Buch lesen: «Identity: Classified»

ONE

Chloe Spencer tossed a piece of popcorn high into the air and deftly caught it in her mouth. A barely audible whimper rose from the vicinity of the floor beside her office chair. She glanced down and grinned. “Want some, do you, Geordie?”

Her fifteen-pound chocolate miniature poodle stared at her with black button eyes, bright with intelligence. He gently took the snack she handed to him.

Her computer chirped. She swiveled her chair around and rubbed her hands together in anticipation. As head of her one-person security company, Spencer Security, her job was to find and eliminate cyber threats and in-house data theft for companies she had contracted with. Sci-Fi Works Corporation was one of her clients, and a board member suspected someone in the company of stealing data and selling it to outside sources. He personally asked her to look into it on the sly.

She hit a few keys to activate her webcam, and there sat CEO Peter Norris, right in front of his computer in his office. She had a perfect shot of him. Geordie snorted and she grunted back.

Chloe quickly triggered the hidden software installed on all computers within the company—approved by the same board member—which allowed her to view and record anything an employee did on their PC. She also turned on her own camera and recorded everything she did—a security measure that protected her against a disgruntled employee accusing her of planting evidence.

“Yeah, yeah, I know he’s way out of my league, but he’s not my type anyway.”

Out of her league? That was putting it mildly. She didn’t live in the same universe as Peter Norris, the head of Sci-Fi Works Corporation. He was wealthy, successful and, from the information she’d gleaned in a routine computer search, a nice and straight-up kind of guy. And her? Well, she lugged around a ton of baggage. Her background wasn’t exactly what anyone would call squeaky clean, which was why she was sitting home on a Friday night instead of out on a date. She’d probably never marry because she would never tell anyone the reason she had spent time in juvenile hall. Her past held secrets and she meant to keep them.

Propping her elbows on her desk, Chloe found herself held spellbound by Peter Norris’s stunning dark blue eyes—even though she wasn’t personally interested—when a knock on his office door reverberated through her computer’s sound system. She sat up straight and stared at the screen, curious to see who had arrived. A colleague? A late date with a beautiful woman? A partner in crime, helping him sell company secrets?

The sound of a door opening and closing reached her, and not long after that, a heated argument ensued between two men. She turned up the volume on her PC and Geordie whimpered. She reached down and gave him a soothing pat, keeping her eyes glued to the computer screen.

“Come on, get in front of the webcam so I can see what’s going on,” she murmured to herself.

Two men were shouting at each other, but she couldn’t quite make out what they were saying. Her throat constricted when she heard a loud thump. Were they having a fistfight? Mr. Norris’s body flew past the screen and disappeared, and she heard him hit the floor with a solid thud. Chloe jumped out of her chair and leaned closer to the screen. She jerked back when a hand rose into view and pointed a wicked-looking gun toward the floor near the desk, the direction Mr. Norris had fallen.

“No! This can’t be happening,” she whispered.

The sound of a soft pop filled the room. She reached for the chair behind her as a few tiny red splatters hit Peter Norris’s computer camera, enlarging themselves on her screen. Easing into a sitting position, Chloe’s blood ran cold when a ski-masked face stared at her through the small droplets of blood.

“Yes, he’s dead, Miss Spencer. You’ve been a hard woman to track down. The long delay has cost me a lot of time and money. I’m not happy about that.” He moved his face closer to the webcam. His gritty voice scraped her nerves with its intensity. “I decided to give you a taste of what’s in store for you if you don’t give me the disc. I would advise you to get it now. My deliveryman should be at your door any second.” He turned away but glanced over his shoulder with menace in his eyes. “I wouldn’t advise contacting the police, or Stan will find himself in the same position as Peter Norris.”

The screen went blank, and through her haze of terror, Chloe vaguely registered that the killer had logged off Peter Norris’s computer.

A loud, piercing bark jolted her out of shock. She tore her gaze away from the now-blank screen and looked down at her dog. “Geordie,” she whispered, “we’re in big trouble and I don’t even know what he’s talking about. I’ll worry about the disc later. Right now, we have to get out of here.”

Her heart was pounding and her mind racing. The killer’s so-called deliveryman could be at her door any second, and she needed time to figure out what he wanted and how he knew so much about her.

“Geordie, grab your stuff.” Her poodle was highly trained and must have sensed her urgency. He skidded out of her office and headed toward the kitchen, where she kept his stuff in a bag.

Chloe left her laptop and smartphone where they were—she could be tracked through the technology—and grabbed several burner phones she stored in her desk. Being a computer geek came in handy. Chloe met Geordie in the foyer and tore open the closet door. Having learned a lot during her forced tenure at the FBI, Chloe had a “go” bag ready for any emergency that might arise. It included a new identity, passport, driver’s license, the works.

