Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 42

Five Days, Fourteen Hours, Nineteen Minutes

Indiri Farris didn't know how long she could sit completely still.

Bradley Talmadge had brought her along to the police headquarters – he told her that her participation in the investigation surrounding Richard DeMarco was central to his present needs – but, after depositing her in a waiting room – one with a single armed detective to serve as her guard – he disappeared. Completely. She sat, in the meantime, flipping through an old magazine the detective provided, and she occasionally glanced up at the ticking clock, wondering when she would be put to use in this 'manhunt' Talmadge had warned her about. Turning back to the magazine, she glanced down at an advertisement for a new line of eyewear – Wishmakers – and she held the slick glossy up for the nearby detective to see. Pointing at the glamorous blonde beauty wearing the burgundy eyeliner, she told the man, "I know this model."

"Really?" he asked, sitting up in his chair.

She smiled curtly. "Yes."

The man grinned back at her. "I heard that you were in the modeling business."

"Talent management, actually," she corrected.

"You hire the models?"

"I represent them."

Grimacing, the man brought up a foam cup of coffee to his lips and sipped noisily. "Isn't that the same thing?"

"Not really."

The door opened, and Craig Donovan entered.

Politely, she glanced up from the magazine at the man. She noticed a spring in his step – the man seemed alive with a kind of reserved energy – and she immediately felt at ease. There was a confidence in his expression, an authoritative posture to his walk. He had a strong jaw and very distinct, dark eyes. She looked up at him and sensed a mild attraction, guessing that he was, possibly, much closer to her age than Richard DeMarco had been. Donovan carried a bottle of water, and he set it on the table in front of her.

"Here," he said. "It's the best I can find in the damn vending machines around here. I imagine that a woman like you would find this much more to your tastes than twice-brewed coffee." Donovan turned back to the detective. "Take a break, Ketterling. I'd like to speak with Miss Farris, if you don't mind."

Rising, the police officer asked, "What? No water for me?"

"Help yourself," Donovan replied, smiling. "Just make sure you have exact change. The damn machine ate two dollars before it gave me a single bottle. You'd think there would be some law against the police extorting money from a government agent, but I guess the rules don't apply to the boys in blue."

"Watch your back, Donovan."

"Right back at ya."

Closing the door behind him, the detective disappeared.

"How are you feeling?" the man asked.

Indiri reached across the table, taking the bottle of water and twisting the cap off. "I thought I'd been abandoned."

"Not abandoned," Donovan corrected. "Just kept waiting."

"Is that police procedure?"

"I wouldn't know," he told her. "I'm not with the police."

"Do you work for Bradley Talmadge?"

Pursing his lips, Donovan showed a pained expression. "Let's just say ... I used to." Leaning forward, he extended his hand to her. "My name is Craig Donovan. I'm with the NSA."

"The NSA?"

"Yes, Miss .... Farris, is it?"

"That's right," she told him. "But, please, call me Indiri."

"Thank you, Indiri."

"Where's Bradley?" she asked.

Easily, he pulled back a chair and sat down opposite her. "Bradley is here. He's reviewing some police surveillance footage from traffic cameras. Right now, he's trying to get a lead on where Richard DeMarco was heading after he left the hospital."

She wasn't certain as to why, but suddenly Indiri was overwhelming with a feeling of guilt. She guessed it had to do with her ... involvement with DeMarco. She wondered just how much Donovan had been told, and she wondered if the fact that she had slept with the man would keep him from respecting her.

"I apologize for the fact that you've been kept waiting, Indiri," Donovan changed the subject. "I'm afraid that's my fault. I was at the hospital."

"Were you there looking for Richard DeMarco?"

She thought she notice pain in his expression, albeit briefly, before he said, "Actually, no. I was there ... I was receiving care."

"You were hurt?"

"Yes, I was."

"By DeMarco?"

Yes. She was certain that she saw pain. Donovan was a professional. He tried to hide it, but, as good as she was with the human face, she saw it lurking there in his eyes. There was a glimmer of pain, of frustration, of ... guilt? He was doing his best to stay focused, but the wound was too recent to be covered up with trivial conversation. She had tapped into it, and, now, she had to know.

