THE MIDDLE SIN Read online

  "I'll ne­ed you to sign a re­ce­ipt for the pro­perty," he in­for­med Slo­an. "Cleo, you can sign as wit­ness."

  Well, now she knew why he'd al­lo­wed her to re­ma­in pre­sent whi­le he con­duc­ted his pre­li­mi­nary in­qu­iry. Not be­ca­use they went way back. Not be­ca­use she was a for­mer OSI agent and the­re­fo­re fa­irly re­li­ab­le. Not even be­ca­use they'd mi­xed a lit­tle spit them­sel­ves on­ce or twi­ce. But be­ca­use Ma­j­or Jack Do­no­van was a ru­les kind of guy.

  The pa­per­work at­ten­ded to, he se­aled the pi­pe in the bag and at­tac­hed the tam­per-pro­of plas­tic lock be­fo­re sig­ning and da­ting it. Cleo ad­ded her sig­na­tu­re and the da­te just un­der his.

  "I'll ta­ke the pi­pe to a lab he­re in Char­les­ton and ha­ve them ex­t­ract a sam­p­le," Do­no­van in­for­med Slo­an. "I'll see it gets re­tur­ned to you."

  The evi­den­ce bag went in­to his jac­ket poc­ket. As he dug out a bu­si­ness card and left it with Slo­an, a do­zen qu­es­ti­ons tum­b­led thro­ugh Cleo's he­ad. She wan­ted to know mo­re abo­ut this DNA-sig­na­tu­re bu­si­ness. She al­so it­c­hed to he­ar a few spe­ci­fics on the APP bre­ach.

  Even mo­re com­pel­ling was the go­osey fe­eling she got from wat­c­hing Do­no­van walk out the do­or. The way things wor­ked bet­we­en them, she might not see or he­ar from the man for anot­her three or fo­ur or God knew how many months.

  "Hang on a sec," she sa­id to Slo­an. "I'll be right back."

  She ca­ught Jack in the outer of­fi­ce. Un­der the po­li­tely cu­ri­o­us eyes of Slo­an's staff, she tug­ged him to a pri­va­te cor­ner.

  "How long are you go­ing to be in Char­les­ton?"

  "J­ust to­day. I only flew in to talk to Slo­an and col­lect a DNA sam­p­le."

  "Oh. Right."

  "The­re's a lot of high-le­vel in­te­rest in this APP in­ci­dent. Mo­re than I can talk to you abo­ut, Cleo."

  "I get it, Do­no­van."

  He blew out a bre­ath. "I didn't know you we­re in Char­les­ton. If I had…"

  "Yes?"

  "I might ha­ve sche­du­led a la­ter flight back to D.C."

  Cleo knew the kind of pres­su­re he ope­ra­ted un­der. She'd al­so sen­sed the pos­sib­le glo­bal ra­mi­fi­ca­ti­ons of the ca­se he was now wor­king. Still, so­met­hing mo­re than a few ho­urs squ­e­ezed in be­fo­re the man jum­ped a flight back to D.C. wo­uld ha­ve be­en ni­ce.

  "I ha­ve to bri­ef my cli­ent on his mis­sing em­p­lo­yee," she rep­li­ed, hi­ding her di­sap­po­in­t­ment. "See you aro­und, Do­no­van."

  Jack men­tal­ly kic­ked ass all the way down to the par­king ga­ra­ge. His own. Slo­an's. A cer­ta­in for­mer air for­ce spe­ci­al agent's.

  He knew dam­ned well his re­ac­ti­on to wat­c­hing Slo­an put his hand on Cleo had be­en pu­re Ne­an­der­t­hal. It had al­so be­en com­p­le­tely ir­ra­ti­onal. Jack was the one who'd let the we­eks slip by wit­ho­ut cal­ling her.

  So ba­iling his ex out of anot­her drunk tank had ti­ed him in gu­ilty knots? So Ka­te still bla­med him for the pit she'd fal­len in­to? Cleo wasn't Ka­te. She was not­hing li­ke Ka­te. She co­uldn't do clingy and hel­p­less and tor­tu­red if her li­fe de­pen­ded on it. Nor wo­uld she gi­ve up her ca­re­er for his. Jack wo­uldn't ask it of her.

  He hadn't as­ked it of Ka­te, eit­her, he re­mem­be­red with a kink in his sto­mach. But every mo­ve to a dif­fe­rent sta­te re­qu­ired her re­cer­ti­fi­ca­ti­on as a te­ac­her. Every new scho­ol system had its bac­k­log of ap­pli­cants. Bo­re­dom and lo­ne­li­ness and in­c­re­asing re­sen­t­ment of the we­eks and months Jack's job to­ok him away from ho­me had ta­ken the­ir toll on his wi­fe.

