startled. Agent Robertson had come up behind her. He took the photograph and the guitar. “What’s this?” “The photograph was inside the guitar.” She pointed to the sound hole. “Maybe he hid it there. It could be a family member, or some kind of link.”
“Naw. It’s nothing,” he replied. “I’m sure he doesn’t know it’s even there.” He stuffed the photograph back in in the guitar and put the guitar back in the display case.
Finally, Cat lost her temper. “How can you be so sure?”
He sighed. “I just am. Just leave all this to us. We’re FBI.”
She said, “
We
are professionals too.” As soon as she said it, she regretted it. She didn’t want him to know he was getting to her.
“Last call for clubs in the city is four a.m.,” Tess said. “It’s after three now. There’s a mandatory curfew on businesses but they might be open. Not sure if we could get there before closing with the traffic but we might catch staff.”
“You wanted to talk to Bailey Hart,” Gonzales said. “I’ll get someone to take you down to him.”
Cat traded looks with Tess. If they talked to Bailey Hart, they would miss out on the club. But as they say, a bird in the hand was worth two in the bush. And it was doubtful that the club was open.
“Okay,” Cat said.
Gonzales said into his phone, “I need someone with a retinal scan in the database.”
After a couple of minutes, the red-haired female security staffer met them at a freight elevator. Her name was Claudia McEvers. She was stiff-backed and waves of apprehension rolled off her like flop sweat as she was introduced to Tess and Cat. She approached a retinal scanner and the doors opened; then she went inside with Cat, Tess, and Roberston, and used her key card to activate the elevator.
“So you work for Mr. DeMarco,” Cat said. “Were you on duty when the kidnapping occurred?”
The woman hesitated. “No. I was called in shortly before you arrived. I’ve given a full statement to the agents.” She made eye contact with Roberston, but barely.
Either they know each other or something’s up
, Cat mused.
She’s not going to speak freely in front of him.
They got to the sub-basement and stepped into a workspace dominated by a wrap-around computer station abutting a vast wall of monitors. Dressed in gray trousers and a chambray shirt rolled up to the elbows, Bailey Hart was an amazing piece of techno eye candy, a man who believed in lifting weights and doing sit-ups as much as Vincent did. He looked like one of the super-hunky firefighters who appeared in the annual FDNY pin-up calendar. Mr… what month was this? This was Mr.
Year
.
“Okay, so hi,” he said breathlessly. He was holding a ballpoint pen and he clicked it a few times. A few more times. It was obviously a nervous habit. On the desk was an ink blotter that he had scribbled and doodled on so much there was no white space left. There were pieces of graph paper, a Styrofoam plate containing some pizza crust, more pens, and a tablet. He glanced at Robertson and completely avoided eye contact with McEvers. “Let me run you through our backup security operation.”
The monitors revealed different sections of the house, and each screen was packed with people milling around in the rooms. Cat caught a glimpse of Hallie DeMarco in the kitchen, pouring herself another glass of bourbon as she chatted with a young man in an FBI windbreaker. Robertson’s face hardened as he watched her.
“This is custom, in-house stuff,” Hart said. “I didn’t buy anything off the shelf, and no one who worked on it besides me had access to all the components. The brains are in here.”
He walked them down a flight of stairs into what could only be described as a bunker designed to withstand a nuclear blast. It was guarded by two men in olive-green uniforms who were holding sub-machineguns across their chests. They stood to attention as he presented his eye to a retinal scanner and placed his hand on a
“Naw. It’s nothing,” he replied. “I’m sure he doesn’t know it’s even there.” He stuffed the photograph back in in the guitar and put the guitar back in the display case.
Finally, Cat lost her temper. “How can you be so sure?”
He sighed. “I just am. Just leave all this to us. We’re FBI.”
She said, “
We
are professionals too.” As soon as she said it, she regretted it. She didn’t want him to know he was getting to her.
“Last call for clubs in the city is four a.m.,” Tess said. “It’s after three now. There’s a mandatory curfew on businesses but they might be open. Not sure if we could get there before closing with the traffic but we might catch staff.”
“You wanted to talk to Bailey Hart,” Gonzales said. “I’ll get someone to take you down to him.”
Cat traded looks with Tess. If they talked to Bailey Hart, they would miss out on the club. But as they say, a bird in the hand was worth two in the bush. And it was doubtful that the club was open.
“Okay,” Cat said.
Gonzales said into his phone, “I need someone with a retinal scan in the database.”
After a couple of minutes, the red-haired female security staffer met them at a freight elevator. Her name was Claudia McEvers. She was stiff-backed and waves of apprehension rolled off her like flop sweat as she was introduced to Tess and Cat. She approached a retinal scanner and the doors opened; then she went inside with Cat, Tess, and Roberston, and used her key card to activate the elevator.
“So you work for Mr. DeMarco,” Cat said. “Were you on duty when the kidnapping occurred?”
The woman hesitated. “No. I was called in shortly before you arrived. I’ve given a full statement to the agents.” She made eye contact with Roberston, but barely.
Either they know each other or something’s up
, Cat mused.
She’s not going to speak freely in front of him.
They got to the sub-basement and stepped into a workspace dominated by a wrap-around computer station abutting a vast wall of monitors. Dressed in gray trousers and a chambray shirt rolled up to the elbows, Bailey Hart was an amazing piece of techno eye candy, a man who believed in lifting weights and doing sit-ups as much as Vincent did. He looked like one of the super-hunky firefighters who appeared in the annual FDNY pin-up calendar. Mr… what month was this? This was Mr.
Year
.
“Okay, so hi,” he said breathlessly. He was holding a ballpoint pen and he clicked it a few times. A few more times. It was obviously a nervous habit. On the desk was an ink blotter that he had scribbled and doodled on so much there was no white space left. There were pieces of graph paper, a Styrofoam plate containing some pizza crust, more pens, and a tablet. He glanced at Robertson and completely avoided eye contact with McEvers. “Let me run you through our backup security operation.”
The monitors revealed different sections of the house, and each screen was packed with people milling around in the rooms. Cat caught a glimpse of Hallie DeMarco in the kitchen, pouring herself another glass of bourbon as she chatted with a young man in an FBI windbreaker. Robertson’s face hardened as he watched her.
“This is custom, in-house stuff,” Hart said. “I didn’t buy anything off the shelf, and no one who worked on it besides me had access to all the components. The brains are in here.”
He walked them down a flight of stairs into what could only be described as a bunker designed to withstand a nuclear blast. It was guarded by two men in olive-green uniforms who were holding sub-machineguns across their chests. They stood to attention as he presented his eye to a retinal scanner and placed his hand on a
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