The present
“Salami?” Jake asked warily, gripping his cell phone as he paced in his office Saturday afternoon.
Silence answered.
“This is Granite.”
“How the hell did you get this number? I’ve only had it a month, and we haven’t talked in three years,” a scratchy male voice said.
Jake chuckled. “So you’re pissed because I haven’t called? You a woman now, Salami?”
The man snorted. “Nah, you got it backwards. It’s the women who like the big Salami. And FYI, that’s not my code name anymore.”
“I know, but I figured you wouldn’t believe it was really me if I called you Scarface.”
“Fuck. The Agency leaks like a sieve these days. How’d you—”
“Don’t ask.” Jake paused. “I need your help.”
“Shoot.”
“This could be…uh…risky for you.”
“Hey. Can’t be any riskier than you taking that bullet for me in Istanbul. I told you then I could never repay you enough.”
“Yeah, but you’re getting old, Salami. I thought maybe you forgot.”
“Never. What do you need?”
“The identity of the handler on my last few contracts. He uses the code name Contractor.”
“Are you serious? Those guys don’t officially exist. Of course, neither do you or me.”
“I know this is asking for the impossible, but I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important. And if I’m right about this guy, it’s damn important to the Agency also.”
“Care to share?”
Jake pondered how much to disclose. He trusted Salami, but too much information might put his friend at greater risk. On the other hand, Salami would be safer knowing the kind of corrupt asshole he was looking for. “I think my old handler is arranging private contracts with CIA assassins.”
“Holy shit. What made you suspicious?”
“Several things. First, he offered three times the normal fee. Second, it was a goddamn domestic hit. Then, I beat the bushes to confirm the target’s crime and came up with nothing.”
“But you completed the contract anyway.” Salami stated it as a fact, not a question.
Jake sighed with resignation. “I tried to get out of it, even tried to get the contract canceled. The Contractor threatened retaliation for non-compliance. You know how it is…”
“Sucks.”
“Yeah. So, you in on this?”
“Absolutely. How do you want me to proceed?”
Jake gave him the specifics of Angela’s contract. “See if you can verify its legitimacy and get any kind of lead on the Contractor’s identity.”
After a long pause, his friend said, “Ya know, you’re asking for trouble…and the impossible.”
“Ah, Salami, you were always so good with trouble and the impossible.”
“No, Granite. That was you.”
* * *
Jake broke into Heavenly Interiors shortly after midnight Sunday morning. The locks and security alarm system presented no challenge. He paused a few moments for his eyes to adjust and to get his bearings. Beneath his black sweatshirt and jeans, he was sweating.
Angela had proudly shown him her business shortly after they had started dating, and he’d visited the shop on half a dozen occasions. On Saturday, he had sketched the layout from memory.
The rear door opened into a workroom full of tables covered with drawings and bookshelves overflowing with sample catalogues. Aiming his penlight at the floor, Jake carefully picked his way through the maze to the hallway leading to the front of the shop. On the left was Angela’s large office. Her assistant, Stella Jenkins, used the smaller one on the right.
He killed the flashlight halfway down the hall. Sliding along the wall, he approached the compact reception area where the picture windows and entrance faced Orange Avenue, the main drag through Coronado. The stylish window coverings were wide open, allowing the streetlights to illuminate the inside of the shop for security purposes. As he’d expected, the length of sidewalk in view was deserted at that late hour. He peeked around the doorjamb and confirmed there was nothing in the reception area relevant to his search. After another scan of the sidewalk and street beyond, he slowly closed the hallway door.
Once inside Angela’s windowless office, Jake shut the door and switched on the desk lamp. He surveyed the room. No files or paperwork cluttered the furniture.
Stella had done a terrific job of closing up after he talked to her late Friday morning. Together, they had decided the business should be shut down immediately, until Angela’s parents and attorney figured out the appropriate legal dissolution.
Although completely distraught at the news of Angela’s death, Stella had offered to notify all the current clients of the situation and reassure them that appropriate refunds would be forthcoming. At Jake’s suggestion, she had also agreed to lock up any company information that was unsecured in Angela’s office and to clear out her own office of all her personal belongings. Despite having lost a friend and a job all at once, the woman had efficiently taken care of business.
