CHAPTER TWO - FINN
My father died on a Tuesday.
It was a dark day. Late last fall when the trees around DC were turning gold, and red, and brown, and the city air was nothing but a mean, cold wind that sliced through you like a knife. The funeral was short and small.
He was the rock of my world for most of my life. A guy with big ideas, and the nerve to see them through, and the gall to take what he wanted if no one gave way.
And even though there were a lot of things I didn’t like about my father, he didn’t deserve to go out the way he did.
I take a drink of my whiskey-laced coffee, not caring that I’m working. My boss has been giving me light days ever since I landed here at the FBI satellite office in Denver, so I’m expecting this to be another one of those. Boring, meaningless hours that add up to twenty-four and then start all over again.
“Hey, Finn,” the waitress—Darla—says as she positions a pot of coffee, ready to refill my cup. I put a flat hand over the cup to stop her. Don’t need the whiskey watered down any more than it is or it might lose its kick. “Need the check then?” she asks.
“Sure,” I say, not looking her in the eyes. Not looking at her at all. Just staring out the window at the approaching night.
“You doin’ OK these days?”
“What?” I ask, forcing myself to stop looking outside and focus on her instead.
“You seem so… distracted lately. Everything all right?”
“Sure,” I say. “What could be wrong?”
She offers me a small smile. We had something once. Maybe. But it’s gone now. At least that’s how I see it. But she’s nice. She’s always nice. So I rein in that dark part of me that wants to tell her to go fuck off and leave me alone, and instead channel my father. Say something he’d say. “Thanks for the coffee.” He always was polite. Right up until the end.
“No problem,” she says. Another smile as she writes something on the check and sets it on the table. And then, thankfully, she’s gone and I’m alone again.
I like the alone.
The door opens, a bell jingling, which draws my attention to the front of the diner where Declan Ivers stands, looking around for a few seconds before he spies me. I can’t hear it over the din of conversation, but then again, I don’t need to hear it. The long sigh he lets out once he spots me is something you can see. And then he’s heading my direction.
“Fuck, Murphy,” he says, sliding into the booth across from me. “I’ve been calling you for hours. Why the hell didn’t you pick up?”
I don’t even bother mustering up a shrug. Just hold my coffee cup in both hands, twirling it on the table.
“Look, I got a job for you tonight, OK? You need to get your shit together.”
I lift the cup, take another sip of my Irish coffee, and meet his gaze. He’s wearing a dark suit just like mine, only it’s a few steps up in the quality department.
I don’t wear cheap suits, but this asshole, you know the kind. They dress to impress. Cuff links, and silk ties, and shoes that cost a fortune. All accentuated with the status-symbol watch on the wrist and the haircut that never seems to change. I just take the fucking suit out of the closet, put it on every morning like I’m supposed to, and call it good. Though I do have a nice watch.
I can’t decide if I like Declan Ivers or not. I mean, he’s not what I’d call good-natured, but he’s not really an asshole, either. So I’m just waiting him out.
I don’t have to like him. I just need to get along with him.
“What kind of job?” I ask, uninterested. I only have one job here and that’s… well, drinking this whiskey.
“The kind you do,” he says, looking me in the eyes.
We stare at each other for a few seconds, his gaze sorta challenging, mine sorta apathetic.
“OK.”
Declan pulls out his phone, starts stabbing at it, and then there’s a little whoosh sound that says he’s sending a message. My phone lights up on the table, the sound off, so there’s no incoming ding, but I glance down at it anyway.
It’s a picture of a woman. She’s got blue eyes, long, dark hair, and an expression that’s something between a scowl and a smile.
“Who’s this?” I ask, suddenly more interested as I pick up the phone and tab the message open from the home screen so it won’t disappear.
“Issy Grey. She’s one of those life coaches. Motivational speakers or whatever.”
“OK,” I say, looking up at him, trying to put the pieces together. “So what’s the job?”
“We think she’s involved in something pretty big.”
