When the silence had stretched too long, Occam said, “You’ll have plenty of backup on the op, in the coffee shop, one inside and extra surveillance outside.”
He was talking work talk, not the intensely personal stuff from only minutes past. I wasn’t sure how to make the jump from dating to work. Occam didn’t seem to have that trouble. I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to say so I nodded but didn’t look at him, fighting tears I didn’t even understand.
“JoJo spent some time digging deeper into our source’s social media history and discovered that our dissatisfied DNAKeys employee is probably a plant. Candace McCrory’s ID is as fake as your own persona, an identity created to see who might be looking for info on the company. Look at the file, Nell. You need to see it.”
I forced down my confusing emotions and turned on my laptop. I pulled up the file and the report in question and read Jo’s summary. “Okay,” I said softly when I was done. “Did Rick consider canceling the meeting when the fake-out was discovered?”
“Yes. But he called Soul. The up-line powers that be decided to keep it. Soul said there was a flurry of interest, as if the attention on DNAKeys had been a sign to someone. Soul is interested to see how it falls out.” He went silent and drove for a while, weaving in and out of cars. “This could be a trap of some sort. You keep your wits about you, Ingram.”
I blinked at the use of my last name instead of Nell, sugar. A name that meant important law enforcement work. That meant I was trusted to do that work in spite of my gender. Tears filled my eyes again, but I didn’t turn to him. I didn’t know what to say or do and doing nothing seemed a safer alternative.
• • •
I was sitting at a tall table in a corner window in Remedy Coffee, reading a book, a romance novel JoJo had insisted I carry as part of my undercover persona. She had placed the paperback book in my purse, which had come from her too. I didn’t carry a handbag, especially not a huge, eggplant-purple leather satchel. Inside it, in a specially constructed holster, was my service weapon and an extra magazine. In the bottom of the bag was a small makeup kit, hand sanitizers, breath mints, a small bag of travel-sized hair products, a travel sewing kit, and a change purse. All that was JoJo’s. Besides the gun, I had my cell phone and my small leather bifold ID wallet with my badge. And the wire. All hidden in special pockets.
This meet and greet was being recorded, videoed, and witnessed, with Unit Eighteen’s SAC sitting at a nearby table, his black eyes focused on his work, tapping on his laptop, looking like a hip college professor taking a break. He was wearing a tweed jacket with leather elbow patches, a flannel shirt, and khakis. His hair, which grew fast when he shape-shifted, hadn’t been trimmed since reconnoitering the DNAKeys’ property, and it curled over his collar and around his ears, hung down his forehead in small ringlets. JoJo, who had approved his persona and his wardrobe, called him swoon-worthy. This close to the full moon, all I could see was his cat.
I used the darkening windows to check out the coffee shop and had a moment to think through all the coffee shops that had suddenly permeated my life. If I could get over my ingrained church reflexes I might actually become a townie—a city girl.
Turning the page in the romance book, I glanced around. I couldn’t pinpoint anyone in Remedy who might be Rick’s opposite number, a spy from the company, as no one seemed to be watching me. I checked my bun, repositioning the hair stick holding it in place. Stopped fidgeting. Deliberately checked my cell for messages. Waited.
I turned a page and glanced out the window. Occam was jogging around the block with a dog he had borrowed from someone, blowing breath in the cold air, the dog waddling, fat and bored. T. Laine was in a car across the street, watching through tinted windows. She had hoped for an unused second-story window, but the building across Stone Street NW had a blank façade. The other corner was a cemetery, not a location conducive to surveillance. The location was, however, perfect for a quick getaway on foot or bicycle.
I had gotten here early, spending the time reading and rereading the texting and e-mails between Candace McCrory and Shaundell Mason, my online persona. Actually Shaundra Nell Mason, which JoJo had found amusing for some reason when she originally crafted the ID for me. According to her, I hated both my names and had combined them in college. I liked dogs, bowling, and country line dancing, as well as authors from the 1800s. Besides being a member of the ASPCA with a lifelong desire to rescue and protect animals of all kinds, I had espoused violence, if needed, to protect animals. I loved books and was especially fond of Dickens, Emerson, Thoreau, and Walt Whitman. Fortunately I had read all of them in the years when Leah lay dying, and I loved Whitman’s Leaves of Grass. I was less fond of “I Hear America Singing,” as it seemed to epitomize the church’s way of life.
About the local animal shelters and ASPCA groups, I knew nothing. If she tested me on them, I’d have to get around that somehow. I had been pegged as an introvert so maybe I could just act shy. But my main reason for being here was to rule out Candace as part of any group who might want to hurt the Tollivers from outside or inside their business interests.
Candace slid onto the tall bar chair beside me and put a number on the table edge. I hadn’t noticed her come in or order, too busy thinking things through. I closed my book and tucked it into my bag. We looked each other over.
