“I have a cash bonus.” She gritted her teeth.
“And you’ll send me a 1099, like I want to pay taxes.”
“I can fix it so you don’t get a 1099. Interested or not?”
“You can stop by. I want the cash upfront.”
“Half upfront. If you do what I want quickly, you’ll have it all tonight.”
He whined, then whined for a change, then moved up to more whining until Kip’s head was aching. She didn’t say anything because she knew it that would just slow down his inevitable capitulation. “Oh fine, whatever, have it your way. But don’t be 70
one minute after seven.”
She glanced at her watch. “Fine.”
She headed for the nearest cash machine.
“Six hundred? You’ve got to be kidding me!”
Buck kept her standing in his dimly lit doorway. Only a few inches taller than her, he was a walking stereotype of paranoid twitches and geek slovenliness, except instead of his mother’s leaky basement, he lived apparently by himself in a duplex with a white picket fence and well-tended hedges. His bright red hair was cut short, but he’d let his beard fill out since the last time she’d seen him.
“Actually, it’ll be five-ninty-nine. That way I don’t have to send you a 1099. I told you I could fix it so you didn’t get one. If you cheat on your taxes, that’s up to you, but I’m not playing.”
“I’m not doing anything for a lousy six hundred bucks.” His Green Day T-shirt testified to the recent consumption of pizza.
“I’ll have you paid the usual SFI rate for the job. The six hundred is from me, not SFI, so you do it now.”
He glared at her. “By Friday.”
“Now.”
“Tomorrow.”
“Now.” She sighed. “I can do this all night, but you’ll get rid of me faster if you stop complaining.”
“I have a life—forget it. Fine. Whatever.” He opened the door just wide enough for her to enter. “Don’t move from that spot.”
She rolled her eyes as he leaned out to peer up and down the deserted street. He wanted to be a character in a movie, like Snake Plissken or Neo, but the baby boy cheeks and freckles undercut the persona, even with the beard trying to cover them up.
He locked the front door five different ways. “What do you want?”
She handed him the names of the SFI board. “I have standard workups already. I want to know if these people are interconnected 71
financially, if their names show up on the same charities, two or more used credit cards in the same hotel on the same week, that sort of stuff, and the sorts of details that are standard redactions for former federal law enforcement types. And you can’t breathe a word of it. If you do I will find you. I know where you live.” She smiled and attempted to twinkle as if she were joking, which she wasn’t and Buck knew it.
“Sterling herself? What’s she involved in?”
“As far as I know absolutely nothing, but I want to be unshakably certain. You’re just part of the research.”
“And I’m going to get standard rates?”
“Yes, and here’s three hundred. I’ll bring you the rest later tonight.”
He pouted, then said, “Ten o’clock. And I’m going to bed at five after.”
She refrained from commenting on his night life plans. It wasn’t as if hers were any better. Great, her social life was that of an escapee from Revenge of the Nerds. It made it worse that Buck was probably perfectly happy with his social life. She was the one who knew she’d be happier with a little more than she had and was doing absolutely nothing about it. And how could she?
She wasn’t heading for an exciting, romantic tête-à-tête with a gorgeous half-dressed woman. Her agenda was a drive-through taco and then back to her cubicle.
That’s what you get for living in the real world, she told herself, as she mopped hot sauce off her lap.
Stomach not entirely happy, she plowed through as many exhibit assignments as humanly possible. With Buck bolstering her reach with his research, her brain was finally able to efficiently tackle the tedium. She had less than four hundred files to go now.
At nine thirty she went down to her car in the garage. It was late, so after the elevator doors closed she paused to listen. No sounds of running engines, no suddenly ceased footsteps. There were basic survival skills she wouldn’t ever forget, and thank you Grandpa and Uncle Sam for the training.
She pushed away the bitter edge of that thought. She was 72
grateful for everything she’d learned during her Secret Service training. It made her wary without sapping her of confidence.
She decided to prove to herself she’d lost none of her stuff by driving to Buck’s via a roundabout route and keeping an eye on the headlights in her rearview mirror. She was not being followed, just like every night she’d ever kept track.
Meena had hated it when Kip played The Secret Service Game. She said it made her feel as if Kip was never one hundred percent focused on her. Maybe Meena had a point—vigilance for no good reason was distracting. Maybe it had been easier to be distracted than deal with the fact that she and Meena weren’t really suited to each other, and their experimental cohabitation had been a mistake. Either way, she was now safely arrived on Buck’s street and could park her car and head for his house just like any other neighbor.
She knocked, and when he cracked the door open to peer out, said, “The silent dog lies panting in the oceanic sun.”
“You are so full of shit, Barrett. Here.” He cracked open the door to thrust a large manila envelope at her. “Boring people.
With boring lives and boring money.”
She rifled through the contents and was satisfied that he had done what she’d asked. One stapled collection was flagged with a yellow sticky. “What’s the note for?”
“Only oddball thing in the bunch. There’s a lot of bio info on Sterling that’s just not there. I don’t mean it’s there and I can’t get it. I mean it’s not there to get.”
“What does that mean?”
“Well, I’m not accusing anybody of anything, so I still want to get paid.”
“What does it mean?” She gave Buck her finest steely-eyed look.
“The only time I’ve ever run across those kinds of holes was when the profile was a cover.”
“A cover? You mean like a false identity?” Kip’s stomach did a queasy roll.
“Hey, you did go to college. I want my other three hundred bucks.”
73
“Here’s two-ninety-nine. Remember the tax reporting issue?
I’m not screwing with the IRS.” She held out the roll of bills.
He said a very bad word and cast aspersions on her parentage before jabbing her with, “I scrubbed your records down with a brillo pad and you’ve been such a naughty girl, all those parking tickets in college. Really stuck it to the man there, didn’t you?
Oh that’s right, you actually paid those tickets and never put a foot wrong since. Really living a meaningful life, aren’t you, Ms.
Anarchist?”
She let him finish his snitty little rant, then said, “I love you too, Buck.”
She was stopped at the corner to make a right turn before she realized how angry Buck’s comments had made her. Since when was playing by the rules a meaningless life? Why were people who exercised their gun rights by shooting up a school some kind of hero, and people who tried to protect those lives and prevent that violence the ones in league with the forces of doomsday? Buck had some screwed up priorities. Would he like her if he knew she’d had a few drinks before legal age? Tried pot and shoplifted CDs?
Okay, she hadn’t.
That wasn’t the point, she told herself.