I wait for more, but he stops. Like I’m supposed to ask another question. I close my eyes and count to three because I hate this game he plays. Fuckin’ Declan is all drama all the time. How he’s still in the FBI, I’ll never understand. I open them, making myself breathe slowly, and oblige. “What kind of something?”
“Well”—Declan sighs—“we got a tip earlier today that there’s some kind of meth operation happening in the office space she rents.”
“Meth?” I groan. “Again?”
“Somebody’s got to clean it up,” Declan says. “Today that’s us. We’re waiting on the warrant now, then we’re gonna meet up with DEA and head over there to take a look. So let’s go.”
I stay where I am, wondering if I should get up and leave. Not leave with him, but leave this whole fuckin’ town. I mean… I guess it would be bad if I didn’t just toe the line. Shit would go off the rails, I’d be asked a bunch of questions, things would get messy.
But then again, it always gets messy.
“Look,” Declan says, lowering his voice as he leans over the table towards me. “I get it. He was your father. So losing him was a blow. He was one of us, and I liked him too. But he’s gone, Finn. And it’s not like he didn’t fucking deserve it. So pull your shit together and do your fucking job.”
The anger inside me swirls like a wind whipping up a storm. But I hold it together, straighten my tie and pull out my wallet. I throw down a twenty, force myself to stand up, putting on my coat at the same time, and wait for Declan to follow.
“We’re good then?” he asks, getting to his feet. But what he means is, You’re good?
“Sure,” I say. Because why not?
“I’ll text you the address. Meet me over there. And Finn,” he says, holding onto my arm as I start to move away. I stare down at his fingers on my coat sleeve, then raise my eyes to meet his. He lets go of my arm. “Don’t fuck this up. It’s important.”
“Sure thing,” I say, rolling my shoulders a little to get rid of the building tension. “Just tell me what to do.”
“Good man,” Declan says, shooting me a smile as he pats me on the shoulder.
I watch him walk off. Keep watching as he smiles at Darla and heads out the door.
She doesn’t smile back. He doesn’t notice.
There are a lot of things Declan Ivers doesn’t notice these days. Which is ironic, since he’s FBI, just like me.
But then again, he’s nothing like me.
Whatever.
I follow, passing Darla, smiling as I go, and say, “See ya later, Darla,” because I think that’s what she needs tonight. A nice goodbye from me.
“You too, Finn. Have a nice Valentine’s Day.”
I stop, look over my shoulder at her as I reach for the door handle. “What?”
She’s smiling back at me. Cute girl, especially in her pink Cookie’s Diner waitress uniform. Kinda short and tiny. Red hair—little bit wavy—and blue eyes. “You didn’t even know, did you?”
I shake my head.
“So glad I gave up on you ages ago. You’d just break my heart, Finn.”
“Yeah.” I shoot her another smile, a better smile. “Breaking shit is my specialty.”
Outside it’s cold and the fading light is gone. There’s a little bit of wind, which I relish as I make my way down the street to my government-issued car, because the diner was kinda stuffy. When I get in and slam the door closed, the cold lingers. It lingers even after I start up the car, blast the heat, and start picking my way through the heavy traffic of downtown Denver.
I check my phone, find Declan’s text, and press it to make the map app pull up. Then I reluctantly turn the ringer back on because… yeah. Gotta deal with reality, I guess. Which is a joke, of course.
Go F*ck Yourself is located near the Capitol building. The sign is lit up white and the letters are bold and black. And for a moment I wonder what kind of woman names a business something like that.
Apparently Issy Grey.
The streets are still open when I park my car—Declan and crew still a few minutes away according to a new text—and I get lucky with a spot right out front. I wait there, car engine off, darkness all around me, and look across the street at a busy little place called the Tea Room.
Inside there’s tables filled with couples, no doubt celebrating the most fake holiday on record like it actually means something. All smiles, holding hands, gazing into each other’s eyes like dumbasses as they wait for some equally stupid romantic dinner to appear in front of them.
