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Authors: Jeffery Deaver
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we knew at that point he had primary jurisdiction. I wanted to interrogate the only suspect we had—Keplar—so I needed to give Nichols someone. TJ volunteered to play Paulson.”
“So you just deceived the FBI.”
“Technically. I know Steve. He’s a brilliant agent. I’d trust him with anything except an interrogation with a deadline like this.”
“Three hours, Boss,” TJ said, rubbing his wrists. “Did I mention not speaking for three hours? That’s very hard for me.”
O’Neil asked, “Won’t he find out, see the pictures of the real Paulson in the press?”
“He was pretty bandaged up. And like I said, it may come back to haunt me. I’ll deal with it then.”
“I thought I was going to be waterboarded.”
“I told him not to do that.”
“Well, he didn’t share your directive with
me
. I think he would have liked to use cattle prods, too. Oh, and I would’ve given you up in five seconds, Boss. Just for the record.”
Dance laughed.
O’Neil left to return to his office in Salinas and Dance and TJ entered the CBI lobby, just as the head of the office, Charles Overby, joined them. “Here you are.”
The agents greeted the paunchy man who was in his typical work-a-day outfit: slacks and white shirt with sleeves rolled up, revealing tennis- and golf-tanned arms.
“Thanks, Kathryn. Appreciate what you did.”
“Sure.”
“You were in the operation, too?” Overby asked TJ.
“That’s right. FBI liaison.”
Overby lowered his voice and said approvingly, “They don’t seem to want a cut of the action. Good for us.”
“I did what I could.” TJ said. Then the young man returned to his office, leaving Dance and her boss alone.
Overby turned to Dance. “I’ll need a briefing,” he said, nodding toward the reporters out front. A grimace. “Something to feed to
them
.”
Despite the apparent disdain, though, Overby was in fact looking forward to the press conference. He always did. He loved the limelight and would want to catch the 6:00 p.m. local news. He’d also hope to gin up interest in some national coverage.
Dance put her watch back on her wrist and looked at the time. “I can give you the bare bones, Charles, but I’ve got to see a subject in another matter. It’s got to be tonight. He leaves town tomorrow.”
There was a pause. “Well, if it’s critical…”
“It is.”
“All right. Get me a briefing sheet now and a full report in the morning.”
“Sure, Charles.”
He started back to his office and asked, “This guy you’re meeting? You need any backup?”
“No thanks, Charles. It’s all taken care of.”
“Sure. ‘Night.”
“Good night.”
Heading to her own office, Kathryn Dance reflected on her impending mission tonight. If Overby had wanted a report on the attempted bombing for CBI headquarters in Sacramento or follow-up interrogations, she would have gladly done that, but since he was interested only in press releases, she decided to stick to her plans.
Which involved a call to her father, a retired marine biologist who worked part time at the aquarium. She was going to have him pull some strings to arrange special admission after hours for herself and the children tonight.
And the “subject” she’d told Overby she had to meet tonight before he left town? Not a drug lord or a terrorist or a confidential informant… but what was apparently the most imposing cephalopod ever to tour the Central Coast of California.
Game
One Year Ago
The worst fear is the fear that follows you into your own home.
Fear you lock in with you when you latch the door at night.
Fear that cozies up to you twenty-four hours a day, relentless and arrogant, like cancer.
The diminutive woman, eighty-three years old, white hair tied back in a jaunty ponytail, sat at the window of her Upper East Side townhouse, looking out over the trim street, which was placid as always. But she herself was not. She was agitated and took no pleasure in the view she’d enjoyed
“So you just deceived the FBI.”
“Technically. I know Steve. He’s a brilliant agent. I’d trust him with anything except an interrogation with a deadline like this.”
“Three hours, Boss,” TJ said, rubbing his wrists. “Did I mention not speaking for three hours? That’s very hard for me.”
O’Neil asked, “Won’t he find out, see the pictures of the real Paulson in the press?”
“He was pretty bandaged up. And like I said, it may come back to haunt me. I’ll deal with it then.”
“I thought I was going to be waterboarded.”
“I told him not to do that.”
“Well, he didn’t share your directive with
me
. I think he would have liked to use cattle prods, too. Oh, and I would’ve given you up in five seconds, Boss. Just for the record.”
Dance laughed.
O’Neil left to return to his office in Salinas and Dance and TJ entered the CBI lobby, just as the head of the office, Charles Overby, joined them. “Here you are.”
The agents greeted the paunchy man who was in his typical work-a-day outfit: slacks and white shirt with sleeves rolled up, revealing tennis- and golf-tanned arms.
“Thanks, Kathryn. Appreciate what you did.”
“Sure.”
“You were in the operation, too?” Overby asked TJ.
“That’s right. FBI liaison.”
Overby lowered his voice and said approvingly, “They don’t seem to want a cut of the action. Good for us.”
“I did what I could.” TJ said. Then the young man returned to his office, leaving Dance and her boss alone.
Overby turned to Dance. “I’ll need a briefing,” he said, nodding toward the reporters out front. A grimace. “Something to feed to
them
.”
Despite the apparent disdain, though, Overby was in fact looking forward to the press conference. He always did. He loved the limelight and would want to catch the 6:00 p.m. local news. He’d also hope to gin up interest in some national coverage.
Dance put her watch back on her wrist and looked at the time. “I can give you the bare bones, Charles, but I’ve got to see a subject in another matter. It’s got to be tonight. He leaves town tomorrow.”
There was a pause. “Well, if it’s critical…”
“It is.”
“All right. Get me a briefing sheet now and a full report in the morning.”
“Sure, Charles.”
He started back to his office and asked, “This guy you’re meeting? You need any backup?”
“No thanks, Charles. It’s all taken care of.”
“Sure. ‘Night.”
“Good night.”
Heading to her own office, Kathryn Dance reflected on her impending mission tonight. If Overby had wanted a report on the attempted bombing for CBI headquarters in Sacramento or follow-up interrogations, she would have gladly done that, but since he was interested only in press releases, she decided to stick to her plans.
Which involved a call to her father, a retired marine biologist who worked part time at the aquarium. She was going to have him pull some strings to arrange special admission after hours for herself and the children tonight.
And the “subject” she’d told Overby she had to meet tonight before he left town? Not a drug lord or a terrorist or a confidential informant… but what was apparently the most imposing cephalopod ever to tour the Central Coast of California.
Game
One Year Ago
The worst fear is the fear that follows you into your own home.
Fear you lock in with you when you latch the door at night.
Fear that cozies up to you twenty-four hours a day, relentless and arrogant, like cancer.
The diminutive woman, eighty-three years old, white hair tied back in a jaunty ponytail, sat at the window of her Upper East Side townhouse, looking out over the trim street, which was placid as always. But she herself was not. She was agitated and took no pleasure in the view she’d enjoyed
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