  He knew it wo­uld be dif­fe­rent with Cleo. Des­pi­te the gu­ilt that still gna­wed at his in­si­des, he told him­self they'd han­d­le things dif­fe­rently. If and when they ever got a chan­ce to put the mat­ter to the test, that is.

  Gi­ven last night's se­cu­rity bre­ach, that didn't ap­pe­ar li­kely to hap­pen an­y­ti­me so­on. Jack wo­uld be on a pla­ne back to Was­hin­g­ton as so­on as he de­li­ve­red the DNA sam­p­le to the lab. God knew he'd ba­rely had ti­me to draw a bre­ath sin­ce the Old Man's call had jer­ked him awa­ke at three that mor­ning.

  Bar­nes had wan­ted Do­no­van to han­d­le this one per­so­nal­ly. The ra­ti­ona­le was that Jack had met Slo­an in San­ta Fe and co­uld for­mu­la­te a gut fe­eling for whet­her or not they we­re de­aling with a de­li­be­ra­te bre­ach of na­ti­onal se­cu­rity. Un­for­tu­na­tely, his gut fe­el had be­en so­mew­hat ta­in­ted by the fi­er­ce ur­ge to plant his fist in Slo­an's fa­ce.

  He'd get past it. He had no cho­ice. The im­p­li­ca­ti­ons of this se­cu­rity bre­ach we­re too se­ri­o­us to let per­so­nal con­si­de­ra­ti­ons we­igh in.

  Des­pi­te the stern lec­tu­re Jack ma­de to him­self, Slo­an's de­li­be­ra­te re­fe­ren­ce to bre­ak­fast with Cleo kept the acid chur­ning in his belly all the way ac­ross town.

  The navy was the lar­gest em­p­lo­yer in the Char­les­ton area. Jack had con­tac­ted the com­man­der of the lo­cal Na­val Cri­mi­nal In­ves­ti­ga­ti­ve Com­mand de­tac­h­ment to find out which lab they used to pro­cess DNA sam­p­les to sup­port the­ir in­ves­ti­ga­ti­ons.

  Mar­s­hall Labs was lo­ca­ted on the so­uth si­de of town, not far from the Char­les­ton Na­val Sup­port Fa­ci­lity. The lab di­rec­tor tur­ned a lit­tle gre­en aro­und the gills at Jack's re­qu­est for a pri­ority run but pro­mi­sed to ha­ve the re­sults wit­hin twen­ty-fo­ur ho­urs. Nod­ding, Jack ret­re­ated to a pri­va­te of­fi­ce and flip­ped open the new vi­deo-ima­ging cell pho­ne Ge­ne­ral Bar­nes had pro­cu­red for his key per­son­nel.

  The de­vi­ce was sta­te-of-the-art. Se­cu­re, en­c­r­y­p­ted audio not even the CIA co­uld in­ter­cept. Cle­ar-st­re­aming vi­deo. In­s­tan­ta­ne­o­us sa­tel­li­te tran­s­mis­si­ons from an­y­w­he­re on the glo­be. A tec­hie's wet dre­am.

  Jack ha­ted the dam­ned thing. He didn't mind go­ing fa­ce-to-fa­ce with his boss. He just didn't li­ke ha­ving it out via a two-inch scre­en.

  Be­fo­re tac­k­ling the Old Man, tho­ugh, he pla­ced a call to the re­hab cen­ter whe­re Ale­xan­der Slo­an was cur­rently un­der­go­ing tre­at­ment. That call ma­de, he pun­c­hed spe­ed di­al for the com­man­der of the Air For­ce Of­fi­ce of Spe­ci­al In­ves­ti­ga­ti­ons.

  "I ne­ed to talk to the boss," he in­for­med the hag­gard-lo­oking cap­ta­in cur­rently ser­ving as Bar­nes's exec.

  "Hold on. I'll see if he's ava­ilab­le."

  Jack felt the ten­dons in his neck cord as he put him­self in­to a men­tal bra­ce. Even then he wasn't pre­pa­red for the craggy fa­ce that sud­denly gla­red at him from the mi­ni­atu­re scre­en.

  A sin­g­le glan­ce told him that Bri­ga­di­er Ge­ne­ral Sam Bar­nes wasn't happy. His bushy, salt-and-pep­per eyeb­rows for­med stra­ight li­nes abo­ve his be­ak of a no­se. The stem of the pi­pe he kept clam­ped bet­we­en his te­eth 24/7 hung li­ke a black fis­h­ho­ok from the cor­ner of his mo­uth.

