Two days later
Taylor cruised through the quiet suburb of Woodside just outside Washington, D.C. At seven o’clock in the evening, it was close on dark and most houses had their lights on. According to the staff register still stapled in the back of her address book, Martin Tripp lived at 87 Renner Drive.
She needed access to the Bureau’s files and getting that was going to be difficult. If she wanted to get into the system, she was going to have to break into it. She’d gone over her options and decided she had only one: Martin Tripp.
Tripp’s entire life was the computer and the Bureau. He was single and he lived on his own. She was willing to bet that he worked at home and that when he logged on, with no one in the house to compromise his security, he stayed logged on for convenience.
The house number eighty-five flashed in her headlights, a two-story weatherboard house with an immaculate front yard. Taylor braked, slowing to a crawl. Eighty-seven was a similar style of house, matching several others in the shady, tree-lined street, although Tripp’s had no upper story. Wraparound verandas and an overgrown garden completed what was, even with the dimming light, a bedraggled picture. She noticed that the property was unfenced and situated on a corner. The lack of a fence and the extra street frontage would give her several points of entry to choose from.
Taylor turned the corner, made a slow circuit of the block until she was back on Renner Drive, then did another drive-by from the opposite direction.
This time she caught a glimpse of Tripp’s car parked beneath a carport. A run-of-the-mill, silvery-gray sedan. No surprises there.
The car and the house were a lot like Tripp. There was definitely potential, if only he could pull his head out of cyberspace. She was willing to bet he was online now. In fact, she was banking on that—and the knowledge that Tripp hated cooking and regularly ate out.
She circled the block again, and this time parked several doors down. Checking the fit of her wig, she got out, shrugged into a small backpack and began walking. The evening was chilly and she was dressed for jogging, which instantly helped her blend. She had noticed several joggers while she’d been driving around the neighborhood. The backpack wasn’t out of place, either. It was a dark blue sports pack that matched the blue track pants and jacket she was wearing. If anyone noticed her at all, she would be just another ultracoordinated jogger taking advantage of the crisp autumn evening.
As she approached Tripp’s place, keeping to the opposite side of the street, she studied the surrounding properties, looking for signs of dogs and nosy neighbors. A dog had barked farther along the street, but so far that was the only one. She checked her watch. All of the front yards were empty, which she had expected. It was almost seven-thirty. Most people would be either eating dinner or watching television.
She walked to the end of the street, crossed the road and strolled back, this time on Tripp’s side of the road. As she passed Tripp’s front gate, the porch light flicked on and the front door popped open. Keeping her gaze forward, she squashed the urge to speed up. She had caught a clear glimpse of Tripp, but his vision would have been hindered by the flooding porch light. If he had registered her at all, he would have seen a blond female out walking.
Rounding the corner, she stopped, shrugged out of the backpack, extracted her phone from a side pocket and pretended to make a call while she studied the layout of Tripp’s place and waited for him to leave. The perimeter of his yard was planted with an array of unkempt shrubs, punctuated by a large oak. A garage was situated to one side of the house. There was also a garden shed.
Headlights swept the front lawn as he backed out of his driveway. Seconds later, as Tripp accelerated down the road, the house was plunged into gloom.
Taylor noted the time he’d left and slipped the pack onto her back. Tonight she was just doing a reconnaissance, and timing Tripp to get an idea of how long it took him to get dinner.
After doing a circuit of the grounds, she checked out the garden shed and found that not only was it unlocked, it contained an assortment of junk, including an old wooden toolbox. Walking around to the front of the house, she flicked on a penlight and shone the beam through finely etched glass into a nicely proportioned hallway. A peeling sticker on the glass panel of the front door indicated that he had an alarm system. She could make out a discreet box mounted on the wall. A small, glowing light at the base of the box indicated the alarm was active.
Proceeding cautiously, she moved around the house, checking doors and windows to see if every window was wired. If it was an old house and the system hadn’t been installed by Tripp, chances were good that not every window had been connected. The classic was to skip bathroom windows, especially if the window was high and tiny, or louvers had been installed.
