She set her computer alarm to remind her of the appointment and turned back to the manila folders. Time for number 4,867.
3
There was no sign of Tamara Sterling’s assistant when Kip entered the outer sanctum of the CEO’s office. She waited a moment or two, then glanced at her watch. She would be late if the legendary Mercedes Houston didn’t return.
After another minute ticked away, Kip straightened her shoulders and calmly knocked on the inner door. She glanced down at her favorite ivory blouse and deep plum suit combination, then patted her hair—it was as trim as the rest of her. Though her long black curls could be unruly, the fashionably knotted ponytail was in perfect order. She hoped the tidiness of her attire would mask her exhaustion.
When a low voice called for her to enter, she pushed the door open.
Tamara Sterling was already halfway across the office to greet her. “Please come in, Kip.”
She was holding out her hand, so Kip shook it as she looked up at her. The sparkling collar pin at the top button of the crisp white shirt was an inch below eye level for her. That put Sterling at around five-ten. The short brown hair didn’t add to her height, but its straight, simple lines echoed the rest of her angular physique. In photographs it appeared dark brown, but the afternoon sunlight revealed a hint of red. The handshake was firm, palm dry, and her expression, while welcoming, was unreadable. The steady gray eyes seemed to be taking note of everything they saw. As usual, when considering her employer’s appearance, Kip knew why few people ever forgot meeting Tamara Sterling. She was rarely called attractive. Kip, if asked, would have said arresting was the better word.
She mentally kicked herself for having her investigative instincts so engaged that she were describing her boss’s boss’s boss in her head as if she was a witness or suspect. She badly needed some down time. “What can I do for you, Ms. Sterling?”
She gestured at a chair in front of her desk. “I need to—
damn.”
Her expression turned so grim as she answered the phone 4
that Kip hoped she hadn’t done anything to jeopardize what she had thought would be a long career. There was simply no other company like SFI.
“Have a seat,” she said as she covered the mouthpiece. “I’m sorry, but this will only take a moment.”
Kip oozed down into the teak and burgundy leather guest chair and watched surreptitiously as Sterling fired short questions at the person on the other end of the line. The Mount Rushmore face from the Annual Report was in full evidence, and it was easy to believe the rumors that floated around about Sterling’s past in intelligence work. She was too memorable to work undercover, and the rumors suggested a more steely-eyed confrontational style—interrogation wasn’t hard to believe, though Kip was certain Sterling’s own tendency to refer to her past as “Geek with a Badge” was the truth.
To avoid noticeably eavesdropping, Kip stared past Sterling to the iridescent panorama of Seattle and Puget Sound. The normally smoky blue-green waters of the Sound were washed with orange by the late afternoon sun. Across the expanse of Elliott Bay, past the point of Duwamish Head, she could see faint golden lights...probably Winslow. It was one of many spectacular views of the Seattle area and if this were Kip’s office, she’d always be staring out the window. Perhaps that was why Tamara Sterling had her back to it.
Today’s afternoon rain shower had left the air pure and brisk.
Outside the temperature was falling to the high forties. She thought with pleasure of her coming weekend at the cabin. There was no chance of snow and the mountain air rolling down out of the Olympic Mountains would work magic on her tired spirit. A crackling fire, steaming bowl of soup with a good book—heaven, or as close to it as she was ever going to get.
Forcing her concentration inside the room, Kip’s brain began tallying up the cost of the office furnishings. She’d had a lot of practice at it. The bookcases, conference table and side chairs were all burnished teak—the real thing, not thin veneer over cheaper wood. The bookcases held books bound in leather that 5
showed signs of actually having been read, and objets d’art that she guessed were costly, but not astronomically so. There was no antique commode cabinet worth $20,000 and the carpet had not cost $400 a square yard. The office would have been sterile and impersonal if not for the signed baseball under glass on a bookshelf, an attractive award Kip recognized from the company newsletter as the GLAAD Lesbian of Distinction award, and a framed, signed photo of Sally Ride on the credenza behind Sterling’s desk. The reception to honor the GLAAD recipients was one of the times they had officially met. She didn’t know if Sterling would even remember her from that event.
The desk was large and also teak and it was a well-used piece of furniture. The surface of the desk sported several large stacks of paperwork, but the collection had an organized look to it. Her practiced eye read file names upside down, but she lacked the memory to be able to recall the coded numbers later. They were definitely SFI client files. Several, however, were names lightly written in pencil—possible new clients?
She was trying to figure out if the Apple laptop was the latest version or one removed when she realized that Sterling had hung up and the ice-gray eyes were intently scrutinizing her.
“You’re probably wondering what this is about.”
Kip nodded.
“I have a special assignment and you’re the person for the job.”
“Wouldn’t this normally go through channels?”
Her lips twitched. “I don’t have to go through channels.”
Kip felt herself color. Fortunately, her olive-tinted skin—the legacy of her father’s DNA—wouldn’t show it. “Of course not.
I’m just startled that you selected me.”
Sterling opened the file directly in front of her. “You’ve had the experience I need right now. Before you came to us you graduated top of your class from NYU and then went on to summa cum laude honors at Yale with a master’s in finance.” She glanced up from the file. “You returned to NYU for criminology specialty courses, then you underwent extensive training with the Justice Department.”
6
Kip had schooled herself not to react. “The Secret Service, actually.”
“Why?”
“I was following in my grandfather’s footsteps.”
“And you left after six months because...”
“Personal reasons.”
“And they are?”
Kip paused, then said steadily, “Personal.”
Sterling stared at her for a moment as if she would press further. The silence stretched but Kip knew it for what it was—
people often volunteered information to put an end to a long silence.
Kip could match her, stone for stone.
Finally, Sterling arched one eyebrow as if to say Kip had not outstared her but she found continuing the silence pointless.
“The training has stayed with you, I see.”
She looked back at the file. “After leaving the government, you joined us as an Internal Controls Consultant. That was four—almost five—years ago, and you’ve been promoted steadily.
Currently you’re an Internal Audit Specialist on a team that handles some of our more complicated clients. Your performance appraisals are exemplary and a year ago I authorized a sizeable performance bonus for you after some excellent work tracing transfers for Big Blue here in Seattle.”