The Target (4 page)

The request surprised her. Another job already? “Sure.” Kiya left a five on the table for the waitress, strapped the canvas case over her shoulder, and slipped out of the booth. Her client followed her outside. A breeze blew in from the ocean, keeping the hot air from being insufferable. Instinctively, Kiya headed to the end of the building and turned up the alley. The brick-walled space was empty.

The woman caught up to her and walked shoulder to shoulder. Keeping her voice low, she asked, “Do you ever do any strong arm work?”

A tingle played on the back of her neck. What the hell did her client have in mind? Did she even want to know? “Not usually. What do you need? A shakedown?” Her criminal-enterprise experience—‌and sociopathic nature—‌qualified her to do enforcer work, but she preferred not to interact closely with people. Even for money. After being sold into marriage at the age of seven and passed between old brothers like an opium pipe, she wanted as little close contact with men as possible.

“I need something more direct,” the client said. “But if you’re not interested, it would be foolish to tell you about it.” Her mouth closed in a stern line.

The woman knew better than to give her any unnecessary information, because Kiya could—‌and would—‌use it to take her down if things ever got ugly between them. “Then we’re done here. See you next time.” Kiya turned and strode away.

“Wait.”

She stopped. The urgency in her client’s tone put Kiya at an advantage. Slowly, she turned back. “Yes?”

“I’ll double what I just paid you. And no one gets hurt. I need access to a secure building, and it’s easier if you have the guy with the password.”

They wanted her to extract it?
“I don’t do torture.” Kiya shook her head and turned away.

“No, it’s not like that. I need you to grab him, drug him, and bring him along.”

“That’s crazy. If he’s drugged, how does he provide the password?”

“It’s in his palm. So you can either cut off his hand or take him along.”

A radio-frequency implant. Intriguing. “Why not use the password pill I just acquired for you?”

“It’s not ready. I just like to see what my competitors are up to.”

“Double?” The money enticed her as well. It would be enough to pay for the revenge she had in mind for the father who’d sold her two decades ago. “What’s the target?”

“Three small implants. And if that goes well, I have another sabotage job for you soon.”

The industry was keeping her busy. “I want half up front.”

The client turned her head. “So you’re in?”

“I’m in.”

Wednesday, July 9, 4:05 p.m.

Dallas pulled into the Palm View condos on Bayard Street, and a sense of belonging washed over her. She loved the pale stucco, arched windows, and blooming flower boxes. Stepping out of the rental car, she took a deep breath. The air was better here too, but she couldn’t pinpoint the difference. Why did she stay in dry, ugly Phoenix? Stacie was there, but clinging to a location she hated for a childhood friend seemed, well, childish. She would have to talk to Dr. Harper about it.

She looked around the parking lot for River. The agent was supposed to meet her here. Maybe she was inside. Dallas headed upstairs to unit seven. She’d received the information that morning before catching her flight and had studied the TecLife founders’ profiles on the plane. Background info for this assignment was less critical than her last, where she’d had to infiltrate a group whose members were inherently paranoid. Going to work for a business was less challenging and less fun. But if someone at the company had killed Agent Palmer to protect their activities, it would be no less dangerous.

On a brighter note, a gorgeous young man came out of a condo on the ground floor and jogged toward the parking lot. Dressed only in shorts and lovely tanned skin, he spotted her moments later. Dallas wished she’d had a chance to freshen her makeup, which tended to disappear on flights.

He trotted over, showing perfect white teeth. Just under six feet and a little small for her taste. But his body was a sculpted work of art.

“Hello, sunshine.” He nodded toward her luggage. “I hope you plan to stay awhile.”

She gave him her most charming smile. “Long enough to get acquainted, I’m sure.” She held out her hand. “J.C. Hunter. My friends call me Jace.”

“Davis Longmore.” He shook her hand, stroking her palm as he let go.

A player. Nice. She could use a little recreational sex, with no ulterior motive attached.

“I’m out for a run,” he said. “What unit are you in? I’ll stop by with a proper housing-warming gift later.”

“Seven. Give me some time to unpack and freshen up.”

“You look as fresh as it gets.” He grinned. “See you later.”

