Deadly Little Secrets Page 0,1

used to love it, you were the life of the party.”

That much was true. Before Rome, before probation, Ana had loved dressing up, going out, hanging out. Now?

“Not so much,” she said, pondering the changes in her life. She had good reasons for holing up at home. The cat needed her. And she needed the cat. And to organize her shoes by color. And to rearrange the spices she didn’t cook with. Life outside the apartment was work, and she didn’t want to do it. Not right now.

Besides, no one wanted a brooding, gun-toting washed-up CIA Agent for a date.

Through the glass top of her cubicle, she saw Special Agent Pretzky change directions and stalk her way. Ana winced, which increased her self-disgust. Cold-case duty, a safe place for a dangerous, potentially weak link in the Central Intelligence Agency’s strong chains, wasn’t fun, but working for Pretzky was even less so. Everyone walked on eggshells around her and avoided direct contact. Pretzky had made it obvious she didn’t trust Ana Burton, agent-under-scrutiny.

Hell, Ana thought, resigned to another difficult encounter. She didn’t trust herself, why would anyone else trust her? Really, the stone-cold silence from the other agents was okay. Some days, Ana didn’t even want to talk to herself, which was a sad state of affairs since she was notorious for constantly talking scenarios through out loud.

Pretzky, however, insisted on talking, but she used it as a whip, the way the others used their silence. Neither was pleasant.

“Agent Burton.” The woman rounded the corner of Ana’s cubicle and stood, hands on hips, glowering her disapproval at the new stack of boxes on Ana’s desktop. “That isn’t the arms dealer’s file.” Trust Pretzky to know which files were in the dump truck load of cold files on her desk. She probably had them microbugged.

“An art fraud case from mid-2000. The arms dealer is finished. Here’s the report,” Ana said as she handed over a file folder with a neatly printed report, in triplicate, enclosed. Since Pretzky expected it, Ana gave her a rundown. “The prime suspect from the old notes didn’t do it. I tracked down the guy who did pull the trigger, via DNA, to Nevada. He died in prison. The man confessed to our case, even gave evidentiary proof and signed a confession, but no one bothered to cross the t’s and let us know.”

A ferocious frown creased Pretzky’s brow. “They didn’t see fit to notify us?”

“No. It’s in my report,” Ana said. She’d been waiting for Pretzky to appear so she could hand it over. She’d sent everything else to Closed Files. It would be held there till Pretzky signed off, but it was off her desk.

One cold case down, eight million to go.

Pretzky’s “Hmmmm” was more of a growl, but Ana ignored it. She ignored most things these days, except the job, and the cat. And Jen, who refused to be ignored. Withdrawing, of course, was exactly what the department shrink wanted her to admit to, and Jen regularly accused her of.

She practiced the Company line on that one: Deny, deny, deny.

Ana crossed her arms and waited as Pretzky read through the data. It was good, thorough work, and Ana knew it. Not that Pretzky, or anyone else, would admit it, but it was. Ana knew there weren’t many agents who could have unearthed the data she had, thought of the angles, pulled the case files, and made the intuitive leaps that got more info and closed the case in two months of digging through old dirt. It was her gift. Or at least it had been.

“Have you sent everything to Closed Files?” Pretzky demanded. It was damned if you do, damned if you don’t with her.

“They’ve got everything, but I sent it with the proviso that you had to sign off.” Per regulations. Ana didn’t add the last bit.

“What’s next?” Pretzky demanded, pointing at the notes next to Ana’s computer.

“Like I said, art fraud. Glacier cold, after almost a decade. About ten high-profile victims. Each victim was selling paintings from their collections through various galleries.” Ana held up a photo of one of the real paintings. “Real painting leaves one gallery, but a forgery arrives at the buyer’s gallery or directly to the buyer. In most cases, the forgery was undetected until the new owner was appraising for insurance. Or on a secondary sale, the forgery was tracked back through the sales to the original owner. The Agency got involved because it was international, and because