The Arranger Read online

  The wind howled outside her windows and the tall pine trees swayed. Lara worried the storm might cause damage at the Maryland airport and delay her flight. It was tornado season in the Midwest and a twister could cause the airline to reroute her flight. That was the worst risk of flying now—sudden, powerful storms.

  When Lara finally had everything squeezed into her suitcase, she went to her desk and began the search she’d wanted to conduct since leaving the commissioner’s house. With a few clicks and a password, she opened the Eugene PD’s citizen database. Her best friend was still a detective with the department, and he let her use his password to access information. Sometimes she looked up people she’d treated in an emergency call to get the background story. Other times, she perused the files just for the thrill of police work.

  Richard Bremmer, the asshole who’d fired at her, was thirty-three and owned a spa and fitness center called Flex. Lara searched the Lane County criminal record files and discovered Bremmer had a public indecency charge from 2012 when he was twenty-five and an assault charge in 2014. The man he’d attacked refused to testify, and the judge had dismissed the case. Lara was relieved to learn Bremmer was only a passionate gay man in need of anger management and not a career thug who would track her down because she’d witnessed him leaving the scene of a crime. She stared at his mugshot and tried to visualize him ten years older and with longer hair. He seemed more attractive than the glimpse she’d gotten of him before hitting the ground. But age changed people’s appearance.

  Lara hated being sucked into petty domestic bullshit. Yet for a few moments in that room with the bleeding man, she’d felt essential. Her presence in the world had mattered for a minute or two. Her stomach growled, surprising her. It was unusual for her to feel hungry except after intense exercise. She got up and crossed the living area into a galley kitchen the size of a walk-in closet. Even though her long period of unemployment had forced her into this small living space, she was grateful to look out the windows at a lush backyard surrounded by pine and oak trees, instead of being stacked up in a fifty-unit complex surrounded by asphalt.

  She cored an apple and tossed it into the blender with pineapple juice, sunflower seeds, and two tablespoons of soy protein. She drank her dinner standing at the counter and worried about getting enough nourishment during the intense physical contest. She hadn’t been able to eat solid food since she left the department, and the next week would be no exception. Physically, everything still worked fine. The block was in her head. The idea of chewing and swallowing was simply too repulsive, and she couldn’t make herself put a chunk of food in her mouth. Lara knew what a shrink would say, so she’d never paid for the privilege of hearing it.

  Two containers of protein powder were already tucked into her suitcase, along with a week’s supply of vitamins and flax seed. She’d buy a blender when she arrived in D.C. and drink plenty of coffee. After four years of living this way—and training intensely through most of it—her body had adjusted, and she could only hope that she’d perform at her best. At five-five, she was one of the smallest contestants, but she had exceptionally strong muscles, the only decent thing her father had given her.

  Lara pushed her hands through her shoulder-length, recently-bronzed hair, now worried that she didn’t have enough wow factor to gain the audience votes she needed to win. What would the millions of viewers see in her face? Would they think she was kind of pretty with a heart-shaped face and nicely spaced blue eyes? Or would she look short and mousy next to a tall, big-breasted blonde with prominent cheekbones and silicone-plumped lips? Male contestants had won the first two Gauntlets, but the pundits and gamblers were all saying a female would win this year to balance it out. If the tall blondes didn’t make it through the Puzzle, which required quick analytical thinking, Lara figured she had a chance.

  Back at the NetCom, she listened to the wind in the trees and searched for Thaddeus Morton, surprised at how few pages came up. Most were articles about his corporate positions leading up to employment commissioner. A few news blogs had gossipy stories about Morton’s single life and rumors of his various sexual relationships. Even though gay sex was now illegal on a federal level, few people were prosecuted for it. Yet incriminating photos could ruin a government career. For the heck of it, she plugged Morton’s name into the local law enforcement database and nothing came up. So he was a good guy, or at least smart and careful. How had Morton ended up with a hothead lover?

