The present
“I don’t know. I don’t know.” Jake slammed a fist into the pillow early the next morning. He rolled over and sat up. Wiping a hand across his sweaty face, he growled with disgust. “Shit. A nightmare rerun. How fucked up is that?”
He had never experienced a nightmare that felt so real. In fact, he rarely dreamed at all. Was his guilt creating the intensity? Whatever the cause, the result was impossible to ignore. Just like in the nightmare, he felt helpless, brought to his knees.
After a quick trip to the bathroom, he returned to bed. For thirty frustrating minutes, he berated himself for letting something as stupid as a nightmare disrupt his rest. Scowling at the 4:30 A.M. glowing on the alarm clock, he conceded defeat and crawled out of bed.
* * *
“Detective Smithson,” a gruff male voice came over the intercom. “Jake Stone is here to see you, but he doesn’t have an appointment.”
“That’s okay. Send him back.” The Coronado cop pushed his fingers through his hair and closed the file on his desk. He flipped the manila folder over and turned off his computer screen. When Jake knocked, Smithson’s feet were propped up on the desk and his hands rested on his stomach. “Come in.”
“Looks like you’re hard at work as usual,” Jake cracked, marching in and grabbing a chair.
“Damn straight. Wouldn’t want to waste the taxpayers’ money. What brings you all the way down here?”
“The Reardon case.”
The detective cocked his head and absently scratched the graying hair at his temple. “Stone, there is no ‘Reardon case.’ It was a suicide. The file’s closed.”
“Then you should reopen it.”
“What’re you talking about?”
Reaching across the back of his chair, Jake pushed the office door shut. He locked eyes with the detective before he continued. “I don’t believe Angela committed suicide.”
“Shit, I know it’s hard to believe. I’ve read a bunch of shrink stuff about how hard it is for friends and relatives to accept a suicide. It makes people feel guilty—like they failed the victim.” He peered hard at Jake. “You must’ve had it bad for her, buddy.”
“Yeah, guess I did. But that’s not the point. I knew her frame of mind. Angela was fine. Suicide makes no sense.”
“What makes sense is two suicide notes, a bunch of prescription sleeping pills, and her dress and purse found on the bridge.”
Jake stood up, clenching his fists at his sides, and paced across the small office. Smithson’s eyes followed him back and forth several times and then he glanced at his watch.
“Stone, I’m sorry about Angela, but you gotta let it go. With your SEAL background, I’m surprised—”
“It’s exactly because of my background that I don’t believe this was a suicide.”
“All right, all right. Sit down. Tell me specifically what’s bothering you.”
Jake sank onto the chair and leaned forward, almost touching the edge of the desk. “First of all, I’ve read a lot of that ‘shrink stuff,’ too. I’ve also had training on the warning signs of suicide. In the SEALs, we were always on the lookout for guys suffering from PTSD.”
“Yeah, we get training on that also.”
“Good. So when I tell you Angela showed absolutely no signs of being suicidal, you understand what the hell I mean.”
“Sure.”
“Second. None of the life events that commonly trigger suicide had happened to her recently. In fact, according to Angela, her life was the best it had been in several years.”
“And I’m sure you’re going to take credit for making her such a happy, satisfied woman, right?”
“A little.”
Smithson grunted. His gaze fell to the folder on the desk. “Of course, you know there can be subtle reasons apparent to no one. Something from the past that’s been building up for a long time.”
“True.” Jake rested his forearms against the desk and leaned over them. His voice was barely above a whisper. “Third, when was the last time you saw computer-printed suicide notes?”
“So what. She didn’t want to get writer’s cramp. Or she was in a hurry.”
“Bullshit. Anyone could’ve typed them.”
“She signed them.” Smithson spoke each word slowly and clearly.
“Angela had a signature that was a piece of cake to forge.”
“I suppose you’re speaking from personal experience.” Smithson grinned.
Jake shrugged. “My last point: still no body.”
“Damn, I shouldn’t have told you that when you called earlier.”
“But you did, and I could tell it was bugging you, too.”
Smithson swung his feet down, pulled his chair closer, and slapped his hands on the desk. “You’re right. It was bugging me, so I did some checking. It’s not the first time a jumper’s body has disappeared. Lots of boats travel through the bay. A body can easily get snagged on the bottom of one and be dragged out to sea. A missing body doesn’t mean shit.”
Jake shook his head emphatically. “One or two of these things wouldn’t bother me. But put all four out there, and I think you’ve got a whole different ballgame.”
