Killjoy

Chapter 1

The wait was making Avery crazy. She sat in her little square cubicle, her back against the wall, one leg crossed over the other, drumming her fingertips against the desktop with one hand and holding an icepack against her wounded knee with the other. What was taking so long? Why hadn't Andrews called? She stared hard at the phone, willing it to ring. Nothing. Not a sound. Turning in her swivel chair, she checked the digital clock for the hundredth time. It was now 10:05, same as it was ten seconds ago. For Pete's sake, she should have heard something by now.

Mel Gibson stood up and leaned over the partition separating his workspace from Avery's and gave her a sympathetic look. That was his honest-to-goodness, real name, but Mel thought it was holding him back because no one in the law enforcement agency would ever take him seriously. Yet, he refused to have it legally changed to "Brad Pitt," as his supportive coworkers had suggested.

"Hi, Brad," Avery said. She and the others were still trying out the new name to see if it fit. Last week it was "George Clooney," and that name got about the same reaction "Brad" was getting now, a glare and a reminder that his name wasn't "George," it wasn't "Brad," and it wasn't "Mel." It was "Melvin."

"You probably should have heard by now," he said.

She refused to let him rile her. Tall, geeky-looking, with an extremely prominent Adam's apple, Mel had the annoying habit of

using his third finger to push his thick wire-rimmed glasses back up on his ski nose. Margo, another coworker, told Avery that

Mel did it on purpose. It was his way of letting the other three know how superior he felt he was.

Avery disagreed. Mel wouldn't do anything improper. He lived by a code of ethics he believed personified the FBI. He was dedicated, responsible, hardworking, ambitious, and he dressed for the job he wanted… with one little glitch. Although he was only twenty-seven years old, his clothing resembled the attire agents wore back in the fifties. Black suits, white long-sleeved

shirts with button-down collars, skinny black ties, black wingtip shoes with a perfect shine, and a crew cut she knew he got trimmed once every two weeks.

For all of his strange habits-he could quote any line from The FBI Story, starring Jimmy Stewart-he had an incredibly sharp mind and was the ultimate team player. He just needed to lighten up a bit. That was all.

"I mean, don't you think you should have heard by now?" He sounded as worried as she felt.

"It's still early." Then, less than five seconds later, she said, "You're right. We should have heard by now."

"No," he corrected. "I said that you should have heard. Lou and Margo and I didn't have anything to do with your decision to

call in the SWAT team.",

Oh, God, what had she been thinking? "In other words, you don't want to take the flak if I'm wrong?"

"Not flak," he said. "The fall. I need this job. It's the closest I'm going to get to being an agent. With my eyesight…"

"I know, Mel."

"Melvin," he automatically corrected. "And the benefits are great."

Margo stood so she could join the conversation. "The pay sucks, though."

Mel shrugged. "So does the work environment," he said. "But still… it's the FBI."

"What's wrong with our work environment?" Lou asked as he too stood. His workstation was on Avery's left. Mel's was directly in front of hers, and Margo's cubicle was adjacent to Lou's. The pen-as they lovingly called their hellhole office space-was located behind the mechanical room with its noisy water heaters and compressors. "I mean, really, what's wrong with it?" he asked again, sounding bewildered.

Lou was as clueless as ever, but also endearing, Avery thought. Whenever she looked at him, she was reminded of Pig-Pen in

the old Peanuts cartoon. Lou always looked disheveled. He was absolutely brilliant, yet he couldn't seem to find his mouth when he was eating, and his short-sleeved shirt usually had at least one stain. This morning there were two. One was jelly from the raspberry-filled doughnuts Margo had brought in. The big red spot was just above the black ink stain from the cartridge pen in

his white shirt pocket.

Lou tucked in his shirttail for the third time that morning and said, "I like being down here. It's cozy."

"We work in the corner of the basement without any windows," Margo pointed out.

"So what?" Lou asked. "Where we work doesn't make us any less important. We're all part of a team."

"I'd like to be a part of the team that has windows," Margo said.

