Shaking hands with so many of the servicemen and women, laughing and as wet as they were, she felt a sense of camaraderie unlike anything else in her life so far. It was a far cry from what she had known in politics, that was for sure.
She hadn’t had a chance to tell Meg about the paint she had found earlier, because as soon as she’d left the locker room she’d been surrounded by soldiers rushing her down to the water, and now, just as she was about to say something, Meg got a call on her cell. Lara pointed to the locker room and mimed dressing. Meg nodded and went back to her call.
Lara hurried into the showers marked Women. There were several stalls separated by nothing but thin plastic curtains. She could have hurried back to the privacy of the office, but she wanted to hurry. Quickly stripping down, she stepped into the hot spray.
A few minutes later, when she turned off the water, she heard something just outside.
The whole facility was crawling with people. Many of the veterans and counselors were women. Maybe one of them had wandered in to change.
But the noise had been furtive, a strange scraping sound, as if someone had inadvertently brushed against the wall.
“Hello?” she said.
No answer.
She could scream, of course, and a hundred people—including Meg—would come running. It was ridiculous to feel afraid.
But she did.
Someone had been in there, watching her. She felt incredibly vulnerable, standing naked and wet in the tiny shower stall.
And for all she knew, someone was standing just outside the curtain, waiting to attack when she emerged.
She hesitated for a second longer. There was no weapon in the shower, unless she could force her attacker to slip on a bar of soap. There was nothing to do but open the curtain and look outside—and be prepared to scream blue blazes if someone really was out there.
She jerked the curtain open, ready to face an attack, but the room was empty. From outside, she could hear cheering and laughter, signs that the day was the huge success she’d hoped for.
She grabbed her towel, dried off, then hurried to retrieve her clothing.
Immediately, she realized that something was gone.
The tube of bloodred paint had disappeared.
And then she knew. Someone had been in there with her. Someone who’d somehow known what she had found.
Someone who knew what it meant and had no intention of being incriminated.
16
“Mr. Barillo isn’t receiving visitors,” a voice said over the speaker.
Brett and Diego were in their car in the driveway at Anthony Barillo’s waterfront estate. A call box on a pole to the left of the great iron gates protecting the estate warned “All visitors must request entry.”
They had requested.
Someone at the other end had listened to them identify themselves, and then, sounding bored, the detached voice had replied.
“You know, sometimes it seems as if people just don’t like us,” Diego said, shaking his head. “This could get depressing.”
“We’ll get in,” Brett said firmly.
Diego smiled. “Of course we will.”
“You tell Mr. Barillo that Special Agents Brett Cody and Diego McCullough are out here. He came to see me, and now we’re coming to see him.”
The voice started speaking again.
“I’ve informed you once, Mr. Barillo isn’t—”
“You go tell your boss what I said, and I suggest that you do it quickly, instead of trying to send us away before checking with Mr. Barillo,” Brett said firmly.
There was silence on the other end and then he heard another voice, this one aggravated. “What do you want?”
“To speak with Anthony Barillo.”
“Are you trying to arrest my father?”
“I’m trying to speak with him.”
“Then—”
Brett glanced over at Diego. Then they heard a third voice—older, gruffer, accented and deep.
“What is it, Jeremy? Who is there?”
“Agents Brett Cody and Diego McCullough, Mr. Barillo,” Brett said. “I’d like you to do me the courtesy of inviting me in for a conversation.”
“Open the damned gate,” Barillo said.
The gates swung open. Brett entered the long driveway that curved in a horseshoe shape in front of the house. Barillo had two acres on the water, an estate purchased from a popular music mogul twenty years earlier. The lawn was perfectly manicured and expansive. The porch was tiled in rich mosaics. The front door was etched glass.
When they got out of the car, Diego nodded toward two men in suits standing on the porch, one on either side of the door. They were wearing earwigs, and while their arms were folded across their chests, Brett was certain that they were armed. Their faces were impassive.
Brett didn’t expect trouble, however. It would be bad business for Barillo to let his men have a gun battle with federal agents in his front yard.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” Brett said, exiting the car and heading to the door.