The Observer (Derek Cole Suspense Thriller Book 3) (17 page)

Her mother’s words were not wasted. Throughout her life, when faced with a challenge, Marissa Rica adopted a calm approach. Never rushing to a decision and, as a result, seldom regretting one. Her time with the FBI had awarded her with never-ending opportunities to both test and improve her patience. From high pressure, life and death situations, to dealing with the chauvinistic tendencies that many in the law enforcement industry possessed. Marissa Rica was patient.

When she received a private line phone call the morning of August 12, and after she had confirmed that she fully understood her orders, Marissa wondered how to temper her patience in order to get done what she needed to get done.

“This is a matter of national security, Rica,” her superior said. “These orders, while not at all easy to deliver or follow, come directly from the top. Full compliance and absolute confidentiality are demanded.”

“Yes, sir,” Marissa said. “I understand. I’ll make sure it happens.”

“Three things before I let you go, Rica. One, we don’t want a trail of bodies following you. Trails lead places. Second, when I say confidential, I mean confidential. You’re going to need to be on your own at times. You’re good and can handle it alone. No one doubts that. That’s why it’s you I’m calling and no one else. Lastly, if you need to get messy, clean up after yourself. Know that you’re covered, but we can’t cover you if you leave any loose ends behind. Tie this all up in a nice pretty bow, and you’ll have nothing to worry about.”

“As far as communications go?”

“There won’t be any. You give the instructions to each of the agents on the case to contact you, and only you, if they find him. You tell no one and you tell them to keep their mouths shut. You identify any breaches, possible or known, and don’t contact me or anyone else until all of the threats have been eliminated. I know this is asking a lot of you, Rica, as does the man sitting behind the big desk. It won’t be easy but it needs to be done. Clear?”

“Clear.”

"I know you've been through a lot, Mr. Cole and please don't confuse my questioning tactics as being accusatory. We just need you to tell us everything Juan Cortez said to you. No matter if you think it was trivial or important, tell us."

"I understand. I'll tell you anything you want but, honestly, Cortez didn't say much to me."

"I'm sure that he said something."

The first floor hotel suite was comfortable. Two bedrooms with a living room the size of most middle-class family homes in between the two bedrooms. A gas-fired fireplace sat unused in the far corner of the living room. Derek sat on a couch beside Marissa Rica, the Northeastern Regional Director for the FBI. Mark Henderson was seated in the rather uncomfortable chair across from the couch. As Marissa spoke, Mark took copious notes and continually checked that the digital recorder he had placed on the coffee table in front of the couch was still recording.

When Derek was led into the first-floor suite, he made his way to one of the bathrooms. "I need to clean myself up a bit. You don't have any Bacitracin or any antibiotic spray on you by chance?"

"No, sorry. Director Rica should be here any minute. I'll give her a call and see if she can pick up some first aid supplies for you."

"Great. Mind if I shower?"

"That's fine. But Cole, just in case you are thinking about doing anything stupid. . ."

"Special Agent Henderson," Derek said, "I've had a pretty shitty last 24 hours. I just want to take a shower, clean up my knees and get my name cleared from any list that it may still be on. I'm not an idiot and am not thinking about doing anything stupid."

"Didn't think so," Mark said. "Just felt the need to be sure."

After Derek cleaned himself up, he stashed the cell phone Juan Cortez had given him beneath the dresser in his hotel room. He checked multiple times from multiple angles to make sure that the phone could not be seen from any angle. He walked over to the window, pulled it open and drew a deep breath of the morning air.

“Calm down,”
he thought to himself as he turned and walked back into the living room.

Derek forced himself to appear as relaxed and as comfortable as he could as he sat beside Marissa Rica. He assumed that since he only had the clothes on his back and his iPhone in his pocket when Henderson picked him up from the warehouse, that neither Henderson or Rica would suspect that he had smuggled in anything of interest.

"We know that these past few days have been confusing for you, Mr. Cole," Marissa said calmly.

