“I can only say enough to make you understand the situation I’m facing. Jim Kalata was found in your apartment.”
“My apartment?”
“Actually, he was in your bed, naked. His neck was broken, and there was a very clean gunshot wound to his forehead.”
Lund felt suddenly cold, as though the tendrils of something distant and unnatural were wrapping around her. She couldn’t move, couldn’t speak.
Detorie covered her silence with, “Your service firearm was found on the floor next to the bed. We’re still securing the scene, so there’s been no time for ballistics or anything like that, but one round appears to have been fired from your gun.”
“Frank,” she managed, “if you’re implying—”
“No, Shannon. I know you didn’t do this. You were in D.C. last night when this happened. Half the damned night shift at Coast Guard headquarters can put you there.”
“So you’ve already checked on that.”
“Just like you would have done. But I’ve got to tell you, your commander in Seattle, Special Agent in Charge Wheeley, is more than a little upset. He had no idea you were on leave or TDY, or whatever the hell it is you’re doing.”
“Texts,” she said, starting to regain function.
“What?”
“Texts. You said his phone had a string of texts, something that upset his wife.”
“I can’t go into that,” said Detorie.
“You don’t have to. She called me a cheating bitch. Clear enough. But I’m telling you right now that there was nothing between Jim Kalata and me.”
“If that’s what you say, I believe it. But I need you to tell me these things officially and on the record. I need you to get back here right away and clear this up. Your commander sent out the word — I’m surprised CGIS hasn’t already shown up to escort you to the airport. Wheeley is on his way up from Seattle as we speak to oversee things — Kodiak CGIS is pretty much staffed at zero right now. Come back and we’ll straighten everything out. This happened off station, so it’s my turf. You know I’ll do right by you.”
“Yeah … I know, Frank. Thanks. I’ll head to the airport right now.”
Lund ended the call, but she didn’t put her phone away. She gripped it gingerly, as if it held some kind of plague, and navigated to her text messages. Sure enough, they were there. Interspersed among the last three months of work-related texts she’d exchanged with Kalata, a handful of flirtatious messages. Wholly fabricated messages she had never sent. Never seen before.
Lund felt a shiver, and she flicked down to find her last true contact with Kalata — the photograph he’d sent her yesterday, a grainy picture of a hulking man. She had uploaded the picture for Wells only hours ago. She moved her finger left and right on the screen, back and forth. For the third time in a matter of minutes, Lund felt the web of META wrapping around her.
The photograph was no longer on her phone.
It had somehow been deleted.
Ronald Anderson watched Summer walk all the way out to the curb, and when she got into a cab he smiled inwardly. Perhaps on his way home he could reschedule his flight, include another layover in New York. He was on the company dime, after all. She’d been fun, enthusiastic. Then again, after four days in Amsterdam he might need a breather. He was reaching for his roller bag when his phone chimed a text.
He looked down and saw a message from Summer: I miss you already.
Anderson looked out at the cab she’d gotten into. It was stuck in traffic. He pecked out a response: Miss you too.
Summer: Want one last look?
He smiled and typed: Sure.
Anderson watched the cab.
Summer: I have to be a little discreet. Come closer.
He walked up to the big plate-glass window.
Summer: Take off your jacket. I want to see more of you.
Anderson smiled broadly. She really was playful. He shrugged off his jacket and hung it on the handle of his roller bag.
Summer: Come closer, outside. This is only for you.
His eyes were padlocked on the cab’s darkened rear window, his breath quickening. He liked the idea of public places. Which view would it be? As he passed through the glass doors, he saw perhaps a flash of movement in the backseat. Anderson was five steps away when the cab pulled into the river of traffic and merged away at speed.
“Hey!” he shouted, his hands palm-up in a what gives gesture.
He watched for a few seconds longer, but soon the cab was lost in a sea of yellow. He snorted once, headed back inside, and retrieved his roller bag. Anderson was halfway to the security checkpoint when he realized his jacket was missing.
He looked back where his bag had been, but didn’t see it on the floor. He’d only left it unattended for thirty seconds, and it had never been out of his sight — although his attention had been diverted. He looked around for anyone suspicious, anybody moving faster than they should have been, but it was an airport and everyone was in a hurry. In his pocket he felt a vibration: another text. He pulled out his phone and saw a message in the same thread.
Summer: This passport photo doesn’t do you justice.
Anderson stiffened. He thumbed out a reply, misspelling nearly every word once: I need that back NOW!!!
Her maddening reply: Sorry. Let’s make it tomorrow. It’ll cost you $10,000. Details in the morning.
Anderson spun a circle on a square of polished tile, his face going crimson. He’d watched her get into the cab. She must have had help, he thought. He looked around and saw people moving in every direction, a lotto tumbler of humanity. He cursed aloud. How did I get into this freakin’ mess?
Anderson was contemplating his options when Summer preempted them with: Considering calling the cops? Not a good idea for a john in NYC. BTW, your wife’s phone number is 555-255-6242. And I took one pic you never saw.
Anderson’s anger went to panic. How had she found out Charlotte’s number? She must have accessed his phone in the room. He didn’t even want to think about the picture. Another text from Summer. Christ … Summer. He didn’t even know her real name.
He read: Her father’s number is even easier to get — it’s on half the bus benches in Chicago. Goldstein and Mahr, divorce and family practice. Ten grand is a bargain against what that phone call would cost you.
He found a bench and sat down, tried to think logically. Maybe he could bargain with her, get the passport back now, and write a check for five grand. If that didn’t work, he’d try his damnedest for intimidation. No way was he going to get scammed. He knew where she worked. He could threaten to stalk her and make her life miserable. He called Summer’s number and waited, steel ready in his voice. After two rings an automated voice picked up. “The number you have reached is no longer in service.”
Anderson slapped his palm on the back of the bench. An elderly woman on the next bench over looked at him suspiciously. He checked the time: 5:17. He wasn’t going to make his flight. He decided he could punch out an email to his office later, say the airline had screwed up, and tell them to rebook him on tomorrow’s flight. His meeting was still two days out. It would be a short night tomorrow, but he could make it work. He began to think more positively. He had a day to get his passport back, one way or another. Everything would be fine. He just had to get it back.
Anderson went to his phone’s web browser and looked up the number for Elegant Escorts. I can handle this …
44
While Ronald Anderson was having trouble contacting Elegant Escorts, a man similar in appearance took his assigned seat on KLM Flight 23. Everything so far had worked according to plan. Security had been a breeze. A weary TSA agent, no doubt at the end of his shift, had taken one look at the passport followed by a vacant glance at DeBolt’s face. The KLM boarding agent showed even less interest. And here he was.