the white coats yet. “I didn’t say the murder had anything to do with terrorism, but it prompted me to start nosing around his personal effects.”

“What did you discover?” He gripped the edge of the table as if bracing for the next onslaught of crazy.

She reached into her bag and pulled out the envelope containing the picture, the picture she’d taken from the video she rescued from the trash can on Spencer’s computer. She pinched it between two fingers and removed it from the envelope. Then she dropped it on the table and positioned it toward Mike with her fingertip.

Picking it up, he squinted at the photo. “It’s your stepfather talking to another man. Who is he?”

“He’s the terrorist who killed my husband.”

Chapter Four

Mike’s gaze jumped to Claire’s flushed face, her violet eyes glittering with a challenge, her lips parted.

She’d really gone off the deep end. Nothing she had to say about Correll could be of any importance now. A hollowness formed in the pit of his stomach, threatening to engulf him.

How could he possibly save this bright, beautiful, damaged woman?

He toyed with the corner of the picture, a piece of paper really, with the image printed on it. “How do you know this man is the one who killed your husband? On the video, your husband’s executioner was masked.”

“Do you know how many times I watched that video? It’s seared into my brain.”

Swallowing, he grabbed her hand. “Why? Why torture yourself?”

“My torture paled in comparison to the torture Shane endured.” She blinked her eyes, but no tears formed or spilled onto her flawless skin. “I watched that video frame by frame. I memorized every detail about that man, mask or no mask.”

“You really believe this man—” he flicked the edge of the paper “—is the same man in the video with your husband.”

“I’m sure of it.”

Her voice never wavered, her eyes never lost their clarity.

“Why?” He loosened his grip on her hand and smoothed the pad of his thumb over her knuckles. “Explain it to me.”

“This—” she tapped her finger on the picture “—is a still from a video I found on Spencer’s laptop. It’s the video I was telling you about before. I have the entire thing. I can see the way the man moves, the tilt of his head...his eye.”

“His eye, singular?”

She drew a circle in the air over her own eye. “He has a misshapen iris. I researched it, and the defect is called a coloboma. I had blowups made of my husband’s execution video and I had this picture blown up. The man’s eye is the same in both. This is the guy.”

Mike buried his fingers into his hair, digging them into his scalp. What had this woman put herself through for the past five years? What was she willing to put herself through now?

“I can prove it to you. Let me prove it to you. I have the videos and the stills in a safe deposit box.”

He owed her that much, didn’t he? He owed Lola Coburn’s friend an audience for her manic obsession.

“What is the video you retrieved from Correll’s laptop? Who took it? Where was he meeting this man?”

Claire’s shoulders dropped as she licked her lips. “It’s not DC. Florida, maybe—warm weather, palm trees. I don’t know who took the video or why. I don’t know why Spencer had it, but I can guess why he trashed it.”

“Because it’s evidence tying him to this man, whoever he is.”

“Exactly.”

She wiggled forward in her seat, and a shaft of guilt lanced his chest. He didn’t want to give her false hope that he was going along with this insanity, but he had to investigate. He had one last job to do for Prospero, for Jack, and he’d go out doing the best damned job he could, considering his previous assignment was such an abject failure.

“Why would Correll be so careless about the video? Why would he leave it in his trash can?”

She lifted one shoulder. “Maybe he doesn’t realize you have to empty your trash can on the computer.”

He snorted.

“Don’t laugh. Like my mom, Spencer didn’t grow up using computers. I’m sure his assistants do a lot of his work on the computer for him. You don’t think he actually posts those messages to reach the youth vote on social media platforms himself, do you?”

“How’d you get into his laptop? You told me earlier that you were trying to access his computer last night before the bomb blast.”

“That was his desktop at the house. He has a laptop that he keeps with him. I know the password to the laptop and I was able to get to it one night when he was...otherwise engaged.”

“Does he keep confidential information on this laptop?” He waved off Betsy Ross as she hovered with the coffeepot.

“No. Personal emails and games mostly, nothing work-related. I don’t know how that video got on there, but the minute I saw it, I knew Spencer was up to his eyeballs in something.”

He swirled the coffee in his cup, eyeing the mini whirlpool that mimicked his thoughts.

