Oak and Dagger (22 page)

“I did it because he knew I'd gotten the White House position. He asked me to keep an eye on you and keep you safe!” he sputtered with frustration. “I would do anything for that man. He's saved my life more times than I could count. I'd walk through fire for him.”

“Who?” Jack demanded before I could.

Nadeem thrust his finger toward me. “Her father.”

Chapter Twenty-four

Turn a corner and meet your fate.

—EDITH WILSON, FIRST LADY OF THE UNITED STATES (1915–1921)

“
I
wasn't supposed to say that,” Nadeem said. He plopped down in the desk chair and propped his head up with his hands.

Had I heard Nadeem correctly? Did he really say
my father
had sent him? A man who had abandoned me? A man I never thought (or hoped) I'd ever see again?

“When did you last see him?” I had to know.

Nadeem shrugged. “This afternoon.”

“
In D.C.?
” Everything that followed was a jumbled blur. “Call the police,” I remember saying as Jack suggested we move this conversation to the stinky living room. “We need to call the police and report what's happened here.”

“I'm more interested in getting to the bottom of things than in pressing charges.” Jack turned to Nadeem. “Does her father think Casey is in danger?”

“We both do. For the past several days Casey's been getting those threatening notes tacked to her front and back doors.”

“I have?” I shook my head, hoping to chase away the dizziness and growing panic pressing harder and harder on my chest. “If my dad is in town, I'd put my money on him putting the notes on my doors.”

“It was Jack's girlfriend,” Nadeem insisted.

“Why should I believe you?”

“I saw her do it.”

“And I know my dad,” I countered. “I know too much about his past. He should be in jail. Is he still in D.C.?”

Nadeem looked at me for several moments before answering. “Yes, he's in the area.”

“What else?” Jack demanded as we walked down the hallway to the living room. “It can't just be the notes.”

“I haven't seen any threatening notes,” I said at the same time. “Just the text messages.”

“I've been removing them before you see them, that's why,” Nadeem said. “Your father noticed the first one and took it down.”

I grabbed my throat. “He—he's been to my house?”

“That morning when you thought you saw me on your back stoop, you said the man you confronted ran into my apartment,” Nadeem said. “The man you saw dressed in the trench coat was your father. He was taking down the threatening note.”

“Why?” My throat felt like it was closing up. “Why was he at my house? What does he want from me?”

“Your father wants to protect you, Casey. After he found that first one, he started to worry. He asked me to keep an eye out and track down the perpetrator posting those notes.” He turned to Jack and sneered. “And imagine my surprise when all this trouble gets tracked back to your not-so-
trustworthy
lover and his leggy girlfriend.”

“Tell me he's not talking about Simone,” Frank said from the kitchen.

“The model? I thought you put an end to that relationship ages ago.” A man dressed in a blue EMT uniform emerged from the kitchen and pushed a glass of water into my hand. “Hi, I'm Dan. We met several months ago, but I doubt you remember. I suppose you've already met that big lug hiding in the kitchen, Frank. Jack and Frank are my brothers. We all live here.”

“Thank you,” I said before I sipped the water.

“Sorry about the mess.” He scooped up armfuls of living room detritus and carried it off to another room.

“You can't deny it,” Nadeem said to Jack. “Because of you, Casey's life is in danger.”

Jack, I noticed, was pacing. He looked . . . worried. “Does Mr. Calhoun agree with your assessment? Does he blame me for Simone's threats?”

“No, he's got this crazy idea that you're good for Casey. But how can that be when all you do is lead her into trouble?”

My father knew about Jack? He knew about Jack's crazy ex-girlfriend before I did? The room started to get fuzzy.

“Has someone called the police yet?” I asked. The buzzing in my ears grew louder.

“About Simone?” Nadeem asked.

“No. About my—my—”

“Casey?” a distant voice called to me. “
Casey
.”

I opened my eyes to find Jack kneeling next to me on the floor. He was cradling my head in his lap. He brushed his hand through my hair.