“Okay, Stone, you’ve got all the answers. So, tell me, smartass. What happened to Angela?”
“I see three possible scenarios. In all of them, the suicide clues are only a decoy. One: She was kidnapped. Daddy has money. But there would’ve been a ransom demand by now. Two: She disappeared on her own. Again, highly unlikely in her stable frame of mind. Three: She was murdered. Bingo.”
Smithson and Jake glared at each other. Finally, the detective caved. “If I didn’t respect you as a damn good PI, I’d tell you to go screw yourself. But you make some decent points.” The detective rubbed his hand across his eyes. “Unfortunately, I don’t have any grounds to open an investigation. Angela’s parents didn’t ask for one. In fact, they took the news pretty damn well. Seems Angela hadn’t been very close with them for the past few years.
“They weren’t shocked?” Jake asked, frowning.
“More like…surprised. Maybe I’m wrong. They could’ve been numb. Do you know anything about them?”
“Angela rarely spoke about her family. Randall and Adrienne Reardon live in McLean, Virginia. He’s a career State Department guy. Former Ambassador to Spain.”
“McLean is a pretty aristocratic neighborhood, as I recall.”
“Yeah. Lots of snobs, Congressmen, foreign embassy types. Did the Reardons fly out here?”
Smithson snorted. “Not a chance. Mr. Reardon hardly asked any questions on the phone. Told me to call when we found the body, and he’d arrange to have it shipped to Virginia. Told me—not asked me—to take the damn dog to the pound. Asshole. Anyway, the old lady neighbor, Mrs. Browning, was happy to adopt the dog.”
“Now what do you do?”
Smithson shot him a look of disbelief. “Nothing, Stone. There’s nothing I can do. There is no evidence of foul play.”
“Well, I’m not going to just sit around doing nothing. Promise that I’ll have your cooperation. Or at least, you won’t get in my way.”
Eyeing him warily, the detective asked, “What’re you gonna do?”
“Find out what really happened.”
“You self-righteous bastard. We know what happened.”
Jake lunged from the chair. White-knuckled hands gripped the edge of the desk.
“No, you don’t,” he seethed through clenched teeth. His gray eyes darkened. He jabbed an index finger at Smithson. “I swear to you: Angela Reardon did not commit suicide.”
He whirled around, yanked open the door, and stormed out of the office.
For several moments, Detective Kent Smithson stared after him. Absently, he stroked his chin. His gaze dropped to the overturned folder lying on his desk—the file he had been intently studying before Jake’s arrival.
Angela Reardon’s file.
* * *
Sitting in his black Corvette in a CPD visitor’s parking space, Jake wanted to smile at his performance, but the significance of what he had just set in motion kept his expression grave. Was he out of his mind to attempt this? If he wasn’t careful—extremely careful—he could get caught in his own trap.
He revved up the engine and barreled into traffic. He grabbed a water bottle and drank deeply, wishing it was J.D. He’d definitely need a stronger drink after his next stop.
Several minutes later, he stood at the front door ringing the doorbell.
“Mrs. Browning, it’s Jake Stone. Angela’s friend,” he called out, knowing she was squinting at him through the peephole. “I need to talk to you about Angela.”
The door opened a crack, and a wrinkled face peered at him. “What do you want, young man?”
Jake chuckled. He never felt young anymore. “If you have a minute, could we talk?”
She scowled. “You’re not here to take Chelsea away, are you?”
“No, ma’am. I’m sure Chelsea will be very happy with you, and I’m sure Angela would approve.”
The old woman huffed. “Well, I should hope so.”
Leona Browning ambled away from the door, leaving it ajar. Jake assumed that was an invitation to enter and joined her in the living room. She motioned him to a chair. Chelsea jumped up on the couch and curled up beside her.
“I see Chelsea has already made herself at home,” he said, hoping to soften the woman’s attitude.
“What do you want?” she asked brusquely.
Jake discarded his planned chitchat and said, “I don’t believe Angela committed suicide.”
“Heavens, I can’t believe it either.” She shook her head, and her eyes glistened. “I feel like I failed her as a friend.”
“I don’t mean it that way. I think Angela was murdered.”
She gasped and splayed her hand on her chest. “My word, why would you think such an awful thing?”
“Because the facts don’t add up. Angela probably told you that I’m a security expert and private investigator. I gather and analyze facts. Suicide makes no sense to me. I’ve talked to the police, and they don’t plan to pursue an investigation. I’m doing this on my own, and I need your help.” Theatrically, he placed his hand over his heart. “Angela was so special. We were very much in—”
“Young man, don’t lie to me if you want my help. I’m not a stupid old lady. Angela and I were very close. She told me everything about your relationship.”
