He picks up after one ring.
“Are you sure?” I don’t waste words on a greeting.
“Absolutely. They’re good, but I’m better.”
“Shit.” I press a hand to my eyes, the stress of constantly being watched becoming more unbearable, the longer it goes on.
My phone beeps with another incoming call. I look at the screen to seePrickon the caller ID.
“They’re calling. Keep me updated.”
I hit the button to end the call with Jackson and answer the incoming one.
“Bradshaw?”
“Here.”
“I’ve got some bad news.”
FBI Agent Rick Grange has been leading the investigation on the case. His name is Prick in my phone because it rhymes with Rick and he’s a prick.
“You’re at a dance recital instead of doing your job?” My voice is dripping with sarcasm.
He ignores me.
“We’re on high alert. A known website for suspicious foreign activity pinged for two keywords this morning—SteelhartandLynx.”
My chest tightens. Steelhart was the name of our mission...but Lynx was my code name in the field. Now would be a good time to tell him about Kate Dawson, but then he’ll step in with his pointless, snail-paced investigation. I’m sick of waiting on the US government.
“Well, I guess you’d better get off your ass and do something about it.”
I hang up the phone.
Jackson can’t seemto find anything in Kate Dawson’s past indicating that she’s an agent. Which could mean I’m totally off my game, or she’s just that damn good. The Russian bugs are undeniable evidence, no matter how clean her record appears to be.
There’s no way to have any idea if her life depicted online is real or not. The hackers who work for Tycos can hack into the government’s database to find nuclear launch codes. Creating a fake car payment and employment history is no problem.
The only way to know if she is who she claims to be is to dig up her history the old-fashioned way. Stalking her, going through garbage, and finding the people in her life who should be real and seeing if they are. Her entire life being a setup isn’t impossible, but if I dig far enough, I’ll find the chink in her story.
I’m starting with her best friend and roommate, Melanie Ford. She’s a hairdresser with a massive amount of credit card debt. It’s too easy to pick the lock to her apartment on Sunday morning. I watched her and my PA pull away in her car a few minutes ago.
The door opens to reveal a messy studio that’s smaller than the en suite bathroom in my penthouse.
Two people live in this tiny place?
There are high heels and clothing littering the floor and a rumpled-up blanket and pillow on the sofa. The end table has a pair of glasses and a stack of mail on it. I pick them up to see the name Kate Dawson on the top.
Inside the envelope is a bill for a doctor’s appointment and a brain scan.
Is Kate sick?My stomach tightens at the possibility, but I shove it aside to keep digging.
The next one is a bill for Memory Care, a facility on the other side of town.
I go back to the first and am relieved to see the name Mark Dawson at the top as the patient for both places. It must be a relative—maybe her fake grandfather. Upon further investigation, I realize that she is behind on the charges for the care facility.
Why would the Russians go to such unnecessary lengths to establish her identity?
The apartment seems typical, except for the fact that it’s so small. There’s also a little glass aquarium with a turtle in it to the side, and I remember Kate telling me about the pet that night at the bar. I pick up a worn leather notebook, flipping through it to see colored drawings of cartoons, mostly little animals with big eyes. Turtles seem to be her preferred muse. I try not to smile at the fact that she has such a cute hobby, but it’s difficult.
