28
LARA
Week 5: Monday Morning
Objectively, I know I don’t look any different. Same ponytail. Same glasses. Same pink lipstick. Same basic pumps, same black skirt I’ve worn a million times before, same blue shirt that’s been in my workday rotation for years.
But I feel different, and as I walk into the SEC elevator on Monday morning, I’m paranoid that someone will notice. That someone will look at me and not only think, oh, she got some, but that they’ll know who I got some with, and they’ll know I want more, and . . .
“You’re being ridiculous,” I mutter to myself, since there’s nobody in the elevator to witness my lecture. “People have sex every day. It doesn’t have to be a thing.”
It is a thing, though, because sex with Ian wasn’t just sex. It was lots of sex, definitely. But it was other stuff, too. Meals. Conversation. Laughter.
It’s the other stuff that has me tangled in a knot of happiness and terror.
It’s the fact that I like him, not just in the bedroom but out. It’s the fact that he’s funny and smart and considerate in ways I never expected. It’s the way that even now I’m wondering when I’ll see him next, wondering if he’ll call.
“Pathetic,” I mutter, stepping out of the elevator and into the lobby of the SEC offices. Although lobby is a strong word for the entry area. It’s more like a couple of sad chairs and an ugly coffee table topped with a few magazines that are three months old, at best.
I smile and wave at Ida, the front-desk receptionist, and she gives me a tired wave back without stopping her conversation with whoever’s on the other end of her phone call.
I’ve taken only about five steps when I realize that my worst nightmare about this morning is true. Everyone is looking at me. And there are more than a few whispers.
They know. They know that I hooked up with a suspect.
No, not a suspect, my brain screams. He didn’t do anything wrong, and you waited until after you’d determined that to let anything personal develop.
That’s the rational, black-and-white part of my brain. The other part, the part that deals in nuances, merely raises an eyebrow.
“Hey, McKenzie,” one of the other investigators calls out, coming toward me with his hand outstretched. “Nice work.”
I shake his hand, a little perplexed, because his tone is genuine; there’s no trace of mockery. This isn’t a nice work for toeing the conflict-of-interest line, it’s a nice work for . . .
I don’t know.
Generally, turning in findings on an informal investigation recommending against a formal investigation doesn’t warrant more than a nod and a what’s next? in the eleven o’clock status report meeting.
Even more puzzling, I get similar reactions on my walk to my cubicle, including a couple of thumbs-up from people on the phone.
What the . . . ?
“Morning, Lara!” I turn and see Evie Franklin, Steve’s busybody assistant, coming toward me.
“Morning,” I say with a smile. “Love the hair.”
She lifts a hand to her halo of slightly frizzy blonde curls. “Some days just aren’t worth fighting the humidity. Did you know, back in the eighties, women used to pay for hair like this? What I wouldn’t give for a time machine.”
“Totally,” I say, trying to be agreeable.
She gives me a wry look. “With that straight hair? I don’t think so, honey. And were you even alive in the eighties?”
“I was.” Barely. “Plus, I watched lots of old music videos with my dad.”
“Old?” She puts a hand on her hip in mock outrage.
I hold up my hands in laughing surrender. “Unless you have a shovel so I can really dig myself a hole, I’m going to bow out of this conversation.”
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll let you off the hook if you show me how to use Instagram later. It seems to be my best chance of seeing pictures of my grandbabies, and I don’t get it.”
“Of course. I’ll swing by your desk at lunch.”
“Perfect. Now, go on in and see Steve as soon as you’re settled, ’kay? He’s free till ten and wants to see you.”
I feel a little stab of nervousness at the thought. I haven’t heard from him since turning in my report on Friday, and . . . it’s weird. The guy’s always been borderline anal about prompt communication, but with Ian’s case, Steve’s been either dodgy or annoyed any time I try to get him to even talk about it.
“Will do,” I say, setting my purse down and punching the power button on my computer.
“Nice work on the case, by the way,” she calls over her shoulder.
“Hey, Evie?” I say before she can leave. “Is something going on?”
She blinks in confusion. “What do you mean?”
“Everyone seems under the impression that I’ve done something . . . exceptional,” I say.
“Well sure, babe. You wrapped the case.”
“Yeah, but—”
“Evie!”
We both turn to see one of the VPs throwing his hands up in the air in impatience.
“Oh crap,” she mutters. “I gotta run, hon.”
I blow out a breath. “Okay.”
But she doesn’t even hear me; she’s already gone.
I start to unpack my box from Wolfe but decide to wait. If Steve’s got another case for me, I’ll just have to pack up again anyway.
I stop in the break room for a cup of coffee on my way to his office. When I take a sip, I wince. Let’s just say it’s not quite the caliber of what was in the Wolfe offices. There you could choose from three different machines, each one with a hundred different milk options.
And sometimes people would bring you fancy drinks from Starbucks.
You did not join a government agency to get pampered, I remind myself. It’s not like the FBI is known for its great coffee, either.
Shaking my head, I start toward Steve’s office, giving a faint smile at the few thumbs-ups and way to gos, trying to ignore the premonition that something is seriously wrong. His door is closed and Evie’s on the phone, but she motions for me to go in.