  Lara forced herself to put the incident behind her. She opened her blog and wrote her last entry about her two-year journey to qualify for the Gauntlet. Once she was registered at the competition, she wouldn’t be allowed to post any details. The contestants competed in rounds, and the sponsors didn’t want those who went later to have an advantage. Writing the blog had been somewhat therapeutic, but it had also opened her up to far more people, strangers really, than she wanted in her life.

  Her iCom beeped and she saw Wade Jackson’s handsome face. She decided to take the message on her NetCom so she could see him on a bigger screen. She loved having one number that linked all her communications. Even more, she loved the tiny receiver that tucked into the fold of her ear and made messaging easy. “Hey, pal. What’s up?”

  “The system notified me that my password had been used and I assumed it was you.”

  “Yep. I had a weird encounter on the job today and I wanted to check the guy out.”

  “Anything I should know about?” He sounded concerned, but then, Jackson always sounded concerned.

  “Probably not.” Lara wanted to tell him about the incident, but it would only cause him internal conflict. She changed the subject. “Are you working any interesting cases?”

  “I’ve got a couple of missing foster teenagers and I’m trying to find a link between them.” He sounded tired. “I really called to say good luck at the Gauntlet. I’m so proud of you for making it this far.”

  His words were like a warm heart massage. “Thanks, Jackson. It won’t mean much if I don’t bring home the grant.”

  “Bullshit. To get there, you kicked ass against all the jocks and firefighters in this state who competed to represent Oregon. You’ll always have that honor.”

  “Bringing jobs back to the state will mean so much more.”

  “You’re a good woman, Lara. Go win this thing for us.”

  “Thanks. I hope to.” Lara hung up before old emotions could surface. Jackson had trained her to be a detective and was one of the few on the force who hadn’t shunned her after the incident. She’d been in love with Jackson for a while too, right up to the day she’d started dating Ben Stricklyn. Then a crazy woman had shot Ben, and Jackson had been there for her again. A cold ache spread through her chest and she pushed both men out of her mind.

  She finished packing, placed her Dock in her shoulder bag so she wouldn’t forget it, then set the sleep alarm on her iCom. As she got ready for bed, the situation at the commissioner’s house troubled her again. What if the shooting wasn’t a domestic altercation? She knew she’d let herself believe Morton’s story because it suited her agenda.

  Lara let it go. Why would the commissioner lie? Reporting the incident would have made little difference anyway, except to make an enemy of someone who could help her. If she hadn’t been headed for the Gauntlet, she might have done a little surveillance on Richard Bremmer to see what he was really about. But she wasn’t a cop anymore. She was just a lonely woman, trying to salvage her soul.

  Chapter 3

  Eight months earlier: Thurs., Oct. 13, 2022, Washington D.C.

  Paul Madsen was eating lunch at his desk when his NetCom made a small burping noise and his supervisor’s face appeared in the bottom corner.

  “Come into my office, please.” Stacia Palmer closed off with no further comment.

  Paul dropped his sandwich, muttered his displeasure, and hurried down the hall. Stacia headed the Personnel and Payroll Management Office, which had been formed after dozens of federal departments
had been eliminated in the massive budget cuts of 2017.

  Paul stepped into her corner office, blinking at the sun streaming in from two sides. He always kept his blinds closed, so the brightness made his eyes water. “Yes?” He sat down, hoping she didn’t think his tears were a sign of weakness.

  “I have a major assignment for you, but it must be handled quickly and discreetly. Can I count on you?”

  “Of course.” Paul hated the way she always needed verbal acquiescence. Wasn’t it enough that she was his boss?

  “I need a database of personnel replacements completed by the end of the month.” Stacia tapped her dark acrylic nail on a stack of memos. “Everyone at Level C and higher has been instructed to submit three names and resumés. I need you to set up the database and pull all the information together.”

  “That’s 352 people. With three replacements each, it’s 1,056 entries. Not to mention the number of fields for each entry.”

