Some of the vacationers were sprawled out, engrossed in paperback editions of Tom Clancy, Michael Palmer, Vince Flynn, and Dan or Dale Brown books. It might be another month until the next great beach reads were due, but here in paradise it was perpetually July.
One strikingly beautiful woman sitting on a straw mat spotted a snorkeler emerging from the 85-degree water. She was awestruck by his 6-foot-plus frame, a magnificent physique, his blonde locks, hairless body, and his drop-dead good looks.
She wondered what he did. He was obviously successful. Lawyer. No. Maybe a professional athlete. A quarterback. She wished she knew sports better. He could be anything, she thought.
Part of her evaluation was right. He was successful and very athletic. In fact, a few nights before, he’d been a jogger. But after catching a 10 P.M. plane from LAX to Miami, and then a connecting flight to Antiguilla, he became someone else entirely.
If the woman, wearing only a bikini bottom, were lucky, she’d never discover what he actually did for a living.
Now, with his eyes fully adjusted to the glare, he saw her. He read her unmistakable interest from twenty yards away. He laughed to himself. A redhead. Imagine that.
“Hello,” he said.
“Hello,” she replied with a flirtatious smile. She lowered her eyes: a coy signal that he could do the same.
When she looked up again, the woman noted that he had taken her cue and found what she had invited him to see. Soon the stunning redhead would hear that this great catch out of the sea was a shark. He’d even have a convincing conversation with her about his career as a lawyer, or rather the identity that he’d stolen. Most importantly, over the next week, he’d show her a very good time. All on his dime. After all, money wasn’t a problem.
Chapter 15
Shik used his small lock pick to open Meyerson’s 800-square-foot apartment.
“We’re in,” he said for the recording. “Let’s get to it.”
The team split up according to assignments, each making instant value judgments about the woman and her life.
Shik began in the kitchen. “Small. Old appliances. Grease caked in layers on the oven.” His overall assessment: “Not a cook.” He found her checkbook in a shoebox, along with a stack of bills. She had a balance of $2,438.32 that would have to be checked with the bank. But on first blush it appeared she lived hand-to-mouth, month-to-month. He radioed in his observation.
Beth Thomas went straight for the bathroom. To a woman, the bathroom said a lot. This is where the FBI agent would formulate the personal side of the subject. The bathtub caught her eye. “We have a guilty pleasure here or a bad back. Whirlpool Spa connected to her tub.” Her search of the medicine cabinet produced a bottle of a muscle relaxer. “Five mg Flexeril. Vicodin, too. Ten mg. It’s a back issue.” There were also decongestants. “Allergies,” Thomas continued reporting. She noted condoms and essentials from a Bobbi Brown makeup kit. Most of the things were missing. “The medicine cabinet doesn’t have everything I’d expect. Subject is likely away.”
Bessolo radioed up. “Any Estee Lauder?”
She looked again. “No. Why?” Bessolo didn’t volunteer an answer.
Shik had his screwdriver out, and removed the plates on each of the wall sockets. Wearing a light on his cap, he peered inside each one. Next he checked the light fixtures. From there he went to the living room, examining the telephone and fax machine. He set up a small black box next to them. The onboard LEDs remained green. No bugs or wireless cameras. “Living room is clean.” He followed the same routine in each of the other rooms.
Beth Thomas ignored him when he came into the bedroom. She was busy with her own analysis. “Walls patched up. Hardwood floors worn, but recently polished. I’d say she cares about her bedroom, but doesn’t have money to work with. Assumption: She needs more money, or is afraid to spend what she has.” Her walls were painted in a light blue, the ceiling in white. She’d hung a poster depicting Wellesley College in its fall splendor, and tacked on a cork board, a collection of pictures that she’d taken with government officials and international leaders. So far, these were the most interesting finds.
“Photographs suggest that subject may work for the U.S. of A. With access.” Beth studied the photographs. Senators, congressman, the Ambassador to Israel. Even President Lamden. “High up.” No casual pictures. No single pictures of boyfriends.
Bessolo listened to the commentary in the van. He tapped his fingers to a tune he quietly hummed. His team members, blind from the beginning, were making solid observations. But what would they find that he didn’t already know?
Shik returned to the living room after completing his electronics sweep. Now he could concentrate on the physical information. “Personal touches everywhere.” He examined some tabletop sculptures. “Woman is an artist. Signed and dated work. Recent.” He remembered seeing a poster in the bedroom. “Likely college art classes. Living room decorated artfully. Flea market finds on the tables. Lamps, vases, mobiles, all reworked, distressed, and displayed. She probably watches the junk-to-funk shows on HGTV and DIY. Her cable company can confirm viewing habits. Functional, inexpensive, out-of-the box Ikea furniture. A few throw rugs to pull the space together. Artistic hand. Creative,” he said on mic. “Boxes in the living room.” He looked around. “I’d say about a dozen.” He opened one. “College books. She’s still moving in. Betcha she’s too busy at work to get this done.” The mainly empty shelves reinforced the point. The only volumes in use were history books, non-fiction and fiction, de Tocqueville to Vidal. “History buff. American history.” He examined the pages. “Individual words highlighted in yellow marker.”
Bessolo heard the comment. What words? He made a mental note to examine the book himself. Codes are often developed through words in a book. Both sender and receiver work from the same source to communicate. A message?
Beth still worked the bedroom. “Subject’s bed faces the windows. Morning sun. Sheer drapes. Very little privacy, but not much of a view from the condo across the street. Going to check out the closet now.”
Meyerson’s closet was another thing entirely. There simply wasn’t enough room for a woman’s clothes. Beth looked at everything, moving each item carefully. Like the other members of Bessolo’s team, she wore latex gloves.
The closet overflowed with any number of requisite black and gray pantsuits, two conservative knee-length black business skirts, two black cocktail dresses, one mid-knee skirt, a collection of blouses and sweaters and basic athletic clothing. She was about Beth’s size, in good shape, except for her back problem. But the jogging shoes suggested she ran to keep fit. “Nice taste. Very presentable. Professional, moderately conservative. Jogs or walks for exercise. Damn, it’s cramped in here.” She felt a twinge of sympathy, then looked for the natural space to store more clothes. Thomas found it. “There’s more under her bed.”
Meanwhile, Gimbrone followed the wiring in the living room, a few feet from Shik. “Flat-screen TV, hooked up to cable. Multiple phone lines.” He crossed over to the bay window, where Lynn had her desktop. He checked the hookup. “Cable modem to a 3-year-old Dell 4600C. MP3 player patched into the system’s speakers.” He powered up and immediately discovered a wall. “Shit. Password protected.” He grimaced. “Sorry about that, boss.”
Bessolo didn’t worry. In his opinion, just a temporary obstacle.
“Now the bed,” Thomas explained. “Queen.” She felt the springs. “Sleeps on the right side. Alone.” The information in the pictures, the clothing in her closet, and the college poster gave her enough intel to make an educated guess. “I’d say we’ve got a young Congressional aide or government staffer — maybe working for someone up the food chain. Works all the time,” she felt the bed again, “and doesn’t have a steady boyfriend.” Beth knew the feeling.