"Confusing to say the least," Derek replied. "I'm hired by the FBI to help prevent a terrorist attack in the nation's largest city, given very little information, then sent out to find what I can find. I talk with two people, get nowhere with either, then, a few hours later, one of the men I spoke with yells out my name before he blows himself up. Then, the room I booked is blown up. Confusing? More like a terrifying disaster."

"You neglected to mention being mugged and taken hostage by one of the FBI agents you first contacted. Any reason for that omission?"

"Everything sort of blends in together."

"Mr. Cole," Marissa continued, "former Special Agent Cortez has involved himself in something that has many people very concerned. While I am not at liberty to discuss his exact actions, nor to share with you my assumptions about his intentions, I do need to impress upon you how critical your cooperation is in this matter. I'd like you to take a moment, and tell me everything that Cortez said either to you or that you heard him say to anyone else while you were under his control."

Marissa Rica carried herself with lethal grace. Her tailored and well-fitting charcoal grey pant suit suggestively hugged her well-defined and toned body as if intending to suggest professionalism and appeal. She was much younger than the other Regional Directors, an accomplishment that she attributed only to her relentless commitment and drive for excellence.
 

She had joined the FBI after completing her Master's Degree in Criminal Justice from Dartmouth and quickly climbed through the Bureau's ranks. By her third year, she had earned a promotion to Special Agent. By her fifth year, Marissa was Department Head in the Orlando, Florida office. By year nine, Marissa was second in charge, reporting directly to the Regional Director of the Northeastern Division. And by her tenth year with the Bureau, Marissa assumed the top Director's spot in the region.

Other FBI agents considered Marissa to be one of the sharpest agents; excelling at interrogations and an almost alien ability to draw the truth out of a suspect or from a crime scene. As she sat beside Derek Cole, a person that she immediately suspected was withholding something, Marissa relied on her talents and instincts to wrench out anything that may lead her and her agents to finding Juan Cortez.

"I'll tell you anything you want to know," Derek replied. "But I'm telling you that the whole time I was with Cortez, I was either knocked out or was the target of his screams. He told me that. . ."

"Please," Marissa said, holding her hand up to stop Derek, "let me guide you through these questions. I appreciate your time and your willingness to help us."

"Okay," Derek said, feeling instantly uneasy. "I'd much rather be out trying to stop any terrorists from blowing up a building, but, if you're telling me that finding Cortez will help, I'm all yours for as long as this takes."

"The time this takes is mostly up to you, Derek. May I call you Derek?" Marissa asked, as a smile played on the corners of her mouth.
 

When she first walked into the hotel suite, Derek hadn't noticed how attractive Marissa was. But her smile seemed to reveal a gentleness, a warmth that Derek, usually quite adept at identifying attractiveness, had missed at first.

"Derek is fine. The whole Mr. Cole stuff kind of makes me nervous anyway."

"What do you have to be nervous about, Derek?" Marissa said as the playful smile filled her face.

"Honestly?"

"Of course."

"Cortez told me that his abducting me put me in a dangerous position. He said that he's a wanted man and that anyone who the FBI thinks may be working with him, will be shot first then asked questions after."

"Did he scream that at you?" Marissa asked, her smile evaporating from her face.

"Come again?"

"You said that the entire time you were with Cortez that you were either unconscious or were being yelled at by him. So, was he yelling at you when he told you that you may have been placed in a dangerous position by working with him?"

"First off," Derek said, sensing that Marissa’s smile was noting more than a disarming tactic, "I am not working with Cortez. Second, if you're going to twist every one of my words to try to trick me into saying something that isn't true, I am going to want a lawyer with me."

"A lawyer?" Marissa said, her smile paving the way for a short laugh. "Derek, as long as you aren't hiding anything, a lawyer is really the last thing you need. And no, I'm not trying to trick you into anything, nor am I trying to twist your words around. I do apologize if my question seemed like that was my intention." Marissa fell quiet as she slowly shook her head and, somehow, increased the sparkle in her eyes. "I am sorry, Derek. We just don't know how much time we have left before Cortez does whatever it is that he is planning to do. I
 
hope you understand?"

