THE MIDDLE SIN Read online

  "The­re's a small con­fe­ren­ce ro­om ac­ross the hall. We can use that. And no, I don't want a law­yer."

  Marc ca­ught her el­bow. "Lis­ten to me, Di­ane. You co­uld be in over yo­ur he­ad he­re."

  "Are you wor­ri­ed abo­ut me? Or what sec­rets I might re­ve­al abo­ut Slo­an En­gi­ne­ering?"

  His bre­ath his­sed out. His fin­gers went tight and bru­ising on her el­bow. "I can't be­li­eve you'd say that to me af­ter all our ye­ars to­get­her."

  Di­ane didn't qu­ite be­li­eve it, eit­her. Now that the words we­re out, tho­ugh, she co­uldn't bring her­self to ta­ke them back. Chin high, she sho­ok off his hold.

  "This way, Mr. Do­no­van."

  "Cleo, I'd li­ke you to act as wit­ness du­ring this in­ter­vi­ew. Slo­an…"

  Jack shot a hard glan­ce over his sho­ul­der. "I want to talk to you af­ter I fi­nish with Ms. Wal­ker."

  10

  Cleo hun­c­hed her el­bows on the small con­fe­ren­ce tab­le whi­le Jack pro­du­ced a palm-si­ze ta­pe re­cor­der and went thro­ugh the ri­tu­al she re­mem­be­red all too well from her days in uni­form.

  After ob­ta­ining Wal­ker's per­mis­si­on to ta­pe the in­ter­vi­ew, he sta­ted his na­me for the re­cord. The da­te. The ti­me and pla­ce. He al­so iden­ti­fi­ed the in­ter­vi­ewee by na­me and for­mer po­si­ti­on at Slo­an En­gi­ne­ering, Cleo by na­me and cur­rent oc­cu­pa­ti­on. The mun­da­ne de­ta­ils at­ten­ded to, he sli­ced right to the bo­ne.

  "Ms. Wal­ker, I've be­en in­for­med you ha­ve ac­cess to a hid­den sa­fe ro­om in Mr. Slo­an's of­fi­ce. Is that cor­rect?"

  She blin­ked, ta­ken aback by the di­rec­ti­on of the qu­es­ti­on. Wha­te­ver she was ex­pec­ting, it wasn't that.

  "Yes," she rep­li­ed ca­re­ful­ly, "that's cor­rect."

  "Can you tell me what Mr. Slo­an ke­eps in that ro­om?"

  Her brow fur­ro­wed. "Disks con­ta­ining cor­po­ra­te fi­nan­ci­al re­cords. En­gi­ne­ering sche­ma­tics. Prop­ri­etary de­signs. So­me per­so­nal items."

  "Such as?"

  "Mostly pa­pers. His pre­nup­ti­al ag­re­ements. Di­vor­ce dec­re­es. His fat­her's de­ath cer­ti­fi­ca­te, I think. Things li­ke that."

  "You think? Don't you know?"

  "He sto­res the per­so­nal items in a se­pa­ra­te, se­aled area. I don't ha­ve ac­cess to that area."

  "Who do­es?"

  "No one ex­cept Marc."

  Jack wan­ted it spel­led out for the re­cord. "By Marc, do you me­an Mr. Mar­cus Slo­an?"

  "Yes. Mr. Slo­an. My em­p­lo­yer. Ex­cu­se me, for­mer em­p­lo­yer."

  Frow­ning, she smo­ot­hed the wrin­k­les from her skirt. It was star­ting to sink in, Cleo tho­ught. The wo­man had just chuc­ked her job, her se­cu­rity and the man she'd ob­vi­o­usly lus­ted af­ter for so­me ye­ars.

  "You're cer­ta­in no one el­se in yo­ur of­fi­ce has ac­cess to the se­aled area?" Jack as­ked.

  Tm cer­ta­in. Marc-Mr. Slo­an-prog­ram­med the sen­sor that re­ads the in­f­ra­red sig­na­tu­re him­self."

  "Co­uld so­me­one ha­ve al­te­red the prog­ram?"

  Cleo saw whe­re he was go­ing. Who­ever hac­ked in­to the APP might al­so ha­ve the smarts to bypass Slo­an's sop­his­ti­ca­ted se­cu­rity system. Her pul­se kic­ked up a be­at.

  "I sup­po­se so," Di­ane con­ce­ded. "It's not li­kely, tho­ugh."

  "What abo­ut yo­ur mis­sing as­sis­tant? Is the­re any way she co­uld ha­ve ga­ined ac­cess?"

