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  “That’s as good a place as any, I guess.” I unzipped the bag and manhandled Davies into it.

  Rayne caught a glimpse of the back of his head and gulped heavily at the sight of it—blood, brains, and shattered bone. The entry wound might have been small, but the exit wound had taken a huge chunk of skull. Well, she’d have to get used to it.

  “You’re not going to object to burying him with our honored dead?” The Boss asked, wrapping his arms around himself. He had to be feeling the chill without his overcoat.

  “I always figured once you’re dead, you’re dead, and you don’t care a rat’s ass who’s buried in the plot next to you.” I removed my coat and handed it to him.

  “Thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it.” I’d have had to take it off anyway when we got to the cemetery. “Get in the car, sir.”

  “We have to deal with Anson’s car.”

  Dammit. “Where is it?”

  “In the restaurant’s parking lot.”

  “Your car?”

  “No. My driver dropped me off.”

  And The Boss knew I’d be a phone call away when he needed me.

  “Mr. Vincent, what do you want me to do with Mr. Wallace’s coat and the… er… junk?”

  “Let me have the coat. Take the car keys and put the junk in the car.” I followed my own instructions to her and made sure the coat pockets were empty, then rolled it up, stuffed it into the body bag, and zipped the bag closed. “Now get his feet,” I told Rayne when she rejoined me. “We’re going to put him in the trunk.”

  In spite of the traffic passing by, the night was so quiet I could hear her swallow. “Yes, sir.” She had the lighter end, but she still almost dropped him. Fencers developed strong arms. Could it be this was the first time she’d handled a dead body?

  Welcome to the WBIS, Ms. Rayne.

  Once I was sure Davies was tucked away, I lowered the trunk lid and leaned on it, getting the latch to catch as quietly as I could. The last thing we needed was an inquisitive cop paying us a visit.

  “Mr. Vincent, you said something about not leaving DNA in this alley.”

  “Yeah.” There was blood and brain matter where Davies had fallen. “We’ll have a little help.” I pointed toward the back of the alley, where the glow of half a dozen sets of eyes could be seen at various heights. “Did you know cats were opportunistic feeders? Wish I’d thought to bring some canned food to encourage them to investigate, but sometimes you cover the bases you can.”

  The Boss chuckled. “Now you see why Mark does what he does, Grey.”

  “Yes, sir. Um... what should I do with the lining, Mr. Vincent?”

  “Give me the knife, and then you and the lining get in the car.”

  She did as I told her, and I looked around. Except for the cats, who were showing a bit of curiosity, no one was there, not even any of the local winos. I just hoped it stayed that way until we got the Dodge the hell out of Dodge.

  I got behind the wheel and switched on the ignition. There were soft “snicks” as we all buckled up.

  In spite of wearing my overcoat, The Boss seemed to be shivering. “Trevor?”

  “Sorry. It’s been a number of years since I did this,” he said.

  “Not a problem.” I was glad he didn’t add that Davies had been a friend. Between Davies and Lynx, I’d have started questioning The Boss’s judgment in friends. I turned on the heater and let it blast. “Do you want me to take you home?”

  “No. This is my mess. I’ll stay to help clean it up.”

  “Okay. Which restaurant?”

  “The Rib Shack. It’s about four blocks over.”

  “Hmm.”

  “You’re familiar with it?”

  “Yeah.” Not that I’d eaten there. Quinn had mentioned he’d had dinner at the Rib Shack with DB Cooper, the spook he worked with, on the evening Sperling had blown himself to little bitty director bits and wound up in the morgue.

  “Why am I not surprised? Drop us there, Mark. Grey, you’ll drive Davies’s car, and I’ll ride with you. For the time being, it will be safest parking it at headquarters.”

  “D-Mr. Wallace, if I might offer a suggestion? I know someone who’d have no trouble getting rid of it. I can give her a call, and it will be gone before morning.”

  “Excellent thinking, Grey.” The Boss looked proud of her. “Mark?”