  "Whe­re the hell are you, Do­no­van?"

  "Still in Char­les­ton."

  "Can you talk?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Then what's the prob­lem? Why aren't you on yo­ur way back to D.C.? Co­uldn't you get the sam­p­le?"

  "I got it. It to­ok so­me prod­ding, tho­ugh."

  Bar­nes jum­ped on that li­ke a ho­und on a bad­ger. "Why? You think it was Slo­an him­self who bre­ac­hed the clas­si­fi­ed por­ti­on of the APP da­ta­ba­se?"

  Jack he­si­ta­ted. He wan­ted to be su­re it was the in­ves­ti­ga­tor tal­king and not the Ne­an­der­t­hal.

  "I can't say with any cer­ta­inty at this po­int. By the way, I ve­ri­fi�
�ed the so­ur­ce of the DNA Slo­an pro­vi­ded for APP ac­cess. He used his fat­her's."

  The thick brows be­et­led. "Ma­j­or Ge­ne­ral Slo­an's be­en de­ad for fif­te­en, twenty ye­ars. His son sa­ved a sam­p­le of his DNA?"

  "Yes, sir."

  The pi­pe ma­de a shift from left to right. Jack to­yed bri­efly with the idea of tel­ling his boss the so­ur­ce of the sam­p­le, but de­ci­ded dis­c­re­ti­on was the bet­ter part of va­lor.

  The ge­ne­ral didn't ha­ve much of a sen­se of hu­mor to be­gin with and no­ne at all when it ca­me to his col­lec­ti­on of an­ti­que pi­pes. Bar­nes hadn't be­en ab­le to fi­re one up at work sin­ce the air for­ce of­fi­ces went smo­ke­less al­most a de­ca­de ago. He was still pis­sed abo­ut that.

  "That opens new pos­si­bi­li­ti­es," Bar­nes grow­led. "If one twin sa­ved so­me of his fat­her's DNA, the ot­her pro­bably did, too."

  "If he did, he didn't use it to ac­cess the APP last night. I just chec­ked with his re­hab cen­ter. Both the physi­ci­an over­se­e­ing his tre­at­ment and the physi­cal the­ra­pist as­sig­ned to his ca­se con­firm Alex Slo­an has re­ga­ined only li­mi­ted mo­bi­lity and dex­te­rity. Ba­rely eno­ugh to drag his legs. They al­so con­firm he hasn't had ac­cess to a com­pu­ter sin­ce he ar­ri­ved at the re­hab cen­ter."

  "So we're back to Marc Slo­an."

  "Yes, sir."

  Jack he­si­ta­ted. He'd be­en dre­ading this mo­ment.

  "The­re's so­met­hing el­se you sho­uld know, sir. Cleo's he­re."

  "Cleo North?"

  The ge­ne­ral's te­eth loc­ked on the black stem.

  His lips cur­led back. Not a pretty sight, co­ming from two squ­are in­c­hes of scre­en.

  "What is she do­ing in Char­les­ton?"

  "She's han­d­ling a ca­se for Slo­an. One of his em­p­lo­ye­es is mis­sing. A wo­man who works in his ad­mi­nis­t­ra­ti­ve sec­ti­on."

  Plas­tic crac­k­led li­ke gun­fi­re as the pi­pe stem shot to the left aga­in. "Any chan­ce this mis­sing wo­man is con­nec­ted to the APP bre­ach last night?"

  "I don't know, sir. May­be. May­be not. I'm thin­king I sho­uld stay over in Char­les­ton for a day or two and check it out, tho­ugh."

  Jesus! Whe­re had that co­me from? Scram­b­ling, Jack se­ar­c­hed for a pla­usib­le ra­ti­ona­le for de­la­ying his re­turn to Was­hin­g­ton.

  "It might al­so be use­ful to dri­ve up to the Mi­li­tary Oce­an Ter­mi­nal at Sunny Po­int and talk to our pe­op­le the­re. I ne­ed to know mo­re abo­ut this ope­ra­ti­on."

  Jack was re­ac­hing. He knew it. Might as well go for bro­ke.

  "I'll ta­ke Cleo with me. She do­esn't know what's dri­ving this qu­ery, but I trust her in­s­tincts."

  The pi­pe ca­me out of the ge­ne­ral's mo­uth. The stem jab­bed at the ca­me­ra. "Her in­s­tincts may be so­und, but that wo­man's as bul­lhe­aded as they co­me."

