for a while. Not that it’s any of your business.” She gulped a breath of air, then insisted, “I demand to know what this is about.”
“Drop the act, Cutler. We know all about it. Ortega confessed last night.”
Miranda drew back, suspecting a trap. “Confessed to what? Having sex in an elevator? I’ll admit it’s not our most admirable moment, but since when is it a crime? We were off duty—”
“I said, drop it.” Runyon eyed her with a mixture of annoyance and sympathy. “We know he killed Payton. We know you and Smith cooked up this alibi for him. Like I said, he confessed. Take a look.” He slid a piece of paper across the table, but when Miranda reached for it, he anchored it to the table with his palm. “Look. Don’t touch.”
It was a signed declaration, and the signature was purportedly Ortega’s. Before Miranda could read more than a few sentences of the text, Runyon pulled the paper back and shoved it into a file.
But a few sentences had been more than enough for Miranda to learn the truth, and it sent a chill through her. Falsifying evidence, killing in self-defense, kidnapping—Ortega had confessed to all of these!
“The good news is, Ortega cleared you of anything but gullibility,” Runyon was saying. “He says you were just a dupe. And even if that’s not true, you’ve been pardoned—”
“What?”
“President Standish pardoned you. Pardoned Ortega, too. Jane Smith isn’t so lucky. She’ll do time for this once she gets out of the hospital. And at least two of her guys are dead. So consider yourself lucky.”
Miranda stared in dismay. “I don’t understand.”
“Yeah, I can see that.” The CIA officer’s voice lost its edge. “It took me a while to understand it, too. Apparently Ortega killed Payton in self-defense, then Smith cooked up an alibi for him, using you—in more ways than one. Unfortunately, Smith went too far. She kidnapped an FBI agent and a SPIN employee who had figured out what was going on, and she would’ve killed them both if they hadn’t been smart enough to get away. Ortega wasn’t part of that. Once he figured out what Smith was really up to, he went after her and her crew and apprehended the ones he didn’t shoot. A real bloodbath.”
Runyon laughed darkly before adding, “President Standish decided Ortega redeemed himself at the last minute and pardoned him. Unbelievable if you ask me, but no one asked. The good news is, you got pardoned, too. Otherwise you’d be part of the conspiracy and the charges would apply to you too.”
“I don’t need a pardon,” Miranda insisted, angry and just a little desperate. “I didn’t do anything wrong! I want to make a statement. To clear myself—”
“Not necessary. Ortega cleared you—”
“By calling me a dupe? You think that clears me?”
“Settle down.” Runyon held up a hand to silence her. Then he said with quiet authority, “The only reason for this meeting is to close the loop. Unless you want to press charges against Ortega, in which case, your career is over.”
“I don’t want to press charges. But I want to make a statement. For the file. Like he did.”
“There is no file. This never happened.” He arched an eyebrow in warning. “This will be classified. Top secret. Only a handful of people will ever know about it. And like I said, it won’t affect your career. Unless you let it,” he added, his meaning clear.
Miranda’s heart sank. Her career—she had worked so hard for it. Now Jane Smith and Ortega had ruined it. Ruined her. She had no doubt about that.
Her gaze was drawn to the despicable image on the plasma screen and her gut tightened with disgust. He had seemed so attracted to her. So smitten. But it had all been an act. A way to doubly ensure her loyalty.
She was a dupe…
“Cutler?” Runyon switched off the monitor. “Are you okay?”
She glanced at him, amazed by the question. Then she asked, “You said two of Smith’s agents were dead. Was one named Mark?”
He nodded. “Friend of yours?”
“No. Just the opposite.” She bit her lip. “What about the FBI agent and the SPIN employee? Were they hurt?”
“Yeah, both sustained injuries. One or both are still in the hospital I think.” He smiled. “The spinner saved the day according to the report. Some sort of genius or something. Too bad you’ll never meet her. You owe her, big-time.”
Miranda studied her hands, wondering if he knew how stupid he sounded.
“Any other questions? We need to wrap this up.”
“I’d like to read the file.”
“Sorry. The less you know the better for you.” He cleared his throat. “Do you need counseling? We can arrange it.”
“No.”
“Good answer.” He gave her a reassuring smile. “You’re cleared for duty. Just like it never happened. Tomorrow morning you’re going to request time off. As a reason, you’ll say you never really came to grips with your dad’s death and you need to go home for a few weeks, to grieve. Delayed reaction or whatever. It will be approved, no questions asked.”
He walked to the door and opened it, then gestured for Miranda to join him. When she had done so, he led her into the hall and closed the door behind them. “It’s over, Miranda. Try not to let it get to you. Go home. Hang out with family and friends. Get past this—that’s an order—and then come back. Your career will be waiting for you. And Miranda?”
“Yes?” she asked, barely listening to his words.
“When you get back into town, maybe we could have a drink some night after work. Just for fun.”
She blinked, sure she hadn’t heard him correctly. Then she looked into his eyes and saw interest so stark—so degrading—that she knew he was replaying the images from the alibi tape. That scene in the elevator—
Her stomach knotted violently and she shoved past him, sprinting for the ladies room at the far end of the hall. Bursting into a stall, she fell to her knees in front of a gleaming white toilet.
Just in time to vomit her guts out.
Chapter 2
One year later
“I know you’re excited about this, Goldie, but don’t get your hopes up. We don’t really know much about this girl.”
Kristie Hennessy enjoyed the tingle that always shot through her when SPIN Director Will McGregor called her Goldie. Or maybe she was just tingling because he was physically present after a full month of being three thousand miles away, fine-tuning the West Coast office in preparation for transitioning the agency from a stand-alone entity to a division of the FBI.
In the early months of establishing SPIN-West she had been there, too, working side by side with him. Sleeping side by side with him. But lately, she had been pulled away from him with increasing frequency and duration, thanks to her duties at the East Coast headquarters, where she provided creative support for FBI agents in the field by supplying them with undercover identities and profiles of suspects.
“It’s a foolproof plan,” she assured him. “We know all we need to know about Miranda Cutler by watching that videotape. Or at least, almost all we need to know.”
McGregor groaned. “You’re not really going to ask that poor kid if she and Ortega had sex that night, are you?”
“It’s the last piece of the puzzle,” Kristie insisted. “Oh, look!” She pointed at the young woman approaching the reception desk outside of McGregor’s glass-walled office.
With the blinds open, one could see everything happening in the think tank