“You don’t believe me.”

He raised his eyes to hers. “It’s a fantastic set of circumstances.”

“I know that.”

“Does anyone else know about your...suspicions?”

“No.” She twirled a lock of blond hair around her finger. “You don’t think I realize how crazy this all sounds? That’s why I called Lola.”

“Lola’s an old friend of yours from when you and your mother lived in Florida, right?”

“Yes. We lived there after my father died, with Mom’s second husband.”

“Correll sits on the Security Council. He must at least know about Jack Coburn even if he’s never met him. Does he realize that you’re friends with Coburn’s wife?” He steepled his fingers and peered at her over the tips.

“No. Like I mentioned before, he and my mother married when I was in my late teens. Lola and I didn’t see each other for a while. She was busy with medical school on the East Coast, and I had gone to college at Stanford on the West Coast.”

“How do you know he hasn’t done some kind of background on you?”

She spread her hands on the table, the three rings on her fingers sparkling in the light from the window. “I don’t know, but he has no clue I suspect him of being in bed with terrorists. He realized I was suspicious about Mom’s death—that’s it, and he thinks I’ve dropped that train of thought.”

Her jaw hardened, and he almost felt a twinge of pity for Senator Spencer Correll. Claire Chadwick would never relinquish her vendetta against her stepfather.

Clasping the back of his neck, he massaged the tight muscles on either side. “Can you show me the videos today?”

“They’re at a bank in Maryland.”

“Why didn’t you take me there right away?”

“I wanted to feel you out first. I wanted to see if I could trust you.”

“Why wouldn’t you be able to trust me? Lola’s husband sent me out here.”

She lodged the tip of her tongue in the corner of her mouth and studied his face, her violet gaze meandering from the top of his head to his chin. “I was waiting for you to jump up and down and call me crazy, or worse, talk to me like a child and humor me.”

“And?” Her inventory of his face had kindled a slow-burning heat in his belly. If she brought this same level of intensity to bed, she might be the best lay he ever had.

Lola had teased him that her friend’s attractiveness would make it difficult for him to concentrate on the job, but he’d shrugged off the warning since a pretty face had never posed a threat to his professionalism before.

Until now. The combined effect of Claire’s beauty, sympathetic story, passion and those eyes created a combustible mix that had hit him like a thunderbolt.

He cleared his throat and repeated his question. “And?”

“And you didn’t do either one of those things. You don’t believe me and you do feel pity for me, but you’re a man of honor and you’re here to do a job.” She leveled a finger at him. “I respect that.”

He ran a hand across his stubble, wishing he’d shaved this morning and wondering where he’d misplaced his poker face. Did she just nail that, or what?

“I want to see those videos.” He dug his hand into his pocket and pulled out a five-dollar bill, dropping it on the table. “How long is the drive?”

“Less than forty-five minutes.”

“Do we have a way to watch the videos?” He stood up and flicked two more dollars on the table.

“I have a laptop in the back of the car.”

He ushered her outside and flipped up the collar of his jacket against the cold air. He welcomed its bite, which seemed to wake him up from a dream state. He threw a sideways glance at Claire in the hopes that the chilly slap had made her come to her senses.

She charged across the parking lot with more purpose to her gait than when they’d arrived.

He opened the passenger door of the car. “Unless you want to get your laptop out of the trunk.”

“I’ll wait.” She shrugged out of her coat and tossed it in the back before sliding onto the seat.

He settled behind the wheel. “Can you enter the bank’s address in the GPS?”

“I’ll give you directions verbally. I’m very careful about what I enter into my GPS.”

He raised his eyebrows before starting the car. “You said you weren’t on Correll’s radar.”

“For his terrorist ties, but he knows I’ve been snooping around his finances.”

Rolling his eyes, he said, “There are so many threads here, I can’t keep track.”

She laughed and then snapped her fingers in front of his face. “Stay with me here, Mike.”

“You can laugh?” He pulled away from the parking lot.

“If you can’t laugh, you don’t stand a chance in life. I still have a son to raise who doesn’t have a father.”

“You’re definitely putting him on a plane to Colorado tomorrow?”