  I grunted. I’d go along with it because it was what The Boss wanted. “Okay, then.” I put the Dodge in drive, eased away from the alley, and headed toward the Rib Shack, while in the backseat, Rayne made a phone call.

  Rayne and The Boss dropped off Davies’s car at the chop shop. I followed and watched as a figure in black heaved open a garage door. A single light bulb illuminated the interior of the garage, and Rayne waited for The Boss to get out of the car before she drove into it.

  “Thanks, G. I owe you.” Rayne held out her hand, and the figure took it.

  “No thanks necessary, Cloudy,” a warm alto said.

  How the fuck—as soon as I had some spare time, I was definitely doing some investigating.

  I put the car into park, got out, and walked to the passenger side, opening the door for The Boss.

  “Thank you, Mark.”

  “You’re welcome, Trevor. Rayne, move it, will you?”

  “Yes, sir. Take care, G. I’ll be in touch.”

  “Rayne.”

  “Yes, sir.” She strode to the car and got into the backseat.

  With everyone buckled up once again, I headed for the cemetery. “You’ll have to help me dig up the grave,” I told Rayne over my shoulder. “We want this done soonest.”

  “That’s why you brought two shovels and two pairs of gloves?”

  “Yeah.” I turned into the North Capitol Street entrance, drove to the section that belonged to the WBIS, and switched off the engine. All ashore who are going ashore. I got out and opened the trunk. “Here.” I handed Rayne a shovel and strode past headstones. “Okay. This is the grave.”

  “Sperling’s?” The Boss gave a sour chuckle.

  “I thought it was fitting. He and Davies can spend eternity coming up with ways to screw up other people’s lives.”

  I removed the sod as carefully as I could—we’d need to replace it, and I didn’t want it too obvious that it had been disturbed—and then we got to work.

  “W-who’s Sperling?” Rayne asked, out of breath. There was a streak of dirt across her forehead.

  “You don’t want to know,” I said as I toed Davies’s body into the grave. It landed on the casket below with a thud.

  “She does, if only to learn how to avoid someone like him.”

  So while I shoveled dirt back into the grave, The Boss went into detail about the man whose department I’d taken over.

  Rayne and I put the sod back in place, and then we tossed the shovels and gloves into the trunk. “Where to, sir? Home? Rayne, do you want me to drive you home or back to the WBIS for your car?”

  “No, I think I owe the two of you dinner. There’s a Portuguese restaurant on Wisconsin Avenue. O Pescador Alegre. I understand you enjoy Portuguese food, Mark.”

  “Yes, I do.” I handed Rayne some hand wipes. “Don’t miss that spot on your forehead. We want to look presentable.”

  “What about you, Rayne?”

  “Uh... sure. That will be fine. Sir.”

  He frowned at her before turning to me. “Do you need directions?”

  “No, sir. I’ve been there.” I held out my hand for the soiled wipes and threw them into a plastic bag. Then we got in the car.

  Rayne took the rear seat again, and The Boss rode shotgun.

  Well, at least this time I didn’t have to worry about a waiter recognizing me and being pissed because I wasn’t with Quinn. They only knew me at the Portuguese restaurant because mostly I did takeout.

  Chapter 23

  It had been a long night, and it wasn’t over yet, but The Boss and Rayne were both tucked up in their apartments.
r />   “What about your car?” I asked her after we dropped off The Boss.

  “I’ll have a ride to work tomorrow.” She smiled and reached across the front seat, offering me her hand. Her grip was warm and firm. “Thank you for giving me this opportunity.”

  “You’re welcome. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  She got out of the car, and I waited until she entered her apartment building before putting my car in gear and heading for Massachusetts Avenue.

  Fortunately, I’d thought to leave dry food out for Pita. I liked the presence of the kitten in my condo, but the past few days proved to me it wouldn’t be a good idea having a pet.

  Unless maybe I had someone living with me who wouldn’t mind looking after it, when I wasn’t around?

  This apartment building had underground parking. I found Davies’s spot and left the Dodge there, the engine ticking as it cooled.