Tripp didn’t have louvers, but he did have a small bathroom window set high in the wall. She risked flicking the penlight on again.
The window wasn’t sitting flush with the frame.
Shrugging out of the pack, she extracted a pair of latex gloves, pulled them on and reached up to try the window. It swung smoothly open.
Heart pounding, Taylor stared at the gap. It wasn’t a casement window—that would have been too easy. It was a flip-up style, old-fashioned and tiny, and the reason it was unsecured was immediately evident—the sliding screw that locked it was missing. It had probably fallen into the garden and Tripp hadn’t bothered to either look for it or purchase a replacement. The gap was small, about eight inches. It would be a tight squeeze, but providing she could maneuver her head through, she could make it.
She checked the luminous dial of her watch. Tripp had been gone ten minutes. If she allowed him half an hour, maximum, to collect his dinner and get back home, that would give her a clear quarter of an hour inside.
This wasn’t part of her plan. She had intended to break into the house by cutting a square of glass out of a French door or a windowpane and crawling through, thereby bypassing the need to open the window or the door. The method was crude. The vibration could trigger the alarm anyway and the biggest downside was the fact that Tripp would know he’d had a break-in. This way, he didn’t have to know. When she weighed the benefits of ditching her original plan, with its inbuilt margin for safety in knowing how long Tripp was likely to be out, and the benefits of concealing the break-in, there was no contest.
Removing the wig, which would be pulled off when she went through the window, she stowed it in the backpack and collected the toolbox from the garden shed. The shed was festooned with cobwebs, emphasizing the fact that Tripp had no interest in his yard. The dust-coated toolbox, which was empty, indicated he was even less of a handyman.
Seconds later, she had the toolbox propped on its end for maximum height and positioned beneath the window. Leaning her pack beside the box and holding the flashlight in one hand, she stepped up, gripping the window frame to keep her steady as she positioned her head inside the window and slowly straightened. The frame scraped her back as she pushed forward and up, fitting one shoulder through, then the other. Her hair, which had been clipped close to her head beneath the wig, collapsed around her face. Tiny clicking sounds indicated that clips had fallen into the bath, which was directly below the window. She would have to remember to collect them before she left.
Slipping the rubber thong at the base of her penlight over one wrist, she braced both palms on the windowsill and surged upward until her torso was through.
Flicking on the penlight, she checked out the bathroom. It was surprisingly upmarket, nicely tiled in neutral beige, with a glassed-in shower and a separate bath. Leaving the penlight turned on, but letting it dangle from her wrist, she twisted and attempted to ease one leg through.
After overbalancing and almost losing her grip on the sill, she decided there was no way she could climb through the window. It simply wasn’t wide enough for the maneuver. The only way forward was to continue on in a controlled dive, headfirst, into the bath, using her hands to cushion her fall.
Leaning forward, she slid her palms down the tiled wall, her stomach muscles protesting as she gradually wriggled her torso over the sill. She inched forward, her jaw clenched as her hair slid across her face, impeding her vision. Abruptly, her center of gravity shifted. Hands flailing, she caught the sides of the bath and managed to slow the momentum. An ungraceful sprawl later, her shins burning after being scraped across the edge of the sill, she pulled herself out of the bath. She was in.
Reaching up, Taylor pulled the window closed and collected the hairpins that had landed in the bath. Satisfied that the bathroom didn’t show any signs of her entry, she padded down the hall, switching her penlight off because Tripp had left the lights on. As she stepped into the sitting room, the cozy warmth of central heating made her realize just how cold she’d gotten standing out on the street.
The house was large and airy and, despite the neglect of the garden, was furnished in surprisingly good taste. Golden light from strategically placed lamps flowed over dark leather couches. A faded Turkish rug took center stage on the floor and bookshelves gleamed with what looked like genuine leather-bound books. Signs of Tripp’s occupancy were visible in a folded newspaper and a mug left sitting on a coffee table.
