Ring of Truth (Devlin Security Force Book 2) (9 page)

The public transport ride threw him back to his year of college at GW. He’d grown up in major cities in Europe and the States so subways were nothing new to him. As a student living on his own for the first time, he’d been enthralled with exploring and with the night life, but he’d known even then urban life wasn’t for him long term.

No matter what happened with the Gramornia loot, not the life he wanted. No crowded commute for him. Give him trees and quiet and work with his hands.

He stood facing the Metro System map so he could study stragglers in the scratched Plexiglas reflection. Prison had taught him how to watch his back. The warm temperature meant no coats to cover pistols tucked in waistbands. He froze to attention when a middle-aged man in a Redskins cap stepped aside to unfold a map. When the guy moved toward the exit, he exhaled. A trio of women stopped for one of the group to dig something out of her bag. Gradually the crowd dispersed. Nobody paid him any mind.

No tail.

He’d lost the tails earlier. Maybe the guys who followed him from Dupont Circle realized they were made and gave it up.

Pocketing his Farecard, he headed for the escalator to the surface. The open space of the station kept the air from being stale and overpowered by humanity but once through the gate and the exit, he welcomed the sunshine’s warmth on his face and the fresh air, laced with the scent of potted flowers at building entrances on either side.

The man with the map had disappeared. After another survey found nobody turning away abruptly, nobody dawdling in front of a reflecting surface like he had, nobody otherwise suspicious, he headed toward his destination.

Officially part of Arlington, the commercial and residential center sat south of D.C., surrounded by the Potomac River, Reagan National Airport, and the Pentagon. Nearly every building, including the speckled-granite tower he was passing, bore
crystal
in its name. Something to do with a crystal chandelier in the first office building, Mara’d told him.

Last night’s burglary had ratcheted up Devlin’s interest in their “caper,” enough reason for a meet with the big honcho. Was it the case or his pretty employee that interested Devlin? Cort hunched a shoulder. Why should he care? He just wanted the information Devlin said he uncovered.

He checked the street sign and turned the corner.

Mara’s determination to prove her dad innocent earned his admiration. Cort had dragged her into this search, into danger, had given her hope. His need for exoneration made her vulnerable. No time to waste—less than two months to the coronation. He had to set some sort of plan in motion. If Yerik caught wind they were continuing the search— The constant knot in his gut wrenched tighter.

If he could get her out of this mess, get them both out, he should try.

One more time.

He’d spent the better part of the last two days trying to talk to Al Kaplan again. The special agent was in conference or on the phone or on fucking Mars for lunch, but he sure as hell wasn’t available to Cortez Jones. He’d called Global Insurance, but got only a bullshit answer—
“Leave your number and an agent will get back to you.”

Heaving a sigh, he took out his cell phone and stepped away from the traffic hum across the street from Crystal Arches, where the Devlin Security Force logo, a stylized Greek delta bearing the firm’s initials, ranged above the entry. DSF occupied the top floors of Crystal Arches and ran the security for the whole shebang.

Odors of hair chemicals and perfumes puffed out of a hairdresser’s shop when a customer opened and closed the glass door. He punched in the memorized number without much hope.

“Special Agent Kaplan speaking.”

Cort nearly dropped the phone. “Cortez Jones here.”

After a pause, the agent cleared his throat. Cort figured he was ordering a trace on the caller’s location. “Don’t tell me you’ve decided to come clean on the jewels.”

“You already know everything I do,” he said. “You probably also know Mara Marton is helping me track down the other pieces to Leon’s puzzle ring.”

“What do you want from me?”

Interesting Kaplan didn’t deny the assumption. The fucker. Cort’s shoulder muscles tightened. He inhaled deeply to calm the tension. “I want you to do the investigation, not me. I’ve involved Mara in this mess. We’ve gone through her father’s papers and come up with a list of possible accomplices who might have the other ring pieces. But the search is getting dangerous.”

“Yeah? How so?” Cort’s phone picked up the habitual rhythmic drumming of his fingernails on his desk. In the background, a phone rang, a printer whirred.

“Last night somebody broke into Mara’s apartment and stole her laptop and desktop computers. She called the D.C. cops. You can check.”

The squeal of Kaplan’s desk chair told Cort he’d gotten the agent’s attention. Finally. “I’ll do that.”

Cort told him about the thug who’d grabbed Mara in her foyer and the SUV that followed them in Dundalk. Not that he could prove either one. “She didn’t want to report the first attack because she doesn’t trust you guys, and I figured the SUV might
be
you guys.”