"Can't have everything. Say, Avery, how's the knee?" he asked, suddenly changing subjects.

She gingerly lifted the icepack and surveyed the damage. "The swelling's gone down."

"How'd it happen?" Mel asked. He was the only one who hadn't heard the grisly details.

Margo ran her fingers through her short dark curls and said, "An old lady nearly killed her."

"With her Cadillac," Lou said. "It happened in her parking garage. The woman obviously didn't see her. There really ought to be

an age restriction on renewing a driver's license."

"Did she hit you?" Mel asked.

"No," Avery answered. "I dove to get out of her way when she came roaring around the corner. I ended up flying across the

hood of a Mercedes and whacked my knee on the hood ornament. I recognized the Cadillac. It belongs to Mrs. Speigel, who

lives in my building. I think she's about ninety. She's not supposed to drive anymore, but every once in a while I'll see her taking the car out to do errands."

"Did she stop?" Mel asked.

She shook her head. "I don't think she had a clue I was there. She was accelerating so fast I was just glad there weren't any

other people in her way."

"You're right, Lou," Margo said. She disappeared behind her cubicle wall, bent down to push the box of copy paper into the

corner, and then stood on top of it. She was suddenly as tall as Mel. "There should be an age limit on keeping a license. Avery

told us the woman was so little she couldn't see her head over the back of the seat. Just a puff of gray hair."

"Our bodies shrink as we age," Mel said. "Just think, Margo. When you're ninety, no one will be able to see you."

Margo, a petite five feet two inches, wasn't offended. "I'll just wear higher heels."

The phone rang, interrupting the conversation. Avery jumped at the sound, then checked the time. It was 10:14.

"This is it," she whispered as it rang a second time.

"Answer it," Margo anxiously demanded.

Avery picked up the phone on the third ring. "Avery Delaney."

"Mr. Carter would like to see you in his office at ten-thirty, Miss Delaney."

She recognized the voice. Carter's secretary had a distinct Maine accent. "I'll be there."

Three pairs of eyes watched her as she hung up the phone. "Oh, boy," she whispered.

"What?" Margo, the most impatient of the group, demanded.

"Carter wants to see me."

"Uh-oh. That can't be good." Mel made the remark, and then, as if he realized he'd said something he shouldn't have, added,

"You want us to go with you?"

"You'd do that?" Avery asked, surprised by the offer.

"I don't want to, but I would."

"It's okay. I'll take the bullet alone."

"I think we should all go," Margo said. "A mass firing. I mean, we're all in this together, right?"

"Yes," Avery agreed. "But you three tried to talk me out of going to Andrews. Remember? I'm the only one who screwed up." She stood, put the icepack on top of the file cabinet, and reached for her jacket.

"This can't be good," Mel repeated. "They're breaking the chain of command. It must be really bad to get the boss's boss

involved. Carter was just promoted to head of in-house operations."

"Which means he's now the boss's boss's boss," Margo pointed out.

"I wonder if all the bosses will be there," Lou said.

"Right," Avery muttered. "Maybe all three of them want to take a turn firing me." She buttoned her suit jacket and then said,

"How do I look?"

"Like someone tried to run over you," Mel said.

"Your hose are shredded," Margo told her.

"I know. I thought I had another pair in my drawer, but I didn't."

"I've got an extra pair."

"Thanks, Margo, but you're a petite, and I'm not. Mel, Lou, turn around or sit down."

As soon as they turned their backs, she reached up under her skirt and pulled off her panty hose. Then she put her heels back on.

She was sorry now she'd worn the suit. She usually wore pants and a blouse, but she was going to a luncheon today and so she'd pulled out all the stops and put on the Armani suit her aunt Carrie had sent as a present two years ago. The color was a wonderful taupe gray and had a matching sleeveless V-neck shell. At one time there had been an obscene slit up the side, but Avery had sewn it together. It was a great-looking suit. Now it would be remembered as the suit she wore the day she got fired.