Her heart sped up when she noticed that one corner of the sitting room was devoted to a large antique walnut desk and a computer, and that the computer was switched on.
Padding across thick carpet, she pulled out Tripp’s chair and sat down. The second she moved the mouse the screen saver flicked off, revealing text. Her heart skipped a beat when she realized that Tripp hadn’t even bothered to exit the file he’d been reading.
Scrolling down the page, she skimmed the content. Tripp was working the Chavez case, which made sense. Thousands of documents had been generated about the cartel and Chavez over the years and Tripp, with his love of computers and research and his lack of a social life, was uniquely fitted out to sift through and evaluate the information. This particular file contained recently compiled material on Marco Chavez, Alex Lopez’s father, and the cabal connection, supplied by a previously undisclosed South American source. Taylor frowned as she stared at a name she recognized but hadn’t expected to see: Edward Dennison, a former FBI agent…who had worked for Lopez.
She checked her watch. She had five minutes, maximum, left.
Hitting the print button, she continued reading while pages fed out. Combined with Dennison’s statements about the nature of the cabal, she found documentation detailing Marco Chavez’s links with Nazi war criminals, backed up by a report that stated Chavez had harbored German nationals after the end of the Second World War. Most of that documentation had been generated over twenty years ago, when the Navy SEAL team diving on the wreck of the Nordika had disappeared. The naval operation itself was dismissed as a bungled, illegal mission. The accepted conclusion was that the SEAL team had gone AWOL, probably with a lifetime’s supply of cocaine.
But there were no supporting documents to give credence to the theory. A notation on the file referred to a classified naval file. In other words, the investigation had been locked down, with no access for civilians or civilian agencies.
The sound of a vehicle accelerating down the street jerked her head up. When the vehicle slowed, she got to her feet and collected the printed-out pages of the file. Pages were still feeding out. She checked the page number. Another seven to go. Heart pounding, she debated whether to cancel the print job or wait on the last sheets. The vehicle slowed further, then accelerated as it turned the corner.
Pulse still pounding, she checked her watch. Two minutes, then she was out.
She clicked to the file directory and typed in a search request using her name.
A list of hits came up, most of which she recognized and had read. She selected the one new file that had been added and hit the print button. As pages began to feed out, she skimmed the file from the screen, a report of her own shooting in D.C.
A bolded statement caught her eye. According to a series of surveillance reports, Taylor had made suspected connections with Lopez on two occasions.
She went hot, then cold, utterly rejecting the words. At no point in the investigation had she ever been compromised. If surveillance reports had been compiled, they were fictional.
She scrolled through the file. The reports themselves weren’t included, which meant she couldn’t obtain the name of the agent who had done the surveillance. The fact that the reports weren’t attached to the file wasn’t unusual. If the document was compromising for the agent involved, especially for an interdepartmental investigation, it would be classified. Bayard, and maybe Colenso, would have access, but she doubted anyone else in the department would have.
The final page contained a brief summary, signed off by Colenso. The content was clear and concise. Given the evidence and her connections, Colenso concluded that it was possible she was the mole.
The sound of a vehicle slowing penetrated. She glanced at her watch. She had been staring at the screen for a lot longer than the two minutes she had given herself. She was out of time.
Headlights flashed through the windows. Closing the file, she reinstated the file Tripp had been reading, her fingers fumbling slightly on the mouse in her haste to scroll back to the correct page.
A car door slammed. Heart pounding, she activated the screen saver, grabbed the printed pages of the file and walked quickly down the hall. There was no time to climb out the bathroom window. She would have to position herself in one of the back bedrooms, wait until Tripp disabled the alarm system, then unlock a door and slip out before he could reinstate the alarm.
The sound of Tripp’s step was clear as she turned into a bedroom that had a set of French doors opening out onto a small patio. The room was obviously Tripp’s.
Walking quickly to the French doors, she opened the drapes and pulled the security bolts.