I bet some of those guys have diamond rings hidden in the food. I bet some of those guys will be asking that all-important question every woman seems to wait her whole life for. I bet some of those guys will end this day more miserable than when it started.
A knock on my window draws my attention away from the Tea Room and back to the job. Declan is standing on the passenger side of my car making one of those roll-your-window-down gestures that actually has no meaning in modern times, since windows don’t roll down anymore. They slide down, as mine does when a button is pushed.
“DEA and dogs are on their way.”
“Sure,” I say, getting out of the car and joining him on the sidewalk.
“We’re meeting them out back to keep this shit quiet a little longer,” he says, nodding his head across the street at the Tea Room. I narrow my eyes, trying to get his meaning. He says, “Grey is over there having dinner. Gonna keep this low-key as long as we can. ”
“Ah,” I say, tugging my coat closed to keep the chill out. Well, called that one, right? Whatever poor asshole is having dinner with her tonight will most definitely be going home miserable.
We slip into a narrow space between her building and the one next door and come out into a small parking lot off an alley. There’s a whole team of FBI guys at the door already, wearing black vests with large yellow letters on the front and back. The guy in front is holding a battering ram, poised in position, while the two behind him have guns drawn.
I yawn. Declan sees me, closes his eyes for a second, misses the actual ramming of the door, and then opens them, still looking at me. “Be present,” he says. “This shit is no joke.”
“I’m here,” I say.
The three guys with guns go in first, battering ram set aside now, and Declan and I wait it out as they search the place. TV makes our job look a lot more exciting than it really is. I mean, I haven’t ever had to go inside a building alone like Fox fucking Mulder and take my chances. You send in the real team first to do your dirty work, then guys like me go in after it’s all clear.
By the time it is clear, the DEA has shown up with dogs, and Declan and I enter behind them.
There’s no one inside so I just stand there, looking around.
Lots of smaller rooms in the back. Like little offices, but with no computers or anything. Just tables. Maybe consultation rooms or something. There are motivational posters hanging on the walls. Posters that say things like, “There are no traffic jams on the extra mile,” and, “Success is not a destination, it’s a journey.”
The front room is huge. Tall, industrial ceiling with open ductwork. One side has mats and punching bags hanging from the ceiling, like they practice kicking men in the balls over there. The other side is set up with low tables and big overstuffed chairs and it barely takes any imagination on my part to picture small groups of sad women sitting around them drinking coffee as they lament what their lives have become.
Declan disappears out the front door. I stay behind, hidden in the shadows, and watch as a small woman with long, dark hair and fiery eyes comes running across the street, forcing her way through several Denver cops who try to stop her with a mad grab at her coat.
Issy Grey.
But she makes it and stands toe to toe with Declan, who is at least a whole foot taller, as they talk. Or, more accurately, she yells at him, her arms flailing as the whole what-the-fuck-do-you-think-you’re-doing act plays out.
A guy with a dog brushes past me, goes through the front door, and stands next to Declan, waiting to be seen. I push past people after him, wanting to hear this part, and end up standing next to the dog as it pants, looking up at me with a wide dog-faced grin.
I actually smile at him because… dogs.
“Finn,” Declan says. “Take Miss Grey down to Lakewood for questioning.”
“What?” the woman says. People have her by the arm now. Two men. Two big men.
And then shit just goes… awry.
Her body twists, her arms and legs also in motion. She’s got one restraining arm bent behind the guy’s back and he drops to the ground crying out in pain. The other one gets a chop to the throat that leaves him gasping for breath and even though I’m the agent and she’s the suspect, I find myself rooting for her to take out Declan too.
It’s not personal or anything. I just like to root for the underdog.
She doesn’t. Take him out, that is. A massive show of force has her face down on the pavement, her cheek pressed into the sidewalk, as she spits threats about lawsuits and unreasonable violence.
Seconds later she’s led away, wrists zip-tied behind her back, and shoved in the back of my car under Declan’s orders.
