“Well, hello sunshine,” he replies dryly. “Fuck you in the morning, too. You never asked about flag dude again.”
“I wasn’t aware I needed to micromanage you to do your job. What about him?”
“Jess Wild. Ex-CIA. Does contract-to-hire work and makes my kind of bank.”
“Which tells us what?”
“He has a thing for wine. He spent time in wine country investigating a French operative who also liked wine.”
“You’re telling me he was vacationing?”
“I’m telling you he showed up there last week, at the same time that a married female executive of Davenport Data showed up. And since he’s banging her, we suspect she’s either his client or his target.”
“Does she connect to Faith or anyone connected to Faith?”
“Not that we know of, but we aren’t stupid, despite your general opinion that we are. Banging a powerful hot chick as a cover is what I’d call brilliant. We’re watching him.”
“And the problems at the winery?”
“I have nothing new. Obviously, someone is still squeezing Faith to sell. And all I can say, is history—”
“Do not repeat that history repeats shit again.”
He changes the subject. “I hacked the autopsy report again.”
“And?”
“The written form filled out to order the proper testing was scanned and marked correctly, but when it was input into the database for actual completion the data was incorrect. The important tests were left off. It could have been an input error but per the internal memos, the person who input it insists she didn’t make an error.”
“It was hacked.”
“That’s my conclusion,” he says. “Someone knew you ordered the autopsy and made sure certain toxins were not checked for. And we both know that there are substances that won’t show up if you aren’t looking for them.”
“Jess Wild,” I say. “That flag wearing ex-CIA agent. It has to be him.”
“Except that he let you know he was there. That’s a stupid move with someone like you. Then again, he could be such an arrogant prick that he wants to challenge you.”
“I need to buy us some time,” I say. “Play the game. Give them what they want.”
“If you mean put the winery on the market, you risk someone like Bill fearing the bids will get too high. Once a killer—”
“Always a killer,” I supply, as he repeats my thoughts from the other night. “We need to reel in the uncle. Make him think he can get in with Faith and that’s a big order.”
“You can be her voice of reason,” he says. “Of course, you’ll have to convince Faith that this makes sense without sharing your suspicions.” He laughs. “Good luck with that one.”
My phone beeps and I glance at the caller ID to find Kurt’s number. “I’ll be in touch,” I say to Beck, and disconnect, answering the line. “Kurt,” I greet, eyeing my watch. “I’m expecting you in the next hour, correct?”
“My attorney can’t look at this until this afternoon.”
“Then get another attorney,” I say. “You’ve had time and this is a gift. I can insert another name in this paperwork in sixty seconds. Have the signed documents here by three or I will.” I hang up and start counting. One. Two. My phone rings again.
I answer the line. “I’ll just sign the damn thing. I’ll be there at two.” He hangs up.
And I have the outcome I’m after. That club is not mine. Faith is.
***
I spend the fifteen minutes that I manage to spare for lunch on the phone with Faith, sharing her excitement that her paintings have officially been received. By two, I have my document from Kurt. By four I have about ten crisis situations that ensure I’m going to have to work late. I text Faith:I’m going to have a late night. I’ll text you on the way home about dinner.