Man in the Middle

“Why?” Peter sounded confused. “I was halfway hoping she’d come back to San Diego after the exam.”

“She’s staying in LA. Accepted a job with the PD’s office. And . . . she’s engaged.” Peter’s body whiplashed. “To be married?”

“Yes. That kind of engaged.”

“Who? When?” Peter really wanted to ask: why? “The professor she worked with on the textbook. Wedding’s scheduled for late January.”

“That’s a month and change away. I can’t believe this.” Peter slumped. “It’s so sudden.” Lunch was brief. When finished, Ayers said, “I’m going to call for a cab. My driver will take you back to the office.” He handed Peter a last note.

Without looking at it, Peter palmed the piece of paper while shaking his head. “Makes more sense for me to get the cab,” he said. “Thanks for lunch.”

“You sure?” Ayers asked.

Peter insisted.

A few minutes later, Peter’s cab sat in traffic while he read through the note Ayers had slipped him in the restaurant:

You must not allow anyone to think you have documents from your mother. They are afraid— those papers potentially have trails that go back many years. Do your job and do not rock the boat.

I recommend you destroy anything you have. Whatever you do, do not contact regulators. It would do little good anyway. I have done all that I can for you. Please, for God’s sake, do what I ask.

Destroy this message before you get back to work.

Ayers had written his message before meeting Peter outside of Stenman’s at two o’clock. That meant the attorney had planned this covert communication all along, but why?

“Relax,” Peter told himself. “Everything’s going to be fine.”

Do not rock the boat. Peter reread the words. He had never intended to rock the damn boat. What was in those envelopes his mother had left behind? This was one question he had no interest in answering. As the cab struggled to advance, Peter looked out the window. All the cars in his line of vision were crawling, yet all the drivers were desperately changing lanes. Pass, brake, get passed, switch lanes. Catch up, tailgate, stand still. Fall behind.

Katie Ayers engaged: why had that news hit him so hard? Although he had done nothing to further their relationship, her engagement felt like a mortal wound to his heart.

“Mind your own business. Do not rock the boat,” he said to himself.

Katie Ayers. Secret messages. Kate. Messages.

“Damn it all,” he said, loud enough for the cabby to hear. “Every single thing hanging over my head: damn it to hell.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

 AT HIS DESK AFTER HIS CAB RIDE, PETER SQUIRMED AS IF SITTING ON A nest of fire ants. He looked around every minute or two, wondering who was watching. Did Stenman think he was a security risk? Maybe he should say something.

But, no. Ayers had said to do his job. That meant head down, continue to work hard, make money. That was the one thing Peter understood could help right things: make some major profit. Thank God he had already proven he could do that.

And what about Ayers? The man filled Peter with suspicion. Could he be trusted? Was Ayers simply doing what he was told by those he worked for? Maybe this whole thing was a test, engineered by Morgan Stenman. If so, had he passed? The day’s conversations saturated Peter’s mind the entire afternoon. When he left work, it was dark. Because it was Friday, he understood the commute home was likely to be gridlock. A fifteen-minute drive in good times might take half-an-hour or more now. But he didn’t care.

“Time to think,” he rationalized.

At least things couldn’t get any worse, could they?

The better part of an hour later, Peter pulled into the driveway leading past several other condominiums terraced along a steep hillside. He made his turn and accelerated the last few yards, reaching for and depressing the automatic door opener, then watching. He slowed and timed it so that the roof of his car just cleared the rising door. A dim light illuminated the interior of his garage as he turned the engine off, retracted the garage door, and got out of his BMW.

“Don’t say anything.”

The muffled words startled him. He spun and defensively raised a hand.

Several feet away, appearing from behind the water heater, stood Agent Dawson. A .38 dangled from a hand draped along his side. He made certain Peter had a good view.

Dawson stepped forward. With his free hand, he grabbed Peter’s shirt, at the neck, and pulled. His torrid breath blew across Peter’s ear, the clamp on Peter’s collar strong.

“The inside of your house is bugged,” he said. “I saw them enter, disguised as exterminators. They should have brought tanks of poison—more convincing that way.”

“I—”

Dawson released his hold on the shirt and slapped a palm over Peter’s mouth. The agent shook his head.

Peter knocked the hand away with a forearm but said nothing. He noticed the window off to the side of the garage was open, unlocked from the inside. A single pane had been cut away, with smooth edges made by a glasscutter. Peter allowed himself to be towed to a dark corner.

“Give me your jacket,” Dawson whispered.

Peter did as asked. The agent took the garment and held it by the collar. After setting his gun on a bench, he ran a hand along the lining. He next patted the fabric as if pressing out wrinkles. He searched the pockets. He slid his fingers under the collar. With a penknife pulled from a hip pocket, Dawson made an incision in the lapel. He widened the slit and removed a metallic disk, the size of a small button. He then stood on his toes so that his mouth could reach Peter’s ear a second time with a whisper: “A transmitter. Not a microphone, but a tail. Did you leave your jacket behind at any time today?”

Peter nodded.

“Your house is wired for sound. So’s the inside of your car. You can bet on it. This garage is the one place they didn’t plant a mike.”

The conference room at work was wired, Peter recalled, so why not an article of clothing? Why not his home? His car? His asshole if that’s what they wanted?

“If the garage doesn’t have a speaker, why are we whispering?” Peter asked.

“In case they’re using directional mikes, though that’s unlikely. They’ve already thoroughly invaded your privacy.”

“They?” Peter asked, putting a hostile bite on the word.

“I’m not a hundred percent sure, but I’d be willing to bet Stenman’s involved.”

“What happened to the phone message where you said I was on my own? I prefer it that way.”

“That was a ruse. For your protection.”

“I don’t want protection. I’m being followed and monitored because of you.”

“Listen to me, Peter. This has nothing to do with me. Somebody’s interested in you, and since they chose today to make you a telecommunications company, I’m guessing you must know something.”

“Yeah, I know something: breaking and entering is a crime.”

“I’d keep my voice real calm if I were you, so it doesn’t carry.”

“I don’t know a thing of interest to anyone. And if I did, I’d be a fool to give it to you.” Peter recalled his