“He needs to see his grandparents. Shane had brothers and sisters and nieces and nephews, so Ethan will have a big family around him. Besides, I need to get him away from you.”

“Ouch.” He flexed his fingers. “I don’t have kids myself, but I always thought I was pretty good with them. I even coach some youth basketball.”

She touched his arm. “I’m sorry. That didn’t come out right. It’s because you’re so good with Ethan that I want to get him away. Does that make sense?”

“You don’t want him getting attached or overhearing the gossip about us.” He rolled his shoulders.

“Exactly. I could tell he thought you were something special.” She turned her head to look out the window. “You don’t have kids?”

“No.”

“Ever been married?”

“No.”

She jerked her head toward him. “How did that happen?”

He shrugged, all the old familiar excuses curled on his tongue.

Tucking her hair behind her ear, she said, “I suppose your job makes it hard to have a relationship, but even Jack Coburn is happily married with three children.”

“Jack has a desk job now, and that desk is at his home.”

“You’ll be retiring soon. Are you thinking of settling down?”

“With a dog.”

“A dog?”

“That’s all I can handle.”

Her warm laugh had a smile tugging at his lips. Let her think he was joking.

“What kind of dog? Not a little froofy one?”

“Probably a Lab—basic, uncomplicated.”

“I didn’t know dogs could be complicated.” She tapped on the windshield. “You’re going to want to take the next exit.”

Glancing in his mirror and over his shoulder, he moved to the right. As he took the exit, Claire folded her hands in her lap, revealing two sets of white knuckles.

Her mission always lurked beneath the surface, despite her chatter, smiles and laughter.

Her husband, a journalist kidnapped in Somalia, had died five years ago and her mother had taken a tumble down the stairs a year later. Maybe Claire needed this fiction about her stepfather to keep her from focusing on the primary tragedies. Correll gave her a target for her grief and anger.

He could understand that. He’d had a lot of different targets over the years for his.

They rode in silence for several more miles until they entered the city of Brooktown.

“Are we getting close to the bank?”

“Turn left at the next signal in under a half a mile. It’s the Central City Bank. You’ll see it on the left after you make the turn.”

He turned at the signal and pulled along the curb just past the bank. “Do you want me to go in with you?”

“I don’t want anything to seem unusual. I’ll just go to my safe deposit box and take the thumb drives.”

“You got it.” He turned off the ignition and Claire slipped out of the car before the engine stopped.

He’d nabbed a space not too far from the entrance to the bank, and she didn’t bother to put on her coat. He watched her tall frame disappear through the glass door, a striking figure in her skin-tight jeans and high boots that came up over the top of her knees.

If he called Jack now, his boss would probably tell him to start his retirement early. Claire’s story was too fantastic. It had to be just a coincidence that the CIA director was hit last night—didn’t it?

He fiddled with the radio and turned up the classic rock song while drumming his thumbs on the steering wheel. He was about ready to break out his air guitar on the third song in a row when the tap at his window made him grab the steering wheel with both hands.

He glanced out at Claire jerking her thumb toward the rear of the car. He popped the trunk and unlocked the doors.

The car shook as she slammed the trunk of her Lexus. Then she dropped onto the passenger seat, clutching a laptop under one arm. “Got ’em.”

“Where are we going to watch? You can’t bring them back to the house even if Correll is still in meetings on The Hill.”

“Of course not. Hang on a minute.” She dipped into her giant bag and pulled out her phone. She tapped the display and started speaking. “How’s the party? Is Ethan having fun?”

She cocked her head as she listened, a soft smile playing about her lips. “Don’t let him eat too much junk. I’m still packing both of you on a plane tomorrow, stomachache or not.”

Mike jabbed her in the ribs. “Tell him not to forget my cupcake.”

“Yeah, and Mitchell wants his cupcake.” She nodded at him. “Thanks, Lori. See you later.”

“Is Ethan bringing me a cupcake?”

“He is.” She patted the computer on her lap. “Drive up two blocks to the public library.”

Claire had an amazing ability to compartmentalize. It was either a sign of insanity or supreme mental health. “We’re going to watch the videos in a public library?”

“The library has small meeting rooms. The schoolkids use them for tutoring but school’s out for winter break, so I think they’ll be free.”

