concentrating on the two young men seated across from her.
She couldn’t discern their nationality or language but it was clear they were arguing. Not that their voices were raised. It was more subtle than that—inflection, cadence, the use of very short words.
Maybe this is part of the deal, she told herself, leaning forward and making a note of the observation on her laptop. Maybe that’s what they’re teaching you—to pick up on those sorts of things.
“Miranda Cutler?”
She turned, surprised to hear her name, then surprised again by the sight of a man in a conservative gray suit, so out of place in this venue. Even before he flashed his badge, she knew he was FBI, and her pulse began to race.
This was it. They were going to ask about Ortega. Or better still, they weren’t here about the alibi at all, but had been directed to bring her to Ortega on some pretext. Maybe he even wanted her help on the investigation!
“Yes, I’m Miranda Cutler.” She pretended to be confused, not wanting to blow her cover completely. “Is something wrong?”
“Why don’t we step outside?” he suggested.
She hesitated, then shrugged, closed her laptop and packed it into the knapsack she had slung on the back of her chair.
“Can’t you tell me what this is about?” she asked as she stood and stared into the man’s blue eyes, challenging him, but only slightly.
“Outside,” he repeated.
He was good at his job, she decided, making a note to practice being so completely nondescript and robotic.
She followed him without further protest, and as soon as they were outside, she murmured teasingly, “You didn’t exactly fit in, you know.”
“This way.” He strode to a black sedan parked in a no-parking zone and opened the front passenger door. “Get in.”
It was impossible to engage the gray-suited man in conversation, so Miranda finally stopped trying. Either she was going to be questioned about the alibi or she was being taken to Smith or Ortega. And luckily, she was prepared for either occurrence, so she just leaned back in her seat and forced herself to relax.
She had guessed they were headed for FBI headquarters in D.C., and was relieved when they went to Langley, Virginia, instead. This was Jane Smith territory, although she couldn’t imagine why the CIA hadn’t sent one of their own to pick her up. Apparently the two agencies were working together, but she was still surprised when the guards waved them through without bothering to glance at the IDs they both produced. Not only that, they allowed the FBI agent to proceed without any additional escort as he led Miranda to a small conference room dominated by a forty-two-inch plasma TV.
They were immediately joined by two men, one of whom identified himself as Bob Runyon, CIA. The other was FBI, and he and Miranda’s gray-suited escort faded into the background, leaving Runyon in charge.
“What’s this about?” she demanded for the umpteenth time.
“Sit down,” Runyon advised. When she had complied, he pushed a button on a remote control and a video began to play.
Miranda stared at the screen, confused. It was the alibi video, specifically Date Three, just as she and Ortega were dragging one another into the elevator.
Of all parts of that stupid tape to play, they have to pick this one? she complained to herself as she watched Ortega trail his mouth down her body, then up between her thighs. It was mortifying, but she had prepared herself for this moment, so she was able to watch without cringing.
Runyon hit the Pause button at the most humiliating moment possible, then gestured toward the image on the screen. “Care to comment?”
Indignation replaced embarrassment, and Miranda gave him a haughty glare. “How dare you invade my privacy like this. Turn that off. Immediately!”
“Can you identify the man kissing you?”
“Of course I can! It’s Ray Ortega, director of SPIN. I’ve been dating him for a while. Not that it’s any of your business.” She gulped a breath of air, then insisted, “I demand to know what this is about.”
“Drop the act, Cutler. We know all about it. Ortega confessed last night.”
Miranda drew back, suspecting a trap. “Confessed to what? Having sex in an elevator? I’ll admit it’s not our most admirable moment, but since when is it a crime? We were off duty—”
“I said, drop it.” Runyon eyed her with a mixture of annoyance and sympathy. “We know he killed Payton. We know you and Smith cooked up this alibi for him. Like I said, he confessed. Take a look.” He slid a piece of paper across the table, but when Miranda reached for it, he anchored it to the table with his palm. “Look. Don’t touch.”
It was a signed declaration, and the signature was purportedly Ortega’s. Before Miranda could read more than a few sentences of the text, Runyon pulled the paper back and shoved it into a file.
But a few sentences had been more than enough for Miranda to learn the truth, and it sent a chill through her. Falsifying evidence, killing in self-defense, kidnapping—Ortega had confessed to all of these!
“The good news is, Ortega cleared you of anything but gullibility,” Runyon was saying. “He says you were just a dupe. And even if that’s not true, you’ve been pardoned—”
“What?”
“President Standish pardoned you. Pardoned Ortega, too. Jane Smith isn’t so lucky. She’ll do time for this once she gets out of the hospital. And at least two of her guys are dead. So consider yourself lucky.”
Miranda stared in dismay. “I don’t understand.”
“Yeah, I can see that.” The CIA officer’s voice lost its edge. “It took me a while to understand it, too. Apparently Ortega killed Payton in self-defense, then Smith cooked up an alibi for him, using you—in more ways than one. Unfortunately, Smith went too far. She kidnapped an FBI agent and a SPIN employee who had figured out what was going on, and she would’ve killed them both if they hadn’t been smart enough to get away. Ortega wasn’t part of that. Once he figured out what Smith was really up to, he went after her and her crew and apprehended the ones he didn’t shoot. A real bloodbath.”
Runyon laughed darkly before adding, “President Standish decided Ortega redeemed himself at the last minute and pardoned him. Unbelievable if you ask me, but no one asked. The good news is, you got pardoned, too. Otherwise you’d be part of the conspiracy and the charges would apply to you too.”
“I don’t need a pardon,” Miranda insisted, angry and just a little desperate. “I didn’t do anything wrong! I want to make a statement. To clear myself—”
“Not necessary. Ortega cleared you—”
“By calling me a dupe? You think that clears me?”
“Settle down.” Runyon held up a hand to silence her. Then he said with quiet authority, “The only reason for this meeting is to close the loop. Unless you want to press charges against Ortega, in which case, your career is over.”