"Catch," Margo said as she threw the new package of panty hose at Avery. "These are the one-size-fits-all kind. They'll work

just fine. You have to wear hose. You know the dress code."

Avery read the label. It did say the hose would fit every size. "Thanks," she said as she sat down again. Her legs were long, and she was afraid of tearing the hose when she pulled them up over her hips, but they seemed to fit.

"You're going to be late," Mel told her when she stood up again and adjusted her skirt. Why hadn't she noticed how short it was? The hem barely touched the top of her knees.

"I've got four minutes left." After she'd put on some lip gloss and clipped her hair back behind her neck with a barrette, she

slipped the heels back on. Only then did she notice how loose the right heel was. She must have broken it when she slammed

into the hood of the car.

Can't do anything about it now, she thought. She took a deep breath, straightened her shoulders, and limped toward the aisle.

With every step, her left knee throbbed.

"Wish me luck."

"Avery," Mel shouted. He waited until she turned around, then hurled her clip-on ID. "You should probably wear this."

"Yeah, right. They'll want to take it from me before they escort me out of the building."

Margo called after her. "Hey, Avery, think of it this way-if you get fired, you won't have to worry about all the work piling up while you and your aunt chill out at that fancy spa."

"I haven't decided if I'm going to meet my aunt or not. She still thinks I'm chaperoning those kids around D.C."

"But now that that got canceled, you ought to go get pampered," Margo argued.

"That's right, you should go," Lou said. "You could stay at Utopia a whole month and work on your resume."

"Not helping, guys," Avery said without looking back.

Carter's office was four flights up. On any other day she would have taken the stairs as aerobic exercise, but her left knee ached too much, and the heel on her right shoe was too wobbly. She was exhausted by the time she reached the elevator. While she waited for it, she rehearsed what she would say when Carter asked what in God's name she thought she was doing.

The doors parted. She took a step forward and felt something snap. Glancing down, she spotted the heel of her shoe lodged in

the seam between the elevator and the floor. Since she was alone, she hiked her skirt up and bent down on her good knee to

pry the heel loose. It was then that the elevator doors closed on her head.

Muttering an expletive, Avery fell back. The car began to move and she grabbed the railing. She clutched the broken heel in her hand and pulled herself to her feet just as the doors opened on the first floor. By the time she reached the fourth floor, the elevator was full of passengers, and she was squeezed to the back of the car. Feeling like an idiot, she excused her way to the front and limped off.

Unfortunately, Carter's office was located at the end of a long corridor. The glass doors were so far away she couldn't even

read the name etched above the brass handle.

Suck it up, she thought as she started walking. She was halfway there when she stopped to check the time and give her leg a

rest. She had one minute. She could make it, she thought as she started walking again. Her barrette slipped out of her hair, but

she caught it before it fell to the floor. She clipped it back in place and continued on. She was beginning to wish Mrs. Speigel's

car had actually struck her. Then she wouldn't have to come up with any excuses, and Carter could call her at the hospital and

fire her over the phone.

Suck it up, she repeated. Could it get any worse?

Of course it could. At precisely the second she was pulling the door open, her panty hose began to slip. By the time she'd limped over to the receptionist, the waistband was down around her hips.

The stately brunette woman wearing a knockoff Chanel suit looked a bit startled as she watched Avery approach.

"Miss Delaney?"

"Yes," she answered.

The woman smiled. "You're right on time. Mr. Carter will appreciate that. He keeps a tight schedule."

Avery leaned forward as the woman picked up the phone to announce her. "Is there a ladies' room close by?"

"It's down the hall, past the bank of elevators, on your left."

Avery glanced behind her and considered her options. She could be late for the appointment, try to run like hell down the

mile-long hallway and rip off the damn pantyhose, or she could-

The receptionist interrupted her frantic thoughts. "Mr. Carter will see you now."

She didn't move.

"You may go inside," she said.

"The thing is…"

"Yes?"

Avery slowly straightened. The panty hose stayed put. Smiling, she said, "I'll go on in then."

