Identity Crisis. Kate Donovan
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socialize with other agents all the time, and that doesn’t keep me from being objective when it counts,” Justin muttered. “It’s a bullshit rule, Essie. Ask Ortega to make an exception, or I might just have to take matters into my own hands.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I know where SPIN headquarters is located, more or less. Maybe I’ll spend my vacation on a stakeout instead of an island. That’s what I do for a living, remember? And I’m pretty good at it. If I want to meet you, I can and will.”
“Okay, that’s enough,” she scolded him. “I know you’re kidding, but the monitors might think you’re serious and get us both in trouble. So just be a good little agent and tell me you’re going to Tahiti.”
Justin growled. “I forgot about that monitor bullshit. Yeah, yeah, I’m kidding.”
“And?” she prompted him.
“And I’m going to Tahiti for mindless sex with beach bunnies.”
“That’s better.”
“You oughta take a break, too. And if any monitors are listening,” the agent raised his voice and warned, “get your own lives and stop listening to ours!”
Kristie laughed fondly. “Have fun in Tahiti, Justin. Drink something frosty and tropical for me.”
“Will do. And I’ll call as soon as I get back.”
“Assuming we have an active assignment together,” she reminded him, still wary of the monitors.
“Stupid bullshit rules,” he repeated in clear disgust. “Take care, beautiful.”
“Bye, Justin.”
As she hung up the phone, she remembered what the agent had said. They were friends. Nothing romantic about it. Just like Kristie and Ray.
Glancing toward her boss’s office, she saw him standing there, watching her through the glass wall, his hands on his hips. Without hesitation, she smiled and waved, and to her delight, he smiled and waved back—his old self again.
So much for David’s lame-brain theory, she told herself happily, then she opened the new folder—red, which meant it was politically sensitive and on a fast track—and settled down to spin.
Chapter 3
The street was semideserted on her walk home from work, which suited Kristie just fine. It would give her a chance to mull over the details of her new case, so that she could design just the right cover story for the young female agent who would be infiltrating a posh sorority on an Ivy League campus.
Of course, it would have helped to know the agent’s mission, but as with most red folders, this one came with strings attached. Nowhere in the file did it reveal the nature of the wrong that would be righted, which told the spinner it was either so highly classified, it couldn’t be shared with someone at her level of clearance, or it was some sort of quasi-political vendetta. Perhaps the precious daughter of some high-ranking U.S. government official had become involved in some grade-tampering scandal with her sorority sisters, and SPIN had been enlisted for damage control for fear the episode would reflect on the official’s agency or party.
It annoyed Kristie to think she could waste hours of precious spinning on such an undeserving case. Then she reminded herself that it was part of the job. These assignments, however distasteful, helped keep SPIN well financed, even in hard times. And as bad as it was occasionally for the spinners, Ray had it worse. As the director, he was constantly forced to do political favors, most recently and repugnantly, for the president’s adviser Colonel Ulysses S. Payton. Kristie remembered the chauvinistic jerk from her interview, and knew that his meddling in SPIN affairs had grown along with his power within the administration in general. The thought that her first commendation had come from so ignominious a source made her want to kick a bop bag.
If Ray can put up with Payton, you can be a sport about this sorority caper, she told herself briskly. It might even be fun. Just give your imagination free rein on this one.
But something else had captured her imagination—the sensation that someone was following her. Surprisingly, the idea didn’t frighten her. After all, she was just three blocks from home on a well-lit, well-traveled street. It was simply intriguing, especially when she reminded herself of what Ray had said—that there was no such thing as instinct or intuition. Forcing herself to pay closer attention, she realized she could actually hear a second pair of footsteps. And unlike the sounds from the soft-soled shoes she had changed into just before heading out of the office, these were the dull clop-clop-clop of men’s dress shoes.
Not instinct. Just observation and deduction.
And it definitely didn’t require instinct for her to guess the identity of her stalker.
You just had to prove your point, didn’t you, Justin? she grumbled silently, remembering the agent’s threat to arrange a face-to-face meeting.
Several other SPIN employees lived in her neighborhood, and the last thing she needed was to be seen socializing with a field agent, so she ducked down an alley, then turned and planted her hands on her hips, ready to give the agent a piece of her mind. But it wasn’t clean-cut Justin Russo who strode right up to her. It was someone much scarier.
“Ray!”
His golden-brown eyes were wide, his voice strained. “What are you doing in an alley? Are you insane? What if I’d been a mugger?”
“Then I would have kicked your ass,” she quipped.
“What?”
Kristie winced. “I’m kidding, Ray. I knew you weren’t a mugger. From your shoes.”
“Pardon?”
“Men’s dress shoes. Not exactly designed for a quick getaway.” She tapped her temple with her index finger. “Analysis. Not instinct.”
“You were willing to bet your life on the fact that muggers never wear dress shoes?” His scowl deepened. “I still don’t get why you went down the alley. You didn’t know it was me.”
“The truth?” She squirmed but admitted, “I thought it might be Justin.”
“Russo?”
“Get a grip. I was wrong. It’s just…” She tried to smile, failed, and grimaced instead. “He joked about it today on the phone. About meeting me. I heard the footsteps of a well-dressed, athletic, clearly good-looking guy, and jumped to conclusions.”
“Athletic and good-looking?” Ray chuckled. “Nice save. Come on. I’ll walk you home.”
“Not so fast, Ortega.”
“Huh?”
She eyed him sternly. “You interrogated me. Now it’s my turn. Why were you following me?”
“I wasn’t.” He cleared his throat. “Not really. I was just trying to catch up to you.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. I wanted to talk to you before you left, but I got a call. Then you took off. So I followed. I would’ve called out your name, but I didn’t want to startle you.”
She stepped closer, intrigued by the fact that he seemed uncomfortable. “Talk to me about what?”
He flushed. “I was a little rough on you this morning.”
“And so?” She flashed a playful smile. “You wanted to apologize? But instead you scared me half to death?”
“You didn’t look scared.”
“And you don’t sound apologetic.”
“Touché.” Ray inclined his head toward the brightly lit street. “Walk with me.”
When he cupped her elbow with his hand and steered her toward home, she reminded