Dale Brown - Puppet Master

“What’s his crime? Using an ATM machine?”

“There was an unusual string of… um… there was a code in the transaction request that was unusual.”

“That ties him to the ATM scams.”

“I…”

“Did that code say ‘Give us all your money’?” Smith was even more sarcastic than usual. “Let him go.”

“But—”

“He’s a CIA asset, and an important one.”

“He’s a thief.”

“You have no proof. You just told me. You don’t even have anything to use a warrant. He could get up and walk out, and you can’t stop him.”

“Some guy calls and claims to be CIA — that’s got to be one of his people, pretending. It’s a hoax. These guys are A-1 hackers, these Russians.”

“The deputy director of the CIA called Lon personally a half hour ago to say release this guy. You think that’s a hoax?”

Lon was Lon Phillips, the executive deputy director for intelligence — two levels above Jenkins’s boss.

“That’s got to be phony,” said Jenkins.

“Believe me, it’s not.”

“You’re telling me the CIA is robbing banks?”

“I’m telling you to release him. Now.”

“I think we need to consider—”

“We don’t need to consider anything. What was this company Smart Metal’s role?”

“Smart Metal?”

“Don’t play more games with me, Trev. I know you involved a local company called Smart Metal. They make robots, right? What did they have to do with this?”

“They were robbed, and they were just trying to find their money.”

“You didn’t have them hacking into accounts, did you?”

“Hell no.” Jenkins hesitated, trying to organize his response. It was barely a moment, but it was more than enough of a hint for Smith to jump to conclusions.

Unfortunately.

“They are off, out, not to be involved,” said Smith. “You are way out of line. Way out of line.”

“I did nothing illegal. They did not hack into accounts.”

“We’re not having this conversation. Take care of things.”

The line died before Jenkins could respond. Which maybe was the best for all concerned.

What was the sense of sleeping with someone if you couldn’t remember it?

Chelsea slipped from the bed and tiptoed from the room, snagging her clothes along the way. Her head was pounding, her legs were stiff, and her mouth felt gummed up.

Ballerina girl! What are you doing with your life?

She waved her hand, trying to physically block her father’s voice from her head. But really, it was a hell of a good question.

Why had she gone home with Flores? If her head hadn’t been pounding already, Chelsea would have pounded it a few times against the wall just to knock some sense into it.

She wasn’t a prude, but this was absolutely not her style. Hookups with strangers were so far out of character that she was sure she wouldn’t recognize herself if she looked in a mirror.

Fortunately, there were no mirrors in the small kitchen, where she stopped to get dressed. Pots and dishes were piled in the sink, and the garbage pail, without a top, was overflowing.

Typical guy place.

How many times have I told you…?

“Ssshhhh, Daddy. Please. I know you’re right,” she whispered.

Chelsea needed to use the bathroom, but as she went to it, she heard Flores starting to stir down the hall. She decided she could hold it for a while and trotted to the front door, jamming on her shoes so quickly that she didn’t quite get the heel of her right foot all the way in. No matter. She paused at the door long enough to make sure her wallet and keys were still in her bag — they were — then made her getaway.

It was not yet light out. That was fortunate. Chelsea walked for a block, her head clearing, before she managed to get her bearings. Miraculously, she was six blocks from her apartment.

Maybe that wasn’t such a good thing, she thought as she crossed the street. They were close enough that bumping into each other was inevitable.

Then again, even with the arrest, they’d probably have to clean up odds and ends on the project; Flores had alluded to that last night.

Several times. How drunk had he been?

Maybe so drunk he wouldn’t remember her being there?

Zero chance of that. And surely he’d been more sober than she was.

Oh well, she thought to herself, angling toward a Starbucks that looked open. There were worse things in life than doing an FBI agent.

Surely there were. She just couldn’t think of them at the moment.

Johnny Givens struggled to lift his head.

“Are you getting out of bed or what?” demanded the woman.

“Yeah. I’m trying.”

“Try harder.”

He sat upright. Blood rushed from his head and he felt dizzy.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“Your therapist.”

“Right.”

“The wheelchair is ready.”

“I still have an IV.”

“Take it with you.”

“How?”

The therapist reached up and unhooked the bag of fluid, then dropped it in his lap.

“My legs,” said Johnny. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t have legs. Use your arms.”

He edged toward the side of the bed.

“I have to look in on another patient,” said the therapist. “I’ll be back.”

She walked from the room. Johnny took a deep breath, then pushed himself toward the chair parked next to the bed. His arms felt stiff, foreign. It was incredibly difficult to move.

Was this for real? Did the bitch even know he hadn’t been out of bed since he got here?

Damn.

He flattened the palms of his hands against the mattress and slid a few more inches.

Why the hell am I being tortured like this?

Outside at the nurse’s station, Louis Massina stood with folded arms, watching the monitor playing the video from Johnny Givens’s room. He could see the sweat rolling down the crippled man’s temple.

“You’re really making him work,” Massina told the therapist.

“He’s going to work a lot harder than this.”

Massina nodded. “I have a meeting. I’ll look in on him tomorrow.”

“So we just release him?” Hightower held her palms up.

“Yeah.” Jenkins leaned back in the chair. “I guess.”

“What does he do for the CIA?”

Jenkins shook his head.

“You know…” Hightower’s voice trailed off. She put her forefinger to her right temple and rubbed in a circular motion, as if she were turning a wheel there. “I wasn’t sure about this guy when you brought him in. But now… There has to be some connection with the mob. It makes sense.”

“Yeah.”

“You have a name, you can flesh out his background, get to work on that.”

Jenkins gave her a sardonic smile but kept himself from telling her that he knew how to do his job. It had been a long night for her as well.

It wasn’t bad enough that the CIA had ordered Jenkins to let his only suspect go. His boss’s decision to forbid him to use Massina was even worse. And he wasn’t going to be able to explain it fully to Massina either.

Hey, my boss thinks I was using you to do illegal hacking. We didn’t go that far, no way. I was on the right side of the line. I think. But now we have to play by my boss’s rules.

Well, to some extent. But I can’t get you into trouble. So… hasta la vista.

Right. That would be some conversation.