CHAPTER 12
Josie
I’m late getting into the office but no one really cares in the ordinary course of business.
I sometimes put in upward of sixty-plus hours a week, as do most of the other agents, so we have freedom to come and go as we please.
It’s Malik’s way of hands-off managing, which somehow makes people want to work harder.
But because of everything going on, I had sent a text to Malik I was running a bit late so as not to worry him.
I come in through the garage entrance, using the retinal scanner to gain entry.
I usually wear business attire into the office but after showering at my house, with the information rolling through my head that Finn gave me over breakfast, I decided that I needed to dress for comfort.
I put on my favorite worn, soft denim jeans in a boyfriend cut that hang loose and baggy on me.
I have on a University of Washington sweatshirt and my hair in a loose topknot.
I went without my contacts today and opted for my lightweight, wire-rimmed frames.
Caroline looks up from her workstation as I pass by, blinking in surprise at my attire. “Someone’s getting ready to buckle down,” she calls out.
I glance over my shoulder at her and wink. “You know me well.”
At my desk, I turn on my computer and pull out the notes I jotted down from this morning. It’s only a few pieces of information, but I know I can expand it into something meaty.
BOB comes up on three screens at once, the center monitor serving as the operations dashboard. The left holds the working files and the right is the query window where I’ll start building my trail.
My goal today is to fabricate an analytical history of a source that doesn’t exist.
I take a breath and begin.
The Karpov lead is the cleanest because BOB can plausibly get to it with the gentlest of nudges. He’s been running vessel patterns for a handful of days now, so that’s where I’ll start.
The vessels are real and observable. Some are registered through three layers of shell companies, but trails usually go opaque after that. Without a specific name to look for, BOB’s job is to grind through the universe of plausible candidates and surface the most likely.
I narrow the universe with a lead from Finn by adding a filter against the population of Vancouver-area corporations registered in the seafood import sector. I specifically seek those that have had any direct or indirect transit interaction with the vessel patterns in the last twenty months.
BOB returns forty-seven companies.
I run a second filter against the financial signatures of those forty-seven companies looking at things like sudden capital expansions or anomalous wire transfers.
BOB returns nine companies.
I run a third filter cross-referencing the principals of those nine companies against the bureau’s existing watch list of persons connected to Voronin’s network through third-party associations.
BOB returns three.
Karpov Maritime Imports, Limited, is on the list.
I sit back, pick up a pen from my desk, and tap it on my thigh as I think.
The BOB query history will, if anyone walks it backward, look exactly like the work an analyst does when she’s running a pattern and the pattern produces a result. The history won’t show that I knew the result before I ran the query.
It’s a moment of profound dishonesty and it’s shameful to me that I’m keeping the source of this information from my employer. But I can’t put Finn at risk, and not just because I promised him I wouldn’t.
I already care for him far too much for me to ever think about hurting him.
I open a new working file and consider the warehouse Finn told me about.
This one is going to be harder than Karpov because the analytical path is less direct.
I stare at the screen for almost twenty minutes before an idea strikes.
My fingers flying over the keyboard, I run shell company filings against commercial real estate transactions in the south industrial corridor, cross-referenced with suspicious freight registrations over the last three years.
When BOB gives me output, there are six properties and the Georgetown warehouse is one of them.
I could sell this as a stroke of genius plus luck if anyone were to look at my build history.
The last thing I look at is the Russian bakery, but luck is on my side.
Apparently, the FBI already has that on their list of potential sites where Voronin hangs out, but it doesn’t look like any active surveillance has been done there in a long time.
I make a note to talk to Cole and Reid about it, and maybe Jameson can check it out.
I toss the pen down and reach my hands above my head, stretching my back and shoulders. I roll my neck, loosening the slight muscle cramps. I glance at the time and realize I’ve been here almost three hours. Feels like I just started.
I’ve got two new pieces of information for the investigation, and I’ll get eyes back on the Russian bakery. I can sell this easily as the result of legitimate analytical work that any senior analyst could replicate. The trail is clean and Finn is protected.
