Jan Burke - Nine

“I don’t know. Eric was in good shape, so was Dwight.”

“Okay. Thanks for the help. I’ll start by seeing if I can run down Creepy Dwight and Harmless Eric.”

“Don’t tell them I said that!”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“What do you dream of?”

“Pardon?”

“Your dreams. Dreams interest me. I do dream interpretation.”

Not being a believer in such things, he found himself wishing he had left five minutes earlier, before she said this, but he could see the earnestness with which she asked, so he decided to play along. His dreams of the last few nights had been unpleasant surreal versions of crime scenes, and he wasn’t going to speak of them to her. So he thought back to the most recent pleasant dream. “I dream of cliffs.”

“Oh! Fear and vulnerability.”

He smiled. “Not for everyone. So long, Nola.”

He left her staring after him, the desk lamp light reflecting stars and dinosaurs on her glasses.

Sandia Towers Hotel

Albuquerque, New Mexico

Monday, May 19, 6:13 P.M.

Frederick Whitfield IV was in stealth mode. And enjoying himself immensely.

He was seated at the hotel bar, wearing dark sunglasses, drinking a club soda. He was dressed in a cheap suit and inexpensive men’s dress shoes. He didn’t like wearing the clothes, hated them only a little less than the midsize rental car he was driving. For a guy who was used to wearing Armani and Ferragamo, and driving a Lamborghini, it was a lot to put up with all at one time. More than the clothes and the rental car, he hated the haircut and hair color he had adopted: short and light brown. But he was playing a part, and he was willing to make sacrifices.

Frederick was pretending to be an FBI agent. No one had asked him to do this. He had no false identification or weapon with him, and he hadn’t told anyone that he was with the FBI. But he believed himself, in this moment, to be a perfect imitation of an agent. He was fairly sure that if a real FBI agent walked into this bar, right now, he would feel a sense of recognition, of brotherhood, if not an out-and-out conviction that here was a fellow member of the agency.

Morgan Addison had followed Meghan Taggert here. Morgan, a surfer, had found the oceanless Land of Enchantment less than enchanting. Frederick had quickly volunteered to take over the watch.

Morgan had been mistrusting at first. “I don’t get it, man. Most of the time, you kiss Everett’s ass.”

This was true. Frederick readily admitted it. “He’s like a magnet. When he’s near, I can’t resist doing whatever he wants me to do. When he’s away…”

“I don’t know,” Morgan said warily. “Ev’s gonna be pissed at me anyway, because I think Meghan knows she’s being watched. I think that’s why she came here.”

“Perfect,” Frederick told him. “This covers you with Ev. If he complains about your handing this over to me, you just tell him she made you.”

“You want Ev to think I fucked his dream woman?” Morgan asked in disbelief.

Frederick held back a sigh of impatience. “First, she is not his dream woman.”

“Yeah, right. Whatever you say, Freddy.”

“Second, do not call me Freddy.”

“I’m crapping my pants in fear here, Freddy.”

“Fine. Stay there. I’m going to bone that little surfer girl you’re so hot for.”

There was a silence.

Interpreting it correctly, Frederick said, “Yes, I know all about her. Did you think that was a secret you could keep from me, Morgan? I know her better than you’d think. We had a drink together this afternoon.”

“God damn it-”

“Just a drink, that’s all.”

“You’re lying.”

“Oh no, we definitely had drinks.”

“If you’ve so much as held her hand-”

“I’m crapping my pants in fear here, Morgan.”

Morgan fell silent again.

“I can get the next flight out,” Frederick went on. “You can be on your way home in three hours. You can find out what the lovely-what’s her name? Sherry. Yes, Sherry-what your little hottie refused me. So far, anyway. Spoke of no one but you, Morgan, truly. But, you know, a girl gets lonely…”

“You are such a prick!”

“I see. All right, I’ll say good-bye and see what progress I can make on the beach.”

“No, forget it. Come on out here. But if I get back there and find out that you’ve put some move on her, you might as well not come back to L.A.”

Sitting at the bar now, recalling the conversation, Frederick started to smile to himself. Would an agent smile? Yes, he decided, especially if it was a knowing smile. He allowed it.

He had come here straight from the airport. He had rented the car using one of four stolen California driver’s licenses he kept on hand, and charged it to the matching credit card Everett had issued to him. He had credit cards for all the names on the licenses. Everett and Cameron had control of the bank that issued them.

Project Nine had resources that extended far beyond these, of course. At the moment, out of necessity, he wasn’t making much use of them. He was, as he liked to think of it, working solo.

This had been emphasized from the moment he arrived at the hotel. At the entrance booth to the parking structure, he paid cash for a magnetic striped ticket that would allow him to go in and out of the structure all day. Morgan waited until Frederick saw Meghan Taggert’s BMW, and drove off, which meant Frederick was on his own to procure a weapon. Frederick had been a little pissed about that.

But in the next moment, over the rental car radio, he heard something that lifted his spirits. A newscaster announced that reports just in from Los Angeles indicated that three criminals on the FBI’s Ten Most Wanted list had been found dead there. A press conference had been scheduled for five-thirty Los Angeles time.

Frederick could hardly contain his glee. He hurriedly checked to make sure his tinted contact lenses were in place and smiled at the brown-eyed stranger in the mirror. He put the sunglasses on. Cool.

He spent the next few minutes calming himself, going through a set of breathing exercises designed to help him focus. “Special Agent Frederick Whitfield IV,” he said aloud, with as much baritone as he could manage.

He got out of the car, and despite the warmth of the day, donned the suit coat. He moved with purpose as he made his way to the lobby of the luxurious hotel.

Once there, he suffered a slight shock. A slender young woman with straight, dark hair reaching to her shoulders, silvery-blue eyes, and-although she was neither speaking nor looking at them-the undivided attention of every male in the lobby, was waiting for an elevator. His quarry, Meghan Taggert-and she was only a few yards away from him. He quickly realized that she seemed to be lost in thought-distressing thought.

Of course. Meghan had always had one big worry to contend with, and his name was Gabriel Taggert. She was thinking of her brother. She had suddenly left her home and traveled here without warning.

She had to be planning to meet Gabe.

And Special Agent Frederick Whitfield IV was going to be on hand for that moment. That asswipe Morgan was going to be missing out on all the glory.

Frederick watched her get into the elevator, watched the lights on the lobby panel, saw that the elevator stopped on the seventh floor.

He glanced at his watch. Fourteen minutes to go before the press conference. He smiled. Easy work for an agent of the fucking FBI, now, wasn’t it? He caught another elevator car, rode it up to the seventh floor, exited cautiously, and, hearing a door close in the hallway to his right, turned in that direction. He opened his cell phone. He dialed the hotel’s number.