She threw on her leather jacket, slipped the strap of the duffel over her shoulder and opened the door to her apartment. She locked it quickly after her dog followed her out. Peering at the elevator in the middle of the hallway, she saw the numbers were moving upward toward her floor. “It’s the stairwell for us, Geordie,” she whispered. They were halfway to the exit door when the elevator dinged. She glanced over her shoulder as a masked man stepped off the elevator, saw her fleeing and started running toward them.

His hand reached inside his leather jacket and Chloe slowed down. She’d never make it to the garage and her Harley. She lowered her right arm, and the knife she kept stashed up her sleeve dropped into the palm of her hand. Before the guy had a chance to lift the gun, Chloe turned midstride, lifted her arm and threw the knife. It landed exactly where she wanted it to, in his right arm. He stumbled, dropped the gun, grabbed his bleeding arm and shot her a look filled with rage.

Chloe didn’t wait to see if he followed. She pushed the stairwell door open, and she and Geordie raced down to the garage. She lifted her dog, placed him in the attached pouch strapped to the back of the seat and straddled the bike. The roar of the engine filled the parking deck. She quickly maneuvered the bike around and shot forward. Just as she was passing the stairwell door, it opened, and the killer took aim. Chloe swerved the Harley sharp into a curve and almost laid the motorcycle on its side. Two bullets bit into the concrete above her. As soon as the bike was upright, she headed for the exit.

They hit the street and Chloe rode around for a short time, making sure they weren’t followed. She’d stop at an internet café and send an anonymous email reporting the crime. She couldn’t do it under her own name because there was a chance the FBI would become involved due to the high-profile murder. She couldn’t take a chance on the killer going after Stan.

She didn’t even consider contacting Stan. As Director of Criminal Cyber, Response and Services Branch of the FBI, he would end up in the middle of this mess, and she refused to take that chance. Stan and Betty had assumed custody of, and later adopted, a sassy sixteen-year-old girl who had hacked into a bank and gotten sent to juvenile hall. Thanks to Stan, and her extensive hacking skills, the judge wisely, and leniently, allowed her to leave juvenile hall and finish out her sentence working for the FBI cyber unit. Her community service helped the FBI and taught her a lesson at the same time. And, of course, all child labor laws were strictly adhered to.

Stan and Betty had done enough for Chloe already. She had to handle this herself. She’d call them after she decided where she was heading and tell them she and Geordie had taken a little vacation. Risking their lives by involving them wasn’t an option.

* * *

Standing on the sidewalk outside of Lucy’s Café, enjoying the unusually warm late-autumn weather, Sheriff Ethan Hoyt almost spit out the mouthful of coffee he’d just taken when a Harley roared down the street, then swerved into a spot right in front of him. The rider removed her helmet after pushing down the kickstand, then she attached the helmet to the motorcycle and ran her hands through short, midnight-black hair, leaving it spiked all over her head.

His eyes narrowed as he scanned her face and took note of every feature. Pixie face with porcelain skin, narrow nose, sculpted chin, brown eyes, black eyebrows. She had the physique of a runner, he noticed as she lifted a leg over the seat of the bike and shot him a mischievous grin. Two dimples appeared on either side of her mouth, contrasting with the biker-dude appearance. She was a looker, but he wasn’t the least bit interested. He had a daughter to raise, and he had failed to make his deceased wife happy when she was alive.

When she unzipped a partially open attachment on the back of the bike, he took what he hoped appeared to be a casual sip of coffee. She placed both hands inside the leather pouch and lifted something out.

He was totally caught off guard when she folded a small, ugly brown dog into her arms. Ethan didn’t like surprises. He liked to think of himself as being prepared for every contingency. She crooned nonsense to the mutt and placed him on the ground, where he promptly pooped on town property. She praised the critter for doing what nature demanded, then dug around in another bag and lifted a leash triumphantly in the air. After attaching it to the dog’s collar, she approached the sidewalk.

Ethan’s eyebrows shot up when he spotted the studded leather dog collar. The thing appeared to be a poodle and it looked as harmless as a flea. His eyes narrowed behind his sunglasses when she flashed him a big smile before sauntering past, decked out in black leather pants, jacket and biker boots. His gut—that had never failed him—screamed the woman and her sidekick were trouble. He hadn’t missed the wariness in her eyes she tried to hide behind the big friendly smile.

Taking several long strides to catch up with her, Ethan slapped a hand on the door leading to Lucy’s Café, effectively stopping her when she tried to pull it open. “Ma’am, you can’t leave dog poop on the ground. We have city ordinances.”

She lifted her head slowly, an anticipatory gleam in her eyes. “I wouldn’t move if I were you.”