She pivoted and held her smile as she grabbed the edge of the desk, and then tried to walk as though her shoe still had a heel.

With any luck, Carter wouldn't even notice her condition.

Who was she kidding? The man was trained to be observant.

Tall, distinguished-looking, with a thick head of silver-tipped hair and a square chin, Tom Carter stood when she entered. She hobbled forward. When she reached the chair in front of his desk, she wanted to throw herself into it, but waited for him to

give her permission.

Carter reached across the desk to shake her hand, and it was then, as she was stretching forward, that her panty hose gave up

the fight. The crotch was now down around her knees. In a panic, she grabbed his hand and shook it vigorously. Too late she realized she was clutching the heel of her shoe in her right hand. She hadn't sweated this much since she took the graduate

record exam.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, sir. An honor, really.

You wanted to see me? My, it's warm in here. Would you mind if I removed my jacket?"

She was rambling but couldn't seem to stop. The remark about the temperature had gotten his attention,. though. Thank God,

the rumors were right. Carter did have his own thermostat and liked to keep his office just below freezing. It was like an Alaskan tomb. Avery was surprised she couldn't see her breath when she exhaled. That's when she realized she wasn't breathing.

Calm down, she told herself. Take a deep breath. Carter enthusiastically nodded. He didn't mention the heel that had dropped

on top of a stack of files on his desk. "I thought it was warm, but my assistant keeps telling me it's cold in here. Let me just turn down the thermostat a notch."

She didn't wait for him to give her permission to sit. The second he turned his back, she snatched the heel off the files -which

she noticed were labeled with her name and the names of the other members of the pen - and then fell into the chair. Her

panty hose were in a wad around her knees. She frantically unbuttoned her jacket, removed it, and draped it over her lap.

Her arms and shoulders were covered in goose bumps seconds later.

Suck it up, she thought. It was going to be okay. Once he sat down behind his desk, she could slowly work the hose down

her legs and get rid of them. Carter would never be the wiser.

It was a great plan, and it would have worked if Carter had cooperated, but he didn't return to his chair. He walked over to

her side, then leaned back to sit on the edge of his desk. She wasn't short by Margo's standards, but she still had to tilt her

head back in order to look into his eyes. There seemed to be a twinkle, which she thought was quite odd, unless, of course,

he enjoyed firing people. God, maybe that rumor was true too.

"I noticed you were limping. How did you hurt your knee?" he asked. He bent down to pick up the barrette that had fallen to

the floor.

"An accident," she said, taking the barrette and dropping it in her lap.

She could tell from the quizzical look in his eyes she hadn't given him a satisfactory answer.

"An elderly lady… quite elderly, as a matter of fact, driving a rather large vehicle, didn't see me when I was walking toward

my car in my parking garage. I had to jump out of the way so she wouldn't hit me. I ended up on top of a Mercedes, and I think that's when I broke my heel and bruised my knee." Then, before he could make a comment about the unfortunate incident, she plunged on. "Actually, I only loosened the heel then. It broke off in the elevator as the doors were closing on my head." He was staring at her as though she had just turned into a babbling fool. "Sir, it hasn't been a good morning."

"Then I'd brace myself if I were you," he said, his voice suddenly grim. "It's going to get worse."

Her shoulders slumped. Carter finally went behind his desk and sat down. She seized the opportunity. Slipping her hands under

her jacket and skirt, she worked the panty hose down her legs. It was awkward but doable, and, other than appearing to be squirming in the hot seat, she managed the feat. While he opened her file and began to read the notes he or someone else had compiled against her, she grabbed the hose and wadded them into a ball. She had her shoes back on by the time he looked up

at her again.

"I received a call from Mike Andrews," he began. There it was again, that grim, you're-gonna-get-your-ass-fired tone of voice.

Her stomach felt as though it had just dropped to her ankles. "Yes, sir?"

"I believe you know him?"

"Yes, sir. Not well," she hastened to add. "I found his number and called him before I left the office."

