Love Remains (17 page)

“Just shrimp. But I don’t like most seafood.” Bobby folded his hands in his lap to keep from reaching for the plain, freshly baked bread on the small cutting board in the middle of the table. He loved bread, and he could make a meal just off that loaf. But as he would be having spaghetti—with spicy Italian sausage and meat sauce—for supper, followed by the complimentary scoop of spumoni ice cream for dessert, and as he had not yet made the time to stop by the YMCA to join so he could start working out daily, he didn’t need the additional carbohydrates. He’d have to go at it hard at laser tag later to justify what he’d already be consuming.

After the usual round of get-to-know-the-new-guy questions, multiple conversations struck up around the table. Bobby joined in the talk of the University of Tennessee game from last Saturday—finding it ironic that the local team in the same athletic conference, Vanderbilt, was never mentioned, even though several of the men at the table worked for either the university or the medical center.

But he loved it. In Los Angeles, there were so many different universities—and it was hard to find anyone to talk football with. Although at one company he’d infiltrated, there had been a large group of USC fans and another group of UCLA faithful. Bobby had truly been able to lose himself in his undercover persona during the week leading up to the big rivalry game, as he staunchly hoped UCLA would beat their rival.

It had been at the sports bar, watching the game with those two factions of co-workers that one of them, having had too much to drink, let slip the piece of information Bobby needed to close the case.

“…the kind of nun all the boys would be in love with.”

He frowned. Obviously he’d missed something.

Ryan must have noticed his expression. “You’ve met Zarah Mitchell, right?”

Bobby gave a terse nod.

“We were just wondering why she’s never had a boyfriend—not one any of us has ever seen her with, anyway—and saying she’s probably the kind of girl who would have become a nun if she’d been raised Catholic. She just doesn’t seem all that interested in relationships.”

If only they knew. He’d thought her cold and distant the first time he met her, but once he’d cracked that barrier of fear and low self-esteem, he’d found her to be funny, warm, and passionate—about life, about history, about people she loved.

“For a while, we wondered if she might be gay”—Ryan leaned closer to Bobby and lowered his voice—”because a few of us worked up the nerve to ask her out, and she said no. But then one of the girls who’s gone through a bunch of breakups and always cries on Zee’s shoulder about it afterward said that Zarah told her she’d almost been engaged once but the guy walked out on her. And you know the worst part of it?”

Bobby tapped his front teeth together, biting off words before they could escape. He shook his head.

“Zee’s father kicked her out of the house anyway—kicked her out for dating a guy when the guy had just walked out on her. Of course, that’s just a rumor, and I don’t know how much faith to put in it. I’ve never heard Zee mention it herself. But, I mean, if that’s true, it could explain why she shies away from relationships.”

Okay, first of all, Bobby didn’t like the fact Ryan called Zarah
Zee
. Second, General Mitchell had told Bobby Zarah chose to leave early to get settled in at Vanderbilt before the summer school session started, even though it meant she’d missed graduation, at which she’d been slated to give the salutatory address, which she’d practiced on him for weeks beforehand. Third, Bobby was starting to wonder if he was the biggest idiot in the world for believing the man, who’d never had a kind word to say about his daughter.

Chapter 13

A
s soon as the Wednesday morning briefing ended, Bobby returned to his office and closed the door. Before he could make investigation assignments to the team members Carroll had assigned to him, there was one very important thing he had to do.

Two thick files sat atop his in-box. He’d hoped it would take much longer than just a week to secure the subpoenas and then for the financial institutions to comply with the release of records. But there sat copies of the raw data on the bank accounts of Dennis Forrester and Zarah Mitchell.

He should probably wait for the forensic accountant’s findings instead of wasting his time digging into them, only to discover he’d misinterpreted something and jumped to wrong conclusions—especially with everything he’d learned about Dennis Forrester. The file containing the man’s financial records was enormous.

Bobby pulled the thinner of the two folders toward him. Zarah’s life—at least the pecuniary part of it—lay here in his fingers.

His hands shook slightly as he set the folder in front of him on the desk-blotter calendar and opened it. Bank statement. Credit report. Home mortgage. Life insurance policy. Investments.

Home mortgage first—the most innocuous of the documents.
He scanned the copy of the contract and the loan documents. She’d gotten a really good price on her house—and made a 25 percent down payment. Impressive. According to the company holding her loan, she’d never missed a payment; in fact, she paid five days early every month, rounding the payment up to the next highest hundred. And she’d gotten a fifteen-year loan instead of twenty or thirty years.

Credit report. Had to be the highest credit score he’d seen in six years of conducting investigations like this. Even his credit, which lenders and banks considered to be excellent, wasn’t that good. One credit card on which she charged fifty to a hundred dollars a month and then paid off immediately. She’d paid her student loan off in five years instead of the ten she’d been given to do it. No car loans, meaning she’d most likely paid cash for her car when she bought it.

He grinned. That little blue Honda—pristine outside and inside—was just like her. Practical, understated, looking good for its age, and perseverant.

