Bishop Security Headquarters
April 5
The third floor of the Bishop Security building consisted of temporary apartments for operators, a recreation room with all the bells and whistles, a coffee bar, and a massive catering kitchen. Leo “Ren” Jameson was seated at an expansive farmhouse table nursing a double espresso and reading the police report on the Cal Landry murder. His phone sat on the table on speaker.
“I don’t know, Finn. Promising the last laugh is hardly a threat.”
“All I know is it bothered her enough that she remembers it seven years later.”
“I’m going over the file now. I’ll call you back.”
“Thanks, man.”
Ren ended the call. The muted bing of the elevator’s arrival had him looking up. The doors parted, and Sofria Kirk stepped out. When her chocolate eyes found his, her face lit up.
“Leo,” she greeted him.
Ren stood, the urge to embrace this radiant woman nearly insurmountable, but he fought it. He had met Sofria three years earlier when she helped the team investigate the arms dealer Dario Sava. Sava had abducted Emily Bishop, and Sofria had provided intel. He could remember standing in the hall of her Georgetown apartment building and feeling punched in the gut at the sight of her—thick mahogany hair in a pile on her head, glowing cafe au lait skin, full lips—and then kicked in the nuts when he determined her age. She had said the CIA recruited her in her junior year at Columbia. God. She had been practically a teenager. She was young, too young. At thirty-five, Ren was the oldest guy on the team. Even now, the jolt of lust he felt when he saw her made him feel vile. He returned her smile with a curt nod. She frowned at the chilly reception and cautiously approached.
“I have some time off, so I looked into the Cal Landry investigation in Tampa,” she offered.
“I’m reading the police report now.” Ren pointed to his laptop.
She scooted her chair around next to his at the table’s end cap, and Ren was hit with a subtle fragrance of jasmine. He shifted his seat to accommodate her.
Reaching over to his trackpad, she found the page of the report she needed and said, “Have you read this witness statement?”
“From the Landry Orbital COO, Valerie Fan, yes. I know where you’re going. The man she mentioned.”
“Yes,” Sofria said. “She said that right before he stopped breathing, Cal Landry looked over and was staring at a man.”
“I saw that, but come on, the guy was dying. The other man could have just been in his line of sight.”
“I don’t think so, Leo. I spoke to Ms. Fan. She said Cal’s eyes were darting around frantically as he struggled to breathe. Then when he spotted the man, he squeezed her hand so hard, he bruised her fingers.”
“You think the unsub who slipped the tainted olive in his drink stayed to watch the show.”
“I do, and I think Cal Landry knew him.”
“Even with Samir Vogel dead, there’s a long list of suspects; Landry was no angel.”
“Yes, but,” Sofria started.
“I agree. Samir Vogel ties the journalist Regina Phelps, Cal Landry, and Twitch together.” Ren finished her sentence.
Sofria passed Ren the tablet from her messenger bag. “Here’s the article Regina Phelps wrote about Twitch’s victory at the hacking event.”
Ren took the device and skimmed the piece. “Jesus, she didn’t pull any punches.”
“She calls Vogel a modern-day Icarus whose genius was eclipsed by hubris,” Sofria said.
“Ouch.” Ren winced.
“Indeed.”
Sofria reached across his body to point out the quote in the article. If she noticed his granite stillness, she didn’t show it. Tapping the device still clutched in his hands, she brought up a video clip—grainy surveillance footage.
“This is the security camera feed from the bank around the corner from the Tampa restaurant.” She touched the play arrow.