Scott Nicholson - Chronic fear

Scagnelli nodded and pointed at the sign. “Fine of two hundred and fifty dollars. That’s a lot, considering half the people with handicapped stickers are faking it.”

She fanned herself with her ticket book, a little perspiration on her flushed skin. She was a brunette with television hair and a body that would go to cheese in about five years, right after she married some dumb frat boy with a business degree. “The spot’s for people with stickers,” she said.

“We’ve established that.”

“You don’t have no sticker.”

“We’ve also established that.”

“Are you picking somebody up?”

“You might say that.” Scagnelli’s eyebrow twitched. He’d only taken one hit of speed this morning. He didn’t like to get too wired while he was on a stakeout, but he also didn’t want to drowse off, either.

“There are metered spaces over by the parking deck,” the young woman said, the first sign of exasperation entering her tone. She had a little two-way radio on her belt that squawked and fell silent.

“If I wanted to be in a metered space, I’d be in a metered space. I want to be here.”

“Sir, university parking regulations requires a civil penalty of-”

“Yeah, I know.”

She looked into his aviation sunglasses as if trying to read his hidden eyes. “I’m afraid I have to write you a ticket if you don’t leave.”

He nodded. “Yeah. That’s your job, right? You should always do your job to the best of your abilities. That’s what they teach you here, right?”

You and the other fucking corporate slaves.

“Yes, sir.”

“What do they pay you to be a Parking Nazi? Minimum wage plus a quarter, but you turn around and give it all right back to the Man.”

She glanced around as if deciding whether it was easier to fill her quota elsewhere, or maybe she was debating hitting her little radio and calling in the university rent-a-cops. Scagnelli didn’t want the hassle of showing his federal badges and playing the one-up game.

“Go ahead and write your ticket,” Scagnelli said.

She was nearly in tears now, and relief washed over her face as she walked to the rear of the rental sedan. Scagnelli monitored the building’s exit again, glancing once in the rearview mirror to make sure she was writing it all down. The pedestrian traffic had picked up, and Scagnelli wondered if he should change his plans.

The traffic monitor came back to the window and ripped a copy of the ticket free, then stuck it out toward him. He brushed his lips-speed made his skin itch-and then popped open the briefcase on the seat beside him. His guns were stuck inside padded mailing envelopes, and a few papers were clipped together on top to make it all look legit. He reached into a fold and pulled out a handicapped sticker. “Sorry, miss. I forgot I had this.”

She stood there with the ticket held out to him, still a foot away from the window, as if afraid he’d grab her wrist and pull her into the car.

Good instincts. You’ll make a great soccer mom. I see lots of Jennifer Aniston movies in your future.

“I can’t void a ticket in the field,” she said. “Once it’s written, you have to go through the appeals process.”

“I don’t have time for an appeals process.” He smiled.

“I’m sorry, sir. It’s in the regulations.”

“That’s always the answer, isn’t it?”

She forgot she was an official representative of the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill’s Department of Public Safety and became just another ex-teen. “Huh?”

“It is what it is,” he said. “Rules of the road. The way the game is played. Love it or leave it.”

“I’m sorry, sir, I’m just doing my job.”

“Hitler was just doing his job. Osama bin Laden was just doing his job. Ted Bundy was just doing his job. That’s the problem with this fucking world. Everybody’s just doing their jobs.”

She stepped forward and thrust the ticket inside the window, letting it flutter into his lap. “The appeals process is on the ticket,” she said, hurrying away, hunched as if expecting a bullet in the back, or at least a shouted insult.

Scagnelli smiled. All she had was a fake license-plate number on a rental car.

Have fun explaining that one to the boss. Because, guess what? I’m just doing my fucking job.

The encounter had entertained him past noon. Dr. Morgan was late. Young students were streaming in and out of the building, and he struggled to track each face. The dossier had contained photographs of an attractive woman with nice shoulders. He didn’t go for cute, but attractive was a different matter, and she was worth looking for.

The federal files on Morgan listed her as a person of interest, making references to a Dr. Sebastian Briggs who had died in a chemical explosion. Briggs was implicated in the illegal manufacture of drugs, with the FBI drawn in because of suspected trafficking across state lines. Morgan had been his graduate assistant at one time.

Scagnelli knew the FBI files were bullshit. It was the kind of information available to all clearance levels, and nothing important was ever made widely available. Within the security departments, knowledge was the currency through which the power games were waged, careers made or broken on the ability to gain access.

The real Briggs files were Sensitive Compartmentalized Information, a wonderful murky phrase that kept the info on a “need to know” basis, an ever-shifting clusterfuck of smoke and mirrors that guaranteed nobody would possess the whole truth.

But truth is just another layer of smoke, like the smoke Forsyth is blowing up my ass. If he says this Seethe and Halcyon stuff are threats to national security, what he really means is they’re a threat to Danny-Boy’s bid for the nomination.

Scagnelli had hacked the e-mails the two CIA agents had shared after “discovering” the laptop in Morgan’s lab. He’d gone through all the research files and hadn’t found anything suspicious, but what did they expect? He was a goddamned fixer, not a brain surgeon.

A bearded man started to enter the building, then stepped back and held the door open. A woman exited and nodded thanks at the courteous gentleman, who “You’re welcomed” her by glancing at her ass as she walked away. It was Dr. Morgan, he was sure, her figure rolling smoothly inside her skirt suit as her heels clattered on the sidewalk.

She was carrying a briefcase. After her encounter with the two undercover agents the day before, she wouldn’t be stupid enough to have incriminating records with her, much less the Seethe or Halcyon compounds.

Scagnelli started the rental sedan and eased out of the handicapped spot. The game plan was to follow Dr. Morgan and see if she made any slips or had any interesting appointments. If she wasn’t synthesizing the compounds in the university labs, she was working with someone off-site. Scagnelli had wanted to break into the Morgans’ house, but Forsyth said Mark Morgan was armed and possibly unhinged. Violence was the course of last resort because bodies always led to questions and more dummied-up dossiers.

Unless they could be handled like he’d handled Anita Molkesky. In a case like that, you were performing a public service and giving the people what they wanted. It was a job that brought a little pride and satisfaction.

The parking lot was crowded but the congestion gave Scagnelli an excuse to drive slowly. He could have followed her on foot, but he’d have been too easy to spot. Nobody expected a stalker to use a car. That wasn’t how it worked in the movies, and people could no longer tell movies from real life.

Dr. Morgan was wearing sunglasses and her suit was navy blue. Scagnelli liked the sleek curves of her calves, which were encased in dark hose. He was glad she didn’t have thick ankles. He hated stalking women with thick ankles.