Random Sh*t Flying Through the Air (The Frost Files) Page 6

  “Looking good, yaaw,” Africa says to me as his giant hands scrub the counter, ignoring the waterfall of coffee still cascading off the side. “You never dress this nice before.”

  “Good enough for government work,” I mutter. Ugh, I was hoping to keep my little good mood balloon up for a while longer.

  “Huh?”

  “Never mind.” I grab a fistful of towels to help, mourning the death of my coffee.

  “Hey, Africa.” Paul tried to call him Idriss at first, but Africa refuses to answer to his actual name. “Little help?”

  “Yes boss!”

  “You really don’t have to call me boss. We’ve talked about this.”

  “OK, boss. Sorry. Not boss.”

  You’ll be shocked to hear that Paul didn’t want Africa on the team. He said he was a loose cannon, not to be trusted, and wouldn’t hear any arguments. He was flabbergasted when Annie voted against him – I think he genuinely believed that because they were dating, she’d back him up. His gast was flabbered even more when I sided with him. He was the only one who seemed to get that I was kidding when I suggested Africa as a new driver.

  I’ll be honest: I could have done without the big guy today. Turns out that the key to getting along with Africa is to do it in small doses. Before, I saw him once every few months. Maybe. Now I see him every day. Imagine hanging out with a really hyper pit bull for hours at a time, only the pit bull is seven feet tall and has a bark that can be heard from space.

  The coffee machine is still on the counter. “Thank fuck,” I say, sliding past Africa and heading over to it. “Anybody else want?”

  “Can’t.” Annie doesn’t look up from her paper-gathering. “No water.”

  “No—what?”

  “There’s no water.”

  “What do you mean, there’s no water?”

  “I mean, it’s been replaced with Miller Lite. The fuck you think I mean?”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Water’s out to the whole of Venice. Burst main somewhere. Bunch of other places too.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “How many cups you drink?” Africa says. “You have too much coffee, Teggan. Your heart go pop.”

  “Hey, I have had no more than two cups, OK?” Four, but whatever, I’m fine.

  I head over to Reggie’s door, figuring I’d better get this done before the lack of caffeine causes permanent damage. I’m about to knock when I realise Annie is staring daggers into my back – I can feel her from here. Leaving before helping with the clean-up probably isn’t going to win me many brownie points. It might only be Reggie’s permission I need, but it can’t hurt to have the rest of the crew feeling positive about me.

  So I take a deep breath and pitch in, working with both my hands and my PK, piling paper, turning chairs the right way up, flipping the whiteboard onto its feet.

  It’s not long before the office starts looking like its old self, minus a few glasses and plates. I stand, dusting off my hands, and am about to head over to Reggie’s room when Paul says, “OK, thanks, guys. Everybody gather round.”

  I pause, my handle on the doorknob. “Why?”

  “Briefing. It was on the Google calendar.”

  “Oh, come—”

  Annie clears her throat. Behind her, Africa smiles witlessly.

  “How are we even still doing Tanner jobs?” I sit down on the couch with a thump. “You know we just suffered a massive earthquake, right?”

  “Yep.” Paul gets to his feet, his knees popping. “We still have work to do – the world hasn’t ended.”

  “Tell that to San Bernardino.”

  Africa lets out a hissing breath. “All gone, huh? S’not good. Very sad.”

  I flick a glance over at my backpack, wanting to check my phone, knowing it’s pointless. Nic hasn’t responded to any of my texts – I can tell, because I have the ringer set on high. All the same, the urge to check is almost overwhelming. I haven’t completely killed the poisonous thoughts from the night before, but they at least have the decency to stay in the background.

  “But,” Paul says, grabbing his laptop and lowering himself to the couch, “most places held up OK. They’re working to turn the water and power back on. I remember after the Northridge quake in ’94, the 10 went down, and it took them three months to get it moving again. They’ve done a bunch of work since then. More importantly –” he opens his laptop “– the airports went back to normal this morning. That means our target is still on schedule for arrival tomorrow.”

  “Mister Germany,” Africa says, nodding, as if he’s answered a tough question in a test.