Ethan went on high alert and glanced at her hands for weapons, but they were empty. It was then he noticed she had dropped the leash. A low growl, very close to his right ankle, rose from below him. He removed his arm from the door and the growl turned into a snarl. Without moving, he glanced down. The previously friendly looking little mutt had his gums peeled back, revealing a mouthful of sharp, pointed teeth.

The woman had the audacity to chuckle before snapping out a command.

“Geordie! Off!”

In a split second, the small—Ethan would put the dog at twelve to fifteen pounds—vicious beast closed his mouth and plopped onto his hind quarters, transforming back into the deceiving appearance of a sweet, docile dog. The thing was covered in brown curls. Ethan could barely see its beady little eyes, which were now warm and pleasant looking, as if the thing had never threatened to chew his leg off.

“I came here to grab a bite to eat. Now, are you going to call the police, or am I allowed to go inside the restaurant and get some paper napkins to clean up Geordie’s mess? I ran out of poop bags several days ago.”

Ethan took a deep breath. He’d just made a fool of himself and could only chalk it up to the sudden appearance of Dorothy carting Toto around on a motorcycle.

Time to back up and get some information. He wanted to know where she was from. Evidently the woman and her companion had been on the road for several days. He flashed her an apologetic grin and held out his hand. “The name’s Hoyt, Sheriff Ethan Hoyt,” he said with relish. He tended to dress in jeans and a civilian shirt when he was on duty.

Her eyes widened for a mere moment after he introduced himself as sheriff. She quickly masked her reaction and shook his hand. “Name’s Samantha Bailey.”

Was that a slight hesitation in her voice when she said her name, or was it his imagination?

“Welcome to Jackson Hole, Ms. Bailey. You here on vacation? Visiting friends?”

She grabbed the leash off the ground and petted her dog before straightening and looking him in the eye. No wilting flower here.

“Are you the official welcoming committee for Jackson Hole? If so, you need to brush up on your etiquette.”

Time to back off. Other than his gut tightening, he had no grounds to suspect her of anything, and he was being rude. “I do apologize.” He glanced down at the mutt. “I’m happy to hold on to your, uh, dog while you get some napkins to clean up his mess.”

Her lips tightened. “His name is Geordie, and he’s a highly trained, purebred male miniature poodle.”

Ethan tried to appear suitably impressed, but the scraggly thing didn’t look as if it had an ounce of testosterone backing up her claim that he was male. He barely heard what sounded like a small growl, and it hadn’t come from the dog. He took the leash from Ms. Bailey, and she flung the door open and disappeared inside Lucy’s Café.

He stared at the dog. “So where do you hail from, Geordie?” The dog’s tail thumped on the sidewalk. “I caught a whiff of a Northern accent with a touch of Southern flavor from your mom. You from New York?”

“Are you interrogating my dog, Sheriff?”

His body jerked, and he felt like an idiot. It was an unfamiliar emotion. He never even heard her approach. The woman was light on her feet. He flashed her a big smile when he turned. “Just being cordial, ma’am.”

She cleaned up the poop, took the leash from his hand, scooped up her dog and placed him back inside the black leather satchel.

“There’s a nice bed-and-breakfast down the street, if you plan on staying.” Ms. Bailey intrigued him, and for some strange reason, he wasn’t ready for her to move on if she was just passing through.

Throwing a leg over the Harley, she showed all her teeth. Not exactly a smile. “I did my research, Sheriff, and it so happens I have a reservation at Mrs. Denton’s Bed-and-Breakfast. I’ll grab something to eat later.” Flicking the kickstand up with her left heel, she tugged the helmet onto her head. “And just so you won’t worry, I’m here on vacation, but if I like it, I might stay a few weeks.”

Frowning as she revved the motorcycle’s engine, Ethan stood on the sidewalk and watched her travel two blocks and stop in front of Mrs. Denton’s place. He took note of the motorcycle’s New York tag.

Jackson Hole was a tourist town, and he was used to seeing all types of people come and go, but Ms. Bailey was an entity of her own. Was she an eccentric, wealthy elite with too much time and money on her hands? Or was she running from something? The only lead he had was the moment of wariness he saw in her eyes. That wasn’t enough to suspect the woman of being up to no good, but his time spent as a high-ranking detective in Chicago had left its mark. He’d learned years ago to listen to his gut, and his gut was balled in a tight knot.

He paused on the sidewalk as a beige sedan slowed in front of Mrs. Denton’s place and then picked up speed as it shot forward. It passed by him. Two large men sat in the front seats. They didn’t even glance at him as they passed, but he noticed the New York plate. He pulled his pad and pencil out of his shirt pocket and wrote down both the car and motorcycle’s tag numbers. Odds were the men were in Jackson Hole to hunt and fish, but it never hurt to check.

Interesting thing when two New York vehicles showed up in Jackson Hole within thirty minutes of each other. It was a long way for anyone to drive.