I knock and hear Steve’s sharp “Yallow,” which I’ve learned over the years means, “Hi, come on in.”
I open the door but draw up short when I see he’s not alone. “Oh! I’m so sorry.”
“No worries, Ms. McKenzie, I was just leaving,” the man says, standing and buttoning his suit jacket.
He looks familiar, and my brain scrambles to place him. Medium height, medium build, medium brown hair . . .
Nope, no chance.
He takes pity on me and extends a hand. “Jacob Houghton. I’m Steve’s—”
“Brother-in-law,” I say, shaking his hand as the pieces snap into place. “Of course. We met at Steve’s wedding. I apologize. I seem to have a bit of Monday morning brain fog, and this is my first cup.” I lift the mug of black tar.
He gives a good-natured laugh. “Understandable. You’ve had a busy few weeks.”
I look at Steve for guidance, a little unsure why his brother-in-law knows anything about my workload. The guy’s not SEC, he’s . . . I can’t remember, exactly. Something in finance, but not particularly high up any food chain, if memory serves.
My boss isn’t paying our conversation any attention, though, his focus on a document in his hand.
“Good seeing you again, Ms. McKenzie. Steve, I’ll call you later. Or Whitney will. One way or another we’ll get you and Katherine over for dinner this week.”
Steve gives a noncommittal grunt as Jacob closes the door.
Familiar with my boss’s inability or disinclination to multitask, I take a seat and sip my wretched coffee as I wait for him to finish reading.
A couple of minutes later, he sets the paper inside a file folder on his desk, then blinks a little in surprise, as though forgetting I was there.
“Right. Lara. How are you? Good weekend?”
The best.
“Yeah, it was all right. Yours?”
“Busy,” he murmurs. “Very busy.”
Guess that explains why you couldn’t reply to my e-mail on Friday.
Steve taps his fingers on the desk, then leans back in his chair, folding his hands over his belly and studying me.
I wait. I’ve learned that pushing people to speak before they’re ready rarely leads to good things.
He leans forward and exhales. “I want you to hear this from me first.”
My mug is halfway to my mouth, but I lower it again, dread uncurling in the pit of my stomach. “Okay . . .”
He riffles around the piles on his desk until he comes up with an envelope. He hands it to me. “I’m delivering this later.”
I reach out and take the envelope, pulling out the paper within. I recognize it immediately. A run-of-the-mill subpoena, just like the ones we issue for formal investigations . . .
I go very still when I see the name.
I look up. “What is this?”
His expression is regretful but also resigned. “I told you from the very beginning how this was going to play out, Lara. Ian Bradley’s guilty.”
“You didn’t see my report, then,” I say, putting the paper back in the envelope and handing it to him with a calm that belies my clammy palms.
He holds my gaze. “I saw the report. Just because there’s no evidence at Wolfe doesn’t mean he isn’t guilty.”
“The United States judicial system says differently,” I snap. “Hell, Steve, this office says differently. What do you know that you’re not telling me? Why are you so convinced that he’s guilty?”
“Why are you so convinced that he’s not?”
“Because there’s no—”
“Evidence. Yeah. I saw the report. I’ve also met this guy once or twice, so I’ve seen him in action.”
I clench my teeth. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Steve sighs as though I’m being obtuse. “It means that from here on out, you’re off the case. You did good work, I know you did your best, but—”
“No ‘but,’” I interrupt. “I did good work, I did my best, and there’s no evidence. You only have your anonymous source. To ensure the case goes our way, we’d need another witness. And that’s if your source even agrees to testify—”
“He’ll testify. Regardless, it’s no longer your problem.”
“But—”
“The conversation’s over, Lara,” Steve says, with more irritation than he’s ever directed at me. “I’d have thought you’d be happy with this. Even though I’m taking over the case myself, your participation in the early stages means your name will be associated—”
“I don’t want it to be associated.”
“If you want into the FBI, you sure as hell better.”
I sit back, stunned at the implication.
He stands. “If you care at all about your career, you’ll drop this case.”
I stand as well. “Or what?”
Steve blinks in surprise. “Excuse me?”
“I drop this case, or what?”
“Lara, you don’t want to cross me on this.”
“See, that’s the thing, Steve. I think I do,” I say, setting my palms on his desk. “I’ve played by the book every step of the way, and I expect the same from everyone I work with.”
He laughs, a harsh, dismissive sound. “You’re what, twenty-eight? You don’t know shit about the way the world works.”
“Then enlighten me,” I say. “Explain to me why, without a shred of evidence, we’re launching a formal investigation.”
“Evidence can be . . . uncovered.”
I’ve never understood the phrase blood running cold before, but I get it now, because that’s absolutely what happens when he says those words.
“What are you not saying?” I ask, careful to keep my voice steady.
When he looks back at me, he seems defeated and completely unlike the man I thought I knew. “Just stay out of it, Lara. The world’s not going to fall apart if we make an example out of a slick Wall Street suit.”
“No. I’m not going to sit back and let you take down an innocent man.”
He runs a tired hand over his face. “Please. I’m asking you to do me a favor. You don’t have to lie. Just keep your mouth shut and bide your time until I get can you into the FBI.”
I stare at my boss for a long moment, my heart sinking as I realize what I have to do.