She waved, not wanting to open her mouth and drool.

Upstairs, she found the condo unlocked and River seated at a small breakfast table, working on her laptop. The agent stood, looking leaner than Dallas remembered. But the tall, forty-something woman still had a curveless body, with wide shoulders that her gray jacket couldn’t hide. Dallas rolled her luggage inside and closed the door. “Hey, River. Good to see you.”

“Likewise.” She stood and offered her hand. “Thanks for coming. This case is important to me.”

“You worked with Joe Palmer?”

“No, he took me in when I was an orphaned teenager.”

That surprised her. “You grew up here in San Diego?”

“Yes. I stayed in touch with Joe and his wife, but this is only my second time back.” River’s eyes signaled pain.

Dallas decided it wasn’t appropriate to ask her about it. They needed to get down to business. She spotted a Bunn brewer on the counter. “Is there any coffee?”

“Sorry, you’ll have to shop. I just got the keys an hour ago. But you’re close to the beach, and the view isn’t bad.”

“Sweet.” She’d never lived anywhere near the beach—‌even on assignment. Dallas dropped her purse on the table and took a quick tour of the rental. “This must be costing the bureau some serious outlay.”

“I know you work quickly, so I figured we could afford it.”

“Thanks.” The condo was furnished with the basics: an overstuffed, microfiber couch and chair, two paintings of the harbor, and a large area rug in bold turquoise and red. She probably wouldn’t spend much time here, but she appreciated comfort and color. Dallas opened a kitchen cupboard and discovered a full compliment of dishware. “This place must be typically rented to vacationers.”

“It’s owned by snowbirds who are only here in the winter.” River sat back down. “I felt lucky to find it. Saved us both a lot of setup.”

Dallas grabbed a glass, filled it with water, and joined River at the table. “When and how do I make contact with TecLife?”

“Upload your résumé to their website today, and Jana Palmer, their human resource director, will set you up with an interview tomorrow.”

“Will she be an inside ally for me?”

“Not really. She’ll help you get hired, but beyond that, we won’t involve her.”

“Who am I interviewing with?” Male or female made a difference in how she would dress and prep for it.

“I’m not certain, but most likely it will be Max Grissom. He’s reportedly very hands-on about hiring decisions.”

Good.
She would apply pheromones. They’d proved to be effective in winning quick trust and affection in her last infiltration. “Is he my main target? Or does Mrs. Palmer have a sense of which executive is behind the sabotage?”

“She overheard a suspicious conversation and thinks Max Grissom was the person talking. And Jana says Grissom is more aggressive and less ethical than Cheryl Decker.”

That fit with what she’d learned. Decker had spent years working on a cure for a rare disease and never gave interviews for business articles. “What about Curtis Santera? I understand he has a significant financial stake in the company.”

“You’ll have to target all three until you find something tangible. They could all be involved.” River reached for her briefcase. “We want to get ears inside their offices as quickly as possible. But we need something to justify a court order.”

“What about accessing their computers and turning on the cameras?”

“We’ll do that too, but we still need warrants. You’ll have to eavesdrop and elicit gossip to get us started.”

A tremor vibrated up her spine. She couldn’t wait to get going. “How do you want me to contact you?”

“Whatever is safest for you at the time. I’ve still got the same Gmail accounts. Do you need a burner phone?”

“I’m covered. Where are you staying?”

“In an apartment not far from here, but our future contact needs to be more discreet.”

Fine with her. She enjoyed furtive conversations in moving cars and dropping evidence into pockets as she passed.

River stood. “I’d better get out of here before anyone sees us together.”

“I’ll be in touch daily.”

“Good luck with your interview. If they don’t hire you, we’ll have to move to Plan B.”

“Which is?”

“A sting. But we would need to start over with a new UC agent.” River flashed a grim smile. “So nail this one please.”

Dallas gave a mock salute. “Yes, ma’am.”