  "Trish?" As­to­nis­h­ment blan­ked Wal­ker's fa­ce. "Abso­lu­tely not. She's bright, but not bright eno­ugh to work aro­und a system Marc de­sig­ned."

  "How abo­ut an aut­ho­ri­zed ac­cess, then? Co­uld Slo­an ha­ve prog­ram­med her he­at sig­na­tu­re in­to the system?"

  "No, he wo­uld ne­ver…"

  She stop­ped, and sud­den do­ubt flo­oded her fa­ce.

  "Slo­an wo­uld ne­ver what, Ms. Wal­ker?"

  The blon­de squ­e­ezed her eyes shut. When her lids lif­ted, the mi­sery in the­ir gre­en depths was sharp and sli­cing and al­most too pa­in­ful to wit­ness. Cleo felt the first stir­rings of sympathy for the wo­man.

  "I don't think Marc-Mr. Slo­an-wo­uld gi­ve Trish ac­cess to his pri­va­te pa­pers. I can't say for cer­ta­in, tho­ugh. You'll ha­ve to ask him."

  "I will." Jack shif­ted ge­ars. "Let's talk abo­ut the Af­lo­at Pre­po­si­ti­oning da­ta­ba­se. Do you ha­ve ac­cess to that, Ms. Wal­ker?"

  "Cer­ta­in un­c­las­si­fi­ed por­ti­ons of it. I of­ten fe­ed in or ret­ri­eve sche­ma­tics, as do our en­gi­ne­ers and con­s­t­ruc­ti­on su­per­vi­sors."

  "Are you awa­re of what's re­qu­ired to get in­to the clas­si­fi­ed por­ti­ons?"

  "A ve­ri­fi­ab­le DNA pro­fi­le. As far as I know, Marc is the only per­son at Slo­an En­gi­ne­ering who's go­ne thro­ugh the ve­ri­fi­ca­ti­on pro­cess."

  "Do you know the so­ur­ce of the DNA Mr. Slo­an pro­vi­ded for his pro­fi­le?"

  She lo­oked con­fu­sed. "Do you me­an did it co­me from his ha­ir or blo­od? I re­al­ly don't ha­ve any idea."

  Jack nod­ded and slip­ped in the bla­de, calmly, ca­su­al­ly.

  "Did you ever use Mr. Slo­an's DNA pro­fi­le to ac­cess clas­si­fi­ed por­ti­ons of the APP da­ta­ba­se, Ms. Wal­ker?"

  Shock ze­ro­ed out the con­fu­si­on.

  "No!"

  "Ne­ver?"

  Her chin snap­ped up. "Ne­ver."

  The qu­es­ti­ons went on aw­hi­le lon­ger. By the ti­me Do­no­van fi­nis­hed, Cleo had for­med a num­ber of dis­tinct im­p­res­si­ons.

  One, Wal­ker didn't know Slo­an had used his fat­her's DNA to es­tab­lish his ac­cess pro­fi­le. Two, she didn't ha­ve a clue who this Frank Helms cha­rac­ter was. Three, she hadn't be­en awa­re of her su­bor­di­na­te's preg­nancy un­til yes­ter­day. Fo­ur, she har­bo­red a sick sus­pi­ci­on Marc Slo­an had fat­he­red Trish's baby.

  Jack ter­mi­na­ted the in­ter­vi­ew with a pro­mi­se to ha­ve the sta­te­ment typed out and hand-de­li­ve­red to Wal­ker for her re­vi­ew and sig­na­tu­re.

  "Is the­re an ad­dress I can send it to?"

  Gul­ping, she rat­tled off her ho­me ad­dress and pho­ne num­ber.

  "Thank you, Ms. Wal­ker. I'll get back to you if I ha­ve any fur­t­her qu­es­ti­ons."

  Lo­oking slightly da­zed, the blon­de pic­ked up her pur­se and left. Cleo kept her in vi­ew thro­ugh the glass in­set be­si­de the do­or and saw her he­si­ta­te in the cor­ri­dor.

  She tri­ed to gu­ess what the wo­man wo­uld do now. Go back in­to Slo­an En­gi­ne­ering's cor­po­ra­te of­fi­ces and col­lect her per­so­nal be­lon­gings? May­be con­f­ront Marc abo­ut the pa­ter­nity of Trish's baby? Or swal­low her pri­de and beg for her job back?

  Wal­ker did no­ne of the abo­ve. Squ­aring her sho­ul­ders un­der her jewel-to­ned Ver­sa­ce blo­use, she mar­c­hed to the ele­va­tor.

