Jule Mcbride - The Sex Files

She pushed the thought away. One manicured thumb was on the remote control; the other tapped the cover of Oliver Vargo’s new book. “Well, c’mon,” she whispered, tossing her head to dislodge a lock of honey-streaked hair that fell over a brown eye, obscuring her vision. “Is there someone special?” If Oliver had a lover it could interfere with her plans to contact him.

Kate Olsen turned to the camera again. “Sorry, but we’ll have to wait until after the commercial break for the answer. So don’t go away. When we come back, agent and author Oliver Vargo, tells us if his personal life’s as adventurous as his professional one!”

Glancing down, the viewer surveyed his picture. “I would recognize him from a million miles away,” she murmured, sucking in a shaky breath. After all, she’d long been a fan of his work, and she’d been tailing him around Manhattan all afternoon, wondering how she should approach him.

She continued blinking, hoping her tears might start to fall but she was still in shock. Yesterday a bullet had almost claimed her life, and now she desperately needed Oliver Vargo’s help. Already, she’d been having a rough day when, last night, she’d gone to the home of her fiancé—only to find him in bed with another woman, a woman she’d recognized from a wanted poster as a bank robber. As unbelievable as the events seemed, they’d really happened. The woman’s name was Susan Jones. Even worse, the man in question, Miles McLaughlin, her fiancé, was an FBI agent.

“Incredible,” she whispered now, perspiration beading on her upper lip.

As soon as she’d entered the bedroom, Susan Jones had rolled away from Miles—they’d been making love—grabbed his revolver from a bedside table and aimed at her heart. She’d frozen, standing there like a deer caught in headlights, wondering what her fiancé was doing in bed with this woman. Shock, betrayal and terror were rippling through her when she heard the distinctive sound of Susan’s voice as she turned to Miles and said, “What’s she doing here?”

Then the bullet had exploded, splintering the wood of the door frame near her head. She’d whirled in terror, hitting a hallway first, then a staircase. She was at the downstairs door when she heard the pa-choo of a second shot. She hadn’t looked back. Her heart hammering, she’d kept running. And she’d been running ever since.

She’d been so shocked, so scared, that an hour had passed before she completely registered what she’d seen. It was astonishing enough that she’d seen an FBI agent in bed with a bank robber. Devastating, since she’d been engaged to him. But when she’d calmed down, she’d registered the open suitcase she’d seen shoved under the bed. Money had been stuffed into the case, no doubt from the bank heist for which Susan Jones was wanted. Was her fiancé—ex-fiancé—she mentally corrected—involved in the woman’s crimes? And why hadn’t she seen through him?

She hated men, she thought now, shivering. Yes, this betrayal was the last straw. A woman had nearly killed her, true. But ultimately, a man was responsible for what had happened—and she was going to make him pay. Oliver Vargo was the perfect man to cast in the role of Avenging Angel, too. Now she was glad to feel her eyes stinging again. She’d felt so stunned, she hadn’t yet been able to have a real cry, and it was yesterday that the shots had been fired. Right now, yesterday felt like a century ago.

Despite her terror, every time she looked at Oliver Vargo, something inside her melted and she wanted to reconsider her vendetta against men. She shivered again. If not for her profession, none of this would have happened. Hadn’t her mother been devastated, saying what she did for a living was too dangerous? But who could have foreseen that she’d meet a crooked FBI agent while she was working?

“I’ve got to find someplace safe to go when I check out,” she murmured.

But where? It would be hours until Oliver Vargo got off work and she could approach him for help. She didn’t have time to dress and try to catch him leaving the TV studio. She wasn’t sure she trusted him, but she did need help from a smart FBI insider who knew how to use a gun and who wouldn’t mind protecting a woman. And Oliver looked honest, though appearances could lie. Still, because she knew his work, and because Miles was an agent, she felt safer going to Oliver Vargo than to the police…

Opening the cover of his book, she skimmed the bio, noting his degrees in law enforcement and psychology, an explosive ten-year career and the long list of criminals he’d caught. He was unmarried and lived alone, just as Kate Olsen had said, but the picture showed him lying in a hammock in front of a family-size home. He was reading a book.

“The New York Public library,” she whispered, feeling a jolt of relief at the idea. When she left the Plaza, she’d lose herself in the crowds at the library, read Oliver’s book, and then go to Grand Central Station. The Forty-second Street entrance was across from the midtown FBI office where Oliver worked, and she could leave the duffel in one of the train station’s lockers. She’d have to be careful, of course. But at five o’clock, when Oliver left work, she’d find out where he was staying and approach him.

“And we’re back from commercial break!” Kate Olsen’s voice interrupted her thoughts. “We’re here with FBI agent, Oliver Vargo, the bestselling author of How Evil Thinks and Catching Crooks the Old-Fashioned Way. “Well, Oliver,” continued Kate. “We know you’ve been touring the country, training other FBI agents to profile criminals as well as promoting your new book. But why are you in New York?”

“To help work out kinks in the bureau’s new, state-of-the-art computer software,” he explained.

“Could you tell us more?”

“Sure. Our new computer software is called Quick Composite. As I mentioned, profilers assemble facts about possible suspects, imagining how the criminal thinks and feels. Now, with Quick Composite, the FBI will be able to input that information into computers and generate pictures of suspects.”

“Pictures?”

He nodded. “Very similar to photographs. We’ll know what the criminal might look like when we find him. Or her. As we work, we deduce facts about the suspect—such as gender and race. Height and weight. Hair and eye color. Now, as we input those facts into Quick Composite, a computer will produce a picture.”

“Like a police artist’s sketch?”

“Exactly, Kate. Except this is more sophisticated. The image is more accurate and of photographic quality.”

“Amazing,” said Kate dreamily, as if captivated. “Do you really think a picture of a suspect—one generated by inputting facts about a crime—might be identical to that of a real criminal when you catch him?”

“Or her,” Oliver added. “And yes. Absolutely. Our computer-generated pictures should resemble the mug shots when we arrest criminals. It sounds amazing, but new technology is emerging all the time.”

Kate’s eyebrows knitted. “But how does using new technology fit with your desire to solve crimes the old-fashioned way?”

He chuckled, as if to say she had a point. “It doesn’t, Kate. I’m of the old school. And I’m here in New York to play devil’s advocate with the team creating the Quick Composite software. My job’s to point out whatever the new technology misses.”

“And then?”

He sounded relieved. “I’m going home to Quantico.”

“Where your personal life is as intriguing as your professional one?”

Oliver shook his head. “Believe me,” he joked, “I get enough excitement at the office. It’s my younger sister, Anna, whose personal life sizzles. She lives here in New York City, and she’s a statistician for…” He paused to build anticipation. “The Sex Files.”