Jake’s eyes widened. “Everything?”
“Enough for me to know that you never said you loved her. But Angela was very smitten with you. Otherwise, she never would’ve let you spend the night. She had never allowed another man to do that since she lived here.” Leona glowered at him. “You young people are too hedonistic these days. Intercourse has lost its sanctity.” Her condemning gaze nailed him to the chair. “Did you get Angela pregnant and then refuse to marry her?”
Jake recoiled, unsure how the conversation had taken such an offensive turn. “I would never do that, Mrs. Browning. I was extremely fond of Angela, and I’d never hurt her like that.”
The old woman studied him for several moments. She glanced down fondly at Chelsea and scratched behind the dog’s ears. Without looking up, she said, “Explain why I should help you, and do it honestly.”
Jake cleared his throat. “I apologize for trying to bullshit—sorry—mislead you.” He paused and drew a deep breath. “Angela and I liked each other a lot and were in a committed relationship.”
She nodded, encouragingly, head still bowed. “Go on.”
“And to be brutally honest, I don’t say those three little words easily. But I cared for Angela as deeply as I’ve ever cared for any woman. That’s the reason I have to find out the truth about what happened to her.”
“I believe you.” Her head came up. “How can I help?”
“If Angela was murdered, it wasn’t a random act. Too much effort went into making it look like a suicide.” He leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. “Murder requires motive. Revenge. Jealousy. Anger. Greed. I knew Angela only three months, and I’m drawing a complete blank on anyone with motive. I was hoping you might remember someone or something that Angela mentioned to you. Even filling me in on her friends and acquaintances would help.”
Leona stared into space. “Angela was such a sweet person. It’s hard to imagine somebody wanting to kill her. I certainly am not aware of anyone with those motives. She was also a very private person, as you probably know. I often worried that she had so little social life.” She pulled a tissue from a pocket and dabbed her eyes. “Let’s see. Stella Jenkins was her assistant at Heavenly Interiors. Angela probably considered her a friend.”
“Stella’s married, right? Two small kids?”
“Yes, and Angela never complained about any problems with Stella.”
“Other girlfriends?”
“Hmmm. Debbie Hoover. Single. Lives here in the condo complex. She and Angela liked to go clothes shopping together at the malls occasionally.”
“Any problems between them?”
“My goodness, no. Both friendships were very superficial.”
“Any other women in her life?”
Forehead furrowed in concentration, Leona shook her head.
“Did Angela ever mention any unreasonable or irate clients?”
“Only an occasional small dispute over a bill or something minor. Her clients seemed to love her.”
“Boyfriends?”
“Before you, young man, the men never lasted more than a few dates.” Her expression became a judgmental scowl. “Angela was not promiscuous, which apparently you men expect these days.”
“So, no ugly breakups?”
“There was never anything to break up.”
“Then Angela wasn’t a heartbreaker.”
“Hardly. She also wasn’t a conquest. That may have infuriated some.”
“I can understand that.”
“Is sexual frustration sufficient motive for murder?” she asked in a condescending tone.
“It can be if it’s emasculating or sadistic. Was Angela ever like that?”
“Are we speaking of the same person? Of course I never observed her being like that. Did you?”
Jake shot her a frosty stare. Sly old broad. “Of course not. Do you remember Angela complaining about any guy being aggressive or abusive?”
“No.”
“Any unpleasant incidents? Like a stalker or a persistent anonymous caller?”
“Not really.” She sighed. “Do you have any ideas of your own?”
“I’ve exhausted mine already. As you said, she was very private. Other than you and Stella, I don’t believe she ever introduced me to any more friends or acquaintances.”
“I wish I had more insight for you.”
“Me, too. What do you know about her family?”
“They weren’t close, and Angela rarely spoke of them. I don’t recall any relatives ever visiting.”
“What about her past?”
Leona rubbed Chelsea’s head. “Past? I hardly think of Angela as a person with a past. She was a precious girl, and I loved her like a granddaughter. But honestly, she seemed to go out of her way to…to be ordinary, to blend in, to not attract attention of any sort. For such a beautiful woman, I never understood that.”
His throat tightened. Unfortunately, I do.
* * *
The computer screen blurred. Jake ground the heels of his hands against his bloodshot eyeballs. Almost midnight. He’d been working on the computer for six straight hours. His eyes burned, his head pounded, and his back ached. But the worst part was he had nothing to show for his pain.
