Ark of Fire by C. M. Palov Read Free Book Online Page A

her voice. “ You have my wallet? Thank God. I was wondering who—You will be a dear and return it, won’t you? It’d be such a pain to have to cancel all my cards.”
    “No need to worry . . . I’ve already taken the liberty of canceling your credit cards. I’ve also cleaned out your checking and savings accounts. My, my, what a thrifty little miser you are. You’ve hoarded away nearly thirty thousand dollars.”
    They’d cleaned out her accounts. How in God’s name did they get the security codes to—
    The dirty cop. He would have access to God knows what records. Her cell phone number. Her social security number. Every Big Brother computerized database under the sun.
    “I’d be happy to give you a reward for returning my purse,” she said, scrambling for a foothold, a limb, a scraggly root, anything she could hold on to. “I’d also appreciate if you didn’t let payroll know that I cut out of my shift a couple of hours early. I had a killer headache and—”
    “‘Thou shall not lie!’” the caller barked into her ear. A half second later, as though he had just reined in his runaway temper, he calmly said, “Entertaining though they are, I’m beginning to grow weary of your lies, Ms. Miller.”
    “Lies? What lies?” When that met with silence, she said, “Look, you’ve got me confused with another woman in the lineup.” When the silence lengthened, she said, “That was a joke.” As in, people with something to hide are not capable of cracking a joke.
    “A mailman in the apartment building behind the museum, believing he was performing an act of civil defense, identified you from your D.C. driver’s-license photo. You see? We know everything about you, Ms. Miller. We also know that you were at the museum, on the fourth floor, when Dr. Padgham met his unfortunate end.”
    Unfortunate end? Was he being for real? Jonathan Padgham’s brains were blown clear out of his head. Talk about wiping the toilet bowl clean.
    “Who are you?”
    “Who I am is unimportant.” Then the caller’s voice dropped a scary octave. “Perhaps at this juncture I should mention that you can run, but you cannot hide.”
    Edie looked in the rearview mirror.
    SUVs. Late-model sedans. Taxis and delivery trucks of every stripe.
    But no Crown Vic.
    And no D.C. police cruisers.
    She decided to call his bluff.
    “Word of warning, fella. When you’re trying to threaten a woman, overused clichés usually don’t inspire a whole lot of fear. As for threats, here’s one right back at you . . . call me again and I will not hesitate to go to the FBI. Normally, I’d call the cops, but I figure I wouldn’t get out of the precinct alive. I can just hear the news broadcast now. ‘Edie Miller, the victim of an unfortunate accident, slipped on a recently mopped floor at D.C. police headquarters, cracking her skull.’ What do you think? Does that sound about right?”
    “I’m certain that the FBI is much too busy tracking jihadist terror cells to take your call, let alone give you the time of day.”
    “Ah, but like you said, I’m the sole surviving witness to a brutal execution. One that involves a well-organized art ring,” she added, laying all her cards on the table. “I think the suits at the FBI will be only too happy to spare me a few minutes of their time.”
    “How do you know we haven’t infiltrated the FBI?”
    She didn’t. And the cocky bastard knew it.
    “What do you want from me?”
    “Merely to talk. To clarify the situation so as to alleviate your unwarranted fears. I have very deep pockets, Ms. Miller, and would be only too happy to triple the balance in your two bank accounts.”
    Yeah, right. Something told her she’d never see a dime of the promised blood money.
    Accelerating, she jerked the Jeep over one lane. Then another, exiting the traffic circle at Mass Avenue.
    “You want to talk? Fine. Here’s the only thing I have to say to you—” Although it was hard, she dragged out the silence for