"What did he do?" she asked softly.

Donovan smiled weakly, professionally. "Earlier today, I was involved in an officer-related death."

She brought a hand up to her mouth. "Oh," she tried, "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean ..."

"Indiri," he quickly interrupted. "It's okay."

"But, Mr. Donovan, please! I didn't mean to ..."

"Really," he said. "It's all right. You didn't know. You had no possible way to know. It's all right. And ... please ... call me Craig."

"I'm sorry, Craig."

Briefly, he nodded.

"Earlier today, I was following up a lead that I had received on the whereabouts of Richard DeMarco," Donovan explained. "Generally, the NSA is only superficially involved in matters of threats to national security on domestic soil. Those investigations are traditionally left to the Federal Bureau of Investigation and to local law enforcement. However, I followed a hunch – with an officer of the Washington DC police – and we were ... well, we were caught in an explosion that I believe Richard DeMarco planned to cover any attempt to discover his true purpose for being in the United States."

She lowered her eyes, staring at the bottle of water. "Was ... is the officer all right?"

Donovan sighed. "Detective Guerrero died in the line of duty."

Now, she closed her eyes, damning herself for being so nosey. "Craig, I'm really sorry."

He relaxed a bit in his chair. Changing the subject, he tried, "Indiri, what's your relationship to Mr. DeMarco?"

Calmly, she shook her head. Opening her eyes, she faced him. "I don't have any relationship with him. As a matter of fact, I just met him ... recently. I was flying home from Paris, and he sat in the seat next to me on the plane. I swear to you. Before then, I had never seen or heard of the man!"

"It's all right," he said, reaching out with a hand. Comfortingly, he placed it on hers. Reacting, she let go of the bottle and took his fingers, gripping them tightly.

"Please, believe me."

"I do, Indiri."

"I met him on the plane," she continued. "He seemed so polite ... so sweet, almost. I would never have imagined that he was a terrorist!"

"Did he speak with you?"

She shrugged. "We talked about travel, mostly. He asked me about my business, what I did, and I told him. Then, mostly, we just talked about the modeling business." Throwing her head back, she let go of Donovan's hand and tried to mentally sort through everything the two strangers-on-a-plane had said to one another. "I think ... I think he said something about knowing someone in the modeling business ... I could be wrong ... but, in any event, one thing led to another, and I told him everything about what I do. Traveling the world. Managing the models. Contracting the work."

"What did he tell you about himself?"

Slowly, as the mental fog cleared, she realized that the conversation had largely centered on her. How did she let that happen? She met hundreds of people, wherever she went, and she prided herself on making others feel important. That meant that she spent a tremendous amount of effort of probing countless strangers about what they did. Never – at least, not in her recent past – did she ever spend so much time discussing herself. How could she have let her guard down with DeMarco? Was it his winning smile? Was it his rugged good looks? Did she see a prospective client for a future photo shoot ... or was it simply ... growing another year older alone?

"Indiri?"

Embarrassed, she realized she hadn't said anything to Donovan for a few moments.

"I'm sorry," she offered. "It's just ... I was trying to remember what he said."

"That's all right," he told her easily. "Take your time. I need you to think about your conversation." His voice was soothing. "Sometimes, it's the little things that are said which can mean a great deal. What did he tell you about himself?"

Exhausted, she shook her head. "Nothing," was her eventual reply.

"Did he tell you why he was coming to America?"

Again, she shook. "I don't remember. I mean ... he could have said something, but it's just ... I don't know why I can't remember anything that might help you."

"Did he tell you he was coming here for business, or was this a personal trip he was making?"

Suddenly, she remembered, "Paris! He told me he was from Paris!" Then, she relaxed a bit. "Well, no. That isn't exactly right. He told me that he lived in a small villa outside of Paris. He said ... he said it was a small place. He joked that it was so small that it probably didn't warrant being on a map."

"Someplace outside of Paris?"