  The stairwell was next to an elevator, and I took the stairs as usual, but this time specifically to avoid the lobby. I could get away with being there—all I had to do was act as if I had every reason to be in this building—but I hadn’t had time to apply any devices to alter my facial appearance, and there was always the slim possibility that some helpful resident might recall the tall guy with the prominent ears.

  So I took the stairs, jogged up to the top floor, where Davies had his apartment, and let myself in.

  Stepping to the side, I put on a pair of latex gloves and gazed around the open space. The entire apartment was about eight hundred square feet of glass, chrome, and stark white walls, so sterile-looking I almost expected to hear someone ask for a scalpel.

  In addition, he seemed to have a taste for cubism. He had a couple of paintings hanging on the walls that could have been by Picasso or Jean Metzinger.

  The only thing Davies possessed that might have been to my taste was a Chinese moonflask vase, probably Ming Dynasty, on a pedestal beside the sliding glass doors that opened onto the balcony.

  But I didn’t have time to give his taste in belongings much thought. I did a thorough search of the kitchen, bathroom, and living/dining space, before checking out the bedroom.

  Once I was certain the place hadn’t been bugged... either by Davies or the CIA... I turned my attention to his computer. He had it on a desk in a corner of his bedroom, and I pulled out the uncomfortable chair and booted it up.

  It didn’t take long to find the password he’d chosen; it was written on a piece of paper taped to the back of the center drawer of his desk. Jesus. BigBossMan1.

  In minutes I had most of the money in his bank account—how the fuck had he managed to accumulate so much?—transferred to the fund that subsidized the care of injured WBIS agents. The rest, except for a couple of hundred dollars to eventually keep the account open, I left to be used to pay his mortgage and utilities for the next few months; I’d learned he had his bills automatically deducted as they came due. It would look like business as usual, and no one would have a reason to come looking for him.

  Then I put the first of four blank CDs I’d found in the same drawer as the paper with the password into the drive and began moving files that shouldn’t have been on his computer in the first place.

  When the last of the CDs was finalized, I made sure all trace of the files was erased.

  With that done and the CDs in my jacket pocket, I went back to the kitchen to empty his fridge—a carton of Egg Beaters, half a gallon of skim milk, a green pepper and an onion, and a package of skinless, boneless chicken breasts. It wasn’t a lot, but I knew of some people who could use the food.

  I stared thoughtfully across the space at the vase. Why would someone whose preference seemed to run to modern want such an obvious antique? I picked it up and nearly dropped it from the unexpected weight of the attached base, which shouldn’t have been part of it.

  There was no time to really study it, though. I returned to the bedroom, pulled down Davies’s suitcases from a shelf in his walk-in closet, and placed the vase in one of them, cushioning it with an armful of clothes. Then I packed the second case with enough stuff so that if anyone did come looking, it would seem as if he’d left on the spur of the moment.

  I’d store the cases in a corner of my guestroom closet for the time being. And maybe if I had some time, I’d examine that vase a little more thoroughly.

  It was too bad I couldn’t take more. The same people who’d get the food would have been able to sell everything and feed themselves for a couple of months.

  Well, that was the way it went, I guessed. I locked up Davies’s apartment and walked the suitcases down to the parking garage. Maybe I’d… I checked my watch. No, it was too late to call Quinn. I’d give him a call tomorrow.

  ***

  Wednesday started off well enough. I returned the shovels and gloves to Supply, Ms. Parker didn’t cry, Mr. Wallace left a cryptic message that let me know he had recovered from last night’s adventure and I’d find my overcoat in the storage closet, and Rayne turned out to be as excellent a shot as her file indicated.

  Come to think of it, there was something about the way she stood, bracing the Glock in her palm....

  We arrived back at headquarters just after one and went to the cafeteria for lunch. Across the room, Johnson and Ahrens were sitting together. They kept glancing at us.

  “What’s up with them, Mr. Vincent?” Rayne was having a burger and sweet potato fries, and she put one of the fries in her mouth.

  “With who?”