  Paul gives him a pointed look. “His name’s Jonas Schmidt.”

  “Ya. Him.”

  “What about Reggie?” I say. “Shouldn’t she be here?”

  “She’s researching something on the quake,” Annie says. “You know how she is when she gets an idea in her head.”

  “I get ideas in my head all the time. Why don’t I get to skip the briefings?”

  “Because you didn’t do a bunch of prep work and research beforehand, and you actually have to go out on the job.” Paul taps a few keys, and a picture of Schmidt appears on screen.

  He’s one of those young tech billionaires who you want to both marry, and punch repeatedly in the face. He is disgustingly good-looking. The photo Paul has of him was taken somewhere sunny; Schmidt is wearing mirrored aviator sunglasses, smiling a very expensive smile, his shoulders bare and his hair tousled by a light breeze.

  Not that his good looks are going to help him. Once you get onto Moira Tanner’s radar, nothing can save you.

  Schmidt made his money by taking risks, betting big on start-ups and wild business ideas. His latest one is real good: attempting to sell a list of American overseas deep-cover assets to the highest bidder. It’s not going to make him nearly as much money as his other business ventures, but that’s OK, because he’s trying to get into politics. And by get into politics, I mean become a behind-the-scenes power broker who enjoys causing the fall of three governments before breakfast.

  Schmidt is landing his private jet at Van Nuys airport tomorrow morning, and he’ll be heading into the city to meet with a buyer. Tanner’s sources say the list is going to be on-board. It’s an actual piece of paper in a safe, or possibly a USB stick – no way Schmidt is going to put something that sensitive on a computer with an internet connection.

  If all goes to plan, he won’t have anything to sell. Reggie will get us onto the airport property, and it’s up to me to get on board the plane, sneaking inside while it’s parked in the hangar. I’ll use my mad PK skillz to crack the safe, snatch the goods and then get the hell out of there.

  “Wait, wait, wait.” Africa points at Paul’s whiteboard. “He just gonna have his list on the plane? Maybe he keep it in his pocket?”

  “Nah,” Annie says. “Dude wouldn’t just walk around with it.”

  “Not even with, like, a briefcase cuffed to his wrist?” I say.

  “You do know people don’t do that in real life, right?” Annie replies.

  “It actually makes sense for him to keep the list on his jet.” Paul taps a finger on his chin. “An airport is a high-security area anyway, and he’ll have his own hangar, with his own guards. Better than a jacket pocket, or a hotel safe. Those things are real easy to bust open.”

  Paul does this thing when he’s focusing hard where he very gently bites the tip of his tongue. It’s ridiculously annoying at the best of times; this morning, it makes me want to destroy the office all over again. “Schmidt’s used the same firm of limo drivers for the past five years,” he says. “Island Limos. They’ll be picking him up at 10:15 precisely, and if I look at the driver records… here. They don’t tend to be more than three minutes late, when they aren’t on time. I have to crunch some numbers to know for sure, but—”

  “Fascinating.” I push myself off the couch, straightening my stiff shirt. “You do that.”

  “Where a
re you going?” Annie says.

  “Gotta talk to Reggie about something.” I look for the wall mirror to give myself a once-over, before remembering that it was smashed to pieces.

  “Is it about the budget?” Africa levers himself off the couch, limbs unfolding. “I need a raise, yaaw. Jeannette wants to buy a new oven, even though she can’t cook anything.” He snorts.

  “What are you talking about?” Paul says. “You literally just joined the team. You can’t get a pay rise until you’ve been working for six months. It’s in the contract – clause six, if I remember.”

  “But, boss—”

  While they’re bickering, I push through the door into Reggie’s office.

  NINE

  Teagan

  The space is the nicest in the house, easily. The drapes are as thick as comforters, the walls painted a tasteful turquoise. They’re decorated with abstract art, chosen by Reggie – or rather, they would be, if the canvasses weren’t all stacked in a messy pile in the corner, surrounded by ripples of shattered glass.