"And during that phone call you convinced him to deploy a SWAT team to First National Bank on…" He looked down again, searching the file for the location.

She rattled off the address, adding, "The branch is near the state line."

He leaned back, crossed his arms, and said, "Tell me what you know about these robberies."

She took a deep breath and tried to relax. She was on safe ground now, in control. Since she had typed all the agents' reports

into the computer and looked at the bank tapes, she'd learned, and pretty much memorized, every little detail.

"The robbers call themselves the Politicians," she said. "There are three of them."

"Continue," he urged.

"There have been three robberies in the past three months. The men, all wearing white clothes, entered the first bank, First National Bank and Trust on Twelfth Street, on March fifteenth, exactly three minutes after the bank had opened for business.

The men used guns to subdue the personnel and one customer, but they didn't fire those weapons. The man shouting the orders held a knife against the security guard's neck. When the other two were running toward the door, the leader stabbed the guard, dropped the knife, and then left. The guard had done nothing to provoke the man. There was absolutely no reason to kill him."

"No, there wasn't," Carter agreed.

"The second robbery took place on April thirteenth at the Bank of America in Maryland. A bank manager, a woman, was killed during that robbery. The leader was on his way out the door. He suddenly turned around and fired point-blank. Once again, there didn't seem to be a reason, because the personnel had been desperately trying to cooperate."

"And the third robbery?"

"That one took place on May fifteenth at Goldman's Bank and Trust in Maryland," she said. "As you know, the violence

escalated. Two people were killed, and a third was left lor dead but has miraculously recovered."

"Okay, you've got your facts down," he said. "Now, tell me. What made you think a little branch of the First National Bank in Virginia would be the next target?"

His stare was unnerving. She glanced down at her lap while she gathered her thoughts and then looked up again. She knew how she had arrived at the conclusion, but explaining it to the head of in-house operations was going to be difficult.

"I guess you could say it's all in how I look at things. It was all there… most of it anyway, in the file."

"No one else saw it in the file," he pointed out. "They hit different banks with the three robberies, but you convinced Andrews

that they were going to hit another branch of First National again."

"Yes, sir, I did."

"It's… remarkable how you talked him into it."

"Not really," she said, hoping Andrews hadn't told Carter every word she'd said.

"You used my name."

She inwardly cringed. "Yes, sir. I did."

"You told Andrews the order came from me. Is that correct, Delaney?"

Here it comes, she thought. The you're-getting-your-ass-fired part. "Yes, sir."

"Let's get back to the facts, shall we? Here's what I want to know. The Politicians had struck on March fifteenth, April thirteenth, then May fifteenth. We didn't know why they were hitting on those specific days, but you did, didn't you? That's what you told Andrews," he reminded her. "But you didn't go into an explanation."

"There wasn't time."

"There's time now. How did you arrive at your conclusion?"

"Shakespeare, sir," she answered.

"Shakespeare?"

"Yes, sir. The robberies all followed the same pattern, almost like a ritual of some kind. I got a printout of the first bank's records for the week prior to the robbery. I did the same with the other two banks. I thought something might show up that would link them," she said.

She paused to shake her head. "I had reams and reams of printouts all over the office, and I did find something a little curious. Fortunately, I had the discs from the banks, and I was able to cross-check with the computer."

Carter rubbed his jaw, distracting her. She could see a hint of impatience in his eyes. "Sir, bear with me another minute. Now,

the first bank was robbed on March fifteenth. Does that date trigger anything in your mind?"

Before he could answer, she plunged ahead. "The ides of March? Julius Caesar?"

He nodded.

"That must have been in the back of my mind last night while I was reading all the printouts, and I noticed an ATM withdrawal was made by a man named Nate Cassius. I still hadn't quite put it together," she admitted. "But I realized, if I was right, and I

was hoping to heaven I was, that the leader of the Politicians was leaving us clues. Maybe he was playing some twisted game. Maybe he was waiting to see how long it would take us to catch on."

She had his full attention now. "Continue," he said.