Jake was reasonably certain Stella would not return to Heavenly Interiors until given permission. Unfortunately, the future actions of Angela’s parents were not so easily determinable. He had to find and take whatever he could as fast as possible. There might not be another chance.
He slid into the desk chair, flexed his gloved hands, and flipped on the computer. While it booted up, he rummaged through the desk drawers. Angela’s appointment book and Rolodex were the only items of interest, and he set them on the desk.
When the computer was ready, he shook his head at the lack of a required password. Naïve of Angela, but lucky for him. With a few clicks of the mouse, he determined the total gigs of data. He exhaled, relieved the flash drive he yanked from his pocket had sufficient capacity to hold all of it. Now he didn’t have to take the time to decide what to copy but could transfer everything and review it at home. He jammed the flash drive into a USB port, clicked a few commands, and left the computer to do its thing.
Next he picked the lock on the first file cabinet. His fingers skipped across the file tabs, stopping occasionally to pull out a colored folder. He grinned. Of course, there were no plain manila folders—not in Angela’s world.
By the time the entire computer hard drive had been copied, a stack of four dozen folders rested on the desk. Jake double-checked that he had relocked all the file cabinets. He removed the flash drive and shut down the computer. After retrieving an empty box from the workroom, he piled his booty inside. A careful inspection assured him that the office looked exactly as it had when he’d entered earlier.
Holding the penlight with his teeth, he extinguished the lamp and exited the office. In the hallway he paused, setting the heavy box on the floor and listening for any unusual noise. Nothing. He flicked off the flashlight. Once the reception area door was reopened, he inched down the dark hall, chiding himself for being overly cautious. But his training was so ingrained that he practically performed without conscious thought.
After the security alarm was reset and the rear door locked, Jake dashed to the old, nondescript, black truck that he frequently used to do surveillance. He tossed the box onto the passenger seat and scanned the area before cranking the ignition. He pulled the Glock from his waistband and wedged it beside his thigh.
His watch read 2:15 a.m. He circled the block, finding no other vehicles parked in the alley or on the nearby streets. Pedestrians were nonexistent. Satisfied his little visit had been undetected, he headed for Angela’s condo.
He gulped down an entire bottle of water during the ten-minute drive and inspection of the neighborhood. Not a single residence showed signs of activity.
Jake parked five buildings away in the alley behind the condo development. He tried the patio gate, but the padlock was on the inside, and he couldn’t reach it. He swore quietly.
Thankful that Angela’s was the end unit, he eased around to the front. His vigilant gaze darted from dark shadows to darker shadows. Convinced the neighborhood was dead, he hurried to the front door and let himself in with the key he had stolen from Angela several weeks earlier.
He froze at the familiar barking of a dog—Angela’s dog, Chelsea. But the muted sound came from Leona Browning’s condo next door. Jake drew a deep breath.
He surveyed the residence, lit only by the moonlight streaming through the transom windows. How strange the place felt without Angela.
Annoyed with himself for feeling so uncomfortable, he moved quickly to the small den on the first floor that Angela used as a home office. He fired up her laptop and pulled a second flash drive from his pocket. After checking its size, he clicked the commands to copy the entire hard drive.
The desk and credenza yielded files of bank statements, brokerage account statements, and paid bills. He located her personal address book. He tossed it all into a paper grocery bag.
Walking into her bedroom, he cringed. He couldn’t think about Thursday night. Not now.
Yanking open the drawers of her dresser and nightstands felt like a violation. Framed pictures of the two of them adorned the dresser. A snapshot of him at the beach lay in the nightstand drawer. He lifted it out and stared at it. How empty his eyes looked. Soulless.
He couldn’t get out of the condo fast enough.
At sunrise, he sat in his home office, savoring a Bloody Mary. The bounty of the night’s expedition was piled on the desk and floor around him. He stared at the stack of Heavenly Interiors files and spotted the one labeled STONE, JAKE.
Setting the drink aside, he pulled out the folder. He wasn’t sure why he felt apprehensive about opening it. Finally, he separated the black flaps. Appropriate color.
The pages of a log were stapled to the inside of the left flap. The initial entry was dated May 8th. Their first meeting. Jake’s tired eyes closed against the painful memory.