I just stand there, watching the entire scene play out with my usual level of indifference.
“Finn!” Declan yells right up in my face. “For fuck’s sake, get your shit together! Take her to Lakewood and put her in a room!”
So I do. Because that’s my job.
I get in the car, start it up, and make my way slowly through downtown and over to Colfax, deciding against the freeway, since there’s only one freeway route over to Lakewood anyway and it looks packed with traffic as I pass by. I drive slow, not in a hurry, and look at the woman in my back seat from the rear-view mirror.
She stares back, daring me to speak to her.
But I don’t.
Because I just don’t care enough about what’s happening to put forth the effort.
Almost an hour later she’s in a dimly-lit room, hands cuffed to the table, ankles shackled, screaming threats at the camera and two-way mirror that would make a biker blush.
I’m standing on the other side of the mirror in a room filled with monitors, holding a bag of Mrs. Fields’ Chocolate Chip Cookies I got from the vending machine, feeding them into my mouth one at a time, watching her.
She’s tiny. Everything about her is small. But fierce. Nothing about her is weak.
The door bursts open and Declan walks in, slamming it closed behind him. Issy Grey hears it—the room isn’t completely soundproof because of the mirror—and stops spewing threats to tilt her head and listen.
“Did you talk to her?” Declan asks, slumping into one of two chairs.
“Nope,” I say, shoving the last cookie into my mouth, bunching up the empty bag, and tossing it towards the trash can. I miss, but don’t pick it up. “I have no clue what’s going on, so just waiting on you. Where the fuck have you been?”
Declan looks at me with an expression that says, Watch your mouth, son, but doesn’t bother to say the words out loud. Doesn’t have to. We both know who’s boss here and it sure as fuck isn’t me.
He pulls up a screen on one of the many monitors stationed around the observation area, which displays a dossier of Ms. Grey. Three others contain footage of the raid. One is a live image of a chest cam on an officer still on the scene, two are looping different discoveries found in her back rooms, and the last three are trained on her, inside the interrogation room.
“OK, so this is where we’re at. We got an anonymous tip this afternoon that there was a meth lab over at Go Fuck Yourself—”
I laugh at the name because I sorta love it. Issy Grey is totally the kind of person who names a business Go Fuck Yourself.
Declan just continues. “Upon arrival it was clear the tip was bogus, but during the search the dogs sniffed out a sizable amount of C4 explosive.”
“What?” I say, pulling out the chair next to Declan and taking a seat. “Her?” I flick my thumb over my shoulder at the two-way.
“Like a lot of it, Finn.”
I laugh. “Bullshit. She’s an elf-sized demon, sure. But no one would be that aggressive and call that much attention to themselves if they’re holding C4 explosives in their back room.”
“Obviously”—Declan sighs, rubbing his temples with two fingertips—“something’s going on here. So let’s go in there and get to the bottom of it.”
“Wait,” I say, placing a hand on his shoulder to prevent him from standing. “You think she’s… what? Using her little women’s empowerment classes as a front for terrorists?”
“Maybe,” Declan says.
I laugh. “Really?”
“I follow the evidence, Finn. If you know anything about me by now, it should be that. And this woman had five hundred pounds of C4 in her back storeroom. So let’s go talk to her and see what the deal is. I’m Bob, you’re Joe.”
“Fuck that,” I say. “I’m Bob and you’re Joe.”
“Whatever,” Declan says, standing up.
Bob is good cop and Joe is bad cop. Declan always plays good cop-bad cop during interrogations. It’s cliché, but it works. Usually. I’ve only been working with the Lakewood office for about three months, but Declan has already proven himself to be a powerful interrogator, so I generally just follow his lead.
Besides, being bad cop requires a lot of effort and I’m just not into that kind of investment tonight.
We exit the observation room, enter the hallway, then open the door that leads to the interrogation room, go inside, and close the door behind us. No one is watching on the other side of the glass now, but she doesn’t know that. And the whole thing is being recorded, so it hardly matters.
