Necessary Force Page 6

  A flash of memory of Brad’s kiss sent her pulse galloping.

  “Something else bothering you, Georgie?”

  “No.” She jerked her thoughts back to the present. Frank, of all people, shouldn’t be part of this. He had more than enough to deal with. In fact, this was his last week with AP. Frank was dying.

  “Then I have a wonderful new assignment for you. A plum I saved just for you.”

  “Oh, Frank, I really appreciate it but … actually, I’m thinking about taking a few more days off.” She could practically hear Clinton’s reaction to that bombshell.

  Even Frank scowled at her. “You’ve just been away for more than a week.”

  “I know. It sounds bogus for me to come in and say hi and bye. But the fact is I, uh, I’m worried.”

  “About the break-in? Why? What did the police say?”

  “They said I was lucky. There was little damage and the stolen items can be replaced.”

  “There you go.”

  “Maybe. I just have a feeling the break-in wasn’t random.” Her need to talk with a friend was rapidly outweighing her concern for his privacy. “Remember this one blog fan I have?”

  Frank nodded. “The one with a really amazing interest in your career.”

  “Yeah. Lately, he’s been a bit creepy.”

  Frank’s brows drew together. “In what way?”

  “He went off after I lost the Pulitzer. I showed you those comments.”

  Frank smiled. “I’m with him. You were robbed.”

  “I almost believe it when you say it. The truth is, I’m still developing my style. I have time.” The moment she said the words, she regretted it.

  Frank rose from the desk, touching his taped eye. “Let’s hope you do.” It took only a second before he shook off his bleak look. “Do the police think your fanboy might have perpetrated the break-in? Looking for what, mementos?”

  “Oh, no.” Georgie scrambled to stay on track with her “story.” “The authorities asked me if I had any enemies. I couldn’t think of one.”

  “What about Cal? He didn’t take your breakup well.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “You’re pretty sure he’s the one who erased those files from your computer that you’d prepared for our AP photographer collection. That cost you weeks of work.”

  “True.” Georgie’s mind was running double time with the fact that the FBI was listening to every word. Did she care if the FBI hustled over to question Cal? “But that was three months ago. I heard he’s seeing Nadira in Overseas Operations. I don’t want to talk about Cal. Let’s talk about you. How are you?”

  Frank rubbed the faint red seam visible through his crew cut. Until two weeks ago he had sported a thick shock of medium-brown hair that made him seem even younger than his forty years. “I’ve healed just fine. The surgeon says the operation was a success. Too bad the patient will die anyway.”

  Georgie tried to answer his gallows humor with a smile but it was so shaky she couldn’t hold it. Brain tumor too invasive to remove. Frank had only months, perhaps, to live.

  “I’d be angry if the Grim Reaper were taking me from something important. But with Mia gone …” He let the thought trail. His wife of eight years had died two years ago of uterine cancer. He shook his head. “Can’t believe that fucker Death has circled back for me.”

  Not knowing what to say, Georgie just surged out of her chair and hugged him.

  “All right, all right.” He gently disentangled himself from her. “Let me go before someone accuses me of sexual harassment in the workplace. You work for me, remember?”

  Georgie’s smile stabilized. “Correction. I’m a freelancer.”

  “That’s why you will take this new assignment.”

  Georgie looked at the sheet he handed her and grimaced. It was for an afternoon reception at the White House for at-risk teens. Ooh boy. “I really want to, Frank. I do. But I made this commitment to my friend.”

  “I suppose he has a name.”

  Crap. She hadn’t thought that far. “Brad.” She cringed, hoping Brad wasn’t on the other end of her bug.

  “He must be something if he can distract you from your life’s work.” Frank inspected her over his glasses. “Details. Where did you meet, yada yada yada. I’m living vicariously these days.”

  “I’ll bring him around sometime soon. You should be asking to see my pictures from the trip.” She reached for her camera bag and pulled out a Zip drive. Twirling her fingers around an imaginary mustache, she handed it to him. “Brought back some filthy postcards just for you.”

  “Legs?” He looked over at her when the first photo of a pair of dusty feet appeared on his screen.

  She nodded. “Legs. There are some I took before I left that were all about the color blue. Today I’m working on yellow—”

  Frank put up a finger for quiet as he slowly scrolled through, pausing to study an occasional shot.

  Georgie watched over his shoulder, like a child awaiting a verdict from a parent. Frank and Mia didn’t have children but they’d quickly become the foster parents for many of the young people who came to work at AP, leaving behind family and friends in order to pursue their dreams. D.C. wasn’t like other cities where one could establish longtime relationships. For the most part it was a meeting ground, a part-time life, full of upwardly mobile transients whose being in Washington depended on their ability to stay connected with the ever-changing power brokers of politics. The Kellers had provided an anchor, career advice, friendly faces, and space for weekly potluck meals where people who didn’t feel like part of the city could, for an evening, feel attached.

  It took Georgie a few seconds to realize that Frank was no longer staring at her pictures but staring off into space. His hand was clutching the mouse as pictures flipped past too quickly to be seen.

  “Frank?” She reached out and touched his arm. The muscles felt locked in place. Alarmed, she shook his shoulder. “Frank?”