  “Your ability to do math in your head while you talk is a little creepy.”

  Paul’s hands tightened into fists in his lap. He’d been called a lot of names in his childhood—nerd, geek, orphan, momma’s boy—but never creepy. “Three weeks is not enough time.” He held his facial muscles rigid and stared with emotionless eyes. He couldn’t let Stacia see his anger. Not in the new mean-lean government environment.

  “Callahan wants it done now. Another situation like the Zantra virus outbreak will kill her chances of re-election. Disaster response is the new measure of a presidency.”

  Paul had to turn away from her intense eyes and BioGel-plumped face. They both knew he would be at his desk until eight every night to accomplish the task in such a short time. His pay deposit would not include a bonus. Federal and state governments had been in a financial crisis for more than a decade and he hadn’t seen a raise in six years. Considering that the federal government was a fraction of its former size, he felt lucky to still have a job.

  “You can put everything else aside,” Stacia added. “Camille will take care of any maintenance requests in the interim.”

  His unsaid comments tasted less bitter as he visualized his stunning co-worker, who would have to consult with him more often while he created the database. Every minute with Camille would be worth an hour of unpaid overtime. “I’ll get started right away.”

  “You’ll have to sign this privacy agreement first. All of the information in the files is highly confidential, and you risk your job if you discuss the data with anyone, including your co-workers.” Stacia pushed a piece of paper across the desk. The text was three paragraphs long. Thickly worded legalese was no longer the norm. The president wanted all government memos geared at an eighth-grade reading level. Paul scanned the agreement and signed. What else could he do?

  Stacia scooped it up with shiny purple nails and tucked it into the folder she held. “Read the specs first.” She dismissed him with a nod.

  Back in his office, Paul tossed his half-eaten meal, took out his Dock, and opened a tai chi program. He watched the instructor’s soothing movements on the screen until he felt calm again. No one used the fed’s computers to get online for personal reasons anymore. It was a violation and too many people wanted their jobs and their med cards.

  When his lunch hour was over, he read the memo, intrigued by the specifications. The president wanted not only the names and work history for the top three candidates for each Level C position, but a summary of their personal lives as well. Children, pets, political affiliation, charities they contributed to, and much more. Even more interesting, she wanted the information in a second tier, a subfile, accessible only to those who logged in with a specific code.

  A shiver of excitement pulsed through Paul’s veins. The details he would be privy to, the secrets he would learn and store in his high-functioning memory. The lost personal time meant nothing compared to the insider information. Others would have access to the file, but no one would know it like he did. Who had time to read all the data except the file creator?

  Paul mapped out how he would overwrite the system code to give him permanent access. His mind-numbing job had just become bearable. He felt disturbingly grateful to the rogue virus that had killed thirty-six employees at various levels of the federal government. Twelve people in the White House had died after the outbreak at the summit, and twenty-four administrators had succumbed in secondary infections. Consequently, the government had been in disarray for weeks, and now the president wanted to ensure that if anything—tornado, anthrax, or terrorist bomb—wiped out a chunk of employees, qualified people were lined up and ready to step in. Some departments already had unofficial replacement lists, but this would be the first time all those candidates were in one file. Paul thought it might be the first smart thing the president had done, which meant it wasn’t Callahan’s idea.

  He opened his messages to see that submissions were pouring in. The chief of staff had already sent his replacements. Paul knew he should build the database first, but he couldn’t resist opening the file. He was surprised to see a woman as one of the picks. The president typically surrounded herself with men. Paul ignored Kelly Bascome’s resumé because he was familiar with her career and scanned her personal file instead. He learned that she owned several guns, had two Great Danes, and had once danced with a ballet troupe in upstate New York. Now that he had focused on it, the information would be with him for years, accessible simply by recalling this moment. His memory was exceptional, a quality he kept to himself. If Stacia knew he could memorize details that easily, she would have never given him this assignment.

