door, allowing her to put both her briefcase and overnight bag in the back, then opened the front door for her.
“A gentleman after all.”
“There are a few of us left.”
Once they’d driven past the marine stationed at the gate, she said, “I’m assuming you know where he lives?”
“Vaguely.”
“You mind filling me in on why all the secrecy? The background?”
“The case is important. We needed to know that everyone involved could be trusted.”
“Thought that was why the Bureau did the backgrounds before they hired us.”
“People change.”
The conversation ended there, and they drove in silence. About ten minutes later, her phone vibrated. Carillo. “Hey,” she said, answering.
“Not only is your guy not with the Bureau, but any record of whatever you’re working on? Your Jane Doe? It’s not there. Like you’re not even in Quantico right now.”
“So I’m beginning to find out.” She kept her gaze straight ahead, tried to keep her voice conversational, pleasant as they sped past the barren trees, the gray winter sky.
“Can you say OGA?”
OGA stood for other government agency. Only problem was that term ran the gamut, and if there was one thing the government had, it was lots of agencies and shadow agencies, some above board, some so far undercover that even the legit agencies didn’t know they existed. “I’d rather not.”
“I’m thinking CIA, but I haven’t gotten a verification on that yet. Can’t get shadier than them. When you coming back to your mother’s?”
“Tomorrow. I’m spending the night at Scotty’s.”
A long pause followed. “Fine. It’s your life. Just don’t forget he’s no good for you.”
“One of our friends was killed in a car accident.”
“Oh.”
“Gotta go.” She eyed Griffin as she tucked the phone on her belt. “You don’t work for the Bureau.”
“Never said I did.”
“But you never denied it.”
“No one asked.”
And she had to agree, it had only been implied. “You were willing to let me believe you worked for us.”
“Why do I get the feeling we picked the wrong forensic artist?”
“A little late for that direction.” She crossed her arms, trying to figure out what agency he possibly worked for.
“Everything in your background that we conducted alluded to you being…compliant. The sort who doesn’t ask questions.”
“Well, like you said about backgrounds. People change.”
“In a couple months?”
“Trust me,” she said, trying to rein in her anger, since it would do her little good to get on his bad side. “It was a hellish couple months. So, what are you? CIA?”
“That bothers you?”
“Uptight as you are, Secret Service fits better. Presidential detail.”
He glanced over at her, then back at the road, signaling for a lane change. “I used to work for them.”
“Figures.”
A slight smile creased the corners of his mouth, but then just as quickly faded back to the staid, unexpressive personality he’d exhibited throughout their short tenure at Quantico. Definitely a Company man.
Zach Griffin glanced over at Sydney Fitzpatrick. It would’ve been better had she returned to San Francisco, so that no one would suspect she’d been working on the case. Then again, maybe it was just as well. Keep a better eye on her here. Find out what she knew or suspected. She’d said nothing the last ten minutes, just watched the passing scenery, no doubt grieving for her friend. Unfortunately, he’d been ordered not to tell her, even though he’d argued that her compliance might be greater if she knew the risks up front. Now she had even more reason to distrust them, and she didn’t know the half of it.
He turned his attention back to the rearview mirror, saw the smoke-gray Honda. He’d watched it for the last dozen miles, thinking about how Fitzpatrick had said she was followed on her run this morning. He wondered if the Honda was a tail, a bad one, or if he was just being his usual paranoid self.
Turned out he wasn’t the only paranoid one, because Fitzpatrick nodded toward the mirror. “Either that gray Honda’s been following us the last fifteen minutes, or the driver’s got some obsessive-compulsive complex that requires he stay exactly two cars behind us.”
“Or,” he said, “the car we’re in looks like any other unmarked police car, and he’s worried about getting a ticket.”
“He’d be inching up on us if that were the case. Peeking into the window to find out if we really were cops.” She was quiet a few seconds, then, “So what sort of case is this that you have people following you when you leave Quantico?”
He wasn’t about to answer that, but he decided to find out