Deep Disclosure Read online

  “I don’t remember seeing it, but there’s no way I can say for sure.” Tucker shrugged, angry at himself for not being more alert. “What about the video? Anything there?”

  “No. There was no sign of the backpack,” Drake shook his head. “The only shot we’ve got of her was after she was already at the table. Everything before that was too degraded.”

  “Well, I think until we can determine otherwise, we have to assume she’s involved,” Tyler said.

  “What about the bomb?” Tucker asked. “Was there a signature?”

  “Nothing yet.” Tyler shook her head, her blond ponytail shimmying with the movement. “But that doesn’t mean we won’t find something. It just takes time.”

  “Which we may not have,” Hannah said with a frown.

  “What do you mean?” Nash asked as they all turned to look at her.

  “I mean our girl is on the move. I’ve been monitoring footage at the airport, and looks like she arrived about half an hour ago.”

  “Can you tell where she’s headed?”

  “New Orleans. I’ve pulled up the manifest. We’ll run the names. But until we can ID her, seems like one of you should head for Louisiana to keep tabs on her.”

  “I’ll do it,” Tucker said, surprised to hear the sound of his voice.

  “Bro, you’re not on the payroll anymore, remember?” Drake raised his eyebrows in question. “And anyway, I thought you liked being retired.”

  “I lied. It sucks. And besides”—he tipped his head toward the photo—“tailing her will be a walk in the park.”

  “It’d be easy enough to set him up with a background she’ll believe,” Hannah said.

  “As soon as we figure out who she is,” Tyler added.

  “That’s just a matter of time,” Hannah said, already back at the computer.

  “We are kind of shorthanded with Lara on leave.” Nash nodded, with a shrug.

  “Then it’s settled.” Tucker ignored his brother’s glare. “I’m off to the Big Easy.”

  CHAPTER 3

  New Orleans, Louisiana

  The bank, like the rest of the street, was shabby chic, New Orleans at its best: part French, part southern, with a little bit of sleaze thrown in for good measure. Nestled between a voodoo shop and a lawyer’s office, the bank was small and nondescript, the perfect place to store her most valuable possessions.

  Alexis pushed open the heavy door, the whine of the air conditioner cutting through the otherwise hushed lobby. There were still signs of the opulence that had died a half century or so ago—marble, mahogany, crystal, and wrought-iron fixtures—symbols of a more elegant time. She crossed the foyer and stepped into the quiet alcove that fronted the safe deposit vault. Just being here was breaking protocol. And even though her new name had never been connected to the old one, it was still a risk.

  But then the things she kept in the bank were a hazard as well. Definitely forbidden in the world of subterfuge and underground existence. No pictures. No personal items. Nothing that could lead to identification. She’d always followed the rules. Always.

  Except when it came to her backpack. The one she’d been carrying the night her family died. It wasn’t smart. A ridiculous risk. She’d spent years hiding the purple-and-pink pack from George. But it was all she had left. A stupid collection of nothing and everything.

  And ever since she’d been on her own she’d kept it here. At Security Bank and Trust. She nodded to the woman behind the desk and handed her an identification card. In short order, she’d signed in and been escorted to a room lined with boxes, her own laid out on a center table inlaid with teak. With a sigh she opened the box, knowing it was probably for the last time.

  Her cover might still be intact, but there was no way to know for certain. With George dead, she had to assume the worst. Meaning the life she’d so carefully constructed would have to be left behind. It wasn’t that she had anything that mattered, really. It was more that in the six years George had been away, she’d managed to put down roots of a sort. New Orleans was full of secrets, which meant hers had gone mostly unnoticed. There’d been a few moments across the years, but nothing that had made her feel the need to run.

  Until now.

  In all honesty, she wasn’t even certain her existence mattered to anyone. It wasn’t like she’d done anything wrong. But the sins of the father, even falsified ones, couldn’t be ignored any more than her connection to George. And his sins were very real. She had to face the fact that, if someone wanted George dead, there was every conceivable reason to believe they’d be after her as well, if for no other reason than to tie up loose ends.