“You seem to know this area well.”

“I’ve used that library for research.”

He didn’t bother asking her what kind. The woman had tons of money at her disposal and could spend her days playing tennis, going to the spa and lunching with other pampered ladies. Instead she wiled away the hours studying gruesome videos and stalking her stepfather, a US senator.

“Here, here, here.”

He slammed on the brakes and jerked the steering wheel to the side to pull up at the curb. “Check that sign. Is it okay to park here?”

“I don’t even have to look. Street cleaning tomorrow. We’re good.”

She hadn’t been kidding that she knew the area. He followed her into the library, the large bag hitched over her shoulder with the laptop stashed inside. The musty smell of library books insinuated itself into his consciousness and infused him with a sense of calm. The public library had been one of his refuges, the library and the basketball court.

Claire tugged on the sleeve of his jacket. “This way.”

They walked through the stacks, and he trailed his fingers along the spines of the books as if reconnecting with old friends. He read all his books on an electronic device these days, but he missed the feel of a book in his hand.

They passed one glassed-in room where two teenagers hunched over a laptop, giggling.

“Not much work getting done there.”

Claire skipped over the next room and then yanked open the door of the following one. “There’s free Wi-Fi, too.”

“Not that we need it. We’re going to be watching the videos from the thumb drives, not posting them on the internet.”

“Shane’s execution was posted on the internet.”

“Still?” Sympathy washed over him as he pulled out a chair for her.

She sank into it with a sigh. “I’m not sure. I haven’t searched for it lately.”

“Lately?”

Leaning forward, she plugged the laptop into the socket. “I wanted to know where it was so I could keep Ethan away from those websites, block them from our computers.”

“Makes sense, but he’s a little young.”

“I know. That was years ago—when I was obsessed.”

He searched her face for any sign of irony, but he saw only concentration as she shoved the first thumb drive into the USB port on the side of the laptop.

She double-clicked on the device and then dragged the lone file to the desktop. “I can bring up the videos side by side. The similarities are more apparent that way.”

She pulled out the drive and inserted the second one. She repeated the drag-and-drop action.

As she opened the first video, he held his breath. Before she clicked Play, she double-clicked on the other video.

“Are you ready?”

His heart pounded in his chest and he didn’t know why. He’d seen the Shane Chadwick video before, and he’d seen a lot worse. But if he saw nothing in the videos, no likeness between the terrorist who murdered Shane and the man meeting with Correll, he’d have to leave. He’d have to leave Claire Chadwick to her delusions and fantasies.

He didn’t want to leave her.

“Mike? Are you ready?”

He scooted his chair closer to the table. “I’m ready. Let’s see what you’ve got here.”

She played the first video for a few minutes, stopped it and then played the second. Back and forth she went, freezing the action, pointing out the tilt of the man’s head, a hand gesture, the slope of his shoulders, the shape of his face.

She brought up several frames where she’d zoomed in on his eyes, where it looked like the pupil was bleeding into the iris.

It was as if she’d prepared and delivered this presentation many times before. She probably had—in her head.

At the end of the show, she placed her hands on either side of the laptop and drew back her shoulders. “What do you think?”

Had she cast a spell on him with her violet eyes? Had his desire to stay with her, to protect her, colored his perception?

He drew in a deep breath. “I think you’re onto something.”

She closed her eyes and slumped in her seat. “Thank God. You do see it, don’t you?”

“I do. Both men definitely have the same condition with their right eye.”

She grabbed his arm. “I’m not crazy, am I? I’m not imagining this?”

He took her slender hand between both of his. “You’re not crazy, Claire. He may not be the same man. I mean, it would be quite a coincidence, but there’s enough of a similarity between them, especially that coloboma in his eye, to warrant further investigation.”

She disentangled her hand from his and, leaning forward, threw her arms around his neck. “You don’t know how much that means to me to hear you say that.”

Her soft hair brushed the side of his face, a few strands clinging to his lips, and the smell of her musky perfume engulfed him. He dropped one hand to her waist to steady her so she wouldn’t topple out of her chair.

A tremble rolled through her body and she pulled away, wiping a tear from her cheek.