Candace was a large woman, fond of fake fur—which seemed odd in a person interested in animal rights—and stretchy tees and those expensive furry boots young women wore. And goth makeup with dyed black hair. She slid her laptop onto the table and shrugged out of her fake-fur-lined jacket. “God, it’s miserable outside. Just frekking snow already,” she demanded of the weather. “Candace,” she finished, introducing herself.
I gave her a cautious smile. “Hi. I’m Shaundell, but I guess you know that already.” Neither of us offered to shake hands.
“Easy to spot the hair. I appreciate you meeting me here. Sorry I’m late. Work was the pits today. You tried Remedy’s espresso?”
I gave her a minimal shrug and pointed to my cup. “I like milk. Cappuccino or latte for me. But it’s good. And the muffin was good too,” I added, sounding helpful and timid, pointing to the plate and crumbs.
“Not for me. Just discovered I’m sensitive to gluten, can you believe it? I’ve lost a good ten pounds already but I totally frekking miss bread.”
“Ummm . . .”
“So you can help the animals?”
Talk about a leading question. “Ummm . . .”
“’Cause I gotta tell you some are in bad shape. Starving. Hurt. They got one wolf cross that weighs less than sixty pounds.”
“Red or gray?” I asked.
“What?”
“Red wolves are smaller. Sixty isn’t bad for that breed. And it depends on the cross. What was it bred with? Breed a red bitch with a Chihuahua male and you can get anything.” I knew next to nothing about ASPCA, but I knew dog and wolf breeding, so my words might cement me as an animal lover. Breeding was a passion among some of the men at the church. “And why do you think it’s starving? Can you see ribs? Spinal processes? How about the hips?” None of this was why I was meeting Candace, but it might create a bond that would cause her to reveal something else. My classes in establishing covert relationships had indicated that such bonds were important.
Candace didn’t answer and I pulled out my phone, accessing photos of starving dogs. On the right corner a small red light started flashing. Someone was trying to sync with my phone, likely the laptop Candace had brought in, and that was sitting only inches from my cell. But the PsyLED cell phone was heavily encrypted. If the automated attack was successful, the cell would make a soft ding and scramble itself.
I held out a picture of a starving dog. “Is it this bad?”
“Gross. No. I guess I’m worrying for nothing?”
“So they aren’t starving. What is the company doing to the animals?”
“They’re experimenting on them.”
“How? Surgery? Cosmetics testing?”
“God yes. The whole place is a lab. They draw blood every week, do X-rays, scans, and when the animals die, there are autopsies. It’s pretty gross.”
I’d seen animals butchered for food. This city girl had no idea what she ate or how it lived or died. As a spy to draw me out, she was useless. I already knew I was better at this than she was. “What about werewolves? There’s rumors in the ASPCA that DNAKeys has paranormals as prisoners.”
“Yeah, they have a few. So what? They aren’t human anymore. Weres’re stark raving crazy and fangheads are dead.”
Which wasn’t exactly true. As a general rule, most were-creatures were only animalistic on the three days of the full moon. Werewolves were the exception to that rule. They were more cursed than the other weres and the females never fully regained their humanity, even on the new moon, but the males still maintained most of their humanity. Vampires were traditionally referred to as the undead, not dead, but I didn’t offer any of that information. I nursed my cooling drink, catching sight of Occam and the waddling dog again. He stopped when another man approached and I watched as the other man took the leash and walked away. Occam tucked his hands in his pockets and sauntered on.
Candace’s espresso came and she sipped. A look of almost religious ecstasy settled on her face. She sipped again with a long slurping sound, cradling the cup in both hands. But there was something false about the action that said this lack of manners was part of an act.
“What’s DNAKeys doing with werewolves and vampires?” I asked finally. “Were-taint is contagious.”
“They have a plan. Or two.” She slurped again and launched into a list that sounded rehearsed. Were-experimentation was for creating supersoldiers, lab work done on the first floor of DNAKeys. Vampire experiments were searching for cures for cancer, for extending the shelf life of vampire blood so it could be used medically, searching for cures for Alzheimer’s, leukemia, and bone and liver cancers. And the vampire testing was on the fourth floor. Conspiracy theories. Every conspiracy trope in the book. Was this meeting nothing more than a chance to secure access to my cell to check me out?
However, I had seen photos of the DNAKeys building. There was no fourth floor. I was about to call Candace on it when she grabbed my hand and squeezed my fingers. Hard. There was something stiff between our palms. “I gotta go,” she said. “But if you can get help for the animals, I’d be really happy.” She grabbed her laptop and left the building so fast I was left with my accusing mouth hanging open. Out the windows I watched as Candace hopped into the backseat of a passing car and drove away. I was pretty sure I had seen the gray sedan twice while we talked, but I wasn’t certain. I glanced around and no one was watching me, so I stood and hid the espresso cup with my body. Using a paper napkin I picked it up and slid it into the oversized bag. For fingerprints.