  Reggie’s computer setup is still bolted to the wall: six massive monitors, and three towers. She calls the collection her Rig, and when she’s working, it looks like an extension of her chair, Reggie seated in the middle of it all like the pilot of a giant, kaiju-crushing mech.

  Her hands dance across two specially designed trackballs, all while she mutters commands into the microphone mounted on the headrest of her chair. Alongside the big, curved monitors, there are at least three laptops open on the table in front of her. They’re all displaying a zillion black-and-white text boxes on the screens, moving way too fast to follow

  She doesn’t look up when I enter, but I know her eyes will be dancing like she’s in REM sleep, navigating through whatever system she’s locked into. The helicopter crash in Afghanistan might have taken her body – she’s an incomplete quadriplegic – but it didn’t take her mind. Or her ability to get shit done. Or her love of acting – she’s part of a theatre company out in Anaheim. I’ve never actually been to one of her shows, because I am a horrible person. God, why didn’t I get off my ass and go? It would have been the perfect way to start a conversation today, and then I could smoothly change the subject to other artistic pursuits, like cooking, and—

  Nic’s voice in my head: It’s amazing to me that you haven’t figured out what’s more important.

  I shake it off, clearing my throat and shutting the door quietly behind me. No response. One of the laptop screens is running multiple news reports on the quake, grainy footage of the LA skyline belching smoke.

  “Reggie,” I say, when she still doesn’t look round. “You got a sec?”

  She ignores me.

  “Uh, hi? Reggie?”

  I creep closer, coming round into her field of view. Her eyes are narrowed, locked on one of the screens, which looks to be displaying more data from the quake. For a long moment, she doesn’t move: just stares at the screen, mouth slightly open. She’s only in her forties, but there are already deep wrinkles around her eyes, tugging at the corner of her mouth.

  I lift my hand, waving it near her face. “Anyone in there?”

  “If you don’t move your hand,” she says slowly, not looking away from the screen, “I’m going to bite your little finger off.”

  “Sorry.” I yank it back.

  I stand there for a second, expecting her to continue. She doesn’t.

  “So it looks like we’re set for the job tomorrow,” I say. “If Schmidt lands on schedule, we should be able to get inside the plane.”

  “Mm.”

  “It looks like the best way to go in is through the roof? Apparently the hangers at Van Nuys have skylights, so…”

  “Yes, I know, Teagan.” Her Louisiana accent is thicker than normal. “I was the one who dug up the schematics.”

  “Oh. OK. Right.”

  She starts moving the trackball again. Her fingers don’t work as they should, but she’s got enough movement in her arm to manipulate the ball with her hand. A map of the quake appears on screen, with a red bull’s-eye centred on the Arizona border.

  I clear my throat. “I was wondering—”

  “Damndest thing,” she murmurs.

  “What?”

  It’s a few moments before she replies. “Someone called in a missing state trooper. They found his car in the middle of nowhere, outside Mesa Verde. Door open, key in the ignition, phone still in the charger. No sign of him.”

  “The hell is Mesa Verde?”

  “Our side of the Arizona border.” From out of nowhere, she pulls up a photo: an older guy in a tan police uniform, wearing one of those ridiculous cowboy hats rural cops like. He has the slightest smile on his face, and wrinkles around his eyes that remind me of Reggie herself. He looks like somebody’s grandpa.

  “Rudy Daniels. I did some digging. Career officer, wife and kid, flying colours on his last psych eval. No reason for him to go missing.”

  “OK but, no offence, why do we care? Not exactly our jurisdiction is it?”

  “Maybe not. Seems kind of strange though, don’t you think? It’s not like Mesa Verde’s a crime hotspot.”

  “OK… but I just don’t see—”

  “That’s because you aren’t looking hard enough.”

  Her tone is sharp, irritated. It’s so unlike her that I actually take a step back.

  Her face softens. “Sorry, honey. Didn’t mean to snap at you.”

  “Are… you OK?”

  She sags back in her chair. “Just worried about Washington.”

  Reggie’s heading to DC tomorrow – she’s due to leave right after we wrap things up with Schmidt. I still can’t believe I left it this late to talk to her.