“What . . .” I had started to ask what had happened, because I knew I couldn't have swooned like a weak-kneed romance novel heroine—someone must have hit me over the head—but what came out was, “What's that awful smell?”

Jack picked up a dirty sock that was lying near us and tossed it across the room. “This is why I never invited you over here.” He cast a disgusted look at his brothers, who were watching from the kitchen. “They're pigs.”

Dan oinked.

“Now that you know your father is in D.C.”—Nadeem crouched down next to me and put his face into my line of vision—“he'll want to meet you. I can arrange it.”

“No!” I stumbled to my feet and away from Nadeem. “No! Keep him away from me! I want nothing to do with that lying, murdering bastard. We need to call the police. We need to tell them where they can find him. He needs to answer for getting my mother killed and for murdering all those innocent people.”

“What are you talking about? He's never murdered anyone,” Nadeem said.

Jack wrapped his strong hands around mine and held on tight when I tried to pull away. “I know you resisted talking about him before, Casey. I know this is hard for you, but it's time you know the truth about him. Your father, he's a hero.”

• • • 

A HERO
.

My father?

“You have to be kidding,” I said.

It had been nearly an hour since Jack had made that announcement, and I still didn't believe it. I doubted I ever would. Sure Jack never lied, but that didn't mean he was never wrong.

“I worked with him for years,” Nadeem said. “He's a legend at the agency.”

“The CIA?” I started to feel dizzy again.

“Sort of,” Nadeem hedged. “The agency we worked for was a little less . . . restricted . . . in our activities. Because of your father's work and sacrifice—and your mother's when she was alive—wars were averted, the Berlin Wall came down, countless lives were saved.”

“But at what cost?” I demanded, but held up my hand. I didn't want to hear the answer to that. I didn't want someone to tell me that my mother's life or my childhood wasn't as important as those nameless, faceless lives that hadn't been scarred by murder.

And besides, I had evidence that my father was a cold, heartless killer. While I dug around in my large purse for the damning newspaper article I carried everywhere with me lately, Frank brought out a tray filled with bottles of cold beer. He offered me a glass for my beer. After another glance around the filthy house, I politely declined the glass.

Dan, who I'd learned was the youngest in the family, blushed furiously as he picked up the dirty laundry, dumping armload after armload into another room. Jack intervened when Dan powered up a vacuum cleaner that roared like a jet engine.

I wished Jack hadn't stopped his brother. The tan carpet was coated with potato chip crumbs, cereal, and I was afraid to wonder what else.

Since Dan had cleared off the sofa, I sat down with my bottle of beer and continued my search for the newspaper clipping. Nadeem left the room without a word to anyone. Jack followed.

“Sorry about the mess.” Dan rubbed the back of his neck much the same way his brother did when he was feeling regretful. “We don't get many visitors.”

“I can see why,” I said. “You could hire a maid.”

“We tried that,” Frank chimed in from the kitchen over the clanking of dishes and running water. “She quit after the first week.”

“Can you blame her?” I said.

“Don't blame Jack for this mess,” Dan said as he wiped off the sofa's seat cushion and sat down next to me. “You should see his bedroom.”

“Excuse me?”

His blush returned. “I didn't mean it that way. I meant he keeps his room freakishly clean. His office, too. But don't go in there. Frank said it's a disaster area now.”

“I saw it. It looks about as bad as the rest of the house,” I said as I picked up a handheld cheese grater that was digging into my hip—how did that get tucked into the sofa cushion?—and moved it to the coffee table.

Dan nodded toward the hallway, where both Jack and Nadeem had gone. “Who is that other guy? If he broke into our house, why hasn't Jack kicked his—”

“Dan! Watch your language.” Frank sauntered into the room and whip-snapped his brother in the back of the head with a soapy dish towel.

“Hey!” Dan cried, rubbing his head.

“Casey is Jack's . . . er . . . guest.” He flashed me a toothy smile that wasn't nearly as disarming as Jack's. “I have to apologize for this one. It's my fault he has the manners of an ape. And Jack's. We wore Mom down. By the time Dan came along, she'd given up.”

