“I wouldn’t be flattered. I don’t care to have you talk about me with your former … connection.”
“Connect is what Sylbie and me never really did. She came in while I was having coffee, and she sat down. Partly to apologize for that, we’ll say unfortunate, incident back in March. The other was to ask a question. She wanted to know why you and not her.”
Considering, Abigail took the chicken off the heat. “It’s a legitimate question, from her point of view. That’s what you’d think. From mine, it’s both awkward and annoying. A woman who looks like she does would be used to having anyone she wants, and wouldn’t see me, fairly enough, in that same light. However true that might be, it’s still annoying. You’re flattered because I’m annoyed, and that only annoys me more.”
“Before you move to downright pissed, don’t you want to know what I told her?”
“It’s none of my business what you said in a private conversation.” She got out plates, set them down sharply. “Yes, I want to know.”
“I told her that when I’m with you, it feels right. It feels like where I’m supposed to be. It all makes sense. I said I didn’t know why one person falls in love with another, just that they do.”
She turned back, eyes on his. “You told her you loved me.”
“I did, because I do.”
“I’m less annoyed.”
“Good. Heading in the right direction. I didn’t want to have the conversation with her, but after I had, I realized it was a good one. I think we understand each other better than we ever did, and that’ll make it easier for both of us.”
“It would be easier for me if she weren’t so physically gifted. And that’s petty. I don’t like being petty and shallow.”
“As I grew up with two sisters, I can safely say odds are strong she’s thinking the same about you. But my point is this Roland Babbett got himself an earful.”
“None of it’s applicable to the charges against Justin Blake, if indeed Babbett is a private investigator working for Justin’s father.”
“No, but it’s fuel. Just like you carrying a gun and having high-class security is fuel. How well will those bona fides of yours hold up?”
“My documents and available history will stand up to a standard police run. There would be no reason to question them.”
“A PI’s not a cop,” Brooks pointed out.
“I believe they’ll hold up to a rigorous check. I’ve never had any trouble.”
“Ever been arrested, brought in for questioning?”
“No, but I’m routinely checked by clients before contract. Due to the sensitive nature of the work, and my fee, my documents and references are thoroughly checked by any new client.”
“That’s good.” Satisfied, he nodded. “That’s good to know. My concern, and it’s just a concern at this point, is this Babbett wouldn’t be working for a client wanting to hire you, but one looking for dirt, for something he can use to discredit you or threaten you.”
“He’d have to be very skilled, and very determined.”
“Maybe we’ll take some precautions.”
“You could intimidate him. You have authority, and weapons. You could confront him, intimidate him and make him leave.”
“Maybe I could, but that’s the sort of thing that would tend to make him more curious once he’s gone. Unless I have a lever.”
“I don’t want to leave.”
“We’re not going to let that happen.”
She hated this new stress, this additional complication that had nothing, nothing, to do with the Volkovs.
“If I’d stayed in the house, not answered the door, or simply given him directions—”
“I don’t think that would’ve made much difference. He’s doing a job. What we’ll do—or you will, as I expect you’re better and quicker—is find out what we can about him. See what kind of man we’re up against here. Meanwhile … I’m going to want to borrow some of your cameras.”
“Why?”
“That precaution. Is it okay if the Bickford Police Department borrows some of your equipment for a day or two?”
“Yes.” She took a key ring out of her pocket. “Borrow what you want.”
“Thanks. I’ll have Ash or Boyd run out and get it, if that’s okay. I need to make a couple calls to set up that precaution.”
“All right. I have to finish the meal.” Hopefully it would settle her nerves. “I don’t want to overcook the vegetables.”
She had to do something, keep doing something, so the panic couldn’t push through. If she performed normal tasks—add fresh thyme and butter to the green beans, drizzle the wine sauce over the chicken, plate them with the roasted potatoes—she could cling to the illusion of normality.
She’d prepared and presented the meal very well, but she could barely force down a few bites.
She had a contingency plan. She always did. All the documents she needed for the next identity were inside her safe room, locked away. Waiting.
But she didn’t want to use them, didn’t want to become someone else again. That meant she’d have to fight to protect who she was now. What she had now.
“If this investigator is very skilled and very determined, it will still take time for him to discredit my documents and history,” she began. “I need more time to plan and organize any sort of contact with Special Agent Garrison.”
“She’s in Chicago?”
“I wanted someone in Chicago, where the Volkovs are based. She would have more incentive, and more access. Her response time would be quicker, once she learned to trust my information.”
“Good thinking.”
“But unless I can formulate an alternative, if I make direct contact, she’d be duty-bound to detain me. If that happens, I don’t believe I’ll have the time or opportunity to clear myself before I’m eliminated.”
He reached over, took both her hands. “You’re not going to be detained, and you’re sure as hell not going to be eliminated. Look at me. Whatever it takes. And I’ve given some thought on alternatives and methods.”
“I’ve considered sending Special Agent Garrison an e-mail on her personal account, telling her who I am, relating the entire story, all the details. I can route it as I do the data I send her, and it wouldn’t be possible to track. But it could leak. If the information I give her gets in the wrong hands, the Volkovs will know I’m not only still alive—”
“Ilya Volkov saw you. They know you’re alive.”
“They knew I was alive five years ago in New York. I might have had an accident or contracted a terminal illness.”
“Okay, slim, but point taken.”
“They’ll also know I’ve accessed their accounts, their electronics, and have given information to the FBI. Naturally, they’d take steps to block me from the access, which would cost me time and effort. They’d also be much more careful about what they put in e-mails and e-files. But more, it would make them very angry, and increase their effort to locate and eliminate me.
“They have very skilled techs. Part of their income is from computer fraud, scams, from identity theft.”
“You’re better than their techs.”
“Yes, I am, but I’ve also had considerable time to study and program, to break through firewalls, elude alerts. It would take time to do that again, with newer, stronger security in place. In their position, I’d lay traps. If I made a mistake, they might track me. Time, again, is important. If and when I contact the FBI, the process of taking Keegan and Cosgrove, identifying other moles, arresting Korotkii, Ilya—all of that would have to happen quickly.”
“Like dominoes falling,” he suggested.
“Yes, along those lines. Bureaucracies don’t, in general, operate in a timely fashion. And before the process can begin, the agent, her superiors, would have to believe me.”
“They will.”
“The word of a fugitive, suspected at least by some of killing or certainly causing the deaths of two U.S. Marshals. Against the word of two other marshals, one of whom has been decorated and promoted.”