“Ranson’s an asshole,” Dawson now said as he clamped shut the file. “A flaming asshole.” The agent found himself wishing he stood six-foot, two inches and weighed two hundred and twenty pounds, instead of five-six and one hundred and forty. If he had the size, he’d kick Ranson’s ass. Maybe not kick his ass, but threaten to kick his ass and scare the shit out of him.
“Mr. Dawson? Oliver?” Angela Newman, the secretary he shared with two other agents, stood at his door. “Did you need something?” she asked.
With his office door always open and the walls paper thin, Angela had heard his outburst.
“No. Talking to myself.” His head bent down to his thick-soled black shoes. He put the more scuffed of the two behind the other. It was a clumsy attempt to hide the fact that in over a year, he had yet to get a shoeshine.
“If you’re sure.” She turned and stepped away.
“Angela,” Dawson said, reacting to an impulse. “Can you ring the FBI lab? Find out who did the tests on those materials I got in May from San Diego?”
“Certainly.” Angela, raw-boned, with a narrow chin and crooked teeth, smiled. “Anything else?” she asked.
Dawson felt flush. He liked Angela and wished he wasn’t such a coward. Nobody would care if he dated his secretary. Ask her if she’s free for a drink after work, he urged himself. “Uh, maybe if you . . .” He stalled.
“If I what?” She batted her eyes.
“ . . . if you wouldn’t mind making that call now, I’d appreciate it.”
“Of course, Oliver.”
Fidgeting, he watched her turn and leave. Her dress draped long and limp, a floral pattern with bunched shoulders and a pink ribbon cinched around her tiny waist and tied in a bow. Stringy, dirty-blond hair brushed against her collar in the back just before she disappeared around the corner. The others in the office made fun of Angela, calling her the old maid. She was thirty-five—younger than him. Not old, he thought. And even if the others didn’t like her looks, Dawson found her expressions kind.
One day, he vowed, I’m going to ask her out.
Dawson picked up his soda and downed the last three ounces. He pulled open his drawer and grabbed another can, listened to the hiss of the airborne carbonation—a whisper of his addiction—then took a deep swig and waited. Waited for a break. Waited for someone to step forward and give him another lead. Waited for Angela Newman. Waiting—that’s something he had long ago become accustomed to.
Fifteen minutes later, Angela returned to his open door, “The FBI lab technician?” She had tears in her eyes.
“Yes,” Dawson asked, attempting to present as pleasant a look as possible.
“Had an accident.”
“Terrific. Let me guess. He’s off work for a month and I can’t get my damn files back.”
“It’s—” Her voice shook. “It’s worse. He was with another agent. Killed. Shot in a horrible accident.”
“Dead?”
She nodded.
“When the friggin’ hell did that happen?”
She hunched over. “Two or three weeks...” she said.
“What a coincidence. About the same time Cannodine and Drucker are getting blown to bits.” Dawson seeped his rage through Angela’s tears— and softened. “I’m sorry. I care. Sometimes I get too emotional.”
“Yes, sir.”
“What the hell is going on?” Dawson asked. “Angela, are you okay?”
“I think so.” She bit her lower lip.
“When you’re ready, see if I can get back the originals I sent for analysis—that would include a short letter, copies of ledger pages, notes, and two transcripts of phone calls.” He put the soda can against his burning cheek.
“I already asked,” she said. “They refuse to release any records until the deceased’s cases have been reassigned and the technicians have had a chance to evaluate his work.”
“How long will that take?” Dawson stood and trudged around his desk. Finishing his soda, he crushed the thin aluminum can and slammed it into the trash container. The clang echoed off the sides of both the can and his skull.
“Several weeks,” Angela said.
“Tell them this is top priority. Tell them I want everything as soon as possible.”
“Yes, sir. Shall I tell them anything else?”
“Yeah. Tell them . . . No. Forget it. I guess I’m just going to have to friggin’ wait.”
“Is that all, sir?” she asked, struggling with the words.
“Yes, I guess it is.”
The second she left, Dawson went to the open window, stuck his head out, and yelled, “Fuck it all!”
Through the noises of downtown D.C., his words died before they hit any ears other than his own. His voice barely qualified as sound.
Figures, he thought.
The door hinges chirped as Peter entered Ayers’ office. The attorney, propped upright against the front of his desk, greeted him with a wan smile. When Peter took a step forward, Ayers straightened up and offered his hand. The attorney stood an inch taller than Peter, and, with fingers like thick noodles, offered a limp handshake. Dressed like the millionaire he was, Ayers had regained much of the dignity he’d lost the morning he’d come to Peter’s apartment and broken down. Peter also looked refreshed in a blue suit—not a designer label like Ayers’, but still neat and a good fit. An outsider would not have recognized these two from their rendezvous over two weeks ago.
The office air held the scent of pungent flowers—somehow familiar— but mixed with tobacco smoke. Ayers’ face pointed away. Peter turned just as a woman’s voice said, “Hello, Mr. Neil.”
The woman from the elevator now eyed him as she leaned over her cane, all the while coddling a cigarette wedged inside a slim, plastic holder. She didn’t inhale deeply, but managed an endless stream of exhale.
“I didn’t see you when I entered,” Peter said, stumbling over his words.
His mind had just enough time to wonder who she was before she said, “I am Stenman.”
“You’re Morgan Stenman? I assumed . . .” Peter felt exponentially disoriented. Suddenly, knowing this was Stenman, the metal cane became an extension of her metal arm, her metal chest, shoulder, neck, and head. Cast in iron, she was an element of the earth, basic and impenetrable. Beyond flesh and blood.
“You expected a man,” Morgan said.
“I confess, I did. And that makes me a moron.” Peter’s face reddened. If his pants had fallen to his knees, exposing his privates, he couldn’t have felt more foolish.
“I gather you don’t watch much investment television,” Ayers said in Peter’s defense. “Morgan is an advisor to presidents and a glass-ceiling breaker of the first order.”
“Being flat broke, I watch no business TV. My portfolio consists of a couple boxes of cereal and a pint of milk for my cat.”
Stenman nodded. “Clever.”
Peter didn’t think she sounded sincere. “Put a foot in your mouth often enough,” he said, “and you develop strategies for getting the damn thing out. Nice to meet you, Ms. Stenman.” He offered his hand.
“I do not shake hands.” She leaned back, creating a few inches of additional space between herself and Peter. “From this point forward,” she continued, “if you intend to work for me, refer to me as Morgan.”
“If I intend to work for you?” Peter’s voice wavered between unbelieving and hopeful.
She took a calculated puff.
Ayers chimed in, “Your choice, Peter.”
Peter did not risk a moment’s hesitation. “If it’s up to me, then yes.”
“Good,” Ayers said. “Morgan informs me that you’ll start out doing trade processing and projects. If you are half as intelligent as I’ve assured her, you will progress quickly to more important assignments.”