  “Those two have been watching us since we sat down.” Her back was to them, but she must have seen their reflections in the glass of a large framed photograph that was behind us. It was of The Boss, Davies, and some of the original senior directors, including Douglas Mallinson, the first man to run the WBIS. They wore business suits that ranged in color from navy to black to gray, some pinstripes, some not.

  “I’m also considering their applications to Interior Affairs.”

  “Yes?” She grinned. “May I join them?”

  I was done anyway. “Knock yourself out.”

  She picked up her tray and strolled over to them, and I’d have sworn their tongues hung out. If I took them on, I’d have to make sure the three of them understood the ramifications of screwing someone they worked with.

  I dropped off my plates and tray, and went up to the seventh floor.

  Matheson called and asked to see me when I had a spare minute.

  “I’m free right now,” I told him. I was curious as to the progress he’d made on the project I’d assigned him, but I had no intention of hovering over his shoulder. I knew how that pissed me off, and by this point, I trusted him enough not to screw up.

  “I’ll be right there.”

  About two minutes later, he walked into my office, and I was somewhat taken aback. He was sans suit jacket, but that wasn’t what surprised me. His sleeves were rolled up, his tie was askew, and the top three buttons of his shirt were unbuttoned, revealing a gold chain and the white of his undershirt. In addition, his hair was sticking up every which way, and his cheeks and jaw were dark with stubble.

  I’d never seen him in such disarray.

  “Did you go home at all, Matheson?” I gestured toward the chair beside my desk, concerned he might fall over. “Have you had any sleep?”

  “Uh….” He sat heavily and ran a hand through his hair, leaving it even more tousled. “No, sir. This sounded like it was time sensitive.” He yawned. “Sorry.”

  “Did you at least eat?”

  “Oh, yeah. Theo brought me something for dinner. I hope that was okay?”

  Fine time to ask, but I wasn’t going to take him to task over it now. “What about breakfast? Lunch?”

  “Uh....” He blinked, and I shook my head.

  “Never mind. Were you able to come up with a program?” I rose, went around my desk, and leaned against it.

  “Yeah,” he said again. “I stripped all the pertinent data from the hard drive, just in case their guy is as good as me—
not likely, but I didn’t want to take the chance.”

  “Good work.” He looked up in surprise, before giving me a sleepy smile. “And then?”

  “Then I uploaded the program. At first they’re going to think they’ve hit the jackpot, but with a little digging, they’ll realize it’s crap. They’ll believe Davies never had any intention of giving them valid intelligence, that he was screwing with them for reasons of his own.”

  Which they’d probably think had to do with the WBIS/CIA dichotomy. “Did you implement it?”

  He nodded, yawned again, and rubbed his cheek. “I need to shave,” he said absently. “I went up to Public Relations about five this morning and reinstalled the hard drive. As soon as Allard came in and booted it up, it would interact with every computer in the department.” His eyes drifted shut.

  “Good work,” I said again. I’d see he got a commendation for this. “Can you drive yourself home?”

  “Huh? I can drive,” he mumbled.

  “Matheson! Wake up!”

  He jumped. “Sorry, sir.”

  “Go down to Medical—”

  “I’m not sick!”

  “—and tell Max you need to borrow one of the beds in the doctors’ sleeping quarters. Take a nap. And then go home.”

  “Yes, sir.” He got up and shuffled out of my office.

  Now it just remained to be seen how the CIA reacted to this gambit.

  And speaking of the CIA....

  It was almost three, which meant it was almost eight in London. I’d call Quinn. If he was having dinner, I’d leave a message asking him to call me when it was convenient. Preferably that would be when he was getting ready for bed.

  And if he wasn’t having dinner... no, that wouldn’t be any good. I could hardly jerk off in my car in the WBIS parking lot.

  I slid the CD into its drive and turned off my computer, then went into the outer office. “Ms. Parker, I’m going to step out for a few minutes.”

  “Sir, your meeting with Howard?”

  Fuck it! I’d forgotten all about it. I blew out a breath. I’d have to put off that phone call to Quinn.

  “In that case, never—” Just then my cell phone rang... “I’ll Stand By You,” and I knew it was Paul calling from Los Angeles.