"As I mentioned before, the dates frustrated me until I did my research. I looked up the Roman calendar and found that when the Romans were calculating the length of the months, they also figured the date of the ides. We know from Shakespeare's play Julius Caesar that the ides of March falls on the fifteenth. But not all the months. Some fall on the thirteenth. So, using that logic, I went back over the ATM withdrawals the week prior to the second and third robberies, and guess what I found?"

"Did Nate Cassius make a withdrawal from those banks?"

"No, sir," she answered. "But a William Brutus did in one bank, and Mario Casca did in the other… and the withdrawals happened just two days before the robberies. I think they were sizing up the layout of the banks."

"Go on," he said, leaning forward now.

"I didn't put it together until the last minute. I had to pull up the transaction records for all of the banks in the tri-state area from

the eleventh on."

"Because the other two withdrawals were made exactly two days before the actual robberies."

"Yes," she said. "I spent most of the night crosschecking with the data I had in the computer for the eleventh, and by gosh, there

it was. Mr. John Ligarius had made a withdrawal from that little branch of First National at three-forty-five in the morning. All of these names-Cassius, Brutus, Casca, Ligarius-they were conspirators against Caesar. I didn't have time to run a check on the people who owned these cards, but I did find out that the cards were issued from banks in Arlington. It added up. Ligarius made

a withdrawal from the First National Bank. So, the First National Bank was the next target.

"I thought that time was critical, and my superior, Mr. Douglas, wasn't available. He had already left to catch a four-hour flight, and it wasn't possible for me to talk to him. I used initiative," she stressed. "And I would rather have been wrong and lose my job than keep silent and find out after the fact that I was right. Sir, my conclusions and subsequent actions will be in the report I'm typing up, and when you read it, you will note that I take full responsibility for my actions. My coworkers had nothing to do with my decision to call Andrews. But in my defense," she hastened to add, "I, like the others in my department, have a master's degree, and we're all very good at what we do. We aren't simply typists transferring agents' notes into the database. We

analyze the information we're given."

"So does the computer program."

"Yes, but the computer doesn't have heart or instincts. We do. And, sir, now that we're on the subject of job descriptions,

I would like to mention that the minimum wage has gone up, but our salaries have not."

He blinked. "Are you hitting me up for a raise?" She winced. Maybe she had said too much, but at least if she was going to

lose her job, Lou and Mel and Margo might benefit. She felt a sudden burst of anger because she and her coworkers were so undervalued. She folded her arms and looked directly into his eyes. "As I've reviewed the facts for you, I've become more convinced than ever that I was right. I had no other choice than to notify Andrews, and he wouldn't move until I used your

name. I know I overstepped my authority, but there simply was no time and I had to-"

"They got them, Avery."

She stopped short and then said, "Excuse me, sir?"

"I said Andrews and his men got them." She didn't know why she was so shocked by the news, but she was. "All of them?" she asked.

He nodded. "Andrews and his team were waiting, and at precisely three minutes after ten, the three men stormed the bank."

"Was anyone hurt?"

"No."

She sighed. "Thank heavens."

Carter nodded. "They were wearing white. Did you figure out the significance of the color?"

"Sure. The Roman senators wore white robes."

"The three men are being interrogated now, but I imagine you have already figured out what their game was."

"They probably consider themselves anarchists trying to bring down the government. They'll tell you they're trying to kill Caesar and probably even hail themselves as martyrs for the cause, but you know what? When you cut through all the phony baloney,

it's the same old same old. Greed was the real motivator. They were trying to be clever about it. That's all."

She was smiling, feeling quite pleased with herself, when a sudden thought occurred to her. "Sir, you said my morning was going

to get worse," she reminded him. "What did you mean?"

"There's going to be a press conference in…" He paused to glance at the clock. "… ten minutes, and you're the star attraction.

I understand you have an aversion to being in the spotlight. I don't like press conferences either, but we do what we have to do."

Avery could feel the panic building. "Mike Andrews and his team should do the press conference. They apprehended the suspects. I was simply doing my job."