  Jack ma­na­ged to ke­ep a stra­ight fa­ce. Ba­rely. Cleo didn't ha­ve the pa­tent on bul­lhe­aded. The crash and thun­der of an­t­lers but­ting had re­so­un­ded thro­ugh OSI cor­ri­dors whe­ne­ver she and Bar­nes had co­me wit­hin spit­ting dis­tan­ce.

  "She was al­so one of the best, sir."

  The OSI com­man­der le­aned in­to the ca­me­ra, un­til only one eye­ball gla­red from the scre­en. "Just ke­ep her in li­ne."

  Ye­ah, right. Li­ke that was go­ing to hap­pen. Bar­nes hadn't be­en ab­le to ac­com­p­lish that whi­le he had Cleo in uni­form. How the hell did he fi­gu­re Jack co­uld do it?

  "I'll ke­ep you pos­ted, sir."

  "You do that."

  The eye­ball re­ce­ded. The ge­ne­ral's who­le fa­ce fil­led the scre­en on­ce mo­re. So­me of the ruddy co­lor left his che­eks as he im­par­ted his own bit of news.

  "The li­e­ute­nant-co­lo­nel pro­mo­ti­on-bo­ard re­sults just hit the Pen­ta­gon. They won't be re­le­ased for anot­her co­up­le of we­eks yet, but I got the word from a fri­end in the Chi­ef of Staff's of­fi­ce. You're on the list. Two ye­ars early."

  "Well, damn."

  "Con­g­ra­tu­la­ti­ons."

  Bar­nes let him sa­vor the news for all of three or fo­ur se­conds.

  "Don't screw up on this ca­se, Ma­j­or. Fi­gu­ra­ti­vely or li­te­ral­ly. You do, and you'll kiss tho­se sil­ver oak le­aves go­od­b­ye."

  Jack sig­ned off. The Old Man's par­ting shot didn't worry him. Bar­nes knew he'd gi­ve the ca­se ever­y­t­hing he had. Des­pi­te his grum­b­ling, the ge­ne­ral al­so trus­ted Cleo.

  Her unex­pec­ted ap­pe­aran­ce on the sce­ne ad­ded a new twist to mat­ters, tho­ugh. The wo­man com­p­li­ca­ted Jack's li­fe every ti­me the­ir paths cros­sed. She al­so ti­ed him in knots Ho­udi­ni wo­uld ha­ve had a hard ti­me slip­ping out of.

  And now she was in Char­les­ton, wor­king for the sa­me de­fen­se con­t­rac­tor he had be­en sent to check out. The sa­me smo­oth ope­ra­tor who'd put the mo­ves on her in San­ta Fe and was ob­vi­o­usly trying to pick up whe­re he'd left off the­re.

  Jack had to walk a fi­ne li­ne he­re. Too fi­ne to gi­ve in to the ur­ge to call Cleo and pick up whe­re they'd left off. Re­sig­ning him­self to a long night with only his lap­top for com­pany, he cal­led for a re­ser­va­ti­on at the air­port Mar­ri­ott.

  8

  For the se­cond mor­ning in a row, the pho­ne jer­ked Cleo from sle­ep. Not even the pros­pect of ste­aming cro­is­sants co­uld so­ot­he the be­ast this ti­me. Thum­ping aro­und on the bed­si­de tab­le, she fum­b­led for the pho­ne.

  "Go away," she cro­aked in­to the re­ce­iver.

  It to­ok a mo­ment for the ste­ady di­al to­ne at the ot­her end to pe­net­ra­te. Anot­her few se­conds be­fo­re she re­ali­zed a dif­fe­rent pho­ne was rin­ging. Mum­b­ling a cur­se, she dow­ned the ho­use pho­ne and snat­c­hed up her cell.

  "This bet­ter be go­od."

  "Christ, I for­got abo­ut you and mor­nings."

  "Do­no­van?"

  "I'm dri­ving up to the Sunny Po­int Mi­li­tary Oce­an Ter­mi­nal," he sa­id with exag­ge­ra­ted pa­ti­en­ce. "At So­ut­h­port. In North Ca­ro­li­na. To get a bet­ter fe­el for how this APP system works. You want to co­me with me?"

  She glan­ced at the di­gi­tal clock and gro­aned. God! Six-ten-a.m., yet. Drag­ging her ton­gue over te­eth that se­emed to ha­ve grown moss over­night, she tri­ed to for­ce her slug­gish bra­in cells in­to ge­ar.

  "Whe­re are you?"

  "In Char­les­ton."

  "I tho­ught you we­re he­ading back to D.C. last night."

  "I was. I de­ci­ded to de­lay my re­turn and dri­ve up to Sunny Po­int first."

