Chapter Eleven

It was remarkable to Olivia that the night sky was just now getting dark. Today felt like it had gone on for an eternity.

She went from court to Candace's, home, and then on to work. Walking down the hallway to Steph's office, Olivia hoped their witness had been located. If they had not, a Plan B needed to be laid out.

Candace's house was the surprising chocolate spread that made today's shit sandwich palatable. Mmm, no, those aren't words that should go together in a sentence. But the sentiment there was correct. Bob, Beowolf, and Nutsbe each had a steady wholesomeness.

Olivia had done meet and greets with other dogs and other witnesses, but never with a horse like Beowolf.

It seemed to Olivia that Beowolf was the perfect dog for Candace. And that was important.

Tomorrow would be interesting.

She'd specifically told Judge Madison that Beowolf was a bullmastiff, and he seemed a-okay with all of it. She wasn't sure that the judge had a clear picture. Time would tell, Olivia thought as she knocked on her boss's door.

"Good you're here," Steph looked up from the pile of papers on her desk. "Let's get right to it." She pointed her pen toward the armchair.

When Olivia sat, she immediately slid her heels out of her shoes. There was too much walking today, and she would have blisters. Tomorrow, she'd like to wear pants and flats, but this particular judge was very old school and had his own view of how people should dress for court. Granted, he was eighty. Olivia went along to get along. She saved her brownie points and points of contention for when they served her best. And that was never over the dress code.

"It looks like Congress might be trying to get involved in our foreign extremist's case."

"How do you see that playing out?" Olivia asked.

"I have a meeting set up on Tuesday next week to talk to them about it. What have you got on your calendar?"

"Divorce," Olivia said. "That day, I'll be in court for me. I've penciled that in for the whole day. You just never know what can happen."

"I forgot that was coming up." Steph laced her hands and rested them on her stomach as she leaned back in her chair with a grin. "Big congratulations."

"Yes, thanks," Olivia smiled back. "It's going to feel really good. Just have to get the signatures on the paperwork."

Steph lifted her chin. "You look like crap, by the way."

"Fair," Olivia said, brushing a hand through her hair. "I haven't been sleeping at all." And looking like crap was how she met Nutsbe? Wonderful.

"Serious," Steph had been a friend for many years, and the concern on her face was genuine, "is the upcoming divorce trial keeping you up?"

"No, it's motorcycles," Olivia said, fatigue weighted her voice.

"More?"

"Every night for what—more than a week now? These motorcycles have started up around midnight. Super loud. Super obnoxious."

"At your house?"

"Not my house," Olivia sank deeper into the chair. "They're going around the various roads in my subdivision."

"Isn't that a noise ordinance issue?"

"Could be. I don't know. With the carjackings going on in the city, do I want to pull cops off their patrols to stake out motorcycle noises?"

Steph had that glassy-eyed stare she got when she reached back into a fold of her gray matter to pull out some factoid. "Hmm. Probably, I just have the grand jury on the brain."

"I'm getting some water. Do you want some?" Olivia stood. "What were you just thinking about?"

"Yes, to the water, thanks." As Olivia bent over the minifridge to grab two bottles, Steph said, "I was thinking about things with the Middle East and motorcycles—but it's a CIA story."

Olivia twisted the cap off and handed Steph the water. "Let's hear it." she sat down and took a sip from her own bottle.

"Mmmm, hang on." Steph pulled out her phone and tapped the keyboard. "Yup, here we go. On August 7th, a terrorist—number two in his organization—was gunned down in his car. He and his niece died instantly. Let's see here. The assassination took place on the anniversary of the African twin attacks on the US embassies in Kenya and Tanzania."

"Where are you reading this?" Olivia asked. "I haven't seen anything in the papers. What has this got to do with motorcycles?"

"I follow intelligence folks on social media," Steph put her phone on the desk. "I want to know right away if they are picking up anything to do with our case."

Olivia leaned forward. "Are they?"