  Frank jerked and looked at her. “What?”

  “You were staring and didn’t respond when I spoke to you.”

  His expression clouded for a moment. “Shit. Petit mal seizure. They told me to expect them. But I was hoping.” He sat down heavily, beginning to sweat.

  “Who do I need to call?”

  He looked up at her with a strange expression. “No one. Not if you want to remain my friend.”

  “Okay. But you look pale. Did you eat?”

  “No. I guess I forgot.” He rubbed his scar. “The meds cost me my appetite.”

  “Sit down. I’ll get you water and some of whatever’s left in the break room.”

  “You don’t need …” Georgie was already moving away. She came back with a scrambled-egg-and-bacon sandwich, a bottle of water and one of juice, and a large latte with extra sugar, his favorite. He ate like a man who hadn’t seen a meal in a week.

  When he was done, he sat back and smiled a weary little smile.

  “Sorry if I frightened you. If it weren’t for the weirdness”—he touched his taped eye—“I’d demand to keep my job until I fell completely apart. However, some of the higher-ups aren’t as sanguine about these things.”

  Georgie bit her lip. “I won’t say a thing. But promise me, you won’t be driving?”

  “You have my car so you know I’m not. But there are a few more things I want to accomplish. For instance, I’ve found Mia’s lottery apartment.”

  “Seriously?” It was a potluck game, what one would buy if one won the lottery. Mia’s purchase never varied. She would buy a penthouse apartment with a view across the Potomac. It was a dream well beyond the budget of an AP photo editor and journalist, but that’s what made it a dream.

  “Want to see it sometime?”

  “Sure.”

  “Then it’s a date. This weekend. Now get out of here.”

  “What can I do for you first? Name it.”

  He pointed to the assignment he’d handed her earlier. “Pretend I’m still your
boss and that you do what I tell you to do. Finish your yellow-picture day over at the White House event this afternoon. If he’s worthy of you, this new guy will understand that the job comes first.”

  Georgie nodded. Brad would understand that.

  Georgie wished she could tell Frank the truth. Someone needed to know what kind of trouble she was in. Yet telling Frank, or her family, would only endanger them. She was out to lure a maniac into the open. Many lives might depend on her ability to do that.

  Chapter Eight

  “Having any luck?”

  Georgie looked up from her laptop. Brad stood in the doorway of her bedroom. She hadn’t heard him approach and so couldn’t guess how long he had been watching her. Zander, as usual, was beside him, looking happy and at ease.

  “I’ve been online for an hour, answering messages about the robbery.”

  His brows went up. “That many responded to your blog about getting robbed?” He came forward to stand behind her. “Mind if I check the responses?”

  “If I say no, that won’t stop the FBI from getting into my account anyway. You have my pass codes.”

  Brad ignored the jab. He had asked, politely.

  When she had scooted her chair back he leaned in and scrolled back to the beginning of the responses. It had become clear pretty quickly that while her fans were quick to offer sympathy, most responders wanted to share their own experiences with burglary, some going so far as to relate the experiences of relatives and friends. Everyone loved disaster.

  Georgie glanced around. When she’d returned after work with Brad as her escort, she’d been stunned to find her apartment in perfect order. Someone had put it back together and removed all signs of the invader and FBI evidence-finding. Brad said they’d hired a cleaning service to do it. She should have felt grateful. What she felt was invaded a second time without her permission.

  When he was done, Brad straightened and looked at her. “I don’t see anything from Secret Admirer.”

  Georgie closed the lid. “I’m not responsible for when he posts or doesn’t.” She reached up and squeezed the bridge of her nose with her fingers.

  “Headache?”

  She nodded.

  “You didn’t eat.”

  “I wasn’t hungry.”

  “You’re probably hungry.”

  Georgie shot from her chair. “Don’t tell me what I am. I’ve agreed to allow you to be in my life and to listen in on my every private conversation because I have no choice. But you don’t get to tell me how I feel. Got that?”

  “Stop.”

  She didn’t even realize she was poking him in the chest until he wrapped his fingers around her pointer. He held on when she tried to pull away. “I get it. It’s been a tense day which, by the way, you handled well. You need to eat something, then turn on the TV or listen to music, or read, or whatever you do to relax and let the day be over.”

  “But it’s not over. There’s tomorrow, and the day after that. And maybe a lot of days after that that will be just as awful as this one.”

  When he released her finger she moved away from him. “I hate lying to my friends and editing my words. I’m not good at lying and pretending. It feels awful.”

  “And you’re scared. You don’t know who to trust.”

  His voice was calm, too calm. She shot him a suspicious look. “I suppose they train agents in how to handle the irrational and hysterical. I’m not either of those things. I’m angry. And I can handle that alone. Don’t you have somewhere to be? Fighting for truth, justice, and the American way, maybe?”

  “That’s Superman. Our motto is Fidelity, Bravery, Integrity: FBI.”

  Georgie flashed him a ghost of a smile despite her anger. “Then take your doubtful integrity and go be loyal and brave somewhere else.”

  He turned and walked out.