  Marc Slo­an didn't pro­vi­de any mo­re use­ful in­for­ma­ti­on than his as­sis­tant had.

  He de­ni­ed gran­ting an­yo­ne, in­c­lu­ding Trish, ac­cess to his de­ad fat­her's DNA. He al­so de­ni­ed fat­he­ring her child. Nor co­uld he shed a glim­mer of light on Frank Helms or the pho­ne calls to Mal­ta.

  Slo­an left the small con­fe­ren­ce ro­om tig­ht-lip­ped. Cleo had the idea he was mo­re pis­sed abo­ut his exe­cu­ti­ve as­sis­tant's sud­den de­fec­ti­on than abo­ut be­co­ming the su­bj­ect of an of­fi­ci­al OSI in­ves­ti­ga­ti­on.

  Thin­king abo­ut that, she had to as­sess how this re­cent turn of events af­fec­ted her in­ves­ti­ga­ti­on. Sin­ce Do­no­van had mo­re or less co-op­ted her in­to his in­qu­iry, she'd re­ac­hed a de­fi­ni­te con­f­lict-of-in­te­r
est si­tu­ati­on with Slo­an.

  It wasn't un­til Do­no­van had tuc­ked the re­cor­der back in­to his poc­ket that it oc­cur­red to Cleo to won­der if that might ha­ve be­en his in­tent, con­s­ci­o­usly or ot­her­wi­se. Cu­ri­o­us as to his mo­ti­ves, she hit­c­hed a hip on a cor­ner of the con­fe­ren­ce tab­le.

  "Let's re­vi­ew the bid­ding he­re, Jack. You've now ope­ned an of­fi­ci­al in­ves­ti­ga­ti­on with my cli­ent as the su­bj­ect. That puts me in an aw­k­ward po­si­ti­on re­gar­ding the ca­se I'm wor­king for him."

  "I know."

  The pros­pect that she might be out of a fat fee didn't ap­pe­ar to con­cern him un­duly. What did worry him, tho­ugh, was the Mal­ta con­nec­ti­on.

  "I ne­ed you to stay on the Jac­k­son ca­se, Cleo. Slo­an trusts you, or he has to this po­int. Any in­for­ma­ti­on you can get out of him re­gar­ding his mis­sing em­p­lo­yee and her link to the man who ma­de tho­se calls-"

  "Whoa! Hold it right the­re, Do­no­van."

  The ca­ma­ra­de­rie they'd sha­red, the sen­se of be­ing on the sa­me te­am aga­in, went up in a puff of smo­ke.

  "I'm on re­ta­iner. I'm wor­king for Slo­an un­til one of us ter­mi­na­tes the ag­re­ement. I won't re­ve­al an­y­t­hing he tells me in con­fi­den­ce."

  "I'm not as­king you to vi­ola­te yo­ur pro­fes­si­onal et­hics."

  "Re­al­ly? Su­re so­un­ded li­ke it to me."

  His sho­ul­ders stif­fe­ned un­der the cot­ton shirt. "How many ca­ses ha­ve we wor­ked to­get­her, North?"

  "Exactly two," she shot back, "if you co­unt San­ta Fe and our lit­tle fo­ray in­to Hon­du­ras a few ye­ars ago."

  "Did eit­her of tho­se ca­ses in­vol­ve de­li­be­ra­te vi­ola­ti­on of es­tab­lis­hed pro­ce­du­res?"

  "De­li­be­ra­te? No. The ru­le­bo­ok got tos­sed out the win­dow, tho­ugh, when the bul­lets star­ted flying."

  He mo­ved clo­ser, un­til his thigh pres­sed in­to her bent knee. "You he­ar any shots pop­ping he­re?"

  "Not so far."

  But they might start at any mi­nu­te. Cleo co­uld fe­el the mus­c­le cor­ded hard and tight in his thigh. Fe­el, too, the an­ger wor­king its way thro­ugh his system. Do­no­van's tem­per ca­me slow, but when it did, blo­od usu­al­ly flo­wed.

  Hers, on the ot­her hand, ca­me fast and hot. It was clo­se to bo­iling at the mo­ment.

  "Let me ask you this, Spe­ci­al Agent Do­no­van. Did yo­ur in­vi­ta­ti­on for me to jo­in you on the dri­ve to Sunny Po­int this mor­ning stem from a de­si­re for my com­pany, or we­re you me­rely using me to as­sist you with yo­ur ca­se."