  He’d learned to hide his gift at an early age. By the time he was twelve, his foster mother had become uncomfortable with his ability to remember conversations exactly as they had occurred. It left her little room to revise and augment her past statements. The last thing he’d wanted was for her to stop talking to him. He loved the gossip, the adult talk she’d always shared as if he were one of her girlfriends. After years of bouncing from one crowded foster home to another, coming to live with Isabel had been like setting foot ashore after a long stormy boat ride. So he hadn’t corrected her when she misspoke or remembered things differently than he did. Eventually, he’d learned to keep his memory from classmates as well. They had been drawn to attractive people who also happened to be smart, but they resented homely kids like him who did better on tests.

  Paul opened a template and starting modifying the code for the new database. Deep into his task, a knock at his door surprised him. He looked up to see Camille coming into his office.

  “I hear Stacia gave you the replacement database gig. I’m so jealous.”

  Paul popped out of his chair and gave her his best closed-mouth smile. At five-eight, Camille was nearly his height, but that was all they had in common. She was blonde, lean, and beautiful and had flawless teeth. He was thick in the middle with dull brown hair, a big nose, and spaces between his teeth.

  “Stacia wants it done in three weeks. Be glad you didn’t get the assignment.” Paul gestured for Camille to sit.

  “Still, having access to that information is awesome.” Camille flashed him another smile. Paul’s heart leapt against his ribcage. The goddess was being friendly.

  She slipped into the visitor’s chair so Paul sat too. “Stacia says you’ll take over some of my duties while I work on this project. I’m sorry about that.”

  “I’m glad to help. If you need any assistance entering the information, let me know.”

  “Thanks.” Paul wondered where the conversation was going. Camille had never offered to help him before. “I had to sign a confidentiality agreement, so I’m not allowed to discuss the data.”

  She looked disappointed. “I sure would like to know who’s on the short list for employment commissioner. That would be an ideal job for me.”

  “You would be great for it,” Paul said. “You have the right background and you’d be excellent as a commentator on the Gauntlet.” The audience would love her, he
thought. Her face was a work of art and she was hard to look away from. He couldn’t believe Camille was thirty-three—and still single.

  “You think so?” She gave him a tiny wink.

  Paul felt a surge of pleasure, followed by an inkling of possibility. Was she flattered by his compliment? And possibly interested in him? “I’ve met the commissioner,” he offered casually.

  Camille leaned forward, giving him a whiff of her tropical shampoo. “How well do you know Mr. Morton?”

  “I met him at a fundraiser for Transitions. We’re both heavily involved with the charity.” Paul had volunteered with the foundation in his twenties when he realized most foster kids had nowhere to go when they aged out of the system. He’d been lucky to have Isabel’s support.

  “Do you have any actual influence with the commissioner?” Camille asked.

  Paul felt his cheeks grow warm. “I don’t know. I might.” On some level, he understood that Camille was mostly interested in what he could do for her, but he’d wanted her for so long, he would take any opening. “Maybe I’ll suggest you to him for his replacement list.”

  “That would be fantastic.” She gave him a hundred-watt smile and his heart melted.

  Paul struggled for the courage to say something, anything, to prolong the moment. Finally, he blurted out, “We could have dinner after work sometime and talk about how to beef up your resumé.”

  Her smile faded and he watched her formulate her next words.

  “I’m seeing someone now, Paul, so dinner may be not a good idea. But we could take a coffee break together at the Kiva tomorrow. I’ll bring my resumé.” She stood and smiled. “See you then.”

  “Definitely.” Crushed by the news that she was dating, Paul told himself to forget it. He would never be in Camille’s league. He simply wasn’t attractive enough. His nose was too big, his hair was too thin, and his chin was nonexistent. He’d had one girlfriend in his life, briefly, and she’d been on the rebound. Once Nina had regained her self-confidence, she’d dumped him for a good-looking bartender. Paul had not dated in the five years since.