“I see,” I said, smiling. Despite the stress and the disgusting mess, Jack's brothers had an easygoing manner that made me feel welcome.

Frank plopped down next to me on the sofa, sandwiching me between him and Dan. He draped his arm over my shoulder and asked, “But really, Casey, tell us. Who is that guy? And why didn't Jack kick his . . . you know?”

I explained, very briefly, how Nadeem was the assistant curator at the White House and how he might have been involved with the murder investigation. Then I asked, “If Jack is so neat, why does he put up with this mess? He could pick up after you.”

“He's never here,” Frank answered.

“I'm looking for a place,” Jack said as he came back into the living room. Nadeem was with him.

While Nadeem stayed at the entrance, Jack crossed the room to the sofa. He glared at his brothers crowding around me and gave Frank's foot a swift kick. Dan jumped up from the sofa as if he'd taken the blow. Frank remained pressed up against me. His smile grew a little wider, but after a moment he lifted his arm from my shoulder, which seemed to placate Jack.

“After our mother retired and moved to Boca,” Jack explained, “we bought the house from her. At the time, it seemed like the perfect solution. The bottom had just dropped out of the housing market, so buying the house was helping Mom. And between travel and long shifts, it seemed wasteful to pay rent on an apartment I rarely visited.”

“If you're still working long hours and traveling, why are you looking for a place?” I asked.

Jack's expression softened.

“Perhaps he's looking for a place for two.” Frank nudged me in the arm.

“
Oh . . .”
Jack had been making hints lately that he wanted to move our relationship to the next level, but I'd never let him finish that thought because I didn't know if I was ready. “Are you sure he wants to move in with me, or just escape the garbage heap you call home?” I whispered to Frank.

“He was fine with his living arrangements here when he was dating crazy Simone,” Frank answered.

Jack kicked his brother's foot again. “If you're done discussing things that are none of your business, could you two meddlers get out of here? Casey and I need to talk to Nadeem, in private.”

After much grumbling and feet dragging, Dan and Frank headed out to a local bar.

Nadeem claimed the spot on the sofa where Frank had been sitting, which earned him the same hard glare Jack had given his brothers.

“Now that they're gone, we can finally talk about important matters,” Nadeem said, seemingly oblivious to Jack's death glare. “What we need to discuss is classified.”

“I don't know that it's classified,” I countered. “It's important that we get to the bottom of what's going on and what you're up to. And I agree that including new players right now would just slow us down. But I don't think any of this would be considered classified.”

“No, it
is
classified,” Nadeem countered with absolute assurance.

“Really? Gordon's murder investigation? You should tell the newspapers that. They seem to be printing every minute detail. Or are you talking about Lev Aziz? Is he involved with the murder investigation?”

“The murder investigation? No, I meant your father's history.”

“This history?” I handed him the newspaper clipping I'd finally located at the bottom of my purse.

Nadeem barely glanced at it before tossing it aside. “That? That was just a story the agency planted to help insert your dad into a deep-cover assignment.”

“If that's true, why would they use his real name in the article? That doesn't sound very covert to me,” I said.

Nadeem hesitated before saying, “His cover had already been blown. It's . . . it's a long story, and it's my understanding that things were chaotic at the time. Your mother had died just a few days before they inserted him into the assignment.”

“Wait a minute. You're trying to tell me that my father was taking assignments
days
after my mother's murder? What kind of cold-hearted man does that?”

“The kind of man who is hungry for justice,” Nadeem said.

“Justice?” The word tasted sour in my mouth.

“I don't understand how you can't know,” Nadeem said. “James Calhoun is the bravest, smartest man I've ever met. He is most definitely a hero.”

“I don't know why I'm listening to you, the one who has lied about his past.”

“I didn't lie,” Nadeem said.

“You said you were a fact-checker,” I countered.

“I was . . . of sorts.”

“And you've been stalking me.”

He shrugged as if caught. “I have . . . but for good reason.”

“What reason is that?” I looked to Jack to see if he'd help me. He had stepped back and was watching the exchange with a half smile as if he was enjoying watching me interrogate Nadeem.