Robin Burcell: The Bone Chamber

Zachary Griffin got out, walked around and opened the rear door, allowing her to put both her briefcase and overnight bag in the back, then opened the front door for her.

“A gentleman after all.”

“There are a few of us left.”

Once they’d driven past the marine stationed at the gate, she said, “I’m assuming you know where he lives?”

“Vaguely.”

“You mind filling me in on why all the secrecy? The background?”

“The case is important. We needed to know that everyone involved could be trusted.”

“Thought that was why the Bureau did the backgrounds before they hired us.”

“People change.”

The conversation ended there, and they drove in silence. About ten minutes later, her phone vibrated. Carillo. “Hey,” she said, answering.

“Not only is your guy not with the Bureau, but any record of whatever you’re working on? Your Jane Doe? It’s not there. Like you’re not even in Quantico right now.”

“So I’m beginning to find out.” She kept her gaze straight ahead, tried to keep her voice conversational, pleasant as they sped past the barren trees, the gray winter sky.

“Can you say OGA?”

OGA stood for other government agency. Only problem was that term ran the gamut, and if there was one thing the government had, it was lots of agencies and shadow agencies, some above board, some so far undercover that even the legit agencies didn’t know they existed. “I’d rather not.”

“I’m thinking CIA, but I haven’t gotten a verification on that yet. Can’t get shadier than them. When you coming back to your mother’s?”

“Tomorrow. I’m spending the night at Scotty’s.”

A long pause followed. “Fine. It’s your life. Just don’t forget he’s no good for you.”

“One of our friends was killed in a car accident.”

“Oh.”

“Gotta go.” She eyed Griffin as she tucked the phone on her belt. “You don’t work for the Bureau.”

“Never said I did.”

“But you never denied it.”

“No one asked.”

And she had to agree, it had only been implied. “You were willing to let me believe you worked for us.”

“Why do I get the feeling we picked the wrong forensic artist?”

“A little late for that direction.” She crossed her arms, trying to figure out what agency he possibly worked for.

“Everything in your background that we conducted alluded to you being…compliant. The sort who doesn’t ask questions.”

“Well, like you said about backgrounds. People change.”

“In a couple months?”

“Trust me,” she said, trying to rein in her anger, since it would do her little good to get on his bad side. “It was a hellish couple months. So, what are you? CIA?”

“That bothers you?”

“Uptight as you are, Secret Service fits better. Presidential detail.”

He glanced over at her, then back at the road, signaling for a lane change. “I used to work for them.”

“Figures.”

A slight smile creased the corners of his mouth, but then just as quickly faded back to the staid, unexpressive personality he’d exhibited throughout their short tenure at Quantico. Definitely a Company man.

Zach Griffin glanced over at Sydney Fitzpatrick. It would’ve been better had she returned to San Francisco, so that no one would suspect she’d been working on the case. Then again, maybe it was just as well. Keep a better eye on her here. Find out what she knew or suspected. She’d said nothing the last ten minutes, just watched the passing scenery, no doubt grieving for her friend. Unfortunately, he’d been ordered not to tell her, even though he’d argued that her compliance might be greater if she knew the risks up front. Now she had even more reason to distrust them, and she didn’t know the half of it.

He turned his attention back to the rearview mirror, saw the smoke-gray Honda. He’d watched it for the last dozen miles, thinking about how Fitzpatrick had said she was followed on her run this morning. He wondered if the Honda was a tail, a bad one, or if he was just being his usual paranoid self.

Turned out he wasn’t the only paranoid one, because Fitzpatrick nodded toward the mirror. “Either that gray Honda’s been following us the last fifteen minutes, or the driver’s got some obsessive-compulsive complex that requires he stay exactly two cars behind us.”

“Or,” he said, “the car we’re in looks like any other unmarked police car, and he’s worried about getting a ticket.”

“He’d be inching up on us if that were the case. Peeking into the window to find out if we really were cops.” She was quiet a few seconds, then, “So what sort of case is this that you have people following you when you leave Quantico?”

He wasn’t about to answer that, but he decided to find out if they were in fact being followed and he pulled behind a particularly slow motor home. The Honda swept past, and he noted the license number as well as the physical description of the dark-haired male who drove. He continued trailing the motor home, right up until his exit, satisfied that no other vehicle seemed to be tailing them.

Then again, if someone knew where he was headed, there was no reason to tail him, a point brought home as he made a left turn toward the office, stopped at a red light-directly behind said Honda. Fitzpatrick crossed her arms, glanced over at him. “Now what?”

“On the off chance this guy is part of a tail, I don’t think you want me dropping you off at your ex’s place until we lose him. How about we stop for coffee first?”

“Coffee works for me.”

The light turned green. The Honda continued through. Griffin made a hard right, took several more evasive turns, all with no idea if the vehicle was or wasn’t following. For him it was just in case. Old habits die hard. When he was certain he was in the clear, he pulled into a driveway of a nondescript warehouse, then hit a remote control on his visor. A bay door opened and he drove into an enclosed garage, the door closing as he pulled in. “Get your things,” he said. “We’ll be changing cars after we get our coffee.”

Fitzpatrick made no comment, merely got out, opened the back door, and took her possessions.

He popped the trunk, gathered his briefcase and bag, then slammed the lid shut, hanging the keys on a wall hook. “This way,” he said. She followed him to an innocuous-looking scarred and battered door at the rear of the bay, bearing a sign that read “Janitorial Supplies.” He lifted the air-conditioning thermostat cover set in the wall adjacent to the door, revealing a biometric scanner and keypad. He placed his right index finger to the scanner, then punched in his code. The door buzzed open, three inches of solid steel.

Fitzpatrick eyed the door, then him. “Must be some damned good coffee you keep in there.”

He indicated she should precede him, and she stepped through the threshold, onto the top landing of a stairwell, the steps faintly lit by unseen lights at the base of the walls. At the bottom, a brick tunnel stretched off in either direction, and the same base lighting illuminated the concrete floor.

“Which way?” she asked as they neared the bottom.

“Turn right. My office is the second door down. The one marked ‘High Voltage.’”

“How apropos,” she muttered. The rumbling of a passing Metro subway train reverberated through the walls, then quickly faded. “Why not just walk in the front door?”

“After the tail, I’d rather not take a chance.”

“And this door?” she asked as they passed one that was unmarked.

“A convoluted exit into the Metro. Comes in handy sometimes.”

The “High Voltage” door appeared just as unassuming as the garage bay door, until it, too, was opened, revealing the several inches of solid gleaming steel. The small space looked like any high-voltage electrical room. The only voltage within, however, was the hidden biometric keypad in one of the boxes, which, once engaged, caused the back wall to slide open, revealing a normal-looking elevator. They stepped in, the door slid shut, and up they went. It stopped on the fifth floor of his building. “My office,” he said.