A Brewing Storm

Jones raised his palms in front of him. It was a gesture that was intended to show that his palms were washed and also to stop this line of questioning. “Let’s focus on the kidnapping,” he said.

“'And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free,’” Storm taunted.

“Sometimes too much truth is not a good thing when it comes to international politics,” Jones replied. “Find out who’s behind the kidnapping. And do it without causing the White House or this agency embarrassment.”

“One last question,” Storm asked. “Where’d you hide the bug? In the rental car or are you using the cell phone?”

“You’re the private detective,” Jones said. “You figure it out.”

Chapter Seven

Storm could hear the muffled sounds of a television playing inside his hotel suite as he approached its locked door. Someone was inside. He knew it was her as soon as he smelled her perfume. Swiping his room key through the electronic lock, he walked in, expecting to see Clara Strike.

But she was not there. It was Agent Showers.

A coincidence that both women wore the same fragrance? Or was it him? How many times had he and Clara met in hotel rooms? How many sweaty mornings, afternoons, and nights had they made love? Was he having some Pavlov’s dog reaction? Was Agent Showers replacing Clara in his thoughts?

“You were supposed to meet me at eight o’clock,” Showers said, clearly irritated. “I was scheduled to take you to our FBI command post.”

She was sitting on the suite’s sofa watching CNN on a flatscreen while sipping a Diet Coke from the recently restocked mini-bar.

“A bit early to be drinking Diet Coke, isn’t it?” he asked, walking to the minibar. He took out an imported beer.

“A bit early to be drinking a beer, isn’t it?” she shot back.

He sat in a chair near the sofa. “I’m glad I finally got you in-suite,” he said, glancing toward the bed.

“Don’t get your hopes up,” she replied.

“I was hoping you’d get them up for me,” he answered.

Ignoring the innuendo, she said, “Where have you been? I’ve been waiting.”

“Sightseeing.”

“Are you going to tell me about your meeting this morning with Senator Windslow? How about your meeting with Jedidiah Jones? We’re on the same team, right?”

So the FBI was tracking his movements, too.

Storm took a swig and then said, “Agent Showers, when were you going to tell me about Ivan Petrov?”

She looked surprised. “Did Windslow tell you about Petrov or did Jones?”

“Neither. This might surprise you, but I am a private detective.”

“Does Jones think Petrov is behind the kidnapping?”

“You’ll have to ask him,” Storm replied. “Do you think Petrov had the stepson kidnapped?”

“Yes, I do. I think that’s why the kidnappers didn’t try to pick up the one-million-dollar ransom in Union Station. Petrov’s a billionaire and he doesn’t need the money. He kidnapped Matthew Dull because he’s pressuring the senator to do something for him-something that I think your buddy Jedidiah Jones knows about. I think it’s all tied to some covert operation they’re fighting about. But every time I ask about it, I’m told it’s 'above my pay grade.’ The same old shitty excuse that I’m always told.”

“I’m surprised,” Storm said.

“Why? You think I’m wrong?”

“No, I think you’re probably right. Petrov is the most likely suspect. And I also think something strange is going on between Windslow and Jones. But the reason why I’m surprised is because you just said the word 'shitty.’”

She gave him a puzzled look.

“That’s such rude language,” he continued, “coming from someone who got her undergraduate degree at Marymount University. Isn’t that suburban Washington, D.C., school a Catholic enclave, founded by the Religious of the Sacred Heart of Mary? I doubt the good nuns allowed you to swear on campus.”

“Is this your clever way of telling me that you ran a background check on me last night?”

“Editor of the Georgetown Law Review, top in your graduating class at the FBI Academy in Quantico. The Bureau sent you to Seattle first, but you were too good to stay long in the field. The brass wanted you at headquarters. The best and brightest. A go-to agent in high-profile cases. Smart. Clever. Someone who understood this city. A workaholic. No time for hobbies. No time for fun. No time for marriage or even a boyfriend. Your mother doesn’t like that. She wants grandkids.”

“There’s nothing in my personnel record about my mother wanting grandkids,” she said.

“Doesn’t need to be. Flaming red hair. Emerald eyes. You’ve got Irish written all over your face. I’ve never met an Irish mother, especially a good Catholic, who didn’t want her only daughter married and pregnant. She must be so disappointed.”

“It’s none of your business.”

“You asked me about my past.”

“And you didn’t tell me a damn thing.”

“Ah, more profanity. Did the nuns slap your knuckles? How did they feel about premarital intercourse?”

She started to respond but caught herself. “Let’s cut the bull, er, crap,” she said.

He had gotten to her. Unnerved her. Irritated her. He was enjoying this.

She asked, “Did the kidnappers contact Windslow this morning? Is that why he got you up so early and you went to his house?”

She had good instincts. She suspected something was up.

Storm took another long swig and noticed that he’d almost emptied the bottle. “The senator specifically asked me to keep our meeting this morning confidential,” he replied. “If you haven’t noticed, he’s lost faith in the FBI.”

Showers hit the television remote hard with her right thumb, flipping off the CNN newscast. “What did Jones tell you at the CIA?”

“Why aren’t you married, Agent Showers?”

“Are you?” she shot back. “Do you have an ex living in Hawaii, a girlfriend in Pocatello? Oh, maybe you like boys?”

She was getting warmed up now. He could see fire in her green eyes and he liked it.

Continuing, Showers said, “Are you going to tell me about your meetings with Windslow and Jones? Or are we going to keep trade insults?”

“Insults? I thought we were engaging in foreplay,” he replied. “Tell me something juicy about yourself- something dirty.”

He could tell that she wasn’t enjoying this. He was.

“You think you’re clever, don’t you?” she asked. “You roll into Washington like some big, bad hero brought in to save the day and impress everyone while giving me and the Bureau the finger.”

“Yes. But with you I mean it in the nicest way.”

Rising from her seat, she said: “You need a reality check. No one is above the law. Not Senator Windslow, not Jedidiah Jones, and certainly not you. If you’re not going to cooperate, then I’m not going to watch your back. You should think about that. And think about this, too. If I discover that you intentionally withheld evidence or did something illegal for the senator-even something just a teensy-weensy against the law-I’m going to come down on you with the full weight of the Justice Department. You’re not a federal employee. You’re a civilian, just like any other asshole on the streets.”

With a look of fake innocence, Storm replied, “How did they define 'teensy-weensy illegal’ at Georgetown Law? I’m not familiar with it as a legal term.”