  "Both."

  Well, that an­s­we­red that. To­tal­ly pis­sed now, she an­g­led her chin.

  "How much was me? Gi­ve me a per­cen­ta­ge. Fif­ty-fifty? Se­ven­ty-thirty?"

  "I'm not wal­king in­to that one." He star­ted to turn away. Snag­ging his arm, Cleo yan­ked him back. "I want to know. Gi­ve me a num­ber."

  His hand shot out. Be­fo­re she co­uld blink, he'd wrap­ped a fist aro­und her pon­y­ta­il.

  "You want to know how much was you, North?" A swift tug jer­ked her he­ad back. "This much."

  The crush of his mo­uth on hers was in no way, sha­pe or form si­mi­lar to his kiss in the ele­va­tor yes­ter­day. That one had be­en lazy and slow and tho­ro­ugh.

  This one was ro­ugh. And hard. And gre­edy. Luc­kily for him, Cleo re­cog­ni­zed the hun­ger be­hind it whi­le still trying to de­ci­de whet­her or not to bring up her knee and ten­de­ri­ze a cer­ta­in por­ti­on of his ana­tomy.

  She was still pis­sed eno­ugh to jerk her he­ad away be­fo­re his ton­gue star­ted pla­ying tag with her ton­sils, tho­ugh.

  "All right. I've got the equ­ati­on."

  "Do you?" Jack's eyes we­re a hot elec­t­ric blue. "I wish to hell I did."

  With that dis­gus­ted mut­ter, he ga­ve her pony-ta­il anot­her yank and re­le­ased her.

  "I'll see you la­ter, North. Call me when you de­ci­de on a res­ta­urant."

  Res­ta­urant. Din­ner. Se­afo­od.

  Cleo had for­got­ten abo­ut that small mat­ter in all the ex­ci­te­ment. She hadn't for­got­ten her pro­mi­se to La­fa­yet­te, tho­ugh.

  "Hey, Do­no­van."

  Hop­ping off the con­fe­ren­ce tab­le, she tug­ged at the hem of her tank top. So­me­how it had wor­ked its way out of the wa­is­t­band of her je­ans and hal­f­way up her ribs.

  "I told De­tec­ti­ve De­ve­re­a­ux one of us wo­uld get back to him af­ter you run tho­se calls to Mal­ta thro­ugh the system."

  "I sho­uld ha­ve so­met­hing by din­ner."

  And by then, she might ha­ve a fe­el for her sta­tus vis-a-vis her cli­ent. For that, she ne­eded to talk to Slo­an.

  The exe­cu­ti­ve wasn't in his of­fi­ce when she went ac­ross the hall, tho­ugh. Ac­cor­ding to the still-shell-shoc­ked as­sis­tant, Mr. Slo­an had stor­med out so­me ti­me ago.

  "He, uh, sa­id we we­ren't to con­tact him un­less the bu­il­ding was on fi­re. And then only if the fi­re de­par­t­ment's lad­ders co­uldn't re­ach this flo­or."

  "O­o­oo-kay."

  Di­ane was swim­ming in mi­sery.

  With a hic­cup­ping sob, she clun­ked the neck of the cre­me de men­t­he bot­tle aga­inst a wa­ter glass.

  A non­d­rin­ker, she'd had to se­arch thro­ugh every ca­bi­net in the kit­c­hen to find the li­qu­e­ur she'd bo­ught ye­ars ago to ma­ke a gras­shop­per pie for a party at a fri­end's ho­use. It tas­ted li­ke old to­ot­h­pas­te, but she fil­led the glass and chug­ged down half the con­tents, an­y­way.

  "What do you think, cat? Is Slo­an a bas­tard, or what?"

  Trish's fe­li­ne dec­li­ned to an­s­wer. Cro­uc­hed on the se­at of an up­hol­s­te­red cha­ir, he flic­ked his ta­il back and forth. Di­ane de­tes­ted cats, par­ti­cu­larly nas­ty-tem­pe­red ones who his­sed at her ap­pro­ach and cla­wed her dra­pes. She hadn't had the he­art to dump Trish's pet in a ken­nel, tho­ugh. The ani­mal had be­en loc­ked in an empty apar­t­ment for days, wit­ho­ut fo­od and only the to­ilet bowl for wa­ter.

  Anot­her hic­cup hit Di­ane, this one so full of mint she sne­ezed. Blin­king away the te­ars that ca­me with the sne­eze, she tran­s­fer­red her gla­re to the fra­med pho­to on the man­tel abo­ve her fi­rep­la­ce in­sert.