“’Bout fucking time,” the demon-girl spits. “I want my phone call and my lawyer. If you think I’m gonna—”
“Issy,” I say, because I’m good cop, and he always goes first and he always uses first names. “You’re not under arrest. We’re just here to question you.”
“Then set me free. Unchain me and let me go. I’ve got nothing to say.”
“What my partner meant to say,” Declan adds in his most unfriendly FBI agent tone, “was that you’re not under arrest yet. If you want a lawyer, you will be. So think very carefully about that request, Ms. Grey.”
“Lawyer,” she says.
“Issy, listen—”
“Lawyer,” she repeats. “His name is Jordan Wells. I’m not saying anything until he gets here.”
Declan looks at me, almost smiling, which makes me squint my eyes at him for a moment. “Jordan Wells, huh? You got that guy on retainer?”
“Lawyer,” she says one more time.
I take a deep breath and walk over to the table, taking a seat across from her. I have no idea who Jordan Wells is, but obviously Declan does. I’ve only been here three months and his name hasn’t come up before, so I’m just gonna roll with it.
“Look,” I say. “It’s obvious that someone is fucking with you, OK? Even I can see that. So all you gotta do is help us out. Tell us who you’re in trouble with. We’ll get all the information we need and you’ll go home tonight and sleep in your own bed. How’s that sound?”
She’s already opening her mouth to protest while I’m still talking, but then she gets a confused look on her face, shuts her mouth, and turns her head.
“What?” I ask. “What was that?”
She shakes her head, but I’m not sure if she’s telling me to go fuck myself—which kinda makes me happy if she is—or if she’s trying to convince herself that whatever idea just popped into her head can’t be true.
Declan takes over. “Look, Ms. Grey, we already know you’re involved with some bad people. But what we don’t know, and what we need to know, and what we will know before you ever leave this room, is the name of the organization and the person you report to. So let’s all save ourselves some time and just button this up real quick.”
She doesn’t take the bait. Just chews her lip and stares at the bland, grey cinderblock wall.
“Issy,” I say. “It only gets worse if you refuse to cooperate.”
“Lawyer,” she repeats one more time. “I want to see Jordan Wells and I want to see him right the fuck now.”
“Well then.” Declan sighs. “We’re gonna do this the hard way then.” He leaves the room without further comment, which means it’s my turn to take over and convince her the lawyer is a bad idea.
I lean back in my chair, trying to appear unaffected and casual.
Issy Grey sneers at me.
“Nice Valentine’s Day, huh?”
“I’m not talking to you, so save your breath.”
“I mean, you were over at the tea place, right? Having dinner with your boyfriend before all this happened?”
She rolls her eyes at me.
“Oh, I get it,” I say, laughing. “No boyfriend, then? You were there with all your single-girl friends? Trying to forget all about this day? Trying to make it go away? Trying to—”
“I’m not going to fall for it.” She squints her eyes at me, her gaze lingering on my chest, like she’s looking for a badge. But of course, there is no badge. I’m in a suit, not a uniform.
When her eyes meet mine I say, “Finn Murphy. Special Agent Finn Murphy.”
She shrugs like it hardly matters.
Declan comes back into the room, slams the door behind him, walks over to the table, plants both hands on the hard, stainless-steel surface, and says, “Got a backup lawyer? Because it appears Jordan Wells is out of town and unreachable.”
“Bullshit!” Issy says, her voice high-pitched and agitated. “I just saw him a couple hours ago. We were going to have dinner!”
“Ah,” I say, snapping my fingers and pointing at her. “So that’s why you didn’t want to talk about it. He broke up with you, didn’t he? And on V-day too! Jesus, what a dick.”
But she doesn’t take the bait. Just looks down at the table, like she’s having some sort of private revelation.
Finally, after several long, silent seconds, she says, “Then call his partner, Glenn Stratford.”