  So why hadn't he cal­led her last night? Cleo was still trying to fuzz that one out when he re­is­su­ed his in­vi­ta­ti­on.

  "Do you want to tag along?"

  With so­me ef­fort, she sor­ted thro­ugh her op­ti­ons. She re­mem­be­red Slo­an sa­ying the Mi­li­tary Oce­an Ter­mi­nal was a hun­d­red or so mi­les north of Char­les­ton. She and Do­no­van co­uld dri­ve up the­re and back by early af­ter­no­on.

  That wo­uld gi­ve De­tec­ti­ve De­ve­re­a­ux ti­me to sub­po­ena the pho­ne re­cords on this Helms cha­rac­ter. Cleo co­uldn't re­al­ly pro­ce­ed with her own in­ves­ti­ga­ti­on un­til they ca­me thro­ugh. The de­lay mo­re than jus­ti­fi­ed her ti­me away from Char­les­ton in her mind.

  "Why do you ne­ed me?" she as­ked. She'd al­re­ady de­ci­ded to go but wan­ted to un­der­s­tand his mo­ti­ves for in­c­lu­ding her.

  "I co­uld use a se­cond set of eyes. Are you in or not?"

  "Ye­ah. Okay. I gu­ess."

  "Me­et me at the air­port Mar­ri­ott in an ho­ur. Co­me pre­pa­red to walk thro­ugh a few ac­res of sand and pi­ne ne­ed­les."
<
br />   Grun­ting an ac­k­now­led­ge­ment, Cleo flip­ped the cell shut. She ne­eded caf­fe­ine. Pre­fe­rably via IV.

  Her sle­ep shirt hug­ging her thighs, she pad­ded dow­n­s­ta­irs, got the cof­fe­ema­ker chug­ging and held a mug di­rectly un­der the drip. When a thin la­yer of brown co­ated the bot­tom of the cup, she ma­de a lig­h­t­ning switch, pot for cup.

  A tan­ta­li­zing sniff.

  A first, gre­edy sip.

  Thank you, Lord.

  By the se­cond cup she was fe­eling al­most hu­man aga­in. Car­rying the mug with her, she went back up­s­ta­irs, wig­gled in­to je­ans and pul­led on a hot-pink tank top. Her ha­ir went in­to a pon­y­ta­il that po­ked thro­ugh the back ope­ning of a ball cap. The Guc­ci bo­ots re­ma­ined in the clo­set. Sand and pi­ne ne­ed­les cal­led for the com­for­tab­le, air-cus­hi­oned Oak­leys.

  After a bri­ef in­ner de­ba­te, Cleo loc­ked her han­d­gun in her su­it­ca­se. They wo­uld be vi­si­ting a mi­li­tary in­s­tal­la­ti­on. For a ci­vi­li­an, car­rying a we­apon on­to a mi­li­tary post the­se days re­qu­ired pri­or ap­pro­val by just abo­ut ever­yo­ne, up to and in­c­lu­ding God.

  Char­les­ton at 6:50 a.m. pre­sen­ted no traf­fic chal­len­ges to a dri­ver with her ka­mi­ka­ze skills. She zip­ped out to the air­port and pul­led in­to the Mar­ri­ott par­king lot just a lit­tle past the al­lot­ted ho­ur.

  The know­led­ge Do­no­van had spent the night in Char­les­ton, just a few mi­les away, ap­pa­rently alo­ne, hadn't exactly put Cleo in a chip­per mo­od. It so­on be­ca­me ap­pa­rent Jack's wasn't any bet­ter. He res­pon­ded to her com­ments in mo­nos­y­l­lab­les and shi­el­ded his eyes be­hind mir­ro­red sun­g­las­ses.

  Cleo had a pretty go­od idea what was bug­ging him. She let the sle­eping dog lie for abo­ut se­venty mi­les. When they pas­sed the tur­noff for Myrtle Be­ach, tho­ugh, she de­ci­ded to po­ke it with a stick. Plun­king her fo­am cup in­to a hol­der, she thrust up a hand and tic­ked off the to­pics they'd co­ve­red so far.

  "Okay, we've tal­ked abo­ut Trish Jac­k­son. We've dis­cus­sed how they es­tab­lish a DNA sig­na­tu­re for ac­cess to the APP. We've al­so dis­cus­sed the Old Man's less-than-en­t­hu­si­as­tic res­pon­se to my pre­sen­ce in Char­les­ton, the Ori­oles' chan­ces in the play-of­fs and the con­s­t­ruc­ti­on clog­ging the Wo­od-row Wil­son Brid­ge."