Not only did Angela have no past, she barely had a present. Leona Browning was right: Angela Reardon worked hard at being invisible.
Even with his investigative skills, three days of research had yielded nothing useful. Neither the legal nor the illegal searches had revealed any secrets. From the CIA angle, he’d confirmed again that there was absolutely no evidence of Angela obtaining or selling classified State Department information. From the personal angle, she had no enemies and few friends. No business, financial, or legal problems. No unscrupulous investments. Nothing. Nada.
“Shit,” Jake muttered, rolling his head from side to side to work the knots out of his neck.
After shutting down the computer and locking the office door, he lumbered up the stairs to his bedroom. Mechanically, he got ready for bed. When he pulled back the bedcovers, he knocked his cell phone off the nightstand. As he grabbed the phone, his last call to the Contractor echoed in his memory.
One man knew who had put the contract out on Angela.
Jake scowled at the phone cradled in his hand. The fingers of his other hand massaged his forehead.
Each frustrating dead end solidified his conclusion that the CIA handler was arranging private contracts. He trusted that Salami was working in the shadows, trying to identify the corrupt operative, but was there a way for Jake to convince the Contractor to talk? Could greed or fear persuade the bastard to give up the private buyer’s name?
Jake would be asking a dangerous question, and the answer might be even more dangerous. It might get him killed.
Anonymity. Everyone in the murderous profession wanted it, needed it, demanded it. The Agency. The Contractor. The assassin. For all the obvious reasons, it was a cardinal rule no one broke.
But could it be bent? For a price? To achieve justice?
Jake grimaced. Many of his peers had long ago lost the ability or desire to know good from bad, right from wrong. He wasn’t the only one with a broken moral compass.
He laid the phone on the nightstand and stood to pace and analyze.
If the Contractor cooperated and provided the buyer’s name, the operation would be easy. No one else would ever have to know. With nothing more than a name, Jake could track the son of a bitch and put him down. But if someone in the small, dark circle of the profession did find out about the breach of anonymity, then he and the Contractor were as good as dead.
On the other hand, if the Contractor told him to shove it up his ass, he’d be no closer to finding Angela’s buyer than he was before. But he’d be in a hell of a lot more danger. The Contractor could do a variety of things, two of which would mean serious trouble. One, he could tell the buyer about Jake’s request. In that case, the buyer would most assuredly put a contract out on Jake. Two, the Contractor could be so concerned about Jake’s breach that he himself would send someone to put Jake down. Both possibilities were daunting.
In the past, Jake had accepted and obeyed the rules. But suddenly he hated them. He hated the whole damn profession and every bastard involved in it. Including himself.
He slammed a fist into the bedroom wall. By his count, his analysis of possible scenarios ended in more chances of his dying than of his surviving. The odds favored failure far more than success.
Opening the French doors to the balcony, he let the cool, moist night air wash over his naked body in hopes of calming his frustration.
“Shiiiiiit!” he yelled at the boulder-strewn hills.
He gripped the balcony railing and squeezed his eyes shut. Angela’s face came to him. Her scent. Her touch. Her voice.
His chin dropped to his chest. Did he really have a choice? He owed it to Angela. Penance for taking the contract. His only chance at redemption was to kill the person who wanted her dead.
“Damn,” he sighed into the night as he resolved what he had to do.
He immediately marched back inside, grabbed the phone, and dialed. He paced while listening to the ten rings. Silence answered.
“There’s a problem,” Jake said.
Nothing.
“Goddamn it, talk to me.”
“What’s the problem?” asked the mechanically altered voice.
“The Reardon contract wasn’t sanctioned by the Agency.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” the Contractor growled.
“Angela Reardon committed no crime. There was no motivation for the Agency to want her dead. You’re selling private contracts, you greedy bastard. Someone paid you to hire me to kill an innocent woman,” Jake said, his voice seething with rage.
“For a cold-blooded killer, you have quite an imagination. It’s a moot point anyway. You delivered. You’ve been paid. Good night.”
“No! Stop. I don’t care that you’re screwing the Agency. This isn’t about patriotism or national security. This is personal. I need to make this right.”
“Right?”
“I want the buyer’s name.”
The Contractor laughed. “I’m not admitting to any of your crazy allegations, but are you out of your fucking mind?”
“Maybe so, but hear me out. You just give me the buyer’s name. I’ll take care of everything else. No one will ever know.”
The Contractor hesitated. “What if I don’t know the name?”