“Wasn’t FBI.” Kaplan’s tapping resumed. “The mugger wanted the ring, or so you say.”

Cort gritted his teeth. The hell with deep breathing. “Kaplan, I don’t give a flying fuck if you believe me but Mara Marton doesn’t deserve to be harassed or hounded by the FBI or some assholes who want the jewels. Maybe her old man conspired with mine. Maybe he didn’t. But she’s an innocent who believes in Marton’s innocence. I read Gramornia’s putting pressure on the U.S. to find their crown jewels. Can’t you take over here?”

“Granted, the Gramornian ambassador and the junior senator from Maryland—she’s got a Gramornian grandmother, I hear—are leaning on the Bureau.” His voice came across muffled, as if he didn’t want others in his office to hear his words. “But you’re my best lead, Jones. One ring piece and your puzzle story aren’t enough for my SAC to authorize more than I’m already doing on this case.”

What Kaplan meant was his hands were tied. Pressure on his boss meant pressure on him but no support and no resources. Typical bureaucracy. “So you want
me
to handle the FBI’s case for
you
. That it?”

Again the chair squealed in protest at the agent’s fidgeting. Fingers drummed louder. “The suspects on your list haven’t talked to the Bureau in eleven years. Doubtful they’d tell me squat now. They’d more likely talk to the Jeweler’s son.”

The statement rocked him back against the wall. The agent believed Cort’s story. But why? When Cort had laid out Leon’s ring story, Kaplan stalked out of his workshop with threats to hassle him until he yielded the treasure. And now the FBI wanted an ex-con to do their investigation? Great. Not only was he searching for himself and Mara, but for the damn FBI. All while pretending
not
to search, for Yerik’s benefit. He shook his head, as if the motion would tumble his dilemma into a coherent answer.

“This is bullshit. Suddenly you believe my story? Are you on some new meds? What the hell changed, Kaplan?”

The PowerPoint gave Mara something positive to do even though Cort had said the slide show was overkill. Not unexpected from a non-techie. She needed to act, to move ahead so they were ready to interview the next suspect.

Slipping the flash drive containing her little show into her jacket pocket, she headed for the elevator. She’d expected support from Mr. Devlin but he’d gone above and beyond. He even set up this meeting with her and Cort this afternoon. Maybe a ploy to check out the ex-con.

Not that she minded the buffer. She needed to cultivate a purely professional attitude toward Cort. Having him spend nights at her place put him too close for her peace of mind. She kept picturing him in bed. With her. A man who was the antithesis of all her father stood for.

If my dad’s innocent,
a little voice said.

She pushed away the traitorous notion. If Cassie had doubts, Mara did not. Quincy Marton didn’t conspire to hide Leon Jones’s loot. Then why did her inner voice of doubt make her feel tainted and dirty?

She found the administrative assistant’s desk unoccupied, her boss’s door open, and the aroma of fresh iced tea in the air. Francine had been busy preparing for the meeting. Mara was touched by Devlin’s consideration.

She didn’t know much about his family background. No one in the company did, no one who’d talk about it, even his admin. God knew Mara had pumped her enough. But his taste for sweet tea hinted at a southern heritage, maybe South Carolina or Georgia.

“Come on in, Mara.” He’d apparently seen her on his office screen. Closed circuit cameras were ubiquitous throughout the company’s corridors and offices.

When she entered the inner sanctum, Thomas Devlin replaced the phone handset in its cradle. He tugged off a royal-blue silk tie as he rose from his executive chair. His charcoal linen suit jacket hung on a rack behind the desk, a gleaming metal-and-glass construction, a contrast to the antique wall clocks he collected. The desk was more art than furniture.

“Just finished a meeting with a new client. Then the phone call. Couldn’t wait to get that noose off.” He grinned, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

Her employer’s informality would probably make Cort feel more comfortable, and she said a silent thank you. He’d placed a yellow legal pad and pen at the head of the conference table. At the other end, a tablet connected wirelessly to the overhead projection module.

He waved her to the table. “Go set up your slide show. I have a little matter to take care of before we can begin.”

She noted the time on the 1800’s banjo clock beside the security screen. Her stomach tightened. Cort was late. Not a good sign. A moment later she saw him on screen and awareness sped up her pulse. When she took in the whole picture, her heart took a nose dive.

No. Oh no.

Pivoting, she rushed to the door.

Devlin already stood in the anteroom.

Cort marched in and stopped six feet from Devlin. Two security guards followed close behind and flanked the visitor in a military stance she’d heard called parade rest.

