Going Dark(20)

She carried herself smoothly, as airy on her feet as a yoga guru. She had a take-no-prisoners sense of humor, like a woman who’d learned her first life lessons horsing around with older brothers.

First time he saw her at a Homeland Security briefing up in Lauderdale, he’d felt a twinge. She picked up on it, glancing his way more than necessary, a couple of subtle smiles. Flirting, but discreet. Second occasion, a Christmas party for some top-tier feds in South Florida, at a mansion out on the beach along the Intracoastal with a view of the Miami downtown skyline lit up in reds and greens, Biscayne Bay gleaming, soft winter breeze. Open bar. McIvey was drinking mango champagne cocktails. Sheffield was on his third Bud when she came over, started talking. Asked him if he was staring at her. He apologized, said she reminded him of somebody.

Dare I ask?

First wife, he said, but she’s long gone.

An amicable divorce, I hope?

What’s the opposite of amicable? he said.

She looked back at the party as if considering rejoining the crowd. Took a minute, but finally turned back to him. Never married again?

Not even close.

She hurt you that much, Frank? You’ll never love again?

You’re mighty quick on the draw.

You like going slow, Frank? You’d be the first man I met.

I used to think I’d never get over her. But not anymore. Twenty years, I believe I’m all healed up.

They wound up leaning against the boathouse, chatting, getting around to the weather, the cool tropical winter night, the scattering of stars, Nicole saying it looked like silver mistletoe twinkling up there, a bit of come-on poetry.

They discussed work, people they knew, the music filtering down from the big house, people laughing quietly on the other side of the lawn, then they both went silent, looking at each other, and with a tilt of her head, she offered him a kiss and he took it. He wasn’t sure how drunk she was, or how drunk he was. But that kiss lasted about as long as any Frank could remember, and then came her hands, not hurried or rough, but sure, aware, the slow sensuous sound of his own zipper, her long fingers unbuckling him, you’re sure about this, he managed to whisper, oh, yes, she said, then her skirt going up, panties tugged down, her sleek inner thighs, the athletic maneuvers she managed while they consummated it in the shadows of the boathouse.

After they were done, she split for the bathroom and didn’t return.

Next day he tracked down her number and called her.

She didn’t let him get past hello before saying it was a mistake. She never did stuff like that. What? You’re a nun, a virgin? I mean the zipless thing, she said. Never? Never, she said. And it’s not a good idea for either of them. Her so junior, him so senior.

Sheffield did his best to minimize all that, joking around, trying to get his silver tongue going. But when he ran out of words, she was quiet and stayed that way until he gave up and that was that, no further contact all winter, spring, and summer until this morning when she’d rung his room at the Silver Sands.

For his entire career with the Bureau, Sheffield had never once hit on a coworker, even one a step removed from the FBI. It was one of Sheffield’s unbendable rules. Never dally with cops, ’cause if it came back to bite you in the ass, it would clamp hard. But as Nicole had said, Sheffield had a foot in retirement. And he could still hear that silky zipper. Still feel her sure-handed way with his belt.

On the phone at 8:00 a.m. today, Frank asked her what this was all about.

She said this had to be face-to-face. She’d fill him in on the way down to the power plant. Which power plant? You mean Turkey Point? I’ll fill you in, she repeated.

“I’ve seen electrocutions before. Nothing like this.”

“He caught fire. From the inside out, his major organs, that’s what the ME told me. It’s rare, but it happens.”

“Jesus.”

“There was a half-assed attempt to make it look accidental. But it was clear what went down. They hooked Marcus up to the electrical grid. Like a message. Power to the people. Something cute like that. That’s how they think. They found out he was spying on them, they fried him.”

“That’s a message?”

“They’re big into messaging,” she said.

“Who we talking about?”

She plucked her phone from the cup holder, fiddled with it one-handed, cutting her eyes back and forth from the phone to the insane traffic heading south, everybody in a hurry to get to the Keys and relax.

She held out the phone again.

It was an image of a cartoon elf, chubby and stern-faced and wearing a green frock and a beret. His leggings were also olive drab and the toes of his boots curled up like those of the fairy-tale elves from Grimm. He was holding an oversize flintlock rifle at port arms and an ammo belt was slung over one shoulder. He was winking, but it wasn’t merry. More warlock than pixie.