  She lifted the lid of the box and pulled out the backpack. The colors were faded, but in her mind’s eye, she still remembered the day she and her mother had bought it. At the time, purple had been her favorite color. And she’d been certain it would set her apart from all the other girls at John Mall High School. Of course, her father wouldn’t have approved of the thought, but, thankfully, pink-and-purple backpacks didn’t fall into his high-risk category.

  She unzipped the pack and pulled out the contents. Not much, really. A favorite book that had belonged to her mother. Mary Stewart’s Airs Above the Ground. A notebook Alexis had filled with poetry and quotes, typical adolescent angst. A turquoise ring George had given her after her father died. And a smooth black stone from the Rio Grande. Her brother had given it to her.

  She palmed the rock and picked up a couple of photographs. One of her and George taken a few years back. She was supposed to have thrown it away. Photos were forbidden. But she’d kept it anyway. Just because they’d been so happy. A rarity in her life.

  She picked up the other photo. This one of her family. It, too, was a dangerous keepsake, taken before her family had gone underground. She looked down at the black-and-white picture. Her brother was only a little baby tucked in her mother’s arms, her dad standing off to one side, glasses crooked, looking bemused, as if he wasn’t quite sure how he’d fallen into such domestic bliss.

  Alexis hadn’t even been born yet. She’d never known her family in normal times, and she’d spent a lot of her childhood resenting the fact. If only she’d had an inkling of what was coming, maybe she’d have fought her father a little bit less. Spent more time with her brother. And appreciated her mom. But she hadn’t known. And now it was too late; there was nothing left of their family but an old piece of Kodak paper.

  She tucked the photo back inside the pack with the notebook and ring. Then she added the book and the stone, leaving only the sweatshirt she’d been wearing the night her life had, quite literally, exploded. The purple panther was beginning to peel off the front, the jersey frayed from age. It was a stupid keepsake, and yet somehow a marker of everything she’d had. Everything she’d lost. That night in Walsenburg, her childhood had ended. And some part of her had never really gotten over the fact.

  She swallowed the lump in her throat and shoved the sweatshirt into the bag. Life wasn’t a fairy tale. And there wasn’t much point in wishing for something different. She was alive, and she was safe, at least for the time being. And she had her memories. Besides, George always said that the only thing that was important was the here and now.

  To that end, she checked the front compartment of the bag. There were a couple of false IDs. And a stack of hundred-dollar bills. Her back door. George had always insisted. The door at the far end of the vault opened, and a thin man in a black suit walked inside. Her hand moved defensively to the backpack and her muscles tightened, ready for flight.

  “I’m sorry to intrude,” the man said. Alexis breathed in relief, shifting her hand away from the backpack as she read his nametag. ELI MUNRO. An assistant manager with the bank. She’d met him once ages ago. “I just wanted to let you know that we had a little incident here a few days ago.”

  “An incident?” Alexis asked, her fear resurfacing. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “I mean that someone”—he paused, in that superci
lious way of bankers, eyeing her over the top of his glasses—“other than you, tried to access your safe deposit box.”

  Alexis frowned, her stomach clenching as her fears became grounded. “When exactly was this?”

  “Day before yesterday. Just after noon. We’ve had a new girl handling the boxes, and she wasn’t clear on procedure. So she let him come back here.”

  “Him?” Alexis choked out, trying to hold on to her composure.

  “Yes. A man. So, clearly, not you. But as I said, Lois was a new hire. Anyway, fortunately, I was apprised of the situation and intervened before any real harm was done.”

  “So he wasn’t allowed inside my box?” she asked, her mind scrambling to make certain nothing had been missing.

  “No. Absolutely not.”

  “Do you know who he was?” she asked, not certain she wanted to hear the answer.

  “He said he was related to you. Your uncle, I believe.”

  “That’s impossible.” Her frown deepened as she tried to make this newest information make sense. “I don’t have an uncle.”

