The Columbus Code (7 page)

“I didn't have a breakdown.”

“You shoved everything off the man's desk, kicked his chair across the room, punched a hole in the wall, and broke the window when you threw your gun at it.”

Winters turned to face her. “All right. I got upset when they put me on leave.”

“I think there was more to it than that.”

“Like what?”

“Like the trauma of that raid.”

Winters shoved his hands into his pockets. “Have you ever been in a life-and-death situation?”

“No, but you have—more than a few times. It was your job to be in those situations. If we can figure out what happened in here”—Archer put her hand to her chest—“then you'll have a chance.”

“To get back to work.”

“To get back to yourself.”

Winters hated it when she said stuff like that, but once again he held back. Archer was right about one thing. If he didn't work with her, he had no chance at all. “Okay,” he said. “What do you want to know?”

“Did you seek counseling after your wife died?”

The air seemed to go out of the room and Winters glared at her. “What happened to my wife has nothing to do with this. Are we clear on that?” His face was tense and the muscles in his jaw flexed. “Don't bring it up again.”

Archer rose from her chair. “I think that's enough for today.”

For once, he agreed with her.

Outside the building, Winters unlocked his bike from the handicap rail and sped up Nineteenth Street, breathing in the smells of every restaurant he passed. He was several blocks into the ride before he stopped imagining ways to have Archer fired, along with the monologue he would deliver right before he told her where to put her psychological services.

Avoiding pain? Of course he was avoiding pain. Who didn't?

Yes, he was worried about his career. Yes, he wanted to get back
to work. Why did she think he kept coming to see her every week? To look at her legs? They weren't
that
great.

Winters erased that last remark. He didn't go there with women. He didn't go anywhere with women—because he'd had the best and lost her.

The shrill sound of a truck's horn snapped him back to the present and he swerved the bike to a halt. His heart slammed in his chest. He had to get a handle on this. His career was all he had. Maria obviously didn't want a relationship with him.

But if getting a handle on it meant talking about Anne . . . that wasn't happening. That wasn't happening at all.

The light was already shifting by the time they actually got started. There was the matter of personnel to consider.

“We got enough people?” Winters asked Smith.

“Oakland PD has the area cordoned off, four blocks in every direction. SWAT is ready to join our guys at the front door. An ATF team is waiting for you in back. And the sheriff's office has men patrolling the perimeter just in case.”

“Might not be enough,” Winters said.

A grin tightened Smith's moustache, but only briefly. “You don't really think we need more.”

“I think if we get in there and find out we're shorthanded, it'll be too late to matter.”

Smith adjusted the bill of his ball cap. “You want me to get some more guys up here? FBI would be all too glad to dive in on this case. They've been lobbying for it for two months.”

“Never mind,” Winters said. “I'd rather close this one by myself than ask them for help.”

“You sure?”

Winters had almost forgotten Donleavy was there. His previous bravado had faded, and the skin around his mouth had gone pale.

“We're okay,” Winters said.

He let his eyes dart to the five Secret Service agents gathered near the curb. Donleavy nodded, although he didn't look at all relieved.

“You carrying?” Winters asked.

Donleavy patted his right hip, and Winters smothered a groan. He could be a little more conspicuous—maybe.

“Okay,” Winters said. “Make sure you stay behind us when we go in.”

“Right.”

“And have that pistol handy.”

“Okay.”

Winters mentally checked the magazine of his pistol, which he'd already done five times since he'd loaded it. “Let's do it,” he said.

Winters and Donleavy led the way up the driveway of the house next door. They paused at the back corner, then darted through the backyard into an alley that ran parallel to Patterson Avenue. Eyes alert, Winters moved cautiously with Donleavy close behind him, and came to a stop behind the house occupied by the Russians.

“This is it,” Winters whispered to him.

Donleavy nodded. All color had left his face but his eyes seemed alert and focused. He'd be okay.

Winters started across the backyard. Concrete steps led up to the back door. All he had to do was make his way up and kick in the door.

But his legs were paralyzed. “I can't move!” he shouted to a world gone cold and dark. “Help me! I can't move!”

This time Winters woke to find himself on the floor beside the couch in the living room, clutching at his legs like the crazy person he was now convinced he was becoming. He used the coffee table to pull himself up and knocked his laptop over. The screen lit up.

It was a dream
, he told himself.
A dream and nothing but a dream
.

Winters used his sleeve to wipe the sweat from his face and looked at the time on the computer screen. Two o'clock. No sense trying to go back to sleep. Not that he wanted to.

After a moment, Winters pushed himself up from the couch, stumbled to the kitchen, and poured a ginger ale. Glass in hand, he returned to the living room and propped up on a pillow with the laptop resting on his knees. He'd read everything his mom had found, and his research into Christopher Columbus had been interesting but not helpful, genealogically speaking. When he'd fallen asleep he'd been trying to contact a Spanish genealogist he'd found online. College professor. Specialized in connecting people to their Spanish ancestors. Probably a dead end.