Guards, a grinding reminder of prison. Cort might as well be made of stone, he stood so still, so silent, so stoic in his pressed khakis and teal dress shirt. His arms hung loose at his sides, his broad hands open.

His facial wounds had healed but he looked like a battle-hardened warrior. His mouth was drawn into an edge as straight and sharp as a guillotine, and his eyes, blank granite, stared straight ahead. Only the twitch of a jaw muscle betrayed his emotion. Embarrassment, fury, hurt—Mara could only guess.

Her eyes burned along with her cheeks. She could only look on and hope Cort observed and appreciated her empathy. And her inability to act. This was the boss’s call.

Devlin said, “Mr. Jones, give me a moment, please.”

When Cort inclined his head, Devlin linked his fingers behind his back, the superior officer reviewing troops. He turned his attention to the guards. “What’s the meaning of this?”

One man cleared his throat. The name on the company ID pinned to his green uniform shirt was Mannion. “Eddy said this guy has an appointment but—”

“But you didn’t like his looks so you took it on yourself to escort him. That it, Mannion?” Her boss’s words were soft, but his rigid posture said they were only smoke preceding the flame.

Prepare to be scorched and barbecued.
She knitted her fingers at her waist.

Behind the three men facing Devlin, another man entered the office.

Max Rivera, one of DSF’s field operatives and as imposing a figure as Devlin and Cort in his size and dynamic aura. He and Devlin had served in Iraq and Afghanistan together. Max had told Mara that but not much more.

But why was the Latin hunk here for her meeting?

As if sensing her gaze, Max sketched a salute. His teeth gleamed a white, cocky grin against his bronze skin. Folding his arms, he hiked a jean-clad hip onto the desk and settled to watch their boss dismantle the two guards.

Mannion hitched his shoulders and nodded with emphasis as he answered his boss’s question. “Yes, sir, Mr. Devlin. Thought he needed an escort. Can’t be too careful.”

“Generally speaking, I value independent thinking and initiative. I encourage it among my employees.” Devlin took a second to observe the sage nods of the two guards. “But I also expect my employees to check their facts.”

Mannion looked blank.

Cort didn’t move but his expression shifted to sharp interest. He apparently caught on that the guards had stepped in it up to their hips.

“Did Eddy also tell you I’d personally cleared Mr. Jones?” Devlin asked.

The two guards exchanged glances. The other man’s gaze skittered away. He looked as if he’d like to sink into the floor. Ah, Devlin’s phone call had been from Eddy at the lobby security desk. The little matter he needed to take care of.

“Well, no, sir,” the guard began, “he didn’t. I—”

“—never asked,” Devlin finished for him.

The guard shuffled his feet. His silence spoke for him.

“So not only did you proceed without the facts, both of you left your assigned posts without justifiable cause. And you’ve insulted my visitor. Does that about sum it up?”

The two guards swallowed, then nodded.

“You will apologize immediately to Mr. Jones. Then return to your duties. I’ll talk to your supervisor later.”

Mara bit back a smile as the two red-faced guards muttered apologies in the form of insincere drivel. They’d be lucky to keep their jobs.

When they’d left, tension released from Mara like a balloon hissing away its helium. She nearly ran to Cort, to wrap her arms around his lean waist, to soothe. But no sooner did relief chase across his features than his stoic face returned. Reality slapped her with good sense.

All business, Mara Lin, all business.
She locked her feet in place and her fingers behind her back. Instead of unwanted sympathy, she sent him a smile.

When Devlin stepped toward Cort, Mara stayed put. No need for introductions. The two men shook hands with firm grips and assessing gazes, but with no contest of strength, as she’d anticipated.

“My deepest apologies, Mr. Jones,” Devlin said. “I’ll let those two stew awhile before I deal with them. Rest assured their insult will not happen again.”

“No problem,” Cort said. “Goes with the territory.”

If he meant insult was what he had to deal with on a daily basis because he had that hardened look about him, no wonder so many ex-cons returned to crime. Her throat tightened.

Devlin introduced Max. “One of my best agents. He’ll be joining our meeting. Rivera has some information I think you’ll be interested in.”

“Jones.” Max extended his hand and Cort grasped it.

They took the high-backed chairs around the conference table, a gleaming match to Devlin’s desk. She steeled herself to hold her own amid all the testosterone in the room.

Her boss sat at the head facing the wall screen, with Max to his left. Mara beckoned Cort to join her on the other side. She’d feared he might walk out when he realized their circle of secrecy was widening in spite of his precautions and caveats. But he hadn’t batted an eyelash.