"Are you being modest, or-"

She leaned forward as she interrupted him. "Sir, I'd rather have a root canal."

He caught himself before he smiled, but the twinkle had returned to his eyes. "So this aversion is deep-rooted then?"

"Yes, sir. It is." She appreciated his attempt to lighten the mood, but she couldn't get rid of her growing apprehension.

"May I ask you a question?"

"Yes?"

"Why is my file on your desk? I did follow procedure… as best I could," she pointed out. "And if you didn't plan to fire me…"

"I wanted to familiarize myself with your department," he said as he picked up the file.

"May I ask why?"

"You're getting a new superior."

She didn't like hearing that. She and the others got along well with Douglas, and change was difficult.

"Is Mr. Douglas retiring, then? He's been talking about it for as long as I've been here."

"Yes," Carter answered.

Bummer, she thought. "May I ask who my new boss is?"

He glanced up from the folder in his hand. "Me," he answered. He let her absorb the information before continuing. "The four of you will be moved into my department."

She perked up. "We're getting new office space?"

Her excitement was quickly squelched. "No, you'll stay where you are, but starting Monday morning, you'll report directly to me."

She tried to look happy. "So, we'll be running up and down four flights of stairs every time we need to talk to you?" She knew she sounded like a whiner, but it was too late to take the words back.

"We do have elevators, and most of our employees are able to ride them without getting their heads caught between the doors."

The sarcasm didn't faze her. "Yes, sir. May I ask if we'll be getting raises? We're all way past due for our evaluations."

"Your evaluation is taking place right now."

"Oh." She wished he'd mentioned that fact starting out. "How am I doing?"

"This is the interview portion of the evaluation, and during an interview I ask the questions, and you answer them. That's pretty much how it works."

He opened her file and began to read. He started with the personal statement she'd written when she'd applied, then scanned

her background information.

"You lived with your grandmother, Lola Delaney, until the age of eleven."

"That's correct."

She watched him flip through the pages, obviously checking facts and dates. She wanted to ask him why he felt the need to go over her history, but she knew that if she did, she'd sound defensive and maybe even antagonistic, and so she gripped her hands together and kept quiet. Carter was her new superior, and she wanted to start off on the right foot.

"Lola Delaney was murdered on the night of…"

"February fourteenth," she said without emotion. "Valentine's Day."

He glanced up. "You saw it happen."

"Yes."

He began to peruse the notes once again. "Dale Skarrett, the man who killed your grandmother, was already a wanted man. There was a warrant for his arrest in connection with a jewelry heist where the storeowner was murdered, and over four million in uncut stones were stolen. The diamonds weren't recovered, and Skarrett was never formally charged."

Avery nodded. "The evidence against him was circumstantial, and it's doubtful they would have gotten a conviction."

"True," Carter agreed. "Jill Delaney was also wanted for questioning in connection with the robbery."

"Yes."

"She wasn't at the house the night your grandmother was murdered."

"No, but I'm sure she sent Skarrett to kidnap me."

"But you didn't cooperate."

Her stomach began to tighten. "No, I didn't."

"No one knew what had happened until the next morning, and by the time the police arrived, Skarrett was long gone and you

were in critical condition."

"He thought I was dead," she interjected.

"You were airlifted to Children's Hospital in Jacksonville. One month later, when you had recovered from your injuries-a remarkable feat given the extent of the damage-your aunt Carolyn took you to her home in Bel Air, California." He leaned

back in his chair. "That's where Skarrett came after you again, didn't he?"

She could feel the tension building inside her. "Yes," she said. "I was the only eyewitness who could put him away for life. Fortunately, I had a guardian angel. The FBI was protecting me without my knowing it. Skarrett showed up at school just as it

was letting out."

"He was unarmed and later told the authorities he only wanted to talk to you. Skarrett was arrested and charged with second degree murder," he said. "He was convicted and is currently serving his sentence in Florida. He was up for parole a couple of years ago and was denied. His next hearing should be coming up sometime this year."

