the Rheaume case is the only one I’m involved with.” She wasn’t about to elaborate on the reason that it was her only one. If he didn’t already know about her current employment problems—something she figured was fairly unlikely since that kind of thing tended to get around the Bureau pretty quickly—she saw no reason to enlighten him. To make herself look worse in his eyes.
“What brings you here?” Tom asked.
Mark’s mouth tightened. “Perhaps you could excuse us, Tom. I need to speak with Beth.”
Those words took her by surprise. Especially since she’d assumed he was there to see one of the other agents or even Tom. What would Mark Gerritsen need to discuss with her that he wouldn’t want to talk about in front of Tom Weston?
Tom glanced at her. “Are you okay here?”
What was he asking? Why did he seem so hesitant to leave her with Mark? Was it concern for her? Or was he simply worried she’d do something to make their boss look bad? And that as the senior special agent at the scene, he would somehow be held responsible?
“I’m fine.” Those two words were quickly becoming her new mantra.
Mark waited to speak until after Tom walked off. “Fine might be an overstatement. If you haven’t already had someone look at your head, maybe you should.”
“Thanks for the concern, but I’m okay. And I’m curious about what would bring you here tonight.”
Mark turned his back to the breeze. “I just came from trying to see a friend of yours.”
Hands shoved deep into the pockets of her coat, she leaned against the car fender, even more perplexed. “What friend?”
“Rabbit Rheaume.”
The name took her by surprise. “Really?” Glancing down, noticing the ripped-out knee on her pantyhose, she immediately lifted her gaze again. She wanted to look more confident, more together than she felt. “I plan to pay him a visit tomorrow. To give him the good news about Leon Tyber.”
Mark stared at her. “You’ll find him at the morgue.”
Mark followed Beth into her small bungalow. It hadn’t taken much to convince her to let him bring her home. Or to control the conversation during the drive. They’d covered the recent weather and a number of other unmemorable topics. And the only time she’d brought up Rheaume’s death, he’d suggested they wait until they reached her place. Her agreement had come in the form of silence.
Just inside the door, she stopped to disarm the security system and to turn on the foyer and living room lights, but then kept moving. “Make yourself comfortable. I’m going to put on some coffee.”
“Sure.”
As she walked on through to what he assumed was the kitchen, he didn’t follow. He wanted to give her some space. Even if she wasn’t displaying any of the obvious signs of distress, she was still coping with it internally. He recalled the first time he’d used lethal force, the way his hands had shaken for hours afterward. How, for nearly a week following the incident, even when he hadn’t been thinking about the shooting, his hands would suddenly start to tremble again.
Turning, he checked out the living room. Though the house and neighborhood dated before the 1940s, the inside of the home had been decorated with an almost loftlike starkness. Lots of metal and wood and bright colors.
He glanced at the red chair and hassock in front of the unlit fireplace and found himself wishing he could afford the luxury of just sitting, of sharing a cup of coffee with a woman without having to interrogate her.
Unfortunately he couldn’t do either of those things. He had a meeting in Boston in the morning, and in the meantime he had a job to do.
The kitchen light went on and then there was an extended stretch of silence where he was left to wonder what she was doing.
After several minutes, he finally took half a step toward the kitchen. “Can I help?”
“No,” she answered in a voice that was an octave higher than usual. “That’s okay. I’ve got it.”
“How long have you lived here?”
“Three years,” she said over the soft thump of a cabinet door closing. “I bought it as soon as I was assigned to the Baltimore office.”
Hearing the kitchen faucet run and figuring that she’d be busy for a few minutes more at least, he stepped across the foyer and into the darkened home office. At one time the space would have been a formal dining room. Like the living room, the furnishings were also contemporary. He took off the khaki-colored trench coat and folded it over the back of the desk chair, before turning his attention to the wall of family photos.
She was the only daughter of a diplomat. Geoffrey Benedict had done stints in both France and Turkey, which accounted for Beth’s proficiency in Turkish and French. And for the numerous black-and-white photos with European and Middle-Eastern backgrounds.
Though she held a degree in accounting, he suspected the FBI had been more impressed with her language skills. Since becoming a government employee, she’d added Farsi and Spanish to the list. And with the global environment out there now, that ability would only become more important as time went on.
So why was Bill Monroe so determined to terminate her? Was she really the loose gun her personnel file suggested? Unwilling to follow orders? Unable to function as part of a team? That wasn’t the recruit Mark remembered.
He’d first noticed her in his class because, even at twenty-three, she’d been a standout. Not only physically but also intellectually. Her questions had demonstrated an awareness of world views that most of the other recruits had yet to recognize. She had intrigued him then. And she intrigued him now. Perhaps more than was wise.
Suddenly the overhead light went on. “Make yourself at home.”
Glancing over his shoulder, he didn’t miss the slight rebuff. Or that she’d taken off the coat and scarf, but didn’t appear to have checked the head wound. If she had, she would have wiped away the dried blood on the side of her neck. She had dark-gray eyes and nearly black hair that was on the short side. And if anything, she was more attractive than she’d been three years ago.
“Coffee will be a few minutes,” she offered as she took an additional step into the room. “Maybe while we’re waiting on it, you could tell me what this is about. Why you went to see Rheaume? And why you came to see me?”
He turned and faced her. “What I’m about to say can’t leave this room.” He held her gaze. “You understand?”
“Okay.” She crossed to the desk chair and sat, looking up at him, her hands resting palm up in her lap. She wanted to look at ease, but he sensed she wasn’t.
Maybe he was making a mistake here. Several members of the task force, men he trusted, had questioned the advisability of approaching Beth Benedict. But given the situation, he didn’t feel he could ignore any lead.
“Nearly four months ago, despite tight security, a canister of MX141 was taken by Harvey Thesing, a chemist who had been instrumental in its development. He not only managed to circumvent the stringent safeguards that were in place, he was also able to conceal the theft for several days.”
“And what exactly is MX141?”
“The next generation chemical weapon. So deadly that exposure to the vaporized form kills in less than a minute. With other types of exposure, either to the skin or ingestion, you’re looking at five minutes tops.”
He grabbed the remaining chair. It didn’t surprise him that she didn’t know anything about MX141. Currently, because there was a very real concern of a full-scale panic