  “Moira’s been in one hell of a mood lately,” she says. “Can’t say I’m all that excited to meet up with her this time round.”

  “Tell her that I’m being a total bitch, as usual. It’ll give you guys something to talk about.”

  She smirks. “You’re only a total bitch when you barge into my room uninvited.”

  “Oh, I knocked. You just ignored me.”

  “By choice.” She nods towards her paintings, mouth twisting in annoyance. “Gonna take us for ever to clean that up.” She turns back to me, as if seeing me for the first time. “Speaking of cleaning up – you’re looking good today. Nice to see you making an effort.”

  Perfect opening. “Thanks. Hey, so I wanted to ask—”

  The door opens behind me. “Oh, Annie,” Reggie says. “Good. You’re here. Do you know anybody out in Mesa Verde?”

  “Out in where now?” Annie stands in the doorway, looking as confused as I am.

  Reggie explains about her missing state trooper. “So, do you?”

  “Do I… what?” Annie glances at me, like she’s expecting me to step in and help.

  “Do you have anybody out in Mesa Verde?”

  “Uh… no.”

  “What about Paul, then?” Reggie swings back to her Rig, distracted. “Or Africa?”

  “I’m here!” Africa bellows from the lounge. Then he’s striding in, ducking his head to get through the door. “What you need?”

  “You must know somebody,” Reggie says to Annie.

  “Reggie, Mesa Verde’s like five hours from here.”

  Africa frowns. “Messa Ved? What is that?”

  “Town on the Arizona border,” Paul shouts from the main room.

  “I thought we were at the airport tomorrow. For Mister Germany.”

  “So nobody has any contacts out there? Not even in law enforcement?” Reggie sounds irritated. “Well, get on it. Start making calls.”

  “OK, why are you being weird?” Annie says. I’m really glad I didn’t have to ask the question, because I need Reggie on my side right now.

  “I’m not being weird.”

  “Sure you are.” Annie folds her arms. “Who gives a fuck about Mesa Verde? Or some missing cop? Probably just ditched his wife and went to Vegas.”

  A look
of real anger crosses Reggie’s face. It deepens, threatening to explode… then subsides. She closes her eyes. “You’re right. Forget it.”

  Africa tilts his head to one side. “You OK?”

  “If one more person asks me that, I’m going to…” She takes a very deep breath. “Never mind. Go back to what you were doing. Go do the Joseph Schmidt thing.”

  “Jonas Schmidt,” I say, before I can stop myself.

  “Yes. That. Now, please.”

  “You sure you OK?” Africa says. “I can make some food or something if you want?”

  “Come on, dude.” Annie pulls him away. “Let’s help Boss Man clean up.”

  “You needed something, Teagan?” Reggie says.

  Her question catches me off guard. I open my mouth to ask her about cooking school, to pop the big question…

  But the words won’t come.

  “No,” I say. “We’re good.”

  “All right then.” She gives me a nod. “Give me a call if you find anything.”

  She turns back to her Rig. I linger for a second, willing myself to say something, anything. I open my mouth, close it again, then head for the door, cursing myself and my stupid brain and my stupid life and my ability and Moira Tanner and all of it.

  “So you know where to come tonight?” Annie asks, as I close the door behind me.

  It’s the second time today that I missed her standing next to me. “Jesus. Yes. No. I don’t know. What?”

  “Tonight. Dinner at my mom’s. Remember? I texted you the address a while back.”

  “Oh. Sure.”

  “You don’t remember, do you?”

  “Of course I did. I just forgot that it was tonight, that’s all. Is she still doing it though? I mean, with the quake and everything?”

  Annie gives me a pained look. “Take a lot more than a little quake to stop my mom. I don’t bring you clowns over tonight, she’ll never let me forget it.”

  Dinner at Annie’s – let alone her mom’s – would have been inconceivable a few months ago. Annie was more likely to eat Big Macs with Donald Trump than invite me into her life. But she’s thawed a little since the whole Carlos thing, and a couple of weeks ago, she grudgingly announced to the office that her mom wanted to have us all over for dinner in Watts.