Not that he was desperate. This thing had taken hold of him in Mom's attic and hadn't let go since he'd been home. But maybe it was just another thing like the sailing, the flying. Banned from those pursuits until he was cleared by Archer, this filled in the gap. Could just be a matter of time before he let this go too.

And then what?

The old anxiety sizzled under his skin. It was a feeling he couldn't stand. Winters took a long drink from his glass and forced himself to check his e-mail.

One message. From Sophia Conte. The genealogist.

Dear Mr. Winters
,

I found your e-mail interesting, if somewhat misinformed. Christopher Columbus made four voyages, not three. And he did not make a fortune as you have supposed. Ferdinand and Isabella promised him 10 percent of everything he found, but once they realized he had discovered something of immense value, they worked to take it from him. He, and his family after him, litigated their claims for several hundred years
.

And no, he was not Italian. He was born in Genoa but he lived in Portugal first and then Spain. We lay claim to him
.

But don't let your enthusiasm be dampened
.

Winters stopped reading to snort out a laugh. “Dampened”?

The problem with studying Columbus is that he left a great deal of false information, probably so no one else would find out about his discoveries. For example, most of the directions in the voyage logs are skewed so his route couldn't be followed
.

And she knew that how?

There is much more I could tell you. Do you Skype?

Winters blinked. She wasn't shy, that was for sure. Probably a middle-aged spinster starved for company.

It sounded familiar.

He'd think about it.

You realize, of course, that I'm having to run twice a day to stay ahead of my caloric intake.” Maria looked at Elena over the plate of
caracoles
they were sharing. “But it's so worth it.”

They were sitting across from each other at Los Caracoles, so named because it was famous for its snails. Elena pushed the plate toward her and tapped its edge. “The last one is for you.”

“Let me think about it . . . yes.” Maria popped the morsel into her mouth and closed her eyes.

“I have never seen anyone enjoy food as much as you do,” Elena said.

“I don't really have time to at home.”

Elena's eyes widened. “You work harder there than you're doing here? I can't see how you could. You are a workaholic.”

Maria refrained from spattering a laugh. Elena's English was flawless, and rightfully so. She'd been educated in England before attending the University of Pennsylvania. Which made Maria wonder why she was working as a freelance assistant to an attorney who was little more than an assistant herself.

That wasn't quite true, though. For some reason, Snowden had given Maria more responsibility here. In fact, he was seldom around
except to give her more files pertaining to the acquisition, and even at that, most of the time he sent them through Elena. At one point he'd even flown back to the States for a couple of days.

“Where have you gone?”

Maria blinked her way back to Elena. “Rabbit trail,” she said. “Sorry. Did I miss something?”

“I was saying that I want to take you to Sagrada Família, since you are so into architecture.”

“I do like buildings. Well-built ones.”

“Then I definitely want to show you this one. It's controversial here, and it's still under construction so . . .”

“So . . . what? I'll need a hard hat?”

Elena didn't answer. Maria started to turn her head to follow Elena's gaze, but Elena stopped her with a hand to Maria's wrist.

“What?” Maria said.

Red blotches appeared on Elena's face and neck. “
Señor
Tejada,” she said.

Maria hadn't seen him for more than a week. Not since the day she'd barged into his office. Snowden had given her the
What were you thinking?
lecture, but Louis had been removed from bodyguard duty so she didn't see an issue with running into the man. Elena, on the other hand, looked as if she'd been caught in a crime.

“This is a delightful surprise,” Tejada said in his Mediterranean accent.

Maria suspected he didn't actually have a trace of one—that the elongated e's were part of his natural charm.

“I see you are enjoying one of our best restaurants. You saw the stone rotisserie outside?”

“It was hard to miss.” Maria smiled at Elena, who was now a study
in shades of red. “
Señorita
Soler is seeing to it that I get a taste of the best of everything.”

Tejada nodded as if they were having a deep conversation about the meaning of life. “Then she has surely taken you to Botafumeiro.”

“Actually not,” Maria said. “I understand that's a bit out of my price range.”

“Then you must allow me to take you there.”

It flowed so naturally from his lips, Maria almost burst out,
Let's do it!
But wait. Was he asking her out? On a date?

She looked at Elena, who was no longer making eye contact. No help there. Not that Maria needed any. She shook her hair back. First of all, she made it her policy not to date people she worked with. And second of all, no. Smooth, wealthy, powerful Spaniard with enough charm to attract any woman he wanted? Not happening.

“Have I offended you,
Señorita
Winters?” His eyes looked genuinely concerned.

“Not at all,” she said. “I appreciate the offer. But no worries. Elena is taking good care of me.”

If that offended
him
, he showed no sign of it. He looked as if he'd expected that answer to begin with. She'd never encountered a man so unflappable.

All the more reason to turn him down.

Tejada nodded to each of them, wished them a good day, and departed. Maria watched him until he reached the door where Molina was waiting. “Did they have lunch here?” she asked.