“Can’t,” Declan says. Which has me curious as to what he’s playing here.
“Why the hell not?” Issy yells.
“Because the whole office is shut down for the mid-winter holiday.”
She scrunches up her nose. It’s a nice nose. Small, with just a slight upturn to the end of it. Which, I have to admit, is kinda cute on her. “What?” she breathes.
Declan shrugs. “That’s what the answering service told me. On mid-winter holiday for the next week.”
“But that makes no sense,” Issy whispers under her breath.
“Why not?” I ask.
“Because,” she says, “it… he… we were… never fucking mind why, OK? It just doesn’t. There’s no such thing as a mid-winter holiday!”
Declan and I exchange a glance. He picks it up from there. “So… you can either find another law firm and spend the night being booked and violated as your internal cavities are searched for drugs while we get another warrant and seize the contents of your house”—he stops to smile and spread his hands wide, like he’s about to offer a gift—“or you can just make this easy. Make it all go away by being cooperative.”
I chuckle, mostly at the aghast look on Issy Grey’s face at the mention of a cavity search. But also because Declan plays bad cop pretty well.
A knock at the door makes all three of us look at it. Declan walks over, has a whispered conversation with whoever is on the other side, and then nods and takes a file folder from the visitor. He turns back to us and closes the door behind him.
“Well, this might be your lucky day, Ms. Grey. Seems like we’ve picked up some chatter about your case. Come with me, Finn. We’ve got news.”
I take one more look at Issy Grey, whose wide blue eyes are darting back and forth between us with equal parts curiosity and fear, and leave the room with my partner.
Back inside the observation room I say, “What the hell was that?”
“For real,” Declan says, easing himself into the chair in front of the monitors. “We’ve got chatter. Seems like she might be telling the truth. The DC office just sent us an alert about a terror cell using unsuspecting female-owned businesses as fronts for a massive campaign.”
I can’t stop the laugh that bursts forth. “You’re joking, right?”
“Why would I joke?” Declan asks.
“Because that’s… a little convenient, don’t you think?”
He shrugs. “I’m just doing my job, Finn.”
“So we’re just gonna let her go?”
“No,” he says. “No. You’re going to take her up to the Silver Springs safe house and keep her there until we figure out what’s going on.”
“Is that legal?”
Declan smiles. “It is if she agrees to go. Just make her agree.”
“And how the fuck am I supposed to do that?”
“I’m sure you’ll figure something out. Go on, I’ll text you directions to the safe house and meet you up there later. And don’t underestimate this one.” He slaps the file onto the desk, opens it up, and points to something.
I read the paragraph and yet another guffaw comes out in response. This tiny woman might be the most interesting thing to happen to me since I came to Denver. Because Issy Grey has the rank of seventh-degree black belt in Jujitsu. That’s like ten years of serious, disciplined study.
“Who the fuck is this chick?” I ask.
“That’s what we need to find out,” Declan says. “She might not be a terrorist, but I’ll bet you a hundred bucks right now she’s not who she says she is. Find out, Finn. And then call me. Because DC is all up in our shit about this new threat and we need to figure out her connection quick or lots of people might get hurt.”
He leaves me there to figure things out. I study her file a little more. Mother was a veterinary technician, no father listed on the birth certificate, no college education, an assortment of odd jobs since age eighteen—including a Burger King in Waco, Texas, one Nate’s Auto Repair in Escondido, California, Hialeah Racetrack in Florida, and then a short stint as a cab driver in New York City.
All of which is weird in and of itself. Her job history reads like a classic runaway, except she was already eighteen… so not a runaway. At least not an underage one. But the really curious thing is that her juvenile record was sealed. Not just sealed, but absolutely sealed. Meaning even the FBI can’t see it without a court appearance and permission from a judge.
Which is unusual.
You have to read between the lines a little to get it. You have to know what the empty spaces mean. You’d have to’ve been there yourself.
Issy Grey isn’t who she says she is.
Issy Grey is lying.