I shoot a text to both Reid and Cole. Got time to meet on a few things regarding Voronin?
They both respond immediately and are at my desk inside three minutes, parked in the two chairs across from me.
“By the look on your face,” Cole drawls, “I’m guessing you have something new?”
I swing my third monitor around so they both can see it and walk them through my “new” findings.
“That’s really great work, Josie,” Cole murmurs as his eyes roam over the data.
“Thank you, but that’s not all,” I say, ignoring the small flutter of nerves in my stomach. Because this is the big lead I’m getting ready to disclose and I’m not building a query framework but rather using direct information Finn helped me with this morning.
I reach into my bag, pull out a map of the San Juan Islands, and spread it out over my desk. “I’ve been running more scenarios on BOB using tidal data to overlay the darkest nights of the year with remote docks that have easy access to roads.”
This is sort of true in that’s how I identified the Fidalgo dock.
What I’m not sharing as I point out five marked docks that Finn circled in Sharpie this morning at his kitchen counter is that I got these from a direct source. He starred four random destinations and then one he’s seen Mikhail use before.
I tap that star. “This one is the most likely if we have to choose just one to stake out.”
Cole rubs at his jaw as he considers this along with the other information I gave him, probably trying to work out our resources, which are spread a little thin.
Reid looks at me with a smirk. “Why are you even bothering to show us this? We figured you’d just storm it yourself to make the arrest.”
I roll my eyes at him, not even slightly miffed to have him remind me of my last blunder.
It’s the type of poking that good friends and teammates do with one another.
“Funny guy, but I think this is the best move to make. We can put some eyes on Karpov and the warehouse, but if we want to have our best shot at Mikhail, then this is where we should focus.”
I tap the star again.
Cole stares at it a moment longer. “You have a source.”
“What?” I practically gasp, eyes nearly bugging out.
“I’m not doubting your abilities at all, Josie, it’s just… this is a lot of great information all at once.”
“Cole… I don’t—”
He holds up a hand and my mouth slams shut. “I don’t want to know who it is. You clearly need to protect it and I respect that.” Reid looks surprised, his gaze cutting back and forth between us. “But you know if any of this is actionable and it produces something, your source might be revealed.”
I had considered that, as had Finn. We both agreed this morning that it would be a problem for another day.
I merely nod because to say anything would almost signify that I am indeed withholding information from my teammates.
Cole rises from his chair, staring down at me. “If your source has anything else—any other piece of intelligence that’s important—we need it sooner rather than later. We don’t have time for sequential reveals.”
“I think I know better than anyone we don’t have time,” I say, thinking back to the moment that Finn told me Mikhail had come to see him.
Cole nods. “We’ll get ’em, Josie.”
“Damn straight, we will,” Reid echoes as he stands up.
“I’m going to go over this with Malik.” Cole takes the map and folds it. “And Josie… no offense, but if we make a move on the dock, you won’t be with us.”
I nod in understanding. I’m a witness in this case and far too valuable. “I figured. Just take all this information I’ve given you and go do something good with it.”
Cole smiles. “Will do.”
There’s a roast pork loin with rosemary and garlic in the oven and an arugula salad chopped and chilling in the fridge. I’m freshly showered, lotioned and wearing a luminous, dewy layer of makeup. Ella Fitzgerald croons from my Spotify.
I am, I notice, humming to myself with a smile on my face as I pour a glass of chilled white wine.
It’s true I’ve almost died, have a killer chasing me and I’m essentially lying to my employer, but I’m smiling because in about half an hour, a gorgeous, sexy man who gives me the shivers is going to walk through my door.
I take a moment to let that sink in and wonder why it’s giving me all the feels.
Anyone who knows me would be stunned to see me falling for a man like Finn Marlowe.
I’m the girl who perpetually dreams of the traditional fairy tale of being married to a solid man, living in a white picket fence community and having two-point-three children.
