Deadly Little Secrets Page 0,2

there were possible international mob connections.” She held up the photos of the corpses. “Torture slayings on the East Coast, execution-style killings out here in the Bay Area. Five dead.”

“Any DNA or soft evidence to run?”

Ana shook her head. “Professional all the way, probably with inside help. No DNA, no prints.” She wouldn’t give any of her theories, as she might once have, nor would she speculate or brainstorm. People took that, ran with it, and got hurt. The only thing she added was, “Two or three new databases that may yield leads. We’ll see.”

“Want to discuss it?” Pretzky said, brusquely. The offer was pro forma; Pretzky didn’t want her to agree.

“Not yet.” Ana tried not to wince, knowing she was lying. The discussion, the brainstorming, was her favorite part of solving cases, and God knew she loved it; lived for it. Now, though, with the cloud of suspicion hanging over her, she didn’t want anyone depending on it. Besides, everyone from Pretzky, to the shrink, to Jen was waiting for her to go back to the old way, the cocky, my-data-analysis-is-gold Ana.

“Hmmm,” Pretzky continued to look over the old case notes and Ana’s new inquiries. “No connection between the East and West Coast galleries?”

“A couple, but the original team checked them out. Problem is, several of the principals at the galleries disappeared.”

“Disappeared?”

“In the wind,” Ana agreed. She also agreed with Pretzky’s next comment.

“Nobody just disappears. You’re going to start there?”

“Yes.” It was one of her specialties. Finding the unfindable. Nothing made her feel as alive or as worthy of her paycheck as the data mining, the just-in-time analysis she did for field agents. There was right and wrong. Helping find the data that unraveled the puzzles or led to the sources was what she lived for, no matter how much dreck she had to sort through to find the key. In fact, the thrill of the hunt, sorting the wheat from chaff was a rush. And sometimes the nature of the dreck made the find that much more interesting.

The job was everything to her. She just had to hang on and believe in herself and defend her actions. She prayed daily that the final Inquiry Panel cleared her to go back to her real work. If they didn’t, she had no idea what she would do.

Pretzky continued to hum in her throat as she read. Finally, after a few more pointed questions about the new project, Pretzky took the closed-case report and stalked away, hunting for other agents to annoy.

“Thanks so much,” Ana muttered sarcastically, turning back to her terminal. This case wasn’t online, but the data she needed for cross-referencing were. She continued reading the extensive, well-written notes in the original file. The fraud had been perpetrated on a number of Bay Area dealers and collectors, as well as dealers and collectors in a variety of other US and international cities. Rome leapt off the page, but she fought down her immediate reaction to even seeing the word.

The images in her mind were harder to suppress: a bomb designated for the Italian Parliament, the fiery explosion, two agents dead.

When her incoming e-mail alert pinged four times in a row, she almost kissed the monitor, she was so happy for the distraction.

“What have we here?” she wondered, opening the first, only to find a slew of unrelated Italian phrases. The subject box said Please Translate. “Uh-huh, right. For whom?” She was officially out of hard data analysis until she was cleared, so she shouldn’t be getting this kind of e-mail. Scrolling through the Italian, she winced at the note at the bottom.

Hey gorgeous! How’s the dead zone? Sending this to you ’cause you’re the best. Help! It may be Italian, but it’s all Greek to me. HaHa. Seriously. Stumped on this one. Literal, it ain’t. Luv ya, TJ.

“TJ, why do you keep coming to me?” She nearly whimpered the words. “I almost got you killed and you love me? Why do you do this to me?”

TJ had been one of the additional agents in Rome. He’d nearly gotten killed with the others because of her faulty data assessment. Instead, he’d helped her pick up the pieces, clean up the mess. They’d had a relationship, once upon a time until he accused her of never being willing to open up. She’d accused him of cheating on her. She’d been hurt too much to tolerate that.

They’d both been right, so they stayed friends. A minor miracle.

Once she was back in the