Flame in the Dark (Soulwood #3)(59)
This meet and greet was being recorded, videoed, and witnessed, with Unit Eighteen’s SAC sitting at a nearby table, his black eyes focused on his work, tapping on his laptop, looking like a hip college professor taking a break. He was wearing a tweed jacket with leather elbow patches, a flannel shirt, and khakis. His hair, which grew fast when he shape-shifted, hadn’t been trimmed since reconnoitering the DNAKeys’ property, and it curled over his collar and around his ears, hung down his forehead in small ringlets. JoJo, who had approved his persona and his wardrobe, called him swoon-worthy. This close to the full moon, all I could see was his cat.
I used the darkening windows to check out the coffee shop and had a moment to think through all the coffee shops that had suddenly permeated my life. If I could get over my ingrained church reflexes I might actually become a townie—a city girl.
Turning the page in the romance book, I glanced around. I couldn’t pinpoint anyone in Remedy who might be Rick’s opposite number, a spy from the company, as no one seemed to be watching me. I checked my bun, repositioning the hair stick holding it in place. Stopped fidgeting. Deliberately checked my cell for messages. Waited.
I turned a page and glanced out the window. Occam was jogging around the block with a dog he had borrowed from someone, blowing breath in the cold air, the dog waddling, fat and bored. T. Laine was in a car across the street, watching through tinted windows. She had hoped for an unused second-story window, but the building across Stone Street NW had a blank fa?ade. The other corner was a cemetery, not a location conducive to surveillance. The location was, however, perfect for a quick getaway on foot or bicycle.
I had gotten here early, spending the time reading and rereading the texting and e-mails between Candace McCrory and Shaundell Mason, my online persona. Actually Shaundra Nell Mason, which JoJo had found amusing for some reason when she originally crafted the ID for me. According to her, I hated both my names and had combined them in college. I liked dogs, bowling, and country line dancing, as well as authors from the 1800s. Besides being a member of the ASPCA with a lifelong desire to rescue and protect animals of all kinds, I had espoused violence, if needed, to protect animals. I loved books and was especially fond of Dickens, Emerson, Thoreau, and Walt Whitman. Fortunately I had read all of them in the years when Leah lay dying, and I loved Whitman’s Leaves of Grass. I was less fond of “I Hear America Singing,” as it seemed to epitomize the church’s way of life.
About the local animal shelters and ASPCA groups, I knew nothing. If she tested me on them, I’d have to get around that somehow. I had been pegged as an introvert so maybe I could just act shy. But my main reason for being here was to rule out Candace as part of any group who might want to hurt the Tollivers from outside or inside their business interests.
Candace slid onto the tall bar chair beside me and put a number on the table edge. I hadn’t noticed her come in or order, too busy thinking things through. I closed my book and tucked it into my bag. We looked each other over.
Candace was a large woman, fond of fake fur—which seemed odd in a person interested in animal rights—and stretchy tees and those expensive furry boots young women wore. And goth makeup with dyed black hair. She slid her laptop onto the table and shrugged out of her fake-fur-lined jacket. “God, it’s miserable outside. Just frekking snow already,” she demanded of the weather. “Candace,” she finished, introducing herself.
I gave her a cautious smile. “Hi. I’m Shaundell, but I guess you know that already.” Neither of us offered to shake hands.
“Easy to spot the hair. I appreciate you meeting me here. Sorry I’m late. Work was the pits today. You tried Remedy’s espresso?”
I gave her a minimal shrug and pointed to my cup. “I like milk. Cappuccino or latte for me. But it’s good. And the muffin was good too,” I added, sounding helpful and timid, pointing to the plate and crumbs.
“Not for me. Just discovered I’m sensitive to gluten, can you believe it? I’ve lost a good ten pounds already but I totally frekking miss bread.”
“Ummm . . .”
“So you can help the animals?”
Talk about a leading question. “Ummm . . .”
“’Cause I gotta tell you some are in bad shape. Starving. Hurt. They got one wolf cross that weighs less than sixty pounds.”
“Red or gray?” I asked.
“What?”
“Red wolves are smaller. Sixty isn’t bad for that breed. And it depends on the cross. What was it bred with? Breed a red bitch with a Chihuahua male and you can get anything.” I knew next to nothing about ASPCA, but I knew dog and wolf breeding, so my words might cement me as an animal lover. Breeding was a passion among some of the men at the church. “And why do you think it’s starving? Can you see ribs? Spinal processes? How about the hips?” None of this was why I was meeting Candace, but it might create a bond that would cause her to reveal something else. My classes in establishing covert relationships had indicated that such bonds were important.
Candace didn’t answer and I pulled out my phone, accessing photos of starving dogs. On the right corner a small red light started flashing. Someone was trying to sync with my phone, likely the laptop Candace had brought in, and that was sitting only inches from my cell. But the PsyLED cell phone was heavily encrypted. If the automated attack was successful, the cell would make a soft ding and scramble itself.