Page 95 of The Grave Artist

“You contact Main Justice,” he said to Sanchez. “And see if Ivanov has filed as a foreign agent and if so with whom. Then dig up everything you can about every single one of those organizations. His principal employees too.”

Jake knew nothing of this process either, but it sounded like a tremendous amount of work.

“If he’s stumbled, that’ll be enough to start forfeiture proceedings. And you, Professor, you’re going to locate exactly what we will forfeitize—ha, I know that’s not a word, but it should be. Now how’s this plan? You do some of your pen testing at Ivanov’s facilities. You should be able to find bank accounts, the aforementioned vehicles, some properties that we don’t know about. All kinds of goodies.”

Jake could not suppress a sigh. “The subject’s company hires me to pen test. I can’t initiate it on my own.”

This would surely amuse Sanchez, Jake thought, since his position was exactly the opposite of what he usually said.

Reynolds bristled. “Obviously, Professor. It’s going to require a little work on your part to convince Ivanov and his operating people they need to hire you. Do some salesmanship. Isn’t this what they call social engineering?”

Yes, it was. And in fact Jake Heron was damn good at it. But the art and science of social engineering took weeks, if not months, to ply successfully.

And besides, did Reynolds not see the gaping hole in his logic? If Ivanov were a Russian spy, the last thing on earth he would do is hire a private pen tester to assess his security systems.

“I’ve contacted LAPD.” Reynolds frowned. “I do wish they hadn’t been brought into any loops. Local police? Positive sieves when it comes to holding on to classified information.”

Sanchez stiffened. Even as a civilian, Jake knew that LAPD’s anti-terror unit—which had access to as much classified data as the CIA—was one of the premier such outfits in the world.

“But I’ve made some calls, and they’re benched for the time being. Now, run along, both of you. Get to work. I’ve got to check in with the circus in Washington and see about the latest developments there.”

“And Eric?” Sanchez asked.

“He’s being well taken care of. Don’t you worry.” He rose, picked up the water bottle and returned to his farming.

Jake and Sanchez left the office, sliding sympathetic glances at Destiny Baker, still on the phone, still swamped with handwritten notes, which he now knew were instructions from Reynolds.

Jake lifted his hands, asking in effect, What the hell?

Destiny lowered the phone. “Eric’s in Washington. A select committee’s grilling him about I-squared. I talked to him. He said it’s not going well. Reynolds plotted the whole thing.”

Her intercom buzzed. “Destiny, could you come in here? And bring your pad and pen again? By the way, did I tell you I really like your name?”

With an eye roll, she finished her phone call and got up, and Jake and Sanchez returned to the Garage. He was thinking that the Honeymoon Killer himself could not have derailed the investigation against him as effectively as their “superior” had just managed to pull off.

Chapter 46

Damon had an odd thought: Did Maddie Willis look like Miss Spalding?

Maybe a little.

In a certain light.

He held the notion rather like one of the too-hot-to-eat toasted marshmallows his former governess made for him. Then put it away as he watched Maddie stride into the living room, where he sat on the sofa, waiting for her, as the embers of what had been the crimson sweater glowed in the fireplace.

She’d taken him up on his offer to use the guest room shower, and her long dark hair was half dry. Years ago, Felicia had told him it was an act of intimacy for a woman to greet a man with hair that was not completely dried after she’d bathed or showered. He hadn’t thought about her comment until just now.

But he could add a new element to the mix, because Maddie was also wearing the spare collared business shirt he’d given her in the car. He realized with mind-numbing clarity that she would not have put on dirty lingerie after taking a shower, which meant his shirt was the only thing between them. A message even more blatant than damp hair.

She’d rolled up the sleeves and the hem skimmed her thighs. He could barely resist the impulse to lift it a few inches. “Sexy” was not an adequate word.

They had the house to themselves. Tristan Kane was back in the bed and breakfast he had rented, anonymously of course, after arriving in LA to help Damon eliminate his pursuers, Jacoby Heron and Carmen Sanchez. Kane had set up some kind of computer workstation there to monitor the pair’s whereabouts as best he could, and prowl through the law enforcement systems in Southern California.

Damon was curious how he was progressing.

But, at the moment, other matters intruded.

He rose. “I want to show you something.”