  Curious to have sent him into retreat so easily, she followed. He was heading toward her kitchen. He went to the refrigerator and pulled out a carton of eggs, turkey bacon, and a bowl of grapes.

  “I didn’t buy that.”

  He smiled but didn’t glance at her as he handed her the fruit. “I did. If we’re going to live together for a few days we needed to have supplies.” He set a container of feta cheese next to the other items and pulled out a bag of spinach. “I’m having an omelet. Want part?”

  Georgie didn’t answer but she leaned against the counter and plucked a grape and put it in her mouth.

  He opened three drawers before he found a knife. “There’s wine in the fridge. Want to open it?”

  “You drink on the job?”

  “That would be a no. It’s for you. Take a glass and go chill while I get this ready.”

  Ten minutes later, they were sitting at her two-person table that sometimes served as desk, dining room table, or an extra flat surface when needed, sharing the best omelet she’d had in a long time.

  Brad smiled as she gobbled up his effort. He sliced off a section of his and served it to Zander, who had settled himself under his handler’s feet. “Were you successful today with your hunt for yellow?”

  Georgie stopped chewing. “How did you know? Oh, you were listening to my conversations.”

  “Actually, I noticed you were photographing yellow things this morning. Zander. The smear of eggs. The vase by the door in the hotel room.” He chewed a bit of turkey bacon before continuing. “The shot of the Washington Monument was inspired. I never think of it as being yellow. But it looked that way in the sunset this evening.”

  “You noticed that?”

  He nodded. “You told me that when something attracts your eye, you take a picture of it. I noticed that things you took pictures of today were yellow.”

  Georgie stared at him. Growing up in Nashville, Tennessee, as the youngest of five children she had always had to compete for attention from two loving but very busy parents. Fairly early on, she’d decided to observe the world instead of trying to dominate it. Pictures allowed her to capture something so she could study it at her leisure. Her photographs had taken her from work on the high school yearbook to a fine arts degree in college. But fine arts photos couldn’t be counted on to pay the bills. Working as an AP freelancer allowed her to have a regular paycheck and still maintain her artistic freedom. People didn’t notice photographers. If she was lucky, they noticed the results.

  Yet, Brad was different. He paid attention to her, not just her work. But maybe that was his job.

  “It’s not about the job.”

  “You read minds, too?”

  He smiled. “Your face is an open book. My job is full of complicated people who almost never willingly reveal what they are thinking and feeling. With you, I don’t have to guess.”

  “That sounds deadly dull.”

  “The opposite. It’s endlessly fascinating, like watching a river flowing, no two moments the same.”

  He, too, had unexpected depths. She really, really hoped it wasn’t just part of his job description. Insert yourself in the suspect’s world, become friends. She’d fallen for it before. Damn him for his attractiveness.

  “What were you taking pictures of that day at the Senate Office Building?”

  Georgie frowned. “Ah, I don’t—. Blue. I was taking blue pictures.”

  “What upset you?” She didn’t have to ask him why he asked the question. Her face had, as he’d just explained, given her away. It was one of the liabilities of being a redhead. Her complexion gave away her thoughts.

  “It was a bad week. The guy I had broken up with months ago works for AP, too, as a journalist. Suddenly, he shows up at my door saying he thinks he left some old work he needs for his portfolio on my mainframe. We had done some collaborations for AP when we were together. He wrote the words and I provided the pictures. I made the mistake of letting him search for it while I worked on my laptop in the next room. I’m pretty certain he erased a catalog of my work I’d spent weeks putting together for AP.”

  “Weak shit bastard.”

&
nbsp; Georgie smiled. “It was backed up, but yeah.”

  “What else?”

  “I’d also just learned that a friend has inoperable brain cancer. They did an operation on him several months ago but the latest test results revealed that the operation didn’t get it all and they can’t go in again. That news really threw me.”

  “That would be Frank Keller.”

  She sighed and put down her fork. “I depend on him. He’s my photography editor at the AP office here in D.C. That means he’s responsible for archiving all of the images that are submitted by every photographer they buy from. More importantly, he has final say-so over which photos are chosen to be sent out for use by the news outlets.”

  “What blue things did you capture the day you covered the Senate Office Building ceremony?”

  His question surprised her. Most people would have offered their sympathy before forging ahead.

  “It’s hard to say since I never got to review them. I was using my broken camera.”

  “How does this exercise in color help you as a photographer?”

  “It’s part of my routine to keep a fresh perspective on the world. An artist’s experience. Each morning I pick something simple, a color or a shape or an idea, and then I take pictures of whatever seems to fit into that category during my day. It’s not a conscious choice. That day I photographed any blue thing that caught my eye. I don’t really remember what they were.”

  Brad finished the final bite of his omelet and washed it down with a gulp of water.

  When he turned to look at her, her heart shifted into a faster rhythm before he even spoke. “The bomb was tucked inside a blue backpack. Could you have taken a picture of a blue backpack?”

  Georgie closed her eyes, trying to remember. But she’d drunk one glass, maybe a bit more of the Chardonnay he’d purchased and nothing would gel. “Maybe. In preparation for the ceremony, I was using a telescopic lens so I might have just taken the blue color that came through without knowing what the object was.”