  “Oh, dear,” Mr. Munro said, blanching at her pronouncement. “I am so sorry. But at least I was right to turn him away.”

  “Yes. Absolutely.” Alexis touched her throat, her pulse beating against her fingers. “Did he give his name?”

  “No. He just said that you’d asked him to come. But, of course, I couldn’t take the chance. And when I offered to call you, he told me he’d handle it himself. Even verified where you live.”

  “You told him where I lived?”

  “Absolutely not. It would be against policy.” Munro held up his hands in denial. “But since he already knew, I confirmed it. I mean, at that point I thought he was your uncle. Obviously, I shouldn’t have been so forthcoming. But I did leave you several messages.”

  “I’m sorry. I’ve been out of town,” she said.

  “I see.” Mr. Munro nodded, clearly seeing nothing at all. “I would have called the police, but it’s not illegal to inquire about a box.”

  “No, of course not.” Alexis shook her head. “And I agree—there was nothing to report.”

  “If you’re sure.” It was clear that Mr. Munro was ready to wipe his hands of the whole thing.

  “Absolutely. I mean, you’re right—nothing actually happened. There’s probably even a logical explanation.”

  “Yes, yes,” Mr. Munro quickly agreed, clearly relieved, “that’s what I thought. We can change your box if you want. Maybe to another location? Or, if you prefer, another bank.”

  “No.” She forced a smile. “I’m quite happy here. Let’s just leave it as is. But if he does come back”—she paused, raising her gaze to meet Munro’s—“you’ll contact me immediately?”

  “Oh, of course.” He nodded. “And I can’t tell you again how sorry I am that it happened in the first place.”

  “No worries. There was no harm done.” She forced a smile as she hitched the backpack over her shoulder and closed the box.

  “But I thought you were keeping the box.” He tilted his head with a frown.

  “I am,” she lied, still smiling. “I’m just taking some of my things. That’s why I came in today in the first place.”

  “Oh, I see,” he said on an exhale of breath.

  “Seriously, it’s all good,” she said as they walked from the vault. “And I’m sure there won’t be any further problems. But if there are…”

  “I’ll be sure to call you. Immediately.” He stretched out his hand as they reached the front door of the bank. “And I can assure you that I’ll be vigilant about making sure there are no further breaches in our security.”

  “Good. I’ll count on it. Thank you, Mr. Munro,” Alexis said, squeezing his hand for effect. Then, with another false smile, she turned and headed out into the sunlit street, stomach still churning as she faced the fact that New Orleans, in all of its languid beauty, no longer offered safe haven. Whatever had happened to George, it had followed her here. And until she could figure it out, she had to find a new place to hide, before the past had a chance to rise up and destroy her.

  It took almost thirty minutes for Alexis to make her way from the bank to the Garden District and home. Mainly because she’d doubled back several times to make sure no one was following her. And even now, satisfied that she was on her own, she kept looking over her shoulder, waiting for the other shoe to drop, wishing she’d waited to hear George out. She was certain now that he’d been trying to warn her. But she’d been so angry at his perceived betrayal she hadn’t been willing to listen.

  Juggling the backpack and her duffel, she opened the gate leading to the front yard, the familiar sight of her garden instantly soothing her. There was something so wonderful about taking an empty patch of dirt and coaxing it to grow and thrive.

  And now she’d have to leave it behind.

  She moved up the pathway, stopping automatically to deadhead a couple of roses along the way. It was only when she stepped up onto the porch that she hesitated, something suddenly feeling off. Pushing the backpack higher on her shoulder, she edged forward, trying to figure out exactly what had set off her internal alarm.

  The porch was exactly as she’d left it, the windows closed, the curtains drawn. The mailbox was empty, but that wasn’t surprising. A person who didn’t exist didn’t get a lot of mail. Just a few bills to the fictional woman who paid them. The door was closed as well, but when she touched the handle, it creaked open. Frozen in place, she waited, heart hammering, but nothing moved. So, on a deep exhale, she stepped over the threshold and stood listening for some sign that she wasn’t alone, but the house was quiet. Dumping both backpack and duffel, she rounded the corner into the parlor, her heart dropping to her stomach as she surveyed the wreckage there. Someone had quite literally torn the room apart.