After River left, she read through the files again, refreshing her knowledge of the TecLife executives. Max Grissom was a doctor who’d gone straight from med school to a biological company, then eventually founded his own medical device startup with cutting edge technology. But TecLife had branched out, and news reports speculated that it was developing drug-device combinations. Cheryl Decker had a much thinner file. After leaving Stanford with a masters in molecular biology, she’d gone to work for ProtoCell, then four years later, joined with Grissom to form TecLife. But there were no online profiles or news stories, and the only picture they had of her was fifteen years old. A mystery woman or just a dedicated scientist who shunned social exposure?

Dallas would soon find out.

Wednesday, July 9, 6:25 p.m.

As the music stopped, Raul Cortez kissed the cheek of his partner, a lovely older woman he saw only in class. “I have to check my messages. Meet you back here in five minutes.” He hurried to the chair where his jacket hung, not wanting to miss even a moment of instruction. Tonight, they were learning advanced steps for the samba.

He grabbed the phone and a wave of panic washed over him. He’d missed three messages—‌all from his supervisor, Sergeant Briggs. The first message told him everything: “Cortez. Team three has a homicide at an abandoned cannery on Sicard Street in the Barrio Logan area. Hawthorne is running the case, but he needs the whole team down there ASAP.”

Another homicide to investigate. His already-thumping heart swelled with anticipation. He’d only been a detective for four months, but this was his dream job. Or, more honestly, a great backup plan. He knew he’d never be a professional ballroom dancer, but law-enforcement made him feel good about himself, and not at all like he was settling. And the promotion to detective had been a huge bonus. Cortez hurried over to his dance partner, who was downing a bottle of water. “I’m sorry, but I have to leave. I have a homicide.” A rush of pride made him smile.

“Then go already. You’re one of the good ones.” She smiled and waved him off.

Outside, the pink sun shimmered near the horizon and heat rolled off the asphalt. But he could smell the ocean, so he never complained about San Diego’s weather. In his car, he changed out of his tank top and pulled on a white, long-sleeved work shirt. The dark jacket could wait until he reached the crime scene, a twenty-minute drive. Once he was on the expressway, he called Sergeant Riggs but didn’t get a response. He started to call Hawthorne, then changed his mind. The senior detective wouldn’t want to be interrupted at the crime scene. He’d learned that on the last case. Working with him was a challenge, but also an opportunity to learn. Cortez vowed to not make a single mistake this time.

The GPS took him to an industrial area along the bay, east of Coronado Island. The abandoned cannery had probably processed tuna decades ago, before most of the industry had shifted to Japan. He was surprised the property hadn’t been re-developed. Cortez pulled into the fenced lot, noting that only two squad cars and one detective sedan were on the scene. Detective Harris, another team member, hadn’t shown up yet, and neither had the medical examiner. The fourth detective on their team had been pulled into a unit-wide serial killer investigation a month earlier, so he wouldn’t be involved.

What was a dead body doing here? It must have been dumped. Cortez cringed, thinking the case could be difficult. He wanted a chance to prove he could help close homicides. Pulling on his suit jacket, he climbed from the car. A powerful scent of rust, seaweed, and decay hit his nostrils. Sometimes, he wished he didn’t have a heightened sense of smell.

A uniformed officer stood in front of the long, low building. Cortez hurried over and showed the badge on his belt. “Detective Cortez.” He felt his mother smiling every time he said it.

“The body’s around back,” the officer said, gesturing. “In the little room near the platform.”

“Thanks.” He trotted around the building, sweat forming on his brow as soon as he pulled on latex gloves. Twenty feet away, another uniformed officer talked to a young woman in jogging clothes who held a small dog on a leash. Behind them, a decrepit loading dock stuck out from the cannery. The jogger had probably found the body. But where? Cortez hurried over, nodded at the officer, and pulled a camera from his zippered briefcase. He stepped toward the decaying wood still holding up the building. A broken door led into a small room. Inside, a big man in a dark suit squatted next to a man’s body. A dust-covered desk hugged up against the back wall and a chair stood in the middle of the old office. The smell of wet metal hung heavy in the air, and a reddish-brown stain coated the steel gray of the right front chair leg. Cortez snapped several photos, seeing the crime scene through the lens, as if it were a movie setting. This one was black-and-white, a noir piece with solemn investigators. All that was missing were the fedoras.