“Don’t bullshit me.”
“Why in hell would I even consider such an asinine breach of anonymity?”
“Because I’ll pay you my entire fee. Remember, three times the normal.”
The long silence told Jake he’d hit a soft spot. Greed. Maybe his plan would work.
“No deal. It’s too risky. Chances are we’d both end up dead. And if not dead, I’d definitely be out of business.”
“You know how good I am. I can pull this off without anyone finding out. Think of all the money you’re giving up.”
“Yeah, but I’d like to be around to enjoy the money I already have. Forget it. I’m not interested.”
A muscle in Jake’s jaw twitched, and he spoke through clenched teeth. “We have a long history, asshole. What if I go to the Agency with what I know?”
“I don’t think you’re that stupid.”
“No, I’m not stupid. I’m pissed. I want this buyer brought down.”
“Let it go. It’s over.”
“Well, then, I guess I’ll have to go to the Agency.”
“Don’t screw with me.”
“Then give me the fucking name!”
“Don’t do this. Don’t force my hand.”
“Is that a threat?” Jake asked.
“Damn right.”
The phone went dead, and Jake hurled it across the room.
“That went well,” he muttered as he poured himself a large tumbler of Jack Daniel’s at the wet bar in the bedroom. He retrieved the phone and dialed. “I fucked up,” he told the silence.
“How bad?” Salami asked.
“Bad. I called the Contractor, confronted him with my theory about his little side business, and tried to get him to give up the buyer’s name. He didn’t cave.”
“Shit, Granite, what the hell were you thinking?”
Jake swallowed a gulp of J.D. “Sorry, Salami, I’m desperate. You better back off. If the bastard hears you’re snooping around, he’ll come after you as well as me.”
“Good advice, but too late. I’ve already been snooping. Got something, too.”
“You’re amazing.”
“Yes, Grasshopper, I am. Here’s the deal. The Agency did not put out the contract on Angela Reardon.”
“Shit. I knew it. Who is this SOB?”
“Bernard.”
“What?”
“That’s the only name I found other than ‘Contractor,’ and it was whispered to me once.”
“First, last, or code?”
“Hell, I don’t know, you ingrate.”
He laughed. “Thanks, Salami. This should square us for Istanbul, right?”
“Never.”
Jake exhaled. “I told the prick I didn’t care that he was screwing the Agency, but I do. I want to bring this guy down, Salami. I want him bad for taking advantage of me and others like me who have to believe that the unspeakable shit we do is for the good of the American people. But this asshole hired me to kill a beautiful, intelligent, innocent woman for some ball-less buyer with some godforsaken motive that I can’t even imagine.”
“Damn, Granite. You fell for the target.”
“Yeah, hard. But that’s not why I want…Bernard. I want his ass for all the guiltless targets like Angela Reardon. I want him for all the guys like us who have to do the goddamn killing. But how the hell am I going to get him—”
“Easy, man, easy. You’re not in this alone. The information on Bernard and the unsanctioned Reardon hit is going to mysteriously come to the attention of some very important people at Langley, my friend.”
“Salami, this isn’t your fight.”
“The hell it isn’t. Look, you take care of Angela’s buyer, and I’ll take care of Bernard. Deal?”
“Deal.” Jake paused. “But…”
“But?”
“But don’t put him down until after I find the buyer. Bernard may be the only link to—”
“You know I can’t stall. Other unsanctioned targets could be at risk. It may take me a while to find him, though.”
Jake sighed. “Bernard knows he’s been busted. Watch your back.”
“I’m not worried, Granite. Remember, I don’t exist and neither do you.” Salami disconnected.
Lowering himself onto the edge of the bed, Jake drank deeply. Now what? The game had changed. He needed to adjust his strategy.
The whole Agency-contract scenario had been officially eliminated. Sure, he had a corrupt handler breathing down his neck so he would have to be more careful while he continued the search for the real buyer. A search that was going nowhere because the information he’d stolen from Angela’s condo and business was yielding no clues.
Exhausted to the core, Jake tossed back the rest of his drink and swore softly. His naked body welcomed the coolness of the silk sheets. With his tired eyes closed, he drew a deep breath and exhaled slowly through pursed lips. God, he wanted to turn his mind off.
Fifteen minutes later, he rolled onto his stomach and stretched the kinks out of his arms and legs. Still, sleep eluded him. His damn mind refused to give up the quest.
Who wanted Angela Reardon dead? And why?
A nagging angst taunted his brain.
Were the answers right in front of him? Was he just too guilty to see them?