"They know our case is moving forward. Nothing interesting or new. But about the attack on the seventh, the I.C.—Intelligence Community—has been low-key talking about how the CIA was the one who committed the assassinations. They said the CIA had hoped to keep it super-secret, but somebody's ego got the best of them, and they spilled to a reporter."

"They said they were CIA?" Olivia swiveled in her chair, trying to find a more comfortable position.

"No, they said they," she used finger quotes, "‘happened' to be there and had witnessed the event." Steph reached into her bag of chips and popped one into her mouth. Then pushed the bag toward Olivia. "Help yourself."

Olivia lifted a no-thank-you hand.

"According to the I.C., the witness described what happened with details that the average citizen walking down the street would not have in their vocabulary, like that they ‘clocked the shooter.'"

"What does that mean. That's not in my vocabulary either."

"Apparently, standing looking forward is twelve o'clock. He clocked this person at his two." She held out her arm like she was the hand on a clock and then turned her head to line up her view. "That's my take, anyway. Five shots fired from a gun fitted with a silencer."

"How would they hear shots if the gun had a silencer?"

"It doesn't silence," Steph explained. "That's a misnomer. It just makes the shot quieter. Suppressor's a better term."

"Huh," Olivia changed her mind and reached for some chips. "I've never had that come up at trial, but if I do, I know to do more research. Seems like that was someone who knew what they were doing. I don't think I'd be counting shots as much as ducking and running."

"And they knew to follow their trajectory. The witness told the reporter that four went into the car, killing the two people, and a fifth hit a nearby vehicle that was empty."

"But what's this got to do with motorcycles?" Olivia plucked a tissue from the box on the side table and wiped the fat and salt from her fingers. She was hungry and looking forward to a bag of hot carbs she could pick up at some drive-through. Had she eaten today? Olivia didn't remember eating.

"According to the I.C. folks, it was done by two motorcycle assets on the behest of Uncle Sam."

"For the U.S.? So it wasn't like a tier-one team dropped in. They're saying it was the CIA roaring around on motorcycles?" She tossed the tissue into the can. "What is that government saying?"

"Yeah, interesting. Apparently, they're trying to cover it all up because they don't want their citizens to know that a hit took place on their soil and that it happened in some upscale part of the city. The motorcycles driving up, taking the shots, and moving on says the assassinated terrorist was living there amongst their elite, and the government did nothing about it."

"Okay, but how does a government cover something like that up if it's on social media?"

"They're saying that it was a robbery gone bad and that this story about the CIA is all made-up bunk. The people absorbed that. Their government conditioned the citizens to accept events like that as propaganda. Take the Canadian-American exfiltration mission in the 1970s as an example. Argo never happened, according to their government. The movie is merely Western propaganda."

"I see. I guess better a robbery than an assassination. And you were thinking, what? What's good for the goose is good for the gander? Maybe the extremists are sending motorcycles to my neighborhood to look for me to do a tit-for-tat since I'm trying to imprison one of their spies?"

"Bit of a stretch, admittedly. I wasn't saying that at all. I said I was thinking about a thing with motorcycles—but it's a CIA story."

"Okay, back to the reason I'm here. Did anyone find our witness?" Olivia asked.

"That would be a no. And I did bring it to the FBI"s attention. So I guess there's no point in meeting tonight. We can take this up again after the Offsed trial is finalized. But I would appreciate your reading over that file and giving me your thoughts on next steps."

"Good enough," Olivia stood.

"Hey, Olivia," Steph said quietly. "If the extremist organization did get hold of our witness, and if they applied advanced interrogation techniques to get him to share information, our names would come up as people who know the story. Do you have good security on your house?"

"I—"

Both women turned toward the tap on Steph's door. Steph's paralegal stood there, wide-eyed. She shrank back out of the door jamb to reveal the police.

Olivia instantly knew the officer was there to speak to her. Her body braced for terrible news. Had the Offseds found Candace's hideout?

Steph stood up from behind her desk. "Officer, can I help you?"