When Marissa reached her arm out and gently placed her hand on top of Derek's, he knew he was sitting across from a master. Though he knew she was trying to completely disarm him and to get him to believe that she might actually be attracted to him, Derek's thoughts fluttered between what he knew and the possibility that Marissa could actually want more from him than information.

"Mark?" Marissa said, her eyes locked with Derek's, "I passed a Starbucks on my way over here. Just down the road a mile or two. Mind running out and getting Derek and me a coffee?"

"Not at all," Mark said. "Anything else?"

"Derek?" she asked.

"I am kind of hungry. If you pass a McDonald's, I'd love a Sausage McMuffin. And I take my coffee black."

"Make that two," Marissa said. "But make mine sans sausage. Nothing in my coffee either. Thanks, Mark."

Marissa walked over to the door and engaged the deadbolt. As she turned back towards Derek, she kept her head low, fingers gently touching each other in front of her body. She walked towards the couch, each step precisely measured.

"I know its hard to perform in front of others," she said, the reference not wasted on Derek. She sat on the couch, closer to Derek than her original position, then took a deep breath before continuing. "Derek, I really believe that you're not involved with Cortez in any way. But there are some things that you're not telling me."

"Not sure what you think I know," Derek said.

"Let me tell you what I know, okay? Once you hear what I have to say, I kind of suspect that you will want to change your story a tad."

"Shoot," Derek said. "And I don't mean that literally," he said while gesturing to the service pistol that was exposed when Marissa rested her arm on the top of the sofa.

"Funny," she said, though she lacked a smile to accompany her statement. "We know that Cortez didn't knock you unconscious but that you met him in your other hotel then, together, walked over to Times Square. We assume that you two got intentionally lost in the commotion and, somehow, ended up in a hotel in Queens. We also know that you left that hotel in Queens very early this morning by taxi and then made your way to the warehouse that Henderson picked you up in front of. Honestly,” she said with her smile returning, “we don't
know
that you met with Cortez in the Sheraton Hotel, but are assuming that you did. Now, before I spill the rest of what I know, please tell me whether or not you want to change the story you've told me so far."

"Damn," Derek said. "You seem to have a lot of things figured out already. How are you so sure that I didn't make my way over to the Marquis after I heard the explosion by myself and not with Cortez?"

"Like I said, we don't actually know that," Marissa said. "But we do know that you were dropped off at the Courtyard Marriott in Queens and that you checked in under an assumed name. And, the clerk remembers that you checked in at the same time as someone matching the description of Juan Cortez. So you see, Mr. Cole, your story about Cortez knocking you out and abducting you really doesn't hold any water. So, I'll ask one more time," she said as she lowered her arm and hovered her hand closer to her gun, "is there any part of your story that you want to amend?"

"Not sure how you seem to know my comings and goings," Derek said, struggling for more time to plan his next statements.

"You never turned off your cell phone, Mr. Cole. Though I'm sure Cortez told you to do so. You may have thought you turned it off, but there's a funny thing about iPhones: Though they may be turned off, there's a little juice still running in the background. That little juice allows a very sophisticated piece of software that the NSA was so generous to share with the FBI, to be able to track any iPhone's location, even when the phone is shut down. We have some very smart people on our side, Mr. Cole."

"Next you're going to tell me that I've visited a few porn sites on my phone, right?"

"No, Mr. Cole. What I am going to tell you is that I'm tired of the game you're playing. You either tell me everything Cortez told you, or I'll exercise my permission to take whatever means necessary to keep the United States of America safe from harm."

"Walk with me into the bedroom," Derek said, knowing he was out of options and time.

"Rather bold of you, don't you think?"

"As much as I believe I would enjoy it, I'm not suggesting we make use of the bed. I want to get the phone that Cortez gave me to contact him with."

"Glad you've decided to cooperate. It will make things easier for you."

"As long as it doesn't make me dead, I'll tell you whatever you want to know."