(12)

"So, you got everything you need?" asked Tony Roselli.

He looked across the desk at Gladys Lynch, who was reviewing her notes on the Steele file for the final time. She didn't reply. That was nothing new: she was the least forthcoming ally with whom he'd ever worked. It was like pulling teeth to get her to share information, and, as for anything that didn't pertain strictly to business, forget it. But he recognized a distinct advantage to himself in the fact that she was so closemouthed. If she didn't share the details of this case with him, she most likely didn't do it with anybody else, either. It further reinforced his confidence that she would never betray him as her information source.

This was the third of three meetings they'd had, and, if all went as planned, it would be the last. Truthfully, it should never have taken this long to dispatch his business with her. Equally truthfully, he would just as soon never see her again after today. He was sick of her insistence on meeting him only at night or on the weekends. It was weird, too, the predilection she seemed to have for being down here alone in the Federal Building when it was empty. But that would eventually work in his favor.

She lifted her head at last. "What about Steele's original passports?"

"It's like I said. My contact at MI5 couldn't lay his hands on them. His guess is they're in the deep files that never see the light of day – if they even exist at all anymore. If whoever's protecting Steele was smart, he would've shredded them as soon as he got a hold of them. It's what I would've done, in his shoes."

"I don't like it, having only the photocopies. There's too much potential for suspicion that I doctored them somehow."

"Maybe, but you got the list of names he's used over the years, and the crimes those guys are suspected of committing. Those are official police records, Gladys, not forgeries. And think: if just one of those charges can be proved, along with their fake marriage, hey, you're golden. Steele's put away, Holt's put away, and you got some clout around here, assuming that's something you want."

"What I want, Mr. Roselli, is to see justice done." She began to sweep up the scattered piles of paper and tuck them away in an accordion folder.

"So you'll talk to your boss - what's his name, Phelps? – tomorrow, right?"

She nodded. "He'll make the final determination as to what steps we'll take. More surveillance, and whatever else we need to do." She rose, pinning him with a long, appraising stare. "I don't understand what you're getting out of this, and I don't much care. But I imagine there's some sort of satisfaction, or you wouldn't go to the lengths you have."

"Just like you, Gladys, trying to get some justice."

She said nothing, only continued to regard him for a moment, the faint curl of her lip conveying her cynicism better than any words could have done. Then she turned away and picked up her briefcase.

He was interested to see her pack away every scrap of the Steele file. "You taking that home with you?"

"I've learned it's better not to entrust my work to other people's security measures."

"How about your boss? You're not handing in a copy to him?"

"He'll see it when we meet Monday." She snapped the briefcase shut and crossed to the door, where she stood looking at him pointedly. "Unless you have something else," she said.

He lifted his shoulders and raised his hands, palms out, to show that he was, indeed, finished. "Walk you to your car?"

"I'm perfectly capable of seeing myself across the street."

"Can't be too careful in a parking garage by yourself." She simply looked at him. "Okay. Well, see ya round, Gladys. Nice doing business with you." Hands in his jacket pockets, he strolled out.

Once he had gone, she spent a few minutes tidying her desk. She never liked to leave without ensuring that everything was tucked out of sight, neat, awaiting her arrival the next day. There was something in her of the urge to celebrate, too. Though she'd been careful, as she always was, to conceal her optimism, Roselli's contribution to the Steele case had turned out to be substantial. Certainly it had yielded more damaging information than her weeks of unfruitful surveillance had done. A lot of that was her own fault; over-eager, she'd tipped her hand and drawn the Steeles' attention to her presence in a most embarrassing fashion. Probably she hadn't given them enough credit in the first place for their detective skills. As result, they'd given a faultless performance in their charade as a happily married couple, without a single lapse so far that she could document and report. But one day they would slip up. She was convinced of it. And she was as determined as ever to be on hand to catch them in the act, so to speak.

She strode at her usual brisk pace out to the street and into the parking garage. Deep in mental rehearsal for tomorrow's presentation to her supervisor, she failed to note that the immediate area was deserted, that the garage itself was empty, the guards off duty for the weekend. Even if she had, it wouldn't have bothered her. This was her routine, the one she navigated without thinking on a daily basis.

So it never occurred to her to listen more closely than usual, or that the echoes bouncing off the garage's concrete walls belonged to two pairs of footsteps, not one.

She had just about reached her car when, out of nowhere, Tony Roselli blocked her path.

Such was Glady's self possession that she didn't scream. She did, however, fall back a step or two, hand clutching her throat. "What are you doing here?" she said sharply.

He shook his head in admonition. "Gladys." His voice was gentle, almost regretful. "Didn't I warn you? It's not safe for you, alone in a parking garage like this."

TO BE CONTINUED