"Yes, sir," she said. "I regularly check with the prosecutor's office, and I will be sent notification once the date for the hearing

is set."

"You'll need to go."

"I wouldn't miss it, sir."

"What about the new trial?" he asked. He tapped the papers with his knuckles and said, "I was curious to know why his attorney thinks he has grounds."

"I'm afraid he does have grounds," she said. "The brief that was filed accused the prosecutor of withholding vital information. My grandmother had a heart condition, and the physician who treated her came forward after he read about her death. That information wasn't handed over to Skarrett's attorney."

"But you haven't heard yet if, in fact, there will be a new trial?"

"No, sir, I haven't."

"Now let's get back to you," he said.

She couldn't be cooperative a second longer. "Sir, may I ask why you're so interested in my background?"

"You're being evaluated," he reminded her. "Two weeks after Skarrett was convicted, Jill Delaney was killed in an automobile accident."

"Yes."

Avery had forgotten much of her childhood, but she remembered that phone call clearly. She had just celebrated Carrie's birthday, a belated event since Avery had been in the hospital on the actual date, and was helping the housekeeper put the vegetables on the table before they all sat down to dinner. Avery had placed the mashed potatoes next to Uncle Tony's plate when Aunt Carrie answered the phone. A funeral director was calling to tell her that Jilly had been cremated in a fiery car crash, but there were enough of her remains left to put in an urn. He wanted to know what Carrie wanted done with the ashes and the personal effects, which included a charred driver's license. Avery was standing in front of the bay window staring out at some frantic hummingbirds when she overheard Carrie tell the man to throw them in the nearest Dumpster. She could recall every second of that moment.

Carter drew her attention back to their discussion when he suddenly switched subjects.

"You did your undergraduate work at Santa Clara University, graduated with honors with a major in psychology and a minor in political science and another minor in history. You then went to Stanford and received a master's in criminal justice." Having said that, he closed her file. "In your personal statement you said you made up your mind to become an FBI agent when you were twelve years old. Why?"

She knew he'd already read her answer. It was there in the personal statement she'd made when she'd applied to the Bureau.

"An FBI agent named John Cross saved my life. If he hadn't been watching out for me… if Skarrett had taken me from school, my life would have been over."

Carter nodded. "And you believed you could make a difference working for the Bureau."

"Yes."

"Then why didn't you become a field agent?"

"Bureaucracy," she said. "I ended up in my current position. I was going to put in another six months and then request a transfer."

His assistant interrupted. "Mr. Carter, they're waiting for you."

The panic grabbed her again. "Sir, Mike Andrews really should handle the press conference. Any credit should go to him and his team."

"Look, none of us likes doing this," he snapped. "But this was such a high-profile case, and frankly, most people would appreciate receiving some recognition."

"My coworkers and I would rather have raises… and windows, sir. We'd like windows too. Are you aware that our offices are located behind the mechanical room?"

"Space is at a premium," he said. "And when did you get the idea we were negotiating?"

Her back stiffened. "Sir, in an evaluation-"

He cut her off. "You told me you acted alone when you called Andrews."

"Yes, that's correct, but the others were… integral. Yes, sir, they were integral in helping me go through those files for names."

One eyelid dropped. "You do realize that lying won't get you a raise, don't you?"

"Sir, Mel and Lou and Margo and I are a team. They did help. They just weren't as convinced as I was…"

The buzzer sounded on his intercom. Carter impatiently hit the button and said, "I'll be right there."

Then he reached for his suit jacket and put it on, frowning at her all the while.

"Relax, Delaney," he finally said. "You're off the hook. I'm not going to make you do the press conference."

Her relief made her weak. "Thank you, sir."

She stood when he walked around the desk, the wadded panty hose hidden under the jacket draped over her arm. Carter stopped at the door and then turned back with the frown still creasing his brow.

"Don't ever use my name again without my permission, Delaney."

"Yes, sir."

"One more thing," he said.

"Yes, sir?"

"Good work."