While her parents had been exemplary athletes, they had truly been disasters as parents and at providing for their only child. Thus, Spector had grown up poor and physically and verbally abused by a mother and father who had never achieved their dreams of athletic glory and had taken that failure out on her. After escaping their yoke, she had worked for all she had, and never wanted to be poor or abused again.
She climbed into the passenger seat of the waiting black SUV, and as soon as her butt hit the leather, they were off.
Driving was Peter Buckley, immaculate in pearl-gray slacks, a classic navy blazer, collared shirt, and pocket square. He turned to her and said, “Good flight?”
“Beats the hell out of a jump seat on a C130 wondering whether a SAM was going to blow you out of the sky.”
“Your work in DC went well?”
“As well as possible, thanks.”
“But now you’re on my clock,” he said.
“Same terms as before?”
“Double.”
She slid her sunglasses down to peer at him. “I sometimes forget what an attractive man you are, Peter, dear. But why double?”
“Because this job, I think, will be worth it.”
“You mean doubly hard?”
“You live for the challenge, or did I remember wrong?”
She slid her shades back up and looked out the window. “You never do anything wrong, Peter, do you?”
He handed her an iPad. “On the drive read the file I’ve put together. We’ll eat in my hotel suite. I’ve already booked you a room. You still like champagne with your ni?oise salad?”
“Is there any other way to have it?”
As the SUV drove along Spector read the file once, then twice, and then a third time, which, she had been trained, was where the truly useful knowledge and nuance was gained.
“Who’s the FBI agent on the case?”
“That I don’t know.”
“Shouldn’t be hard to find out. I still have contacts there.”
“Even after what happened?”
She looked up from the iPad. “Nothing officially did happen. And I don’t burn bridges. At least not with people who matter.”
“Okay, see what you can find out, but leave no fingerprints.”
Spector smiled to herself, perhaps thinking about her last assignment. “I never do, Peter. Now that I’ve read the file, tell me what you think.”
He went through his theories about the woman named Rebecca Atkins being a prisoner in Georgia. When he showed her Atkins’s image, Spector scrutinized the screen and nodded. “Wooded area, the terrible state of her, surveillance camera, that would be my conclusion. So now she’s calling herself El Cain.”
“And she killed my brother, Ken, as I told you.”
“I never met Ken, but I’m sure he was tough.”
“He was. But with someone who knew what they were doing? Like you? He wouldn’t be much of a match. One man I talked to said Cain tore through a professional fighter with a ferocity he’d never seen before. And she pulled a gun on this same man, and he said she would have blown his head off without a second thought.”
“Tell me, why did she kill Ken?”
“Does it matter?”
“Just trying to get the full flavor. But if you’d rather not answer . . . ?”
“My brother was with a woman, Rosa. He was beating her. This woman, let’s call her El Cain for consistency, intervened. She gave him multiple opportunities to walk away, but he grew increasingly incensed. When he pulled a gun on her, well, she took it to another level.” Buckley glanced at her. “Does that make a difference?”