  The furniture had been upended, sofa cushions ripped, drawers emptied, and books tossed. Two vases lay shattered near the window, wilted rose petals spilling bloodlike across the floor. There was nothing left untouched—everything destroyed.

  The kitchen was the same, with dishes smashed to the floor and the sour smell of milk filling her nostrils as she picked her way through the remnants of boxes and jars that had once occupied her refrigerator and pantry.

  The dining room looked almost sedate by comparison. The chairs were overturned, but a large ceramic bowl filled with lemons still held court in the center of the table. A mirror had been shattered, but two floor lamps still stood sentry by the front windows, the heavy drapery shredded in places but still shuttering the house from the afternoon sun.

  Tears filled her eyes as anger washed through her. Someone had been intent on destroying what little life she had left. Without stopping to think about the danger, she bounded up the stairs, skidding to a stop at the sight of the carnage there. The mattress had been torn open, stuffing spilling onto the floor where it had been upended to check the bottom. The bedside tables had been overturned and a bookshelf toppled into a corner, the books thrown into a pile, ripped pages littering the floor.

  It was amazing, really, how much she’d managed to acquire in the six years she’d lived here, a false sense of security making her relax into what had, at least on the surface, appeared to be a regular life. She fought her pain as she surveyed the wreckage.

  At least now it would be easier to walk away.

  Somewhere behind her there was movement, a slight shuffle against the wooden floors snapping her out of her reverie. She spun around, eyes on the doorway, certain now that someone was still in the house. She quickly scanned the room for some sort of weapon, settling for an iron poker from the bedroom fireplace.

  Another footstep, this one on the staircase. No effort at all for concealment. And then another.

  She ran over to the window, jerking back the curtains, trying to calculate how far a jump it might be. But in her fear she’d forgotten the wrought-iron security bars she’d recently installed, a way to keep intruders out that now effecti
vely held her prisoner.

  The floor squeaked as the intruder rounded the corner into the hallway, his gait faster now. After a desperate look for another way out, Alexis lifted her chin and swung the poker up baseball bat–style, determined not to go down without a fight.

  CHAPTER 4

  It was hotter than hell. The air was heavy, the smell of flowers heady in the heat, as though the humidity was amplifying the scent somehow, the resulting perfume overwhelming the senses. Tucker had spent years in the humid rainforests of Colombia, but there had been a conspicuous absence of humanity. Here, mixed in with the smell of flora was the odor of sweat, beer, and urine: the excesses of New Orleans taking olfactory form.

  The house was at the end of a block, just off the St. Charles trolley line. The homes here, while still echoing their grand history, were more run down, yards overgrown, paint peeling. Still, he could see the bones of what had once been a lovely house, New Orleans at its very best.

  He pushed open the wrought-iron gate, careful to keep it from squeaking. He wasn’t really sure what he expected to find, but it was always best to be careful. He had no way of knowing if the woman from the coffee shop would even be here. It was nothing short of a miracle that Hannah had manipulated the information on the flight manifest to yield a name and an address. Clearly the lady preferred living off the grid. No charge accounts, no subscriptions. Just the basics. Shelter and food. And, apparently, flowers.

  The roses brushed against him as he made his way up the walk, his senses moving to high alert as he noted the open door. Just inside on the floor was a duffel, and above it, lying on a credenza, a backpack. Pink with purple flowers. He frowned, wondering if the woman he’d seen in the coffee shop had a child. That would certainly complicate matters.

  Above his head, something crashed to the floor. He spun around, pulling his gun, eyes on the stairs. For a moment silence reigned, then a woman’s shriek was followed by something heavy slamming into a wall. Taking the stairs two at a time, Tucker hit the landing on a run, swinging into an open bedroom doorway in time to see a man in black with his arm locked around the struggling woman’s neck.