Life insurance policy. Five hundred thousand dollars…twenty-year term, set up when she was twenty-five years old. Odd. She hadn’t gotten very good advice on that one. Universal would have been much better for her instead of one on which the rates would skyrocket once she turned forty-five. Wait. Her
grandparents
were her beneficiaries? He could understand why she wouldn’t name her father and stepmother in the policy as the recipients of the money should she meet an untimely end, but her
grandparents?
What about her older sister…oh, what was her name?

The phone beeped. He jerked, heart hammering from the shock of the loud sound in the otherwise silent office, and hit the flashing I
NTERCOM
button. “Yes?”

“Special Agent Patterson, Captain Carroll would like to see you in his office.”

“Thank you, Julie.” Bobby closed the folder and pulled himself together—straightening his tie, buttoning his suit coat. He grabbed his notebook-style organizer and headed for the stairs.

He stepped out into the hallway on the third floor just as the elevator dinged and opened.

“You get called to the principal’s office, too?” Chase Denney stepped out of the elevator and fell in step with Bobby.

“Yeah. Any idea what’s up?”

“None whatsoever.”

Julie waved them in when Bobby knocked on the open door to her office. “Captain Carroll’s waiting for you.” She jerked her head over her left shoulder and picked up her ringing phone.

Chase motioned for Bobby to enter ahead of him.
Chicken
, Bobby mouthed.

The other agent grinned and followed him into their boss’s office.

“Oh, good, you’re both here.” Captain Carroll came around his desk and leaned against the front edge of it. “Since the two of you are the specialists at covert infiltration, and because you’ve both agreed to serve as trainers for other agents—as well as local police departments who wish to make use of the program—I’m sending you away.”

Bobby frowned and looked at Chase—who frowned back at him. They both turned back to the captain.

“The FBI is offering a week-long intensive-training session at Quantico in a few weeks, and we’ve been offered two spots. Y’all are taking them.”

Once again, Bobby exchanged a glance with Chase—who didn’t look any more certain about this than he. “Captain Carroll, I’m possibly going to be closing on a house in the next ten to fourteen days, which means the inspection, final walk-through, and actual appointment for closing.”

Chase seemed to take courage from Bobby’s speaking up. “And my kids have soccer and other stuff going on, and I’m needed to chauffeur them around town in the evenings and on weekends.”

Captain Carroll held his hands up in front of him, palms out. Bobby had never noticed before that his left ring finger, bare now, had what looked like the permanent impression of a wedding band around
it. White, with graying brown hair and blue eyes, and anywhere in age from late forties to late fifties, the captain was nondescript enough to do well in undercover work. That had presented a problem for Bobby a couple of times in his UC days—being recognized by someone and called by the name he’d used in a previous assignment. It hadn’t blown the current case in either instance, but it had come close.

“You’re going.” Carroll raised his thick eyebrows, expression austere. “Get your personal affairs settled. You fly out the first Sunday in October. It’s going to happen, so best be prepared. That is all.” He gave a brisk nod then turned his back on them to pull something out of the lateral file behind his desk.

As soon as Bobby realized he’d pulled his jaw forward, putting his bottom teeth in front of the top, he forced himself to relax. No need in betraying his annoyance over the command. Aside from the fact that he was eager to close on the condo and get moved in, he really had no reason to not look forward to the opportunity for some intensive training with the FBI. Besides, having a week away, focused on covert infiltration, could help him figure out how to work with Zarah, to rebuild those burned bridges without creating false impressions or expectations.

Back in his office, the file containing Zarah’s financial information stared at him from the desk blotter. With a sigh, he sank into the chair and turned to the computer, where he typed her name and social security number into the search engine. Whatever he was going to learn about her, he was going to have to do it sooner or later.

Whether he liked it or not, she was part of this investigation. Her life would have to be examined on the microscopic level. He and his team would look at each piece of her life, everything she’d ever done. They would treat her as a suspect, look at her from every angle, including the angle that said she was guilty of this crime.

It was going to happen. So he’d best be prepared.

Zarah set aside the second half of the still-warm roast beef sandwich
and corrected three typos in the sentence she’d just typed one-handed. Picking up dinner from The Frothy Monkey on her way home had been a great idea. Stopping to take the time to eat it before jumping back into the report might have been an even better idea.

Before leaving the office, Dennis popped his head in and encouraged her to get some rest tonight. His laughter had trailed him down the hall on his way out. She’d only stayed an hour after that, knowing she could work more comfortably at home in her pj’s. And with coffee. Lots and lots of coffee.

Around three in the morning, eyes—and stomach—burning, Zarah slid the clip in place on the final presentation folder. She’d e-mail the reports to each member of the senate committee after the meeting—well, to each of their secretaries—but for the meeting, they liked to have a hard copy of the report in their hands as she went through each piece of it. She’d spend all of next week responding to e-mails and phone calls as they came across things in the report they wanted more information on or didn’t understand, most likely items she planned to discuss with them a few hours from now.

She took a shower, hoping the hot water would ease the muscles cramping between her shoulder blades. It didn’t help, but at least now she could sleep a few minutes later.

At 5:45 a.m., she dragged herself out of the bed and, after doing the stretches given her by a physical therapist many years ago after a car accident, she flipped on the light in the small walk-in closet and went to the end of the rack and pulled out the wine-colored suit. She bent to retrieve the dark gray peep-toe suede pumps with the patent trim and bow details.