  Two smi­ling fa­ces. One pa­ir of gi­ant scis­sors.

  Marc had be­en bet­we­en wi­ves at the de­di­ca­ti­on of Slo­an En­gi­ne­ering's new cor­po­ra­te he­ad­qu­ar­ters, so he'd as­ked his exe­cu­ti­ve as­sis­tant to help him cut the rib­bon.

  Di­ane's lip cur­led back in a sne­er. How pat­he­tic was that? The only pho­tog­raph in her li­ving ro­om, the only hu­man be­ing ac­cor­ded a pla­ce of ho­nor in her ho­me, was the bas­tard who'd bro­ken her he­art.

  Over and over aga­in.

  Why in God's na­me had she sta­yed with him all the­se ye­ars? Why had she ma­na­ged his sche­du­le, rew­rit­ten his pe­dan­tic spe­ec­hes, jug­gled calls from his gir­l­f­ri­ends and wi­ves? Why had she sat the­re, just sat the­re, and let him de­vo­ur her so­ul inch by inch?

  Gre­en li­qu­e­ur slos­hing, she to­as­ted the pho­to.

  "He­re's to you, Slo­an. I ho­pe they pin wha­te­ver it is they're in­ves­ti­ga­ting on you and hang you by yo­ur balls. And he­re's to me."

  He­ad back, she to­ok anot­her slug. Then she wo­und up and let fly.

  To her sur­p­ri­se and con­si­de­rab­le de­light, her aim was de­ad on. The fra­med pho­to cras­hed off the man­tel and on­to the ter­raz­zo ti­le flo­or. Glass shat­te­red. Gre­en li­qu­e­ur spe­wed ac­ross pho­to and flo­or. Trish's cat jum­ped stra­ight up, le­apt from the cha­ir and stre­aked in­to the bed­ro­om.

&
nbsp; "God, that felt go­od!"

  Wrap­ping her fist aro­und the bot­tle's neck, Di­ane se­ar­c­hed for anot­her tar­get. She fo­und it in the blo­od-red Bac­ca­rat bowl Marc had gi­ven her for her last bir­t­h­day.

  Her for­ti­eth bir­t­h­day.

  The bot­tle went flying. The bowl top­pled off its cor­ner pe­des­tal.

  "Bam! Anot­her di­rect hit."

  Cac­k­ling gle­eful­ly, she lur­c­hed to her fe­et. Mo­ments la­ter the sle­ek lap­top en­g­ra­ved with Slo­an En­gi­ne­ering's blue-and-gold lo­go de­par­ted her desk and sa­iled thro­ugh the sli­ding pa­tio do­or to smash aga­inst the flag­s­to­nes.

  She was lo­oking aro­und for anot­her mis­si­le when so­me­one le­aned on her do­or­bell. The hard, angry jabs ga­ve her a go­od idea as to the iden­tity of the le­an-ee.

  Blo­od up and bat­tle-re­ady, Di­ane snap­ped the de­ad bolt Marc had in­sis­ted she ha­ve in­s­tal­led on ail her do­ors be­ca­use sin­g­le wo­men ne­eded se­cu­rity. That me­mory ga­ve her the im­pe­tus to send the do­or slam­ming back aga­inst the iris wal­lpa­per de­co­ra­ting her hall.

  "Sur­p­ri­se, sur­p­ri­se. It's my la­te, un­la­men­ted em­p­lo­yer."

  He lo­oked fu­ri­o­us eno­ugh to bi­te thro­ugh a ste­el-hull pla­te. "1 want an ex­p­la­na­ti­on, Wal­ker."

  Smi­ling swe­etly, she flip­ped the back of her hand un­der her chin in a ges­tu­re stra­ight from The Sop­ra­nos. "Go screw yo­ur­self, Slo­an. And whi­le you're at it, you might as well screw the rest of the of­fi­ce."

  "What the hell do­es that me­an?"

  "It me­ans I'm out of am­mu­ni­ti­on. Hang on a sec, I ne­ed to re­lo­ad."

  "What?"

  She to­ok a co­up­le of steps back, got a grip on the da­inty as­pa­ra­gus fern per­c­hed on the hall eta­ge­re and ar­ro­wed it stra­ight at his he­ad. His arm ca­me up in ti­me to block the shot, but dirt and moss sho­we­red on­to his he­ad and sho­ul­ders.

  "Are you out of yo­ur mind?" he ro­ared, sha­king off the deb­ris.