In the table’s center sat a tray with a pitcher of tea, glasses, cloth napkins, and small glass plates. “I can offer you iced tea,” Devlin said to Cort. “Or I have a full bar if you’d prefer something hard. It is after five.”

Cort took the seat beside Mara. “Tea’s fine. Thanks.”

Devlin was pouring the tea as his admin whirled in with a bakery box.

“Hope everyone enjoys this.” Slim and rigid as the sharpened pencil she kept tucked into her steel-gray French twist, Francine’s voice wavered. Flustered because of the ex-con elephant in the room? “Lemon bread. The bakery was out of cookies.”

She fumbled as she opened the box. A delicious lemony fragrance rose from the plate she removed.

“You didn’t have to go to all this trouble.” Cort said accepted a pale yellow slice. He winked at her. “But I’m glad you did.”

Her cheeks flushed the hue of her candy-pink lipstick. A first.

So, Cort had an effect on all females. Didn’t he put her at ease after her initial jitters when she met him? The same tough look that made men wary seemed to convey to the female sex a sense of protection and sensuality. Or she was reading more into this than she should.

“No calls, please, Francine,” Devlin said. “It’s late. You go on home.”

“Good call on the lemon stuff, darlin’,” Max said in his Texas drawl, helping himself to a second slab of the treat.

Francine smiled her thanks.

When the door had closed behind her, Devlin nodded to Mara. She clicked the remote to launch her presentation. The slides covered the facts as they knew them and the background information she’d gathered on the suspects. She finished with a slide of questions to be answered.

“In my view, these are the most pressing.” She inclined her head to Devlin. “Who is our competition? Who mugged me and searched my apartment? Who followed us in Dundalk? Who else is after the ring pieces?”

“And the Gramornian crown jewels?” Cort ended for her.

She found herself too aware of him to pay the attention she should to the enigmatic look exchanged between Devlin and Max. She watched Cort’s wide hand holding his drink, his scarred forefinger tracing the condensation on the fragile glass, the five-o’clock shadow darkening his stern jaw. When had she ever been so conscious of a man? Not since she was a teenager. Forcing herself to look away, she saw her boss had been making notes on his legal pad.

Devlin downed his tea and slid another slice of lemon bread onto his plate. “You’ve hit on the main reason I wanted this meeting. Max and I have
some
answers.”

“You know who else is after the crown jewels?” Cort asked, leaning forward.

Mara poured more tea into his glass. His eyebrows had twitched at the first taste of the pre-sweetened tea, but then he drank up without comment.

“Some information has come our way,” her boss said, doodling in the margins of his pad. “Max, please.”

The operative set down his glass. “Y’all probably are aware Gramornia is pushing the U.S. to find the crown jewels in time for their big shindig later this summer.” He folded his hands on the table. At ease and confident, he seemed to be the only relaxed member of the group. Even Devlin’s tension showed in the set of his jaw.

“June 2.” Mara clicked to a new slide showing the online news story. “Crowning of the new prince.”

Cort swiped a hand across his mouth. Covering his amusement at the technology? Tough. “We have less than two months.”

“Exactly,” Max said. “Seems the Gramornians don’t feel like relying on Uncle Sam. You can hardly blame them. The FBI has produced nada in the years since the robbery. Gramornia is on the hunt for the jewels. The Royal Guard sent an agent here undercover.”

Mara choked on her tea. “A Gramornian
spy
? That little country. You’re joking.”

“You’d be surprised,” Max said. “I have a buddy in the country. Knew him in the Stan.” At her blank look, he added, “Military slang for Afghanistan. Gramornia sent troops as part of the NATO forces. When he went home, he moved up to the Royal Guard. Happened to mention in an e-mail the palace scuttlebutt about the UC agent. There’s other political dirt but it probably doesn’t connect to this.”

Mara doubted the buddy just
“happened to mention”
the agents. More likely Max led him to the revelation.

“I was followed on the way here,” Cort said. “About five-ten, big nose, receding hairline. Lost him at Metro Center.”

Mara pictured the huge transfer station, an octopus of connecting lines. Definitely a place to lose a tail. Cort continued to impress her with his resourcefulness.

Max shrugged. “My buddy didn’t mention descriptions or names or the number of agents. If I ask, he might balk. Catch on I was pumping him.”

“First the over-muscled gorilla who grabbed me. Now this guy,” she said. “Are they working together or are they separate factions?” Her head reeled. Were she and Cort in danger from all sides? Feeling surrounded by enemies, she wiped her palms on her pants.