David Kent - The Triangle Conspiracy

A long time ago, Faith would have called her father and told him everything she knew about what was going on with Sean.

But Faith was a different person now. She’d learned how to walk in the shadows, and she saw things outside the shades of black and white and right and wrong that had been so clear to her a long time ago.

There were other ways.

She picked up her cell phone and called Cara Dunaway. Dunaway was an FBI agent in the local field office, a colleague of Hendler’s. She was one of Faith’s few female friends in Oklahoma, a petite blonde of around forty, with two teenage kids. She was also a recovering alcoholic and had been sober for twelve years.

“Hi, Cara,” Faith said. “It’s Faith Kelly.”

“Well hello, Faith Kelly,” her friend said. “What’s up in your world? Don’t answer that, I’m being rhetorical.”

Faith forced a chuckle. “Hey, Cara, I need your help.”

“What do you need?” Dunaway said.

Faith told her.

SEAN ENDURED THE LUNCH WITH HIS SISTER ANDher geeky boyfriend the FBI agent. He quickly surmised that Scott Hendler was far further along in the relationship than Faith was, but he kept silent about it. He wasn’t one to lecture his sister on her personal life.

They’d done the tour of the memorial, which Sean found to be powerful beyond words. They visited the nearby Oklahoma City Museum of Art, which turned out to be a world-class facility. Sean had always been more interested in visual arts than Faith was, and he’d become quite fond of art museums over the last few years.

By midafternoon, Sean begged off, saying he wanted a nap before going to “work” tonight. He went to a little bar he’d passed earlier on Pennsylvania Avenue, spent an hour with Jack Daniel, then proceeded to Faith’s house. She’d given him a key, and he slept for three hours.

Just after eight o’clock, using the directions that “Kat” had given him on the phone last night, he drove up Northwest Fiftieth Street, west of Interstate 44, west of Portland Avenue. Her “incall” location was actually a small gated apartment complex. It was a single building of two-story apartments, one row facing east, one row facing west. There were probably no more than a dozen units altogether. It was a relatively quiet, middle-class neighborhood. Unobtrusive.

Hide in plain sight, Sean thought.

“The gate code is 218,” she had told him. “Go in the east gate. It’s unit number five. Ring the bell. When I answer, you will initiate a hug. Anything you have to give me should be in a plain white envelope and you’ll give it to me then without any comment about what’s in it. After that’s out of the way, it’s just the two of us.”

Fascinating, Sean thought. The business of escorting has its own culture, its own language and lingo. He’d done some more research online after setting the appointment. There were entire websites devoted to “reviews” of escorts, who were referred to as “providers.” There was all kinds of shorthand about various sexual activities, and the customers-what Britt or Monica would have called “tricks”-were referred to as “hobbyists,” with prostitution known as “The Hobby.”

Fascinating, he thought again. Sean himself had never paid for sex in his life. He’d never had to, he thought with a touch of…what? Arrogance? Pride? He had a feeling he was about to descend into a very strange netherworld.

He’d talked Faith into swapping cars for the evening, as he’d been afraid that if Daryn saw the Arizona plates, she might get spooked. He was supposed to be Michael Sullivan of Oklahoma City, after all. So he’d driven Faith’s little two-seater Miata instead.

Sean rang the bell at apartment number five. He heard movement inside, and the door opened.

Daryn McDermott was simply a breathtaking woman. She wasn’t classically beautiful, but Sean couldn’t take his eyes from her. She was petite, almost fragile in appearance, but the woman radiated sensuality and intelligence and passion. Her hair was indeed dyed blond-Sean caught sight of a few dark roots, as well as her dark eyebrows-and cut shorter than in the photos Owens had given him. But it framed her face beautifully, with its high cheekbones, gently upturned nose, and sensuous lips. She wasn’t wearing much makeup-a touch of eye shadow, very light blush, a subtle shade of lipstick. She didn’t need much else.

She was wearing a short skirt that came midthigh, and it fit her as if it had been tailored. Women like Monica and Britt could only dream of looking so good in such a skirt, Sean decided. Her blouse was white and simple and showing just enough cleavage to tantalize. He couldn’t quite see the tattoo on her left breast.

“Hello, Michael,” she said.

“Hello, Kat.”

Remembering her instructions, he opened his arms and they embraced. He had to bend down, his six three to her five one. Her touch was electric. Simply putting her arms around him and rubbing his back for a moment had made him more aroused than he would have thought possible.

Easy, he told himself. Just take it easy.

He handed her the white envelope without speaking. She took it without looking at it and put it on a wooden stand beside the door.

“Come in,” she said. “Please, come in.”

She led the way down a short hall. The apartment was clean and tidy. Sean suspected it had come furnished, as the furniture was all strictly middle of the line, neutral colors, nothing personal about it.

“You’ll have to forgive the décor,” Daryn said.

Or should I think of her as Kat? Sean wondered. I have to gain her trust, to develop a relationship with her. Can’t just take her to her father at gunpoint.

“I’m new to the city and haven’t had time to settle in yet,” she said.

Who are you? Sean felt like shouting. Daryn or Kat? Or someone else altogether?

“So am I,” he said slowly. “Just moved here.”

“Oh?” she said. “Where are you from?”

“Chicago, originally. You?”

“I’ve lived lots of places. Come, have a seat.”

They sat near to each other, but not too near, on a couch upholstered in soft earth tones. Sean heard music from somewhere, a solo acoustic guitar with a new age feel to it. He could feel the heat from Daryn. She positively radiated passion. He inhaled a bit of her scent, something musky and understated, but powerful, like the woman herself.

“What do you do, Michael?” Daryn draped her arm along the back of the couch. It reached far enough that she could almost touch his shoulder with her fingertips. He wished she would.

Sean had already decided on his cover story, and it wasn’t even a total lie. “I work with wood,” he said. “I design and build furniture.”

“With your own hands?”

Sean nodded.

“Let me see,” Daryn said.

The senator’s daughter took both his hands and turned them over, palms up. She traced the lines on his hands with her fingers. Sean shivered.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

“Yes. I’m fine.”

She touched his fingertips with her own. “They’re good hands. I love men’s hands.”

She put one of his hands on top of one of hers, then reached up with her thumb and began kneading his palm, then worked her way up, massaging each of his fingers.

“That’s wonderful,” Sean whispered. “You have such a…”

“Yes?”

“An amazing touch. Firm and gentle at the same time.”

Daryn laughed lightly. “That’s a good description of me.”

Sean closed his eyes. On one level, he was aware that he’d accomplished at least part of what he had been hired to do-find Senator McDermott’s daughter. But in a more visceral place, he felt only the things she was stirring in him, right here, right now. And she’d barely even touched him.