Identity Crisis. Kate Donovan
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doubt in your mind, Ortega? Where are you gonna find someone better? A leggy redhead with a brain and a black belt—if I were twenty years younger, I’d hire her myself!”
Despite his annoyance at the remark, Ray knew better than to object. After all, Colonel Payton was the president’s best friend and adviser. Wasn’t that how the guy had gotten himself on the SPIN interview panel in the first place? It was all politics. But the choice of a new “spinner” was ultimately Ray’s alone, so why sweat it?
He even sent a perfunctory smile in the colonel’s direction. “I agree, sir, she’s an impressive prospect. But something about her bothers me. I just can’t put my finger on it.”
“Let me guess,” interrupted the third interviewer, Ray’s fellow profiler, David Wong. “She’s too sexy? Too smart? Speaks too many languages?”
“Okay, okay.” Ray was laughing in spite of himself. “I’ll admit, she’s perfect. Too perfect. That’s what bothers me. If I had set out to design the ideal candidate for this job—”
A dull but insistent warning bell sounded in his brain, and he pulled out his cell phone, then punched in his secretary’s number. “Beth? Did the original transcripts for Melissa Daniels ever arrive from Yale?”
“We got them a few minutes ago, boss. Want me to bring them over?”
Confused, Ray murmured, “No. Thanks anyway,” and ended the call.
“What is it, Ray?” Wong demanded. “Didn’t she check out? I followed up on her references myself, and everyone—including the dean—sang her praises.”
Ray stopped him with a wave of his hand. “Don’t worry, she’s legit.”
He was about to go further, to admit that they were right, and Daniels was the hands-down best candidate, when a buzz from his cell phone preempted his attention.
Murmuring “Give me a second, will you?” he flipped open the phone and gave his habitual salutation. “This is Ortega. What’s up?”
“Hi, Mr. Ortega. You said to call if I thought of anything else.”
“Ms. Daniels?” Ray arched an eyebrow in the direction of Wong and the colonel. “Sure, go ahead. The others are still here.”
“Good, because there’s one tiny matter I’d really like to bring to your attention.”
“There’s more?” He had to laugh, wondering what further credentials she could possibly have. “Shoot.”
“Well, sir…” The candidate gulped audibly. “Everything on my résumé is a fabrication.”
“Huh?”
“I made it all up. Every bit of it.”
Stunned, Ray tried to think of something to say, finally settling for, “Where are you, Ms. Daniels?”
“Right outside the door. But my name isn’t Daniels. It’s Hennessy. Kristie Hennessy.”
“Hennessy?”
“And I should probably warn you, I’m going to look very different the next time you see me.”
He shook his head, not trusting himself to respond to that.
“Shall I come back in, sir?”
“Yes. Absolutely,” he assured her, turning his full attention to the doorway.
“So? What’s going on?” Wong demanded. “What new information did she give you?”
“Huh?” Ray had almost forgotten his colleagues were in the room, so intent was his focus on Daniels—or rather Hennessy—and the door that would readmit her.
But facts were facts, and the other interviewers had a right to know, so without taking his gaze off the doorway, he announced with a self-mocking smile, “Congratulations, gentlemen. It appears we’ve got ourselves a new spinner.”
Chapter 1
“Say your prayers, blondie, because tonight, I’m gonna flatten you!” Kristie Hennessy aimed a high-flying kick straight at her target’s smiling face and shouted, “Take that!”
The five-foot-high bop bag careened backward, dipping nearly to the floor, then bounced back up, still grinning.
“Curse you, Betty Bop!” Kristie’s fists began to pummel the bag with feigned ferocity, interspersed with high kicks. “Take that! And that!”
Her aim was getting better, and she congratulated herself as she danced around the toy, attacking it from every direction. This was so much more fun than hitting and kicking the twin-bed mattress that was still propped against the wall of her spare bedroom, having served as her target for weeks while she worked through the introductory lessons of a kickboxing videotape.
“No more faceless enemy,” she crowed. “Just two blondes kicking each other senseless. There’s a dumb-blonde joke in there somewhere, Betty, but I can’t think of a good punch line.”
Landing a final kick, she stood back and bowed to her synthetic opponent, which had been painted to resemble a popular computer-game heroine sporting yellow hair, ample—albeit two-dimensional—breasts and a gold leotard.
Turning to catch a glimpse of her own ensemble—cutoff jeans and a gray halter top soaked with sweat—Kristie grimaced. Not exactly a superheroine, but that was okay with her. After all, she didn’t plan on ever putting these skills to use. She just liked understanding what her operatives went through so that she could design more effective cover stories for them.
Because you’re Super-Spinner, she reminded herself playfully, acknowledging that she was indeed living a kind of fantasy, thanks to having been lucky enough to land a job in Washington, D.C., with the Strategic Profiling and Identification Network, otherwise known as SPIN. Where else could she hope to spend hours every day brainstorming by phone with agents from the FBI, DEA and ATF, as well as detectives from sophisticated metropolitan police departments like the NYPD and LAPD?
Although closely associated with the FBI, SPIN had been designed and established as a separate federal entity working on a contract basis with various law-enforcement agencies. Sometimes the task was straightforward, such as profiling a suspect or confirming a profile that had already been developed. Other times, a spinner became immersed in a particular case by designing an undercover identity for an agent and then providing phone support for the duration of the operation. The contracting agency decided the level of support needed, and budgeted the project accordingly. SPIN’s own internal budget was small, focusing on high-tech equipment and a core staff of profilers and strategists.
In her six months with the agency, Kristie had demonstrated an aptitude and commitment that had earned her the respect of her team, the confidence of director Ray Ortega and a portfolio of complex and highly sensitive cases that absorbed her every waking thought.
And at the moment, the most absorbing of those assignments was the assistance she was providing to Special Agent Justin Russo of the FBI, who in turn was assisting police in locating a kidnapped child.
“Justin, why don’t you call?” she entreated her favorite operative aloud as she stripped off her drenched clothes and headed for the shower, taking the cordless phone with her into the bathroom, just in case. “It’s almost nine o’clock. You always call by eight, so what gives?”
Turning up the spray of hot water until it was at full force, she stepped into the shower and allowed her muscles to relax.
He’ll call. He always does. He’s not like McGregor, thank heavens. The world could be coming to an end and he wouldn’t think to pick up the phone.
McGregor, McGregor, McGregor…
Of all the agents she had worked with thus far at SPIN, Will McGregor was the most confounding to Kristie. No matter how many times she came through for him—designing identities, profiling informants, strategizing