Not once did I envision being giddy over a former felon steeped in danger and suspect finances, who is more than likely guilty of crimes that could land him in prison for a very long time.
But Finn is so much more than that. He’s brave, courageous, dashing and romantic. He’s putting himself at risk to help me, and I can’t even begin to think about the seriously wicked things he did to me in bed that have me wanting to strip naked the minute he walks in the door.
I glance down at the dress I’m wearing.
It’s a floral wrap, incredibly sheer and deeply cut almost to my breast bone. I put it on without a bra and almost didn’t put on the G-string made of pale pink lace. I had images of Finn seeing it and wanting to do nothing more than tear it off me.
My phone buzzes on the kitchen counter, startling me from my wicked thoughts and I feel myself blush, as if someone had been listening in on my private fantasies.
I nab the phone and see that it’s my father calling, and a pang of guilt spears through me. “Hi, Dad,” I say, forcing bright and cheery into my tone.
“Hey, kiddo,” he says, his booming voice a bit subdued.
“How are you?” I gush, leaning against the counter and wrapping one arm over my stomach.
“Better than my daughter, apparently, because my daughter has not called me back in four days.”
I close my eyes, wincing over the hurt in his tone. “I know, and I’m sorry. It’s been so busy at work and I dropped the ball.”
My dad sighs and I hear the guilt in that breath sound. “Oh, I’m not complaining, Josie. I’m just being overbearing, I guess.”
He sounds sad and it tears me up. I’m so happy he moved to be near me after Mom died and we’re as thick as thieves in an ordinary Josie world. I almost get killed and then get swept off my feet by a man, and I’ve left my dad in the dust.
“You’re not overbearing and this is all on me. I just got caught up in… well, again… work is a little overwhelming right now.”
“Anything I can help with?” he asks, and I can feel his excitement over the prospect. I’ve bounced many things off him, and why wouldn’t I? His entire career was in intelligence gathering and he’s one of the smartest men I know.
The urge to tell him everything makes my knees weak. He’d have ideas, probably ones I’d never be able to come up with on my own.
But I don’t.
I can’t worry him about my safety. He’d absolutely become overbearing if he knew what had happened to me. He’d do more than Finn insisting I go away. My dad would hog-tie me, throw me in the back of his car and drive me to the other side of the United States.
I can’t have him worrying and I can’t have him impeding me, so I do something that I did earlier today to my teammates. I lie. “No, nothing you can help me with. A big tech client wants a counterintel assessment and I’ve been head down on it. A lot of boring computer crunching.”
Leave it to my dad to know me better than anyone, as well as the intelligence community. “Head down on a counterintel assessment doesn’t usually require four days of not returning your father’s calls.”
“Yeah, well, you don’t have an overbearing boss like Malik demanding results,” I say, wincing at that lie and sending up a silent apology. Malik is the furthest thing from overbearing.
“All right,” he says reluctantly, but I can tell he’s not buying it.
“How about we aim for breakfast this weekend? Pancakes at Glo’s? I’ll buy.”
My dad chuckles. “You do know the way to your old man’s heart.”
“Because you are my heart,” I murmur.
“Ah, honey. You’re my heart too. Okay, you’ve sweet-talked me off the ledge. Text me the time to meet at Glo’s and I’ll be there.”
I have to hold back my sigh of relief that he’s this easily pacified. He’s normally a tougher sell. “Sounds like a plan. Love you, Dad.”
“Love you too, Josie-bug.”
He hangs up and while I should be steeped in relief to have put him off just a bit, I’m deeply, profoundly aware of the size of what I am not telling him.
That I almost got killed, that now I’m a witness in a federal trafficking case, that said trafficker and his men are looking for me and oh yeah, I might be falling for a criminal.
I haven’t lied to my father about anything significant since I was sixteen years old and now I’m lying to him about my entire life.
The kitchen timer beeps.
I cross to the oven and with my hands protected by mitts, baste the roast. I set the time for another fifteen minutes and check the clock.
Finn should be here soon.