Closing her eyes so her night vision would be better when she stepped outside, she waited for Tripp to open the front door. The second she heard the faint click of a key in the dead bolt, she turned the key in the lock. Stepping outside, she drew the drapes to conceal the fact that when she closed it the door was going to be unlocked.
With any luck Tripp would think he’d simply forgotten to lock up.
Stepping with care on slippery, moss-encrusted pavement, Taylor worked her way around the side of the house. Seconds later, she collected her backpack and the toolbox from beneath the bathroom window. Returning the box to the garden shed, she pushed through the perimeter plantings and stepped out onto the sidewalk.
It was fully dark now, with a thin sickle of moon climbing slowly in a sky hazed by mist and smoke.
Cold night air penetrated the fabric of her tracksuit as she loped across the road. Craning over her shoulder, she glanced at Tripp’s house. The kitchen light was on, which meant he had probably walked directly to the kitchen counter and not into the sitting room.
Retrieving her car keys from a zip pocket in her track pants, she deactivated the lock on her car and shrugged smoothly out of her pack. Opening the driver’s-side door, she slung the pack on the passenger seat, started the car, did a U-turn so she didn’t have to drive past Tripp’s house and headed for her motel.
Martin Tripp pushed the computer keyboard forward, making room for steaming hot containers of Beef Rendang and rice. Returning to the kitchen, he collected the glass of water he’d filled and a silver fork and cloth napkin. The food was takeout and he’d hardly notice what he was eating once he became absorbed in his work, but the food was high-quality takeout, and he didn’t like eating with plastic forks.
Shifting the mouse to bring up his screen, he sat down.
The seat was warm.
Frowning, he rose to his feet and placed his palm on the nubby fabric. It was definitely warm.
A second problem registered. His printer was making a humming noise. The cooling fan was working, which indicated it had just been used.
He hadn’t used the printer at all today.
Reaching down, he located his briefcase, which was lodged beneath the desk. Placing it on the seat, he entered the combination and extracted the weapon he always kept there.
The gun in hand, he stared around his warmly lit lounge, a sense of unease growing. He lived quietly and very privately. He doubted that any of his neighbors even realized he was an FBI agent, which suited him. If people knew what he did for a living they would annoy him with concerns about breakins and expect him to check their alarm systems, which had happened at the last place he’d rented.
He did a slow circuit of the sitting room, his nostrils flaring as he caught an unfamiliar scent. It didn’t appear that anything had been taken, but someone had been in his house, using his computer. If he wasn’t mistaken, that someone had been female.
When he reached his bedroom, a faint gap in the curtains made all the hairs at his nape stand on end. Stepping forward, he yanked the curtains wide, then used a hank of curtain fabric to depress the handle so that he wouldn’t spoil any prints. The unlocked door swung open.
“Clever girl.”
But not clever enough. She had gotten into his house, probably through the bathroom window, which he hadn’t gotten around to repairing yet, and so bypassing his alarm system, but she hadn’t been able to get out without leaving a door unlocked.
Stepping outside, he walked around the house then checked the sidewalk, studying the vehicles parked outside neighboring houses. He didn’t expect to find her. Taylor—and he was certain it was Taylor Jones—was long gone.
Walking back inside, he picked up the phone and made a call. It was a call he didn’t want to make because it exposed his own incompetence. He was the one who had left his computer on, unsecured, and dialed into the Bureau network.
Colenso’s answering machine picked up, which figured. Colenso had an active social life. It was likely he was eating out or had female company.
Tripp made a second call. Bayard picked up on the second ring, which Tripp had expected. One of the things that had persuaded Tripp to stay with the FBI when he could have taken easier and more lucrative positions in several other government agencies was Bayard’s example. He had worked his way up through the ranks and he knew the Bureau inside out. In contrast to Colenso, who lived for the more dangerous aspects of the job, Bayard was subtle and intelligent. Those qualities would take him to the top, and Tripp would be right behind him.
Briefly, Tripp related what had happened. Taylor had to be stopped. He might be perceived to be a bungler in the field, but he had never flinched from doing what needed to be done.