"Yes," she agreed. "He said something ... he said something about liking the small and quiet ... that, at his age, he had grown far more comfortable with the small and the quiet than the large and the ..." She wrinkled her forehead. "You don't think ... you don't think he was talking about me, do you?"

Donovan tilted his head. "How do you mean?"

"Well," she tried, sorting through was she recalled of the airplane conversation, "I hadn't really said anything to him for a good part of the flight. You know? I travel an awful lot, Craig, and I couldn't begin to tell you the number of people I've sat next to aboard an airplane in my life. You reach a point ... well, you reach a point where polite chit-chat isn't really that important. I didn't say anything to him, and then – all of a sudden – he's flirting with me. Me. A woman easily ten years older than he is. A woman who – were I a few years younger – would probably be happy to have a man like Richard DeMarco show an interest in me ..."

The man didn't say anything.

"That's it, isn't it?" she tried. "He played me. He realized that – based on my personality – that I'd be someone he could manipulate."

"Indiri," Donovan said, his eyes fixed on hers, "you have to understand something about people like Richard DeMarco: they prey on the goodness and good nature in other people."

"But, Craig, I'm usually so good at reading people! How could I ..."

"Don't do this to yourself," he told her firmly. "You weren't weak. You were being yourself. Scum like Richard DeMarco want you to let your guard down, to be completely at ease. It makes taking their first step possible. If you had put up your guard, then he wouldn't have taken any notice in you whatsoever. He wouldn't have contacted you for dinner. He wouldn't have spent any time with you ... and we wouldn't have this possible lead that might prove his undoing." Raising his hand, he wagged a finger at her. "Don't allow yourself to believe that being who you are was in any way, shape, or form a sign of weakness. Life isn't that simple."

"But he played me!" she insisted. "He wormed his way into my life, he wormed his way into my ... my ... my bed ... and now I'm running for my life!"

"What happened after you stepped off the plane?"

She closed her eyes and shook her head in disgust. "He asked me ... he said something about asking me for a drink but he'd be afraid I'd reject him ... oh, why the hell didn't I see what he was doing?"

"What did you say, Indiri?"

"I gave him my business card."

"Your card?"

"Yes."

Disappointed in her own human frailty, she slumped in her chair.

Then, reality splashed her in the face.

"Oh, my God," she muttered.

She opened her eyes and stared at him. He was watching her as intently as she was him.

"I gave him my business card," she repeated. "He knows exactly where to find me." She drew in a quick breath before repeated, "Oh, my God, Craig, the bastard knows exactly where to find me!"

Reassuring, Donovan reached across the table and grabbed her hand. She tried to fumble loose, to duck away from him, but he quickly brought both of his hands around hers, smothering them under his warm skin. She couldn't pull away – she couldn't defy his strength – and she found herself trying with all her might to suppress the desire to throw herself clear of the table, to burst from the room, to run screaming down the halls that a madman – this terrible madman – knew exactly where to find her, knew exactly where she worked ... and she was afraid ... very afraid ... but something about the way Craig Donovan grasped her hands in his gave her pause.

"Indiri, I'm not going to lie to you," he whispered, "because that wouldn't be right. Yes. Richard DeMarco knows where you are. Yes. He knows more about you than you know about him. Yes. He tried to assassinate you earlier this evening but instead killed one of your models, no doubt one of your friends. Yes. He knows where you work ... and so do I." He leaned closer toward her from across the table. "Yes. Earlier today, Richard DeMarco killed a very good friend of mine ... and that's why Bradley Talmadge has asked me to come back aboard the project he commands so that I can protect you."

She focused on his eyes, and she knew that he was telling her only the truth.

"Indiri, I give you my word as another human being that, together, you and I will make absolutely certain that not a single other innocent person fails prey to this madman again so long as we work together."

She liked what she saw in his eyes. She appreciated his candor, despite the fact that she was scared to death, and she wanted to melt into him right now.

"If you give me your word that we'll work together," he bargained, "then I give you my word that we'll stop Richard DeMarco." He gripped her hands more tightly. "Can you do that? Can you give me your